409 – A Map of FDR’s Vacation

Whether out of financial prudence or budgetary necessity, the annual summer vacation has been a “staycation” for millions of families during this recession year. Local attractions have had to do, far-flung destinations will have to wait.

US presidents are not subject to the same level of financial stringency – at least not on a personal level: the presidential salary (*) easily allows for a luxurious trip to anywhere in the world. However, for reasons more to do with political symbolism, presidents choose to holiday domestically (**). Most recently, the Obamas vacationed on Martha’s Vineyard, the island off the Massachusetts coast also favoured by the Clintons during Bill’s presidency.

Because the exclusive, snobbish image of the Vineyard clashes with the economic hardships many Americans are now experiencing, President Obama felt obliged to defend the “quality time” he got to spend with his family there. President Clinton was advised to stay away from the island for a while in order not to appear ‘out of touch’ with ordinary Americans.

 Clearly, president Roosevelt did not have similar concerns in 1935. Even though the country was still suffering from the Great Depression, FDR went out of country to go deep-sea fishing off the Pacific coast of Mexico – but he did combine work with pleasure:

• FDR left Washington (symbolised on this map by an image of Congress rather than the White House) by train, travelling west to alight in St Louis, MO; Omaha, NE; Fremont, NE (where the president had a speaking engagement); Cheyenne, WY; and Salt Lake City, UT.
• The president also spoke at the Boulder Dam (now known as the Hoover Dam), at that point still a giant work in progress. The dam was the world’s largest concrete structure when it was completed, a year later – two years ahead of schedule.
• FDR held speeches in Los Angeles and San Diego, possibly at the opening of that city’s California Pacific Exposition, held in Balboa Park (1935-1936).
• That sort of concluded the official part of FDR’s Grand Tour, for then he boarded a US Navy cruiser to the Pacific Ocean off Mexico. The president, a keen angler, probably got some serious deep-sea fishing done.
• FDR’s cruiser also called at Cocos Island, an uninhabited island about 340 miles out of the Pacific coast of Costa Rica (and not officially annexed by that country until 1947; it later might have served as Michael Crichton’s inspiration for the insular dinosaur sanctuary in his novel Jurassic Park).
• A final stop on the Pacific side of the Panama Canal is indicated as Pearl Island. This is probably Isla del Rey, the main island of the Pearl Islands, an archipelago of over 100 islands (and probably best known now as the backdrop for several series of the Survivor reality tv show).
• When crossing over into the Atlantic, president Roosevelt was not really visiting another country. The Panama Canal Zone was under US administration from 1903 to 1979. Incidentally, one of its more famous native sons is John McCain, who, had he been elected president in 2008, probably would have attracted his own set of ‘birthers’ (i.e. those who dispute his eligibility on the grounds that he was not born in the US).
• The home stretch of FDR’s vacation jaunt led him across the Caribbean, past the eastern edge of Cuba (so close to Guantanamo, even then an American outpost, that one wonders whether he wouldn’t have stopped over there too).
• Curiously, the end destination of FDR’s cruise is not indicated – possibly because it was unknown or kept secret at the time of publication. Two possibilities are indicated: Charleston, SC and Annapolis, MD.

Many thanks to Dan Anderson for sending in this map, taken form an (unspecified) newspaper from Green Bay, WI.

(*) $400,000 a year since the last raise in 2001, not including travel expenses of $50,000 a month and other perks.

(**) Abraham Lincoln left the White House for extended periods, but only went to Soldier’s Home, on a hill still inside the District of Columbia. Probably wise for a wartime leader not to travel too far away from the office. Several more recent presidents delighted in the downtime spent on their ranches. Lyndon Johnson loved to spend time on his ranch in Texas, where he had a herd of 400 Hereford cattle. Ronald Reagan spent a lot of time on horseback at his Rancho del Cielo near Santa Barbara, CA. George W. Bush broke the record for most days spent on presidential vacation while clearing brush on his ranch in Crawford, TX. Others vacationed according to their dynasty. The Kennedys had made Hyannis Port, MA their family resort, and the Kennebunkport, ME mansion favoured by George Bush (Sr) has been in the family since the early 20th century. Still others mix work and pleasure to such an extent that their holiday homes became known as the ‘Florida White House’ (Richard Nixon’s place in Key Biscayne, FL), the ‘Western White House’ (the same’s mansion in San Clemente’ CA), the ‘Little White House’ (Harry Truman’s Key West pad, used before him by president Taft and Thomas Edison, and after him by presidents Eisenhower and Kennedy). Another ‘Little White House’ was the pine house built for FDR in Warm Springs, GA. The president felt the springs after which the town was named were beneficial for the symptoms of his polio. He died in that house in 1945.

408 – Big Wheel Keep On Turnin’: The Mainzer Rad

The Wheel of Mainz is an essential element of the heraldry of the German city and archbishopric of Mainz. It is a regionally prominent symbol in Rheinland-Pfalz (the Rhineland-Palatinate, one of Germany’s constituent states, or Bundesländer) and beyond, as indicated by this map. The Mainzer Rad is a silver-coloured, six-spoked wheel on a red background. The city of Mainz uses a double representation of the wheel to distinguish its Wappen (coat of arms) from that of the Kurstaat (Electorate) of Mainz, which used a single wheel.

The lack of certainty on the origins of the Wheel of Mainz has led to a wealth of theories. Among the less verifiable ones is a presumed origin in the cult of Mithras, the now extinct religion of Persian extraction that was popular throughout the Roman Empire before Christianity became the flavour of the millennium. Another one links the heraldic symbol to the equally pre-Christian worship of Mogon, a Celtic sun-god. An early Christian origin is postulated by those who see it as a stylised rendition of emperor Constantine’s heraldic use of the interwoven Greek letters chi (X) and rho (P), the first ones of the epitheton christos (‘the anointed one’).

A slightly more credible origin story, if only because it is datable to the year 975, is of when Willigis, the son of a cartwright, was elected archbishop of Mainz. He championed the Wheel as part of his heraldry to honour his modest antecedents. But since this version was popularised by the Brothers Grimm (in their Deutsche Sagen, or German Sagas), this version is probably also nothing more than a fairy-tale.

The wheel most probably refers to an attribute of Saint Martin, patron saint of the city and the Dom (cathedral) of Mainz. Certainly, imagery on a city council seal dated to around 1300 shows the saint with the double wheel since associated with the city. Furthermore, for some reason, the mediaeval archbishops of Mainz were also called currum Dei (charioteers of God). The transportational metaphors of both wheel and chariot might be reducable to the biblical vision of the prophet Ezechiel of the Chariot of God.

The importance of Mainz as a secular and religious centre doubtlessly was instrumental in the spread of the Wheel’s heraldic use far beyond the city walls. In mediaeval times, the archbishop of Mainz was the substitute of the Pope north of the Alps, making Mainz the only see other than Rome referred to as a Holy See. This religious primacy led to secular prominence as well. The archbishop of Mainz not only was a prince-bishop (i.e. a secular leader), he was also a Kurfürst (an Elector, i.e. a member of the electoral college that voted in the next German Emperor), making Mainz a Kurstaat (Electorate) on a footing similar only to Cologne and Trier. These three religious electoral states were known as Kurmainz, Kurköln and Kurtrier. The archbishop of Mainz was the most prominent, as he was also the president of the imperial electoral college, as well as the arch-chancellor of Imperial Germany until the early 19th-century involvement of revolutionary France in Germany, which would lead to the dissolution of the Holy Roman Empire in 1806.

This map shows the heraldic distribution of the Wheel of Mainz.It is used in the coat of arms of the Bundesland Rheinland-Pfalz (the state of Rhineland-Palatinate; light pink), several Landkreise (administrative districts; dark pink) around Mainz and more north in a contiguous area from Göttingen to (but not including) Weimar. It obviously also figures in the heraldry of the bishopric of Mainz (the yellow-striped area, covering also a large enclave in central Hesse), and in the coat of arms of the Eichsfeld, an area in Lower Saxony and Thuringia that has been associated with the archbishopric of Mains over several centuries. The usage of the Wheel of Mainz in the heraldry of Gemeinden (communes) and Ortsteile (administrative subdivisions) generally corresponds with the areas described above, except for a sprinkling of occurrences, mainly in northern Hesse.

This map found on this page at Wikipedia (available under the GNU Free Documentation License 1.2). Many thanks to Aleksa Jorga for suggesting it.

407 – Buss, the Un-Discovered Island

In September 1578, while sailing near Greenland’s southernmost point at Cape Farewell, captain James Newton of the Emmanuel recorded in his log the first sighting of an island “seeming to be fruiteful, full of woods, and a champion countrie.” The island came to be known as Buss, after the type of boat that discovered it – the Emmanuel being a short, two-masted herring buss. And despite its non-existence, Buss Island appeared on nautical maps of the area well into the 19th century, making it one of the more persistent of the many phantom islands that once dotted maps of the North Atlantic.

The existence of Buss Island was first made public in a book written by George Best in the same year of its discovery, called A True Discourse of the Late Voyages of Discouerie for Finding of a Passage to Cathaya by the North-Weast, under the Conduct of Martin Frobisher, Generall. It appeared on the Molyneux globe (1592) and a Plancius map (1594), and was again spotted in 1605 by James Hall, albeit in a different place from where he expected it. No matter: Buss Island continued to make regular map appearances, was deemed as real as Frisland (another fabrication since disproved – and mentioned earlier on this blog) or Greenland (which still exists). It was sighted again in 1668 by Zachariah Gillam, captain of the Nonsuch (sic).

The 1671 claim by Thomas Shepherd, captain of the Golden Lion, to have visited, explored and mapped the island extensively, led to an royal charter and an expedition aimed specifically at Buss. Shepherd’s description was tantalisingly precise (this map by John Seller, from 1673, details Shaftesbury Harbour and  Arlington Harbour and a small, outlying Shepherd Island, among other illegible data). But of course, the elusive island would only reveal itself to sailors not looking for it, not to those who sought it out. This stubborn refusal to be found, coupled with an increase of transatlantic traffic, caused the presumed size of Buss Island to shrink and later its very existence to be questioned. Eventually, it was presumed the island had ’sunk’, a theory that reconciled the earlier, incontrovertible eyewitness reports with its obvious absence.

It took another Arctic expedition to also put the sinking theory to rest. In 1818, the Isabella, captained by John Ross (and still looking, as Frobisher had been, for the Northwest Passage) established that there were no shallows in the area proposed for Buss’s sinking. Ironically, Ross himself mistook a North Atlantic mirage for dry land, naming it “Crocker Hills”; the controversy of their either-or-not-existence would later dent his reputation (which was later redeemed by his discovery of the magnetic north pole, and the heroic, 4-year expedition during which he made it).

Only in 1856 would Buss Island disappear from the last nautical charts, the rich potential of its existence finally yielding to the disappointing reality of its un-discovery. The only mysteries remaining are what might have been mistaken for Buss Island: mirages? Parts of Greenland? Lies or delusions to make a dreary North Atlantic trip more interesting?

This map taken from this page at Cape May Magazine.

406 – “Caruso Can’t Touch You”: A Road Map to Success

I just love allegorical maps like these, if only for their delightfully straightforward semiotics. This map of the Road to Success depicts an actual road, winding up to success signified by a lyre.

This (literally) lyrical prize is achieved by first entering the Gate of Opportunity. People are running through, but some have already settled in to the sit-down life of ease and comfort in what looks like the Beer Garden of Bohemianism.

Some manage to pass by those delights to check in to the Hotel Know It All, because they hold to mottoes such as Nobody can tell me, or I don’t need to practice, or I’m a born genius, or yet: I don’t need system.

Similarly misguided cries are heard on the patio of the Mutual Admiration Society: You’re the Hit of the Age, You’ll Set the World on Fire, You’re a Wonder My Boy, or (my favourite): Caruso Can’t Touch You.

Those who avoid those three establishments of ill repute might still fall victim to the deep, dark well of Illiteracy, or the spinning, disorienting wheel of Conceit. A select few manage to board the train called Right System at the Railroad Station.

That doesn’t stop some from running along the rail track towards Success, only to succumb to the ugly hand of Vices, the spinning fan of Bad Habits (blowing its victims towards Oblivion), or the pitfall of Bad Reputation. Others fall prey to Charlatanism, or get tangled up in the webs of Jealousy and Do It Tomorrow.

Those who overcome all these perils will enter the gates of System. But while the train crosses a bridge across the river Failure, those on foot are threatened by the Cauldron of Misrepresentation, and tempted by Short Cuts.

Some do manage to wade across the river to the other side, but there must overcome Bad Temper, Carelessness, Shiftlessness and Bad Memory. Then there’s Lack of Preparation, a giant rock which the train can tunnel through effortlessly, while the surviving pedestrians must trek across it.

Sprees, Laziness and Bad Business Methods then still threaten them, until at last they come before two gates, the one for Weak Morals remaining forever closed, the Gate of Ideals open to the train (and some on foot).

Conclusion: you can be successful without adopting the Right System, but your chances are far smaller. And you’ll have to make a lot bigger effort to get there.

Many thanks to Varun Chablani for sending in this map, found here on Moonbuggy. The origin of the map is not referred to, but judging by the artwork (and the moralising tone – not to mention the reference to Caruso), it’s early 20th century.

405 – Scroll Britannia: the UK’s First Road Map

This extraordinary map, dating from 1675, details The Road From LONDON to the LANDS END Comencing at the Standard in Cornhill and Extending to Senan in Cornwall. It was made by IOHN OGILBY Esq[ui]r[e] his Ma[jes]ties Cosmographer and covers 308 miles and 3 furlongs (almost 500 km).

The life of John Ogilby (1600-1676) can be qualified without exaggeration as rather eventful. He freed his father from debtors’ prison by buying a winning lottery ticket, founded a dance school in London and later Dublin’s Theatre Royal, got shipwrecked on his return from Ireland, produced a very successful English verse transaltion of Virgil, lost all his property in the Great Fire of London (1666), and towards the end of his life managed to produce the Britannia Atlas (1675), considered to be the first road atlas of Britain.

The atlas set the standard for using 1760 yards for the mile, and a scale of one inch to the mile. It contained a large number of strip road maps like these, which proved popular in planning journeys throughout the United Kingdom.

The first strip on the left-hand side from this map takes in much of contemporary London, showing (bottom to top, i.e. east to west) part of the City of London (containing Cornhill), Southwark, Westminster, Hide Park, Kensington, Hamersmith, Turnham Green and Smallheere Green. The next strips are labelled A through E (at the bottom) and B through F (at the top), showing the orientation and order in which they should be viewed.

The strips take in places such as Hounslow, Stanes, Egham, Windsor Park, Bagshot Park, Basingstoke, Wotton, Whitchurch and Andover. The rivers and hills encountered are noted, as are the forks in the road, and the directions in which these lead. Andover, the last town on this map, is in Hampshire, and is still a long way away from Land’s End, the end point of this road map; indicating that this page is still a few scrolls short of being a complete map.

Some of the notes on the map are remarkable for their spelling of place-names; 17th-century English insisted on spelling bridg without the final -e; and Paddington was known as Pudington, for example.

Many thanks to Paul Kerrigan for sending in this link to Priddy’s Hard, a website about the eponymous area near Gosport in Hampshire. The link shows a number of maps, including this one.

404 – Europe, Sunny Side Up

The German polymath Sebastian Münster (1488-1552) also was a cartographer, and one with a penchant for strange maps. He produced an anthropomorphic map of Europe as a queen (#141) for his Cosmographia (1544), and also this one, a map of Europe oriented south instead of north. The effect is quite literally disorienting, and provides an opportunity to re-examine an all too familiar geography from a different perspective. The Iberian peninsula, for example, seems too large this way up; but looks to be just about the right size if you turn the map the ‘right’ way up. Or is that just me?

This map was sent in by the people over at Martayan Lan, a New York dealer in rare books and fine antique maps, globes and atlases. Their website currently features a few of Munster’s more extraordinary maps, including this one.

403 – Regional Political Mentalities in Switzerland

Safe, neutral, boring Switzerland is a strangely fertile source of curious cartography. Previously, this blog has zoomed in on wartime contingency plans for a Schweizer réduit (#109), Jules Verne’s fictional New Switzerland (#133), the Swiss/German enclave of Büsingen am Hochrhein (#235) and the geo-culinary phenomenon of the Röstigraben (#257).

That last post touches upon the fact that the different language communities within Switzerland also have distinct political mentalities – the French-Swiss supposedly having a more pro-European outlook, and the German-Swiss apparently less likely to support a stronger federal government. This map expands that little scrap of Swiss political geography into a full-blown cartogram of regional political mentalities in Switzerland.

A cartogram being a map morphed by non-geographic data, there is very little left of Switzerland’s familiar shape to recognise here. The confederation’s centuries-old cartographic persona is transformed by two axes, from liberal to conservative (north-south) and from left-wing to right-wing (east-west). The colours denote the country’s main language areas: German (green), French (red) and Italian (yellow)*. Higher altitude lines correspond with higher population density.

This Switzerland of regional political mentalities is an island that serendipitously looks like Verne’s aforementioned New Switzerland. It is also reminiscent of the Inglehart-Weltzel cultural map of the world (#127), which similarly rearranges the world’s countries along two axes of cultural values.

The French-Swiss area generally is more liberal and left-wing than the rest of Switzerland, but with significant internal diversity. The municipality of Collonge-Bellerive is among the most liberal in Switzerland, but is rather more right-wing than Geneva (marked in German as Genf) and Lausanne, the largest cities of la Suisse romande (French-Switzerland). And Delémont apparently is the hotbed par excellence of socialist agitation in Switzerland. Italian-Switzerland is equally left-wing, but not quite so liberal as the French-Swiss.

If one draws a line from the map’s “southwestern” to its “northeastern” corner, one notices that Deutschschweiz (German-Switzerland) takes up the entire conservative/right-wing half of the island. The only German-speaking areas outside of this half are the urban centres of Basel, Zürich, Bern, Luzern** and Sankt-Gallen. These are more liberal and left-wing than the rest of German-speaking Switzerland, but still more conservative and right-wing than French-speaking Switzerland. Urbanity therefore seems a good predictor of a preponderance of liberal and left-wing politics, while speaking German on average appears to predestine one to a more conservative and right-wing outlook.

Thus, on the axis of Swiss political mentalities, super-conservative Unteriberg is the mirror-image of ultra-liberal Collonge-Bellerive, and right-wing Küsnacht is just about as far away on the political spectrum as one can get from left-wing Delémont.

This map of regional political mentalities also name-checks some political toponyms unlikely to show up on a regular map, such as the Arc Lémanique (the “Lémannic Arc”), i.e. the most liberal area of French-Switzerland, on the Lac Léman, and the Zürcher Goldküste (the “Zurich Gold Coast”), an equally liberal, but more right-wing area in German-Switzerland.

Many thanks to Marcel Bieler for sending in this map, found here on www.sotomo.ch, a Swiss website on political geography.

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* German: 64%, French: 20%, Italian: 6.5%. The fourth national language, Rhaeto-Romance (0,5%) apparently is too irrelevant to be represented here.

** Luzern (without Umlaut) in German, Lucerne in English (and French)