According to Merriam-Webster, the words "stupid" and "stupidity" enter the English language in 1541. Since then, stupidity has taken place along with "fool," "idiot," "dumb," "moron," as a pejorative appellation for human misdeeds, whether purposeful or accidental, due to limited mental capacity.
I think we can safely say that we all have acted stupidly at one time or another. It's part of this whole "learning from your mistakes" experience. I could probably fill a book with all the stupid acts that I have committed, most of them as a teen and young adult. Quite a bit less now. It's part of this whole "learning from your mistakes" experience, It must be working. Kinda.
I've been digging into the past to come up with an interesting story about something I've done that would illustrate this subject about stupidity - no shortage of material here - one that showed a clear lack of reasoning or precaution on my part but that wouldn't make me look, well, too stupid. And since some of you have suggested that I should occasionally write about my travels, I'm going to chronicle a little incident that happened one month into my travels across the Asian continent a little over three decades ago.
The year was 1978, the place was Izmir, Turkey. I had arrived there by bus from Istanbul, had found a little hotel and was enjoying a mixture of sightseeing and mingling with the locals. I specially liked going to the Turkish cafés and watch the patrons drink tea, smoke the narghile and play tavla, the Turkish equivalent of backgammon and one of the many national pastimes.
After having watched several games at the same café , I was eventually invited to join in. One of the players speaking German, we were able to communicate fairly well. (Germany employed a lot of Turkish workers back then. Some settled there while some others stayed long enough to save enough money to build a little house in their home town and play tavla for the rest of their life.) I don't remember his name, I didn't start writing a travel journal until a few months later when I reached India. We'll call him Rachid.
When Rachid learned I was from Switzerland he jumped up from his stool and almost kicked the tavla board over: "You're God sent" he said, "you have to come and help me!" He went on to explain that he had bought his mother a Bernina sewing machine when he moved back to Turkey, but that it didn't work anymore. And because I was from the same country as the machine, he thought I would have no problem figuring what was wrong with it.
Sure. Nice try. How do you spell stupid again?
Any averagely cautious traveler in Turkey in 1978 (the year Midnight Express was released, just to put things in perspective) would have, should have, come up with a number of good excuses to decline, but what did I say? "Ok Rachid, let's this what I can do". Stupid. Not only did I not know the guy, I really didn't know anything about sewing machines, and after 15 minutes of walking in streets that became smaller and smaller I had absolutely no idea where I was. Stupid.
We eventually arrived at Rachid's house and were warmly greeted by his mother - not by a bunch of Swissnappers, to my great relief - his wife, their children and what felt like half the neighborhood. The word of the arrival of the repairman from Switzerland had spread.
Part of me was quite relieved that Rachid's story seemed real, but I was also getting extremely nervous and yes, stupid, realizing that not only Rachid and his family but all the neighbors had so much expectations in this providential visitor, not knowing I had absolutely no clue what I was going to do once in front of the dreaded sewing machine.
The Bernina looked as familiar to me as a meat grinder to a vegetarian , the instruction manual was in German, which I spoke far better than I could read. What was I going to do?
Well, I did fixed the machine, in a matter of minutes!
I don't remember what the problem was, something very simple I'm sure, like a bent needle or something. What I remember is that I became an instant hero: the Mama hugged me, the neighbors cheered, I had to stay for dinner and would probably have been given Rachid's sister as a bride if she hadn't been already married.
But that was not enough. Keeping in line with the true Moslem tradition of hospitality, Rachid needed to do more to show me his gratitude. He was the head waiter in a fancy restaurant by the sea, so he invited me to have dinner there for as long as I was in town. So I spent the next three days sightseeing and eating nothing at all during the day,
saving my appetite (and my traveller's wallet) to feast copiously on the wonderful Turkish food and way too much raki (the Turkish equivalent to the Greek Ouzo) at Rachid's restaurant which by the way also featured nightly belly dancing. The whole thing was quite a treat for a backpacker on a shoestring.
This story ended well, it doesn't mean one should be as careless as I was then. I could actually have told you some stories that were far more dangerous, and far more stupid, but I like this one because it's not just about stupidity.
When the 35 decorated fiberglass bears were installed by the Easthampton City Arts people last June for the 4 month long Easthampton Bear Fest, they were not just secured to their logs with bolts and cables, but also with a good layer of TRUST. The trust that people would understand that these creative and artistic works of Art were put out on the streets of Easthampton for the viewing pleasure of ALL, and placed under the collective protection of ALL.
This protective layer of public trust was badly cracked the very first night of the EBF when "Bearly There" was stolen from its location near the Eastworks building. And it suffered again last week-end when "Rubber Ducky" was taken from it's base on Cottage Street.
Stupid acts in the true meaning of the term.
Stupid because whoever took them must not have realized that these were not just cute little painted bears: they are the fruit of many long hours of creative work by the artists who made them what they are; they are a beautiful symbol of community spirit and countless and selfless hours by the many volunteers who made the EBF possible.
Most importantly these bears represent a valuable source for funds for local schools and other arts programs when they will be auctioned off later in the fall.
Because this little Turkish episode related above has also taught me that people are in essence GOOD, I believe that "Bearly There" and "Rubber Ducky" will eventually find their way back to their spots in downtown Easthampton. I don't think anyone could live with these bears AND with the terrible feeling of having also taken away the invaluable TRUST that is an inherent and integral part of any Public Art Display.
For more information about the Easthampton Bear Fest or to report the sighting of the missing bears, please log on to the EBF website.
