I gained friendly entrance to a world of places looking for the shaving soap, before I unexpectedly found it. That left the bank and the shoe laces to attain. The bank was a certainty, but in due time I actually became worried about brown shoe laces. I had asked in vain at too many places. Then all of a sudden my troubles were over—on ahead half a block was a sign, Florsheim Shoes.
I went to about where I thought shoe laces were located and asked the man for a pair of brown shoe laces. He answered he had none. He had black and white laces, but no browns. Brown shoes were outdated and always had been outdated. They were a thing a man of today was not using. The truth, so help me.
Shortly thereafter, still shoelaceless, I came to the National City branch, went in, introduced myself as a banker representing a bank that had had an account with the parent bank for over 50 years. The manager, a Mr. Cramer, was originally from Vermont, and therefore a hard man to crack, but the 50 years and the brown shoe lace trouble did the trick. He took me to lunch at the Union Club, a pretty nifty club quite near his bank and right against the Pacific Ocean. When we arrived the tide was out and the city's big cement sewer tiles were exposed for a quarter of a mile out. After lunch, which was delayed by three or four different kinds of rum, the rum or something had pulled the tide in and all the tiles were covered with water.
We got the brown shoe laces at a cobbler's shop, but they did have to dig under a big pile of old scrap leather and shoe shop saw dust to get them.
THE OLD SPANISH TRAIL
In late mid-afternoon our big corporation host and his wife came to take us to one of the nearby jungles about 20 miles out. Not big like the Brazilian jungles, but thick as a new bride's potato peelings. The new highway now crosses the old Spanish Trail, which is in a part of that jungle. The Trail was laid out to cross the isthmus to get to the Atlantic. And there it was, round rocks and all. Not in good repair, of course, but a trace of what it once was.
The Trail was made for a purpose. The Spaniards would go down to Peru and rob the Incas. Then they would make slaves of some of them and bring them and the gold and other loot by ship to Panama. Then make the slaves carry the booty over that Trail to Puerto Bello on the Atlantic side, where the king's representatives would take their "cut". The balance went to Spain, as I have heretofore told you.
Our host wanted us to try some coconut water when we got back to town. The proprietor took two green coconuts out of the box, cut the ends off of each with a hatchet, reamed out a core into the hollow inside where the water is, set the nuts on the table and stuck soda water straws in the holes. The rest was up to us. . . It isn't particularly bad. There isn't much taste to it. Sort of insipid, like water in southwest Kansas in summer.
WEST POINT CONNECTION
Our host took us to his home. I knew all along there was a good deal to this young fellow. His conversation was too bright and keen. His wit was too original, and to the point. . . But the house! Holy Nellie, what a house!! I presume it was his father's. However that may be, our host and his wife also lived there. Wrought iron grillwork, tile floors, furniture, rugs, silver and china tableware, oil paintings.