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Travel Day from Evora Portugal to Carmona Spain

Today, I rose at 6 am as the suitcases had to be at the door by 7 am. At 8:30 am, we departed for Carmona in Spain, but I persuaded our tour guide to let me walk down early as I have motion sickness problems and needed to snag a seat near the front. My plan is to have the second seat on the right-hand side as that gives me a wonderful view out of the window for driving on the right, a tolerably decent view out of the front, and doesn’t annoy my tour-mates as I am not sitting in either of the front seats. 

We set off for Mérida, part of the provice of Badajoz, and the capital of Extremadura. At our first stop at a petrol station, I managed to convice some people to make me a ham and cheese sandwich on croissant, and sell me two bottles of white wine (medium and small.) My method of communication was to type what I wanted to say into google, and add the phrase “in Spanish” and then read it back to them. It worked!

Mérida’s main claim to fame is the amphitheatre (that hosted the gladiators, animal hunts and executions), and the theatre, which hosted the plays. Of the two, the theatre was much more impressive as it had the orignal Roman colums there, plus four original statues. The young man who was our local tour guide was so much better than the tour guide who’d taken us around Evora, that I realized how boring she’d been. He took us through the sites with energy and enthusiasm, so much so that I was able to stand still to listen to him. 

After that, it was lunch time. He advised us to have lunch first, then go and walk to the Roman Bridge (thirty minutes each way), and then go to the Archealogical Museum (free) and use the toilets there. 

I found a rather touristy place for lunch, where the people didn’t speak English. Nevertheless, I ordered an Ensalada Avocado and red wine (vino tinto), which proved to be much tastier than its Portuguese cousin. After that, I set out on my errands. Because the toilets at the pit stop hadn’t had soap or water in them, I went around the corner to a pharmacy to buy hand wipes. Again, the people didn’t speak English, but using my Google method (which I prepared while standing in line) I was able to get the man to understand what I wanted.

Next, I decided I needed dessert. I spent most of my free time finding a bakery, which sold various items. Most of these seeemed to be extremely carby and sweet. So I opted for Opera Cake, which I split into two when I got to the Parador at Carmona. 

Our Tour Guide gave us until 3pm to enjoy Mérida. Unfortunately, a couple of people (the couple sharing the front seat in front of me) were missing. Even more unfortunately, they’d left their iPhone on the floor under their seat, so that when the tour guide called them, the phone rang under the seat. (Not helpful!) Eventually, he found them and we set off at 3:30 pm, thirty minutes late.

We made another pit stop, where I spent my time ordering coffee. I wanted a hot chocolate, but when I said “chocolate calde” they either didn’t understand, or said they didn’t have it. So I ordered a cafe con leche instead, as I was told that everyone did that in Spain. Because I wanted to go to sleep tonight, I had only 5 sips, before leaving it. Then I went to find a snack, as I hadn’t had anything other than lunch, and found a small Twix, which I devoured. 

Eventually, we arrived at our Parador, built on the site of the medieval castle of Peter of Castile. Needless to say it commands a fine view over the gentle countryside. The only fly in the ointment was when I discovered I could not get my old-fashioned key out of the door. Silly me! I had to turn it so that it was horizontal, not vertical, before it eased out of the lock.

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A TIME TRAVELER’S MASQUERADE by Sian Ann Bessey

When Isla Crawford goes to a costume shop looking for a Wendy outfit (in the shape of a blue nighgown) for an office party, the last things she expects is to be transported back to 1605. But as the owner of McQuivey’s Costume Shop looks for that Wendy costume, her fingers skim over a Jacobean gown that she believes is perfect, reading correctly that Isla would far rather be gowned in a creamy floral Jacobean dress than an undignified nightie. 

As soon as Isla puts it on in the changing room, she realizes it is perfect. Happy with her find, she doesn’t even bother to put on her shoes before opening the door to find Mrs McQuivey. Instead she finds herself on a gravel path in the middle of a fierce downpour. The first person she meets is a gentleman called Lord Bancroft, who is just as bedraggled as she. However, he gallantly insists on wrapping her in his cloak, before taking her inside to introduce her to his sister and brother-in-law.

And so Isla finds herself in 1605, with no way to get home. People cannot understand her modern speech, and she feels so stupid as she cannot write with a quill pen, ride a horse, or make an elegant curtsy.

And what is she doing here anyway? Surely, no-one needs her help in overturning the Gunpowder Plot in which Guy Fawkes and his confederates attempted to blow up Parliament?

But it turns out that Isla is needed to foil this plot, for she plays a crucial rule.

Once the plot is foiled, what then? Isla has fallen in love with Lord Bancroft (Simon) and he with her. She is so committed to him that she considers staying in 1605 so that they can marry and spend the rest of their lives together. But will that actually happen? Disaster strikes when Simon insists on being part of the group of men that finally confront Guy Fawkes on 5 November 1605, leaving Isla with a very difficult choice to make.

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A Walking Tour of Evora, Portugal

This morning was a light day as regards our activities. At 9:30 we met in front of the Pousada Dos Loios, where we met Maria, a local guide. Her task was to give us a walking tour of Evora and explain its history.  

Right outside the Pousada is the remains of a Roman Temple. Commonly called “The Temple of Diana,” scholars now doubt that it has anything to do with Diana. Instead they think it is a cult temple to the Emperor Augustus. One of the features of this edifice, that tells us it is a Roman temple rather than a Greek one, is that it is built up high on a platform, while the Greek temples are on street level so that you can just wander in. Thus the Romans have a much more hierarchical view of the universe, and the Greeks are much more democratic.

I said that it was Maria’s job to give us a walking tour of Evora, which is a UNESCO World Heritage Site, but unfortunately, I found her to be extremely boring. She was set on slow, and was determined to take her time crawling over every detail. After the Roman Temple, we went into the Jardim Diana, and looked over what remained of the Roman Walls to the town below. Maria told us that we were 900 feet above sea level, and looking over those walls it was obvious what the Romans saw in this place. Originally, it was just a military camp when it was founded in the Second Century BCE, but then the town grew and eventually there were too many people within the old roman walls. So the powers-that-be decreed that if you were baptized, you could remain within the walls. But if you were not baptised, i.e. Jewish or Muslim, you had to live outside the walls. She pointed to the houses below that line the Rua do Menino Jesus and said that for the longest time that was referred to as the Muslim Quarter. 

She took us to  the Cathedral, then walked us down a street lined with tourist shops to the Praça de Giraldo, where the tourist office is located. After that, we had to enjoy the Chapel of Bones in the Church of St. Francis. Finally, she came to an end. We parted company, and I walked back up the touristy street (Rue Cinco de Octobre) to Pateo, a restaurant where I had lunch.

I have discovered that eating out in Portugal is a bit of a hit-and-miss affair. When I wandered in at about 12:15 pm, the restaurant was completely empty. Even though they didn’t have any grilled fish dishes, I sat down and had their chicken salad dish instead. It was not like any other chicken salad I have tasted. Instead, it was bits of chicken breast arranged on top of a bed of spinach, with a middle conisting of grated carrot and onion. They did manage to dress it, but the chicken breasts werea bit dry, and the wine was not wonderful. However, they did make me a cup of coffee.

After that, I went back into town to do some shopping. On my way, I spent a little time in their public park, wandering off-piste so that I found myself staring at the 17th-century walls of Evora, which glowered over the local Ibis hotel, several large carparks, and a shopping mall. 

I walked back into the center of town, and discovered a shop that actually sold “Turkish” trousers made in India, owned by a Chinese woman. The trousers (which looked like skirts) were lovely, but rather voluminous. However, that was the only style they had, and so I bought them as it is very hot here in Portugal, and my leggings and leather boots are not suitable for this climate. 

Lastly, I went back to the Pousada and spent the rest of the evening packing, as we have a long travel day tomorrow. 

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PRECIPICE by Robert Harris

When I picked up Robert Harris’ PRECIPICE, I believed I was going to read yet another non-fiction book about how Britain tumbled into the First World War. Imagine my surprise when the Author’s Note at the begnining informed me that whereas Asquith’s letter were (alas) real, Venetia’s were entirely made up.

H. H. (Herbert Henry) Asquith (1852-1928) was the British Prime Minister who led Britain into World War One. He was also the last Liberal Prime Minister to ever govern England. After his calamitous ouster in 1916, Britain was thereby governed either by the Conservative Party, or by Labour. Asquith was succeeded by the calculating and fiery Welsh leader of the Labour Party David Lloyd George (1863-1945.)

Beatrice Venetia Stanley (1887-1948) was the best friend of Asquith’s daughter Violet (1887-1969) until their relationship soured. What caused this coolness? In all probability it was because Violet’s father fell in love with Venetia Stanley.

Of course Asquith was a married man, he was married to Violet’s much-disliked stepmother, the aristocratic and well-connected Margot Tennant (1864-1945), who saw to it that her husband rose to the heights of the Prime-Minstership. But that has never stopped passion from breaking out, and it certainly didn’t prevent Asquith from treating his much younger mistress as his wife.

What is so jaw-dropping about this wonderful novel is the letters that Asquith wrote Venetia during the period between 1909 when they first met (he would have been about 57, she was 22) and 1915, when their relationship abruptly ended. Asquith was well known for enjoying the companionship of a circle of clever and attractive women, which his second wife Margot, rather disparagingly referred to as “the harem.” But something about Venetia Stanley was different. By 1912, three years after they’d met, she’d become his constant companion and correspondent. By 2 July 1914, when PRECIPICE opens, Venetia therefore had become firmly enconsced in Asquith’s life for a couple of years.

No-one knows exactly what happened in private. Social mores one hundred years ago were very different than they are today. If this had happened between 2012 and 2015, rather than 1912 and 1915, we would be expecting them to “going all the way” and would refer to them as girlfriend and boyfriend. But Asquith’s treatment of an unmarried aristocratic girl was probably a bit different. This is not to say that they weren’t intimate – his passionate outpourings suggest that they were – but not, perhaps, in the ways we take for granted.

As Asquith was an emotionally needy man who wrote Venetia several hundred letters at the rate of about three a day, it is hardly surprising that she began to chafe. Matters were not helped by the fact that England went to war with Germany on 4 August 1914. Even more jaw-dropping is Asquith’s behavior during 1914 to 1915, when he shared vital goverment documents on military maneuvers with Venetia. On the one hand, this seems to be entirely crazy. How could the Prime Minister repeatedly flout his own Official Secrets Act of 1911? He seems to have completely lost his moral compass. On the other hand, perhaps his judgement was not so bad, for it seems that Venetia Stanley never went to the press, never leaked any of this highly valuable material in any way whatsoever. Instead, she must have hidden her volumious correspondence plus attached telegrams, perhaps in a suitcase, perhaps in a box. 

But tongues were nevertheless beginning to wag, for everyone noticed how close they were becoming, and some even noticed that he was writing to her during cabinet meetings. And that is what the title of the novel really refers too, the precipice of reputation loss, the precipice of the consequences caused by infatuation and poor judgement. For when Venetia Stanley abruptly broke off their relationship in 1915, by announcing that she was going to marry Edwin Montagu (1879-1924), this sent Asquith into a tailspin. So much so that author Robert Harris believes that Asquith’s emotional instability led to the dismemberment of his government and the Liberal Party. 

By the time he was actually ousted from government by Lloyd George on 6 December 1916, the Liberal Party was no more than a corpse, and it has never governed Britain since. 

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Travel Day ~ From Lisbon to Evora

Today we ventured out of Lisbon to Évora, a UNESCO Heritage site in the Alentejo region of Portugal, a region of olive groves, cork trees, fragrant vineyards, and bountiful wheat fields alive with colorful flowers. 

First we drive to Monsaraz, a fortified hilltop town to enjoy lunch at the Aloendra Restaurant. We started with carrot soup. Then (because I didn’t want the lamb) I had a dish of Bacalhau (cod), which was delicious. Afterwards, they brought forward a tray of pastries for the table, and so I had one very small piece of one of the desserts.

Afterwards, we went to a winery, Herdade do Esperāo 1267. The number gives the misleading impression that the vineyard started in 1267. Actually, it was when the land was divided up and it has remained the same size and shape ever since. The winery itself was started in the mid 1970s, but for various reasons did not produce its first bottle of wine until 1987.

The young woman who was our tour guide (and did not work for the company) was extermely knowledgeable. She led us into the factory where there were the inevitalble huge steel vats where most of the wine is made. Then she took us into part of the operation where the special reserve was made. There were four vats made of the local pinkish marble, which could fit four to six people, giving them enough room to stomp on the grapes, before the wine was filtered. As this is an organic operation (our guide said this many times) they use no chemicals.

After a while, she invited people down into the cellars, which involved going down several flights of steep stairs. But my left knee was playing up, it was a gorgeous afternoon, and so I elected to stay above ground. After about 25 minutes, I went to reception to find out what was going on, and was quickly reunited with our Odysseys group in the tasting room. The young woman let us taste two wines. The white wine was a very pleasant balance of sweet and dry with subtle floral scents. The red wine was disappointing, having too much tannin in it. And so I bought a bottle of white wine for €18,80. 

After that, we continued to Évora, checking in at the Pousada dos Loios. A restored 15-century convent, the pousada is considered one of the most beautiful lodgings in Portugal, despite its small guest rooms. But I was so lucky! I ended up with a suite of three rooms ~ a Reception Room, a Sitting Room with a TV, which gave onto the bathroom, and downstairs was a bedroom with two twin beds nestled together. As you could actually open the window, I took advantage of that fact and enjoyed cool spring air while I slept there. (With the window closed, my bedroom had a slight odor of mildew. The only thing to spoil my paradise.)

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GEORGE, NICHOLAS, WILHELM ~ THREE ROYAL COUSINS AND THE ROAD TO WORLD WAR I by Miranda Carter

A Fascinating Account of Three Infantile Men

I do not usually care for biographies, they often seem to consist of the boring trivia of a person’s daily life. But GEORGE, NICHOLAS, WILHELM: THREE ROYAL COUSINS AND THE ROAD TO WORLD WAR I is different. Miranda Carter deftly weaves together the biographies of the three cousin-emperors who together stood on the brink of the abyss in 1914: George V of England, Nicholas, the last Tsar of Russia, and Wilhelm, the last Kaiser of Germany.

What I really enjoyed about this book was the way in which it was told. Ms. Carter chose her details judiciously, so that instead of feeling swamped by the minutiae of the privileged lives of three people who ironically tended to focus on trivial details themselves, she gives you the right sweep of psychology, politics and detail to make you understand very clearly why two of these three men were an utter disaster as autocratic heads of state, while at the same time, breathing a sigh of relief that the third (Georges V of England) was hemmed in by his parliament.

The tragedy that happened at the Ipatiev House in July 1918 haunts us still. It is hard to read about four innocent girls and their brother being gunned down by the soviets, but I didn’t realize how mild-mannered, relentlessly polite “Nicky” had turned into such a monster against his own people. Nor did I realize that his hated wife had such power towards the end of their reign, that she was dismissing ministers right and left, in a fashion that would have been comical had it not been so tragic.

I also had no idea that Kaiser Wilhelm was a closet homosexual, or that he was so infantile. And what fascinated me about this book was the culture of late 19th-century Europe that promoted the infantilization of children of both sexes to such a degree that it is fair to say that in a very real way, none of these men ever grew up. It would be fascinating to read a sociological history that explains how this culture of infantilization came about. Five stars.

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Third Day in Lisbon

Today started well enough. It was another gorgeous sunlit day, that began chilly We went on a walking tour of downtown Lisbon with a local guide. She took us to San Geronimo Convent, the Discoverer’s Monument (shades of Stalin) and the Belem Tower. Then we got back on the bus and went to Restauradores Square, and Rossio square, both of which I’d seen yesterday.

She made various suggestions for lunch, and pointed to a street of restaurants. I sat down at the first one I came too, but really should have spent more time looking. Yes, it was cheaper than yesterday’s. Yes, the fish was beautifully cooked, but it was so full of bones it was hard to eat.

After lunch, I decided to try and get to St George’s Castle, which I’d somehow missed on my walk around Alfama. The guide had told us to go to the blue house in Figueira Square, follow the tram tracks until the end of the track, and then turn right.

There were two problems with this advice. Firstly, there were two blue houses in Figueira Square, not one. Secondly, after picking the wrong house, the tram line forked, so on the grounds that I had to eventually turn right, I picked the left fork.

As before, I found myself lost in the maze of streets of Alfama. Unlike yesterday, the area I was in today was a lot less pleasant, with no lovely buildings, but rather doorway after doorway of people who seemed poor, immigrant and not in good health (coughing). Given the way I look and the way I was dressed (straw hat) I screamed tourist. I felt very uncomfortable walking through this area, although no-one was rude or aggressive. However, I didn’t know what to do, so I continued. After about 30 minutes of this, with the sun pouring down on my head and the temperature rising to 80 degrees, I decided to call it quits. It was impossible to see the castle, because I was too close to it. So as soon as I found a street with lots of traffic on it, I made for it. Peering at my iPhone, I deduced what the correct direction was, and walked with great relief along a straight street. Eventually, I made it back to Figueira Square. 

I glanced at my watch, and it showed the time to be 2:30. So I decided to make my way to the iron elevator, go up it, and explored Caixa, which the guide had descrbed as a cool place. I walked through Figueira and Rossio squares, and got to a place where the elevator wasn’t that far away. But by this time, I was exhausted, my feet were swelling, and I was boiling under that sizzling 80 degree heat. So I called that quits too, and made my way back to the pick-up point at Restauradores Square. 

And that is when everything began to go wrong. To start with, I arrived at 2:50, expecting the 3:00 bus. But when it didn’t show, I realized that the hotel shuttle doesn’t come at 3 pm. By that time, I was feeling dreadful. There were very few places to sit, and the sun was pouring down from a cloudless sky onto a large square with no shade. Finally, I found a bus stop so I could sit down, and thank heavens managed to catch a breeze from the river. I considered getting a metro back to the hotel, but was in too bad a shape to contemplate it.

And so I waited. And waited. At around 3:30, when the bus should have arrived, a woman suddenly asked me if I was waiting for the Corinthia Hotel shuttle. When I said I was, she introduced herself as Valerie.

Well Valerie and I stood there chatting, until about 3:50, when two people from our group appeared. Turned out that the shuttle bus had been unable to get through to Restauradores Square, because the road was closed. And so the driver had left them off six blocks to the north and they’d walked down. I tried to call the hotel, but no-one picked up. So I then told Valerie and the others that we should take the metro back. 

The couple disappeared to enjoy their time in Lisbon, while Valerie and I made for the metro. We managed to pay our fares (I with my credit card) and then the train arrived soon after we arrived on the platform. But it was completely jammed. Valerie wondered whether we should wait, but I’d had enough, so I persuaded her to get on. Eventually, we managed to find seats, and when we got to our stop, which is the Zoo stop called Jardim Zoologico de Lisboa, we got off, along with hordes of people. 

After tapping my credit card, we were out in the station forecourt. But Valerie said we were on the wrong floor, so we walked down a level, and walked out to the road. It turned out that Corinthia Hotel was just across the street. 

I was so happy to be back! What a relief to be back in my room, where I could wash my hair and have a cool shower. I finished the day off by packing, for we are going to Evora tomorrow, and our large suitcases have to be out by 8.

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MARMEE by Sarah Miller

MARMEE by Sarah Miller is a re-telling of Louisa May Alcott’s LITTLE WOMEN from the point of view of MARMEE, the much-admired and much-sainted mother of Meg, Jo, Beth and Amy.

I am one of those readers who was completely captivated by this book to the extent that I would have given it more than 5 stars if I could.

How I loved Marmee’s voice. The poor woman is so compassionate towards everyone, and her cross to bear is that she is married to a man who is just as compassionate as she. But instead of raiding the pantry as Marmee does, he raids his salary to help others, meaning that he sends his wife less and less each month. How is a single woman with her husband away at the front going to be able to feed and clothe six people? When her husband only sends 39 dollars (instead of his actual salary of $150), because he “knows” that she “will not mind” that he spent the remainder of his salary on boots, blankets and cloaks for his men.

Thankfully, Jo, Beth and Hannah (Marmee’s beloved maid-of-all-work who has been with her forever and knows all her secrets) don’t care how they look. But what is she going to do about Meg, who is expecting a silk parasol for her birthday? Or Amy, who requires finery AND art supplies?

Fortunately Marmee is extremely resourceful, but she could not have pulled off such a miracle without the kindness of her wealthy next-door neighbor, Mr. Laurenace.

And so we are off into the world of Little Women. We learn about Marlee’s dreams of a union between Laurie and Jo. Of her delight at Meg’s wedding to John Brooks. Of her equal delight when Amy is invited abroad on a European tour (and how she soothes Jo’s ruffled feathers before Amy appears.). We learn that Meg irritates her with her love of finery. That Amy irritates her with her snobbery. That she sees Beth ask an angel. And that plain-spoken Jo is the daughter she feels greatest kinship with.

It is fascinating to see the “backstory” of Little Women being so well laid out. We learn that Marmee has an even worse temper than Jo. And that she brought her family to ruin by a few ill-chosen words.

Marmee bears a constant load of pain, grief and regret, and yet she is a magnificent woman. If you loved the original novel by Louisa May Alcott, you will love this. Five stars. 

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Second Day in Lisbon

The reason why I do tours, is because trying to navigate a city I don’t know in a language (Portuguese) that I don’t speak can be very taxing. 

This second day in Lisbon proves my point. 

I took Corinthia Hotel’s free shuttle down to Restauradores (Restoration), the heart of old town Lisbon with a plan of finding the Tourist Office first. There was a tourist office in the square, but it was closed. I went to the Police Office of Tourism next door, and the woman there told me it was on the other side of the street, near a kiosk. 

I crossed the very busy street, and spoke to a man in a large kiosk. He told me it was in the next square, pointing south. 

This took me to Rossio Square, the largest in Lisbon. I peered around, but it was hard to find anything by sight, so I began the task of walking around the square, looking for a kiosk. I did find a kiosk, and two young women who wanted me to get on a hop-on, hop-off bus. I asked about the tourist office, and they really weren’t sure where it was. One of the women used her iPhone to find out, and discovered it to be in Praça Duque da Terceira. So I plugged that into my iPhone and took off, once they’d given me one of their brochures. I really didn’t want it, but recognized it as an informal kind of payment for their cooperation. 

My walk took me out of Rossio Square to the south, where it gave onto Commercial Square (absolutely gi-enormous) which gave onto the river, which was so wide at that point it looked like the sea. I looked around and spied the Tourist Office sign (an i) and made a beeline for it. Then I queued up and talked to another young woman, who was singularly unhelpful. No, she couldn’t help me evade tourists, because there were always tourists in Lisbon. No, there weren’t any special neighborhoods with winding streets, because all of Lisbon was medieval.

I sat down at a nearby table in the office, trying to decide what to do. I looked at the map and saw that the Fado Museum was nearby, so walked in that direction. (Fado means Fate, and is a kind of haunting song that rose up in the 1860s as a kind of working-class resistance during a turbulent time in Portugal’s history.) That turned out to be a lucky choice, for by following the map I found myself on Rua dos Bacalhoeiras where an older woman handed me a menu outside Cais na Preguiça a 4.7 star Portuguese seafood restaurant.

It was a bright and sunny afternoon, the food was marvelous and I loved the red Sangria I had with it. After lunch, I found my way to the Fado Museum, which was as interesting as I hoped it would be.

Afterwards, I needed to get back to Restauradores Square to get back on the free shuttle to Corinthia Hotel. 

And that is where things went very wrong. 

Somehow, I got lost in the maze of hilly streets that make up the Alfama neighborhood, and I think I must have walked in a large circle, before being funneled back into Commercial Square. By walking north, I found Restauradores Square, where I’d started my day. But I was exhausted. 

This is why I do tours.

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AMERICAN EMPRESS by Nancy Rubin

Marjorie never did have much luck with husbands…

Marjorie Merriweather Post (1887-1973) led a long and interesting life that encompassed two world wars, three daughters and four marriages. I generally do not enjoy reading biography as too often it can be a dry recital of the trivia of someone’s life, but I have to say that Nancy Rubin in her biography of Mrs. Post, titled AMERICAN EMPRESS, has done a wonderful job in making it interesting.

There was much I did not know about Mrs. Post. I didn’t realize that she grew up in Battle Creek Michigan, or that her father was an entrepreneur. All I knew about her was her wonderful collection of Russian porcelain and religious icons that are in the museum that used to be her home, here in Washington DC.  

It is odd to reflect now, here in the 21st century, how people used to rush into marriage. Mrs. Post was married four times. I could understand why she married Edward Close (she was only eighteen), E. F. Hutton (he was the love of her life) and Joe Davies (he was interesting). But I must say I didn’t see the point of her marriage to Herbert May. But then women were made to feel that they couldn’t go out if they didn’t have some sort of male companion, and although her daughters encouraged her not to marry her male escorts, she herself was of an era when rigid notions of male-female relations prevailed.

Marjorie never did have much luck with husbands. She divorced two of them for infidelity, and the other two because, in their different ways, they cramped her style. Many of her friends speculated about why she was never happy for long in her marriages. One of her friends remarked, “Marjorie, you could run General Motors. You could run U.S. Steel. You could run anything. You’re the smartest woman I know. But why do you have so much trouble with husbands?”
“Clare, I honestly don’t know. Ain’t it hell?” Marjorie is reported to have replied.

But the answer of course is that from the fact that you have formidable organizational skills and a steel-trap mind – as Marjorie did – it doesn’t at all follow that you will have a happy marriage. Because what is needed is a totally different kind of intelligence, what we now refer to as EQ or emotional intelligence. This is not to say that Marjorie didn’t have any EQ – she had good relationships with all three of her daughters – but she didn’t have enough of it to offset all of her millions.

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