POSITANO APRE LA STAGIONE CROCERISTICA 2018. ECCO L’ARRIVO DELLA PACIFIC PRINCESS – DIRETTA

domenica 8 aprile 2018 l’arrivo della nave da crociera Pacific Princess a Positano. Positanonews con i suoi inviati STA SEGUENDO IN DIRETTA dalle 6 di mattina l’arrivo nella perla della Costiera amalfitana.

La nave Pacific Princess ha a bordo 600 passeggeri circa, batte bandiera delle Bermuda, tutta bianca per una lunghezza di circa 200 metri, è partita da Venezia per una traversata che la impegnerà per 25 giorno fino ad arrivare in Florida. Costruita nei cantieri francesi acquisiti dalla MSC, nel 1999, è stata riammodernata l’anno scorso. Buona parte degli ufficiali di bordo sono italiani, tra i comandanti  Mario Ciruzzi, Domenico Lubrano-Lavadera.

Simpatico e bugiardo il ritratto di Positano offerto, nei milioni di depliant, ai turisti americani. Leggetelo sia in inglese che tradotto da google in italiano. Vi accorgete subito della visione americana con riferimento a Steinbeck autore dell’articolo nel maggio del 1953 sulla rivista  Harper’s Bazaar, di cui in coda per intero, ai films americani in cui appare Positano e a Shawn Phillips musicista americano:

Positano era un villaggio di pescatori molto povero. Ha iniziato ad attirare un gran numero di viaggiatori negli anni ’50, specialmente dopo che nel maggio del 1953 John Steinbeck pubblicò un saggio su Positano in Harper’s Bazaar: “Positano morde profondamente”, scrisse. “È un luogo dei sogni che non è del tutto reale quando sei lì e diventa davvero attraente dopo che te ne sei andato.” 

Dal luglio del 1967 alla maggior parte degli anni ’70, Positano era la casa di Shawn Phillips, un famoso cantautore. La maggior parte del suo lavoro più noto è stata composta nel villaggio. Mentre era in vacanza, Keith Richards e Mick Jagger hanno scritto la canzone dei Rolling Stones “Midnight Rambler” nei caffè di Positano.

Positano is a comune and village on the Amalfi Coast (Costiera Amalfitana), Campania (Italy), mainly in an enclave in the hills that lead down to the coast. It has a total area of only 8 km2 (3 ml2) and a population of 3,980 people (2010 census)

In medieval times, Positano was a port of Amalfi Republic, and prospered during the 16th and 17th centuries. By the mid-19th century, however, it had fallen on hard times. More than 50% of the population emigrated, most of them to America.

During the first half of the 20th century, Positano was a considerably poor fishing village. It started to attract large numbers of travelers in the 1950s, especially after in May, 1953 John Steinbeck published an essay about Positano in Harper’s Bazaar: “Positano bites deep”, he wrote. “It is a dream place that isn’t quite real when you are there and becomes beckoningly real after you have gone.”

Santa Maria Assunta church features a dome that is made of majolica tiles and a 13th-century Byzantine icon of black Madonna. According to a local legend, the icon was stolen from Byzantium and transported across the Mediterranean by pirates. A terrible storm blew up in the waters opposite Positano – the frightened sailors heard a voice onboard saying “Posa, posa!” (“Put down! Put down!”). And the precious icon was unloaded and then carried to the fishing village of Positano. The storm abated.

Positano village has been featured in a few films, such as Only You (1994), Under the Tuscan Sun (2003), and more recently Kath & Kimderella (2012). It was mentioned in the musical film Nine (2009) in the song “Cinema Italiano”. Positano hosts the annual festival “Cartoons on the Bay”, at which Pulcinella Awards are presented for excellence in animation.

From July 1967 through most of 1970s, Positano was home to Shawn Phillips, a popular singer-songwriter. Most of his best-known work was composed in the village. While on vacation, Keith Richards and Mick Jagger wrote The Rolling Stones’ song “Midnight Rambler” in the cafes of Positano.

Positano è un comune e un villaggio sulla Costiera Amalfitana (Costiera Amalfitana), in Campania (Italia), principalmente in una enclave nelle colline che portano giù alla costa. Ha una superficie totale di soli 8 km2 (3 ml2) e una popolazione di 3.980 persone (censimento 2010)

In epoca medievale, Positano era un porto della Repubblica di Amalfi e prosperò durante il XVI e XVII secolo. Verso la metà del 19 ° secolo, tuttavia, era caduto in tempi difficili. Più del 50% della popolazione è emigrata, la maggior parte in America.

Durante la prima metà del 20 ° secolo, Positano era un villaggio di pescatori molto povero. Ha iniziato ad attirare un gran numero di viaggiatori negli anni ’50, specialmente dopo che nel maggio del 1953 John Steinbeck pubblicò un saggio su Positano in Harper’s Bazaar: “Positano morde profondamente”, scrisse. “È un luogo dei sogni che non è del tutto reale quando sei lì e diventa davvero attraente dopo che te ne sei andato.”

La chiesa di Santa Maria Assunta presenta una cupola fatta di maioliche e un’icona bizantina della Madonna nera del XIII secolo. Secondo una leggenda locale, l’icona è stata rubata da Bisanzio e trasportata attraverso il Mediterraneo dai pirati. Una terribile tempesta esplose nelle acque di fronte a Positano – i marinai spaventati sentirono una voce a bordo che diceva “Posa, posa!” (“Metti giù! Metti giù!”). E la preziosa icona è stata scaricata e portata al villaggio di pescatori di Positano. La tempesta è diminuita.

Il villaggio di Positano è stato presentato in alcuni film, come Only You (1994), Under the Tuscan Sun (2003) e, più recentemente, Kath & Kimderella (2012). È stato menzionato nel film musicale Nine (2009) nella canzone “Cinema Italiano”. Positano ospita il festival annuale “Cartoons on the Bay”, in cui i Pulcinella Awards vengono presentati per l’eccellenza nell’animazione.

Dal luglio del 1967 alla maggior parte degli anni ’70, Positano era la casa di Shawn Phillips, un famoso cantautore. La maggior parte del suo lavoro più noto è stata composta nel villaggio. Mentre era in vacanza, Keith Richards e Mick Jagger hanno scritto la canzone dei Rolling Stones “Midnight Rambler” nei caffè di Positano.

POSITANO BY JOHN STEINBECK
I first heard of Positano from Alberto Moravia. It was very hot in Rome.
He said, “Why don’t you go down to Positano on the Amalfi Coast? It is
one of the fine places of Italy”. Later John McKnight of United States
Information Service told me the same thing. He had spent a year there
working on a book. Half a dozen people echoed this. Positano kind of
moved in on us and we found ourselves driving down to Naples on our way.
To an American, Italian traffic is at first just down-right nonsense. It
seems hysterical, it follows no rule. You cannot figure what the driver
ahead or behind or beside you is going to do next and he usually does it.
But there are other hazards besides the driving technique.
There are the motor scooters, thousands of them, which buzz at you like
mosquitoes. There is a tiny little automobile called “Topolino” or “mouse”
which hides in front of larger cars; there are gigantic trucks and tanks in
which most of Italy’s goods are moved; and finally there are assorted
livestock, hay wagons, bicycles, lone horses and mules out for a stroll, and
to top it all there are the pedestrians who walk blissfully on the highways
never looking about. To give this madness more color, everyone blows the
horn all the time. This deafening, screaming, milling, tire-screeching mess
is ordinary Italian highway traffic. My drive from Venice to Rome had given
me a horror of it amounting to cowardice.
I hired a driver to take me to Positano. He was a registered driver in good
standing. His card reads: “Signor Bassani Bassano, Experienced Guide –
all Italy – and Throt Europe”. It was the “Throt Europe” that won me.
Well, we had accomplished one thing. We had imported a little piece of
Italian traffic right into our own front seat. Signor Bassani was a remarkable
man. He was capable of driving at a hundred kilometers an hour, blowing
the horn, screeching the brakes, driving mules up trees, and at the same
time turning around in the seat and using both hands to gesture, describing
in loud tones the beauties and antiquities of Italy and Throt Europe. It was
amazing. It damn near killed us. And in spite of that he never hit anybody
or anything. The only casualties were our quivering, bleeding nerves. I
want to recommend Signor Bassani to travelers. You may not hear much
of what he tells you but you will not be bored.
We squirmed and twisted through Naples, past Pompei, whirled and
flashed into the mountains behind Sorrento. We hummed “Come back to
Sorrento” dismally. We did not believe we could get back to Sorrento.
Flaming like a meteor we hit the coast, a road, high, high above the blue
sea, that hooked and corkscrewed on the edge of nothing, a road carefully
designed to be a little narrower than two cars side by side. And on this
road, the buses, the trucks, the motor scooters and the assorted livestock.
We didn’t see much of the road. In the back seat my wife and I lay
clutched in each other’s arms, weeping hysterically, while in the front seat
Signor Bassano gestured with both hands and happily instructed us: “Ina
dda terd sieglo da Hamperor Hamgousternos coming tru wit Leegeceons”.
(Our car hit and killed a chicken.) “Izz molto lot old heestory here.
I know. I tall.” Thus he whirled us “Throt Italy”. And below us, and it seemed
sometimes under us, a thousand feet below lay the blue Tyrrhenian licking
its lips for us. Once during the war I came up this same lovely coast in the
American destroyer Knight. We came fast. Germans threw shells at us
from the hills and aircrafts splashed bombs at us and submarines
unknown tried to lay torpedoes on us. I swear I think it was much safer
than that drive with Signor Bassano. And yet he brought us at last, safe
but limp, to Positano.
Positano bites deep. It is a dream place that isn’t quite real when you are
there and becomes beckoningly real after you have gone. Its houses climb
a hill so steep it would be a cliff except that stairs are cut in it. I believe
that whereas most house foundations are vertical, in Positano they are
horizontal. The small curving bay of unbelievably blue and green water
laps gently on a beach of small pebbles. There is only one narrow street
and it does not come down to the water. Everything else is stairs, some of
them as steep as ladders. You do not walk to visit a friend, you either
climb or slide.
Nearly always when you find a place as beautiful as Positano, your impulse
is to conceal it. You think, “If I tell, it will be crowded with tourists and
they will ruin it, turn it into a honky-tonk and then the local people will get
touristy and there’s your lovely place gone to hell”. There isn’t the
slightest chance of this in Positano. In the first place there is no room.
There are about two thousand inhabitants in Positano and there is room
for about five hundred visitors, no more. The cliffs are all taken. Except
for the half ruinous houses very high up, all space is utilized. And the
Positanese invariably refuse to sell. They are curious people. I will go into
that later.
Again, Positano is never likely to attract the organdie-and-white linen
tourist. It would be impossible to dress as a languid tourist-lady-crisp, cool
white dress, sandals as white and light as little clouds, picture hat of
arrogant nonsense, and one red rose held in a listless white-gloved pinky.
I dare any dame to dress like this and climb the Positano stairs for a
cocktail. She will arrive looking like a washcloth at a boys’ camp. There is
no way for her to get anywhere except by climbing. The third deterrent to
a great influx of tourists lies in the nature of the Positanese themselves.
They just don’t give a damn. They have been living here since before
recorded history and they don’t intend to change now. They don’t have
much but they like what they have and will not move over for a buck.
We went to the Sirenuse, an old family house converted into a first class
hotel, spotless and cool, with grape arbors over its outside dining rooms.
Every room has its little balcony and looks out over the blue sea to the
islands of the sirens from which those ladies sang so sweetly. The owner
of the Hotel Sirenuse is an Italian nobleman, Marquis Paolo Sersale. He is
also the mayor of Positano, a strong handsome man of about fifty who
dresses mostly like a beachcomber and works very hard at his job as
mayor. How he got the job is an amusing story.
Positano elects a town council of fifteen members. The council then elects
one of its members mayor. The people of Positano are almost to a man
royalist in their politics. This is largely true of much of the South of Italy
but it is vastly true of Positano. The fishermen and shoemakers, the
carpenters and truck drivers favor a king and particularly a king from the
house of Savoy. This was true when the present mayor was elected. The
Marquis Paolo Sersale was elected because he was a Communist, the only
one in town. It was his distinction in a whole electorate of royalists. One
of Sersale’s ancestors commanded a gallery of war at the Battle of
Lepanto in 1571 when the power of the Moslem was finally broken and
Christian control of Europe assured. He does not say why he became a
Communist. But he does say that he left the party in 1947 not in anger
but in a kind of disgust. The township was a little sad about his losing his
distinction, but they have elected him ever since, in spite of that.
The mayor of Positano is an archaeologist, a philosopher and an administrator.
He has one policeman to keep order and there isn’t much for his force to
do. He says, “Nearly all Positanese are related. If there is any trouble it is
like a family fight and I never knew any good to come of interfering in a
family quarrel”. The mayor wanders about the town upstairs and
downstairs. He dresses in tired slacks, a sweat shirt and sandals. He holds
court anywhere he is, sitting on a stonewall overlooking the sea, leaning
against the edge of a bar, swimming in the sea or curled up on the beach.
Very little business gets done in the City Hall. The police force has so much
time free that he takes odd jobs to make a little extra money.
The history of Positano is rich, long and little crazy. But one thing is certain:
it has been around a long time. When the Emperor Tiberius moved
to Capri because he was detested in Rome, he didn’t trust anyone.
He thought people were trying to poison him, and he was probably right.
He would not eat bread made with the flour of his part of the country. His
galley instead crept down the coast to Positano and got flour from a mill
which still stands against the mountain side. This mill has been improved
and kept up, of course, but it still grinds flour for the Positanese.
This little town of Positano has had a remarkable past. As part of the
Republic of Amalfi in the ninth, tenth and eleventh centuries, it helped to
write the first maritime laws we know in which the rights of sailors were
set down. In the tenth century it was one of the most important mercantile
cities of the world, rivaling Venice. Having no harbor, its great galleys were
pulled bodily up on the beach by the townspeople.
There is a story that on one Holy Saturday when no church bell was
allowed to ring in all Christendom, a Positano ship was in trouble from a
great storm. The bishop who was officiating at the altar declared the rule
off, rang the bell himself and then joined the population on the beach and
in his vestments helped to pull the crippled ship ashore.
Like most Italian towns Positano has its miraculous picture. It is a
Byzantine representation of the Virgin Mary. Once, long ago, the story
goes, the Saracenic pirates raided the town and among other things
carried away this picture. But they had no sooner put to sea when a vision
came to them which so stunned them that they returned the picture.
Every year on August 15, this incident is re-enacted with great fury and
some bloodshed. In the night the half-naked pirates attack the town which
is defended by Positanese men-at-arms dressed in armor. Some of this
fighting gets pretty serious. The pirates then go to the church and carry
the holy picture off into the night. Now comes the big moment. As soon
as they have disappeared into the darkness, a bright and flaming image
of an angel appears in the sky. At present General Mark Clark is the sponsor
of this miracle. He gave the town a surplus Air Force barrage balloon. Then
very soon the pirates return in their boats and restore the picture to the
church and everybody marches and sings and has a good time.
In the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries Positano became very rich. Its
ships went everywhere, trading in the Near and Middle East, carrying the
spices and precious wood the Western world craved. Then the large and
beautiful baroque houses that stand against the mountain were built and
decorated with the loot of the world.
About a hundred years ago a tragedy came to the town. Steamships
began to ply the ocean. Positano could not compete; year by year it grew
poorer and more desperate. At that time there were about eight thousand
citizens. Between 1860 and 1870 about six thousand of the towns-men
emigrated to America and great houses stood vacant and their walls crumbled
and the painted designs paled out and the roofs fell in. The population has
never got much above two thousand since. If Positano bites deeply into a
stranger, it is branded on the Positanese. The bulk of the émigrés went to
New York and most of them settled on Columbus Avenue. They made a
little Positano of it, they celebrate the same festivals as the mother town,
they talk Positano and live Positano. In New York there are over five
thousand people who were born in Positano – twice as many as live in the
mother city. Besides these there are many thousands of descendants and
all of them are tied very closely to the Italian city.
One of the hardest duties of the mayor is trying to find graveyard space
for the New York Positanese who want their bodies returned to their native
town. The graveyard is as big as it can be. There is no room to extend it
without blasting away the mountain. Just about every available inch is
taken, but the mayor must edge the old-timers in some way.
About ten years ago a Moslem came to Positano, liked it and settled. For
a time he was self-supporting but gradually he ran out of assets and still
he stayed. The town supported him and took care of him. Just as the
mayor was their only Communist, this was their only Moslem. They felt
that he belonged to them. Finally he died and his only request was that
he might be buried with his feet toward Mecca. And this, so Positano
thought, was done. The Moslem had been buried by dead reckoning and
either the compass was off or the map was faulty. He had been buried
28 degrees off course. This was outrageous to a seafaring town. The
whole population gathered, dug the Moslem up, put him on course and
covered him up again.
Positano does not have much of any industry. At night the fishing boats
put out with powerful lights on their bows. They fish all night for anchovies
and squids, and the bow lights of the boats litter the sea to sight’s edge.
But in fishing, Positano has a rival – the little town of Praiano, a few miles
down the coast. The rivalry has been so great that a fishing code has been
long established. When a school of fish is sighted the lampara boats run
for it. The first boat to reach it puts out its net and make its circling run.
Meanwhile other boats from the other town have raced for the school. If
the first boat completes its circle before the others arrive, the school
belongs to it. If not, both the towns share in the catch. This is important
in light of a story that comes later.
On shore there is a little shoemaking, some carpentry and a few arts and
crafts. It would be difficult to consider tourists an industry because there
are not enough of them. They do, however, provide a bit of luxury for the
villagers.
Far up the mountain a convent looks down on the sea and here little girls
are taught the delicate and dying art of lacemaking by the sisters. The
girls are paid and the lace sold to support the school and incidentally the
children. The flying fingers of the little girls working with the hundreds of
bobbins make the eye dizzy, and the children look up and laugh and talk
as though they were not even aware of the magic of their flashing fingers.
Some of the work is unbelievable. We saw a great tablecloth, a spider web
intricate as a thought. It was the work of fifty for one year.
In a few days we became aware of Positano’ s greatest commodity –
characters. Maybe they aren’t marketable, but Positano has them above
every community I have ever seen. There are the men who have lived in
America and have come again to bask in the moral, physical, political and
sartorial freedoms which flourish in their birth town. Clothing is as harumscarum
as a man’s mind can wish, but it must be comfortable. The
postman who climbs all stairs every day wears his official postman’s cap
and corduroy trousers with braces but has left off a shirt if the day is
warm. An other man finds pajama pants, a loose vest and a flat straw
hat the perfect costume. He carries sandals but in the same way a
well dressed man who hates gloves carries gloves. Even the lightest open
sandal is a stricture on his happy feet.
In a bar or on the beach you may see an incredibly old man with the bright
eyes of a wise bird or an innocent snake. He is a witch. He learned his
craft from a witch. He treats the ills of the whole town. His method lies in
his hands, small, white, weak-looking hands. When a patient has pain,
these hands slowly creep over the area while the eyes of the wizard look
off into space and he seems to be listening. The hands seems to be
separate from him. The fingers find the area of pain and then gently walk
about it, feeling and soothing and massaging but very gently. And his
patients say that the pains go away. I don’t know. I didn’t have any pain.
Yes, Positano flourishes with characters. On the beach there is a famous
shoemaker. He builds sandals and shoes for the whole town, but this is
only his part-time job. He believes that Ferragamo, the great Italian shoe
designer, steals his ideas and he is a little angry about it, but then he
realizes his true role. He is the friend and confident of great men. Once a
number of years ago, he was the eyes and, some say, the conscience of
Dino Grandi, the Italian general. When Grandi came to Positano to rest he
sometimes sat and talked with the shoemaker. And after the general had
left, the shoemaker would not talk to common mortals for several days.
He tapped and thought and sewed and thought and he remarked once:
“I do not feel it fitting that I should discuss anything with outsiders after
I have been admitted to the secrets of government and diplomacy”. He got
to talking like Grandi and standing with his head back and his chin out the
way Grandi did.
After the war, General Mark Clark came to Positano and he too talked with
the shoemaker. And again the shoemaker would not speak for several
days, but it was noticed that he stood with his shoulders forward and his
head bent studying the ground – the normal posture of General Clark. The
shoemaker told me in some confidence: “He put his hand right here, right
here, the General did,” and he pointed to a place on his shoulder, and his
eyes looked off into grandeur.
Mark Clark has left his mark on the town. In an older time he would wear
the halo of a saint instead of the stars of a general. He is the town’s patron
and he rose to this position rather simply. Positano has always had a
temperamental and highly undependable water system. There is plenty of
water in the mountain but the means to get it to the gardens and the
kitchens of the town were primitive or nonexistent. Mark Clark gave the
town a few thousand meters of scrap water pipe, left over from the Italian
campaign. The townsmen installed it themselves. Now the water goes
inevitably to the gardens and the kitchens and the public fountains of
Positano, so that many times a day every Positanese thinks of the General
Mark Clark, pronounced Clock.
A number of writers have gone to Positano to do their work. Some of these
are Americans and some are British. Nothing in the little town is designed
to disturb your thoughts provided you have a thought. Such a recluse was
John McKnight, now of the United States Foreign Service, but then in
process of writing The Papacy, a long and careful study of the history of
the Vatican and its position in the present-day world. He and his wife lived
for a year in a little house with a garden right over the water in the
southern part of the town. The McKnights come from North Carolina and
they settled into the life of Positano as naturally as they had settled into
Chapel Hill. Then the year turned and Thanksgiving began looming.
Now an American living long abroad may become completely expatriate.
He may speak foreign, think foreign, eat foreign, but let Christmas or
Fourth of July or Thanksgiving come around and something begins to
squirm inside him and he finds he has to do something about it. Johnny
and Liz McKnight speak Italian fluently, read, eat and live Italian. But
when Thanksgiving came near in Positano, the McKnights found themselves
dreaming of roast turkey and dressing, of cranberry sauce and plum pudding,
of mint juleps. They got to waking up in the night and thinking about it.
The turkey arrived in a crate tied to the top of a bus. It was a fine
vigorous but slightly hysterical bird and for a week it gobbled and
strutted in the one bird turkey yard built for it in the garden until gradually
its nerves got back to normal. It didn’t know that the looks of its new
friends were not friendly.
Johnny remembered a bit of wisdom imparted to him by his grandfather,
in North Carolina. Violent death, his grandfather said, be it to man or to
turkey, is a nervous and discouraging experience. The muscles are likely
to go hard and certain unhappy juices are released into the system. His
grandfather did not know how that affected the flavor of man but in a
turkey it had a tendency to make the meat tough and a little bitter. But
there was a way to avoid that. If about two hours before the execution,
the turkey is given a couple of slugs of good brandy, the nervous tension
relaxed, the turkey’s state of mind is clear and healthy and he goes to the
block happy and even grateful. Then when he is served, instead of bitter
juices of fear and shock, there is likely to be a delicious hint of cognac in
the meat.
Johnny decided to follow the custom of North Carolina. Then he found that
he did not have brandy. The bourbon he had provided for juleps did not
seem right and the only other thing he had was a bottle of Grand Marnier.
It was better than brandy. It would give not solace to the turkey but an
orangey flavor to the meat.
The turkey fought the idea at first. But finally Johnny got him held firmly
under his arm and held the beak open while Liz put four or five eyedroppers
of Grand Marnier down the bird’s throat. At first the turkey gagged a
little but in a moment or two its head dropped, a sweet but wild look came
in its eyes and it waved its head in rhythm with some gentle but not quite
sober thought that went through its head. Johnny carried it gently to the
pen. It wobbled a bit and settled down comfortably and went to sleep.
“I’ll do for it in its sleep”, Johnny thought. “That turkey will never know
what happened”. And he went to the refrigerator to see how the mint
juleps were doing.
They were doing fine. He brought two of them back to the garden, and he
and Liz sat down to begin the Thanksgiving. The McKnights do not know
what happened. Johnny thinks the turkey may have had a bad dream.
They heard a hiccupping gobble. The turkey rose straight up in the air, and
screaming triumphantly flew out to the sea. Now we must go back to the
sea laws of the Amalfi Coast. In the hills above the towns of Positano and
its rival Praiano, wFatchers are usually posted. They not only keep watch
for schools of fish but for anything which may be considered flotsam, jetsam
or salvage. These watchers saw the McKnights’ seagoing turkey fly to sea
and they also saw it crash into the water a couple of miles off shore.
Immediately boats put off from both Positano and Praiano. The race was
on and they arrived at about the same time. But the turkey, alas, had
drowned. The fishermen brought it tenderly back, arguing softly about
whether it was a matter for salvage court. The turkey was obviously out
of command. Johnny McKnight easily settled the problem with the rest of
the bottle of Grand Marnier.
They cooked the turkey that afternoon and sat down to dinner about eight
in the evening. And they say that not even an extra dose of sage in the
dressing completely removed the taste of sea water from the white meat.
(from Harper’s Bazaar, May 1953)