China

In Xanadu did Kubla Khan
A stately pleasure dome decree
Where Alph the sacred river ran
In caverns measureless to man.
Samuel Taylor Coleridge

The grand scale of exploration today, best exemplified by America's race to the moon with the Soviet Union, is to be compared with adventures of yore. And no tale has ever been better told than the adventures of Marco Polo, in his Description of the World, written years after his return from Asia.

The year was 1271. Seventeen year old Marco departed Venice, with his father and uncle, taking dead aim on the "sunrising." He would not return home for 24 years, at the age of 41. The threesome traveled by caravan, along ancient trade routes, through Turkey, Iran, Central Asia, and finally China, to reach the threshold of the great Khan empire, the Taklimakan Desert.

For nearly a year they struggled across the desert, riding Bactrian camels, as visitors still do today. This is a windswept realm where precipitation is 1/2 inch in a good year, and the parched look is relieved only by an occasional clutch of scraggly poplars. Imagine our hero's excitement when the "pleasure dome" of Xanadu, their long-sought destination, appeared on yonder horizon.

They had arrived in Shangdu, aka Xanadu, the summer capital that Kubla Khan had decreed in Mongolia. And well had he decreed, as Shangdu in Mongol means "City of 108 Temples." Coleridge's opium induced description of the place was right on. The Polos were certainly humbled in the presence of the Great Khan, "the richest man in people and treasure there ever was," ruler of an empire that stretched across China, Russia, and to Iraq. But as Marco recounts, their first audience at court was unmagisterial, Kubla greeting them with small pleasantries: "Welcome gentlemen. How was the trip?" They liked him so much they hung around for 17 years.

In 1295 the Polos finally staggered home to Venice where they had long been given up for dead. They were clad in rags and exuded offensive smells as they told their tales. The tattered trio was, nevertheless, embraced by all the town. They must have been given a grand reception, perhaps a 13th century Venetian version of the ticker tape parade. Just like the astronauts in '69!

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In Xanadu did Kubla Khan A stately pleasure dome decree Where Alph the sacred river ran In caverns measureless to man. Samuel Taylor Coleridge The grand scale of exploration today, best exemplified by America's race to the moon with the Soviet Union, is to be compared with adventures of yore. And no tale has ever been better told than the adventures of Marco Polo, in his Description of the World, written years after his return from Asia. The year was 1271. Seventeen year old Marco departed Venice, with his father and uncle, taking dead aim on the "sunrising." He would not return home for 24 years, at the age of 41. The threesome traveled by caravan, along ancient trade routes, through Turkey, Iran, Central Asia, and finally China, to reach the threshold of the great Khan empire, the Taklimakan Desert. For nearly a year they struggled across the desert, riding Bactrian camels, as visitors still do today. This is a windswept realm where precipitation is 1/2 inch in a good year, and the parched look is relieved only by an occasional clutch of scraggly poplars. Imagine our hero's excitement when the "pleasure dome" of Xanadu, their long-sought destination, appeared on yonder horizon. They had arrived in Shangdu, aka Xanadu, the summer capital that Kubla Khan had decreed in Mongolia. And well had he decreed, as Shangdu in Mongol means "City of 108 Temples." Coleridge's opium induced description of the place was right on. The Polos were certainly humbled in the presence of the Great Khan, "the richest man in people and treasure there ever was," ruler of an empire that stretched across China, Russia, and to Iraq. But as Marco recounts, their first audience at court was unmagisterial, Kubla greeting them with small pleasantries: "Welcome gentlemen. How was the trip?" They liked him so much they hung around for 17 years. In 1295 the Polos finally staggered home to Venice where they had long been given up for dead. They were clad in rags and exuded offensive smells as they told their tales. The tattered trio was, nevertheless, embraced by all the town. They must have been given a grand reception, perhaps a 13th century Venetian version of the ticker tape parade. Just like the astronauts in '69!

© Danny Kimberlin 2015