William Ventvogel journeys into White man's territory looking for suitable land to buy.



"I decided not to camp in the mountains that night. I stayed instead in a motel in Coudersport. The proprietress was gracious and elegant, a native of that place who had traveled after college and returned. Over breakfast in the sitting room with her daughter and her daughter’s fiancé we discussed things light and heavier. I learned more about the area. There wasn’t much to tell of the place — a good sign that you could make your style up there. I told her of Baltimore, and as I was talking I saw doubt and disapproval creep into her expression. I’m sure she didn’t know it was apparent. I had spoken elliptically of the problems. Still, later I wondered if I had not been elliptical enough, and come across as rude. Was it wrong of me to say that 80 percent of Baltimore’s residential area had fallen into the animal underclass? And that the shiny parts down on the water are merely Disneyland pockets for tourists? And that the yuppies buying up the working-class brick homes have high credit lines, are property tax-exempt, and have other tax tricks behind them? I never mentioned race, yet it was there on cue, so imbued are we by Jew propaganda. In all I was trying to impress upon this nice woman from civilized rural America that Baltimore is fatally stricken with a cancer, that it no longer is a healthy community that pays its way, but a project of central planning."