SoHo buildings' economic domino effect

I just read a super interesting article on Urban Omnibus -- Living Lofts: The Evolution of the Cast Iron District. This is one of those articles that I want to copy and paste in its entirety. Briefly: It talks about how SoHo's buildings have been used over time, and what effects they have had on the communities, laws, and overall transformation of the neighborhood throughout history.

This is one of my favorite parts, on artist lofts in the 1960s:

Many lofts remained empty for quite some time until artists began moving in to what had become a desolate, dirty, and dangerous area. These new residents lived illegally in raw industrial lofts they made habitable by installing bathrooms and taping plastic sheets over the windows to keep out the cold. Living conditions were often uncomfortable at best. The area was empty at night, the crime rate was high, and the streets were filthy, as there was no regular trash pickup. There were no schools or clinics, and no grocery stores or restaurants, save for a couple of diners open only for breakfast and lunch to serve the factory workers. It was a kind of no-man’s-land that even taxi drivers had trouble navigating. On the other hand, the small population and isolation from infrastructure and resources created a tight-knit community of residents. Everyone knew each other by name and looked after one other. Because there were so few public services, the community provided for themselves, opening restaurants for locals and forming community playgroups where neighbors often paid for goods and services with their time and involvement instead of cash.

After 1971, it was deemed legal for artists to live in the smaller lofts in SoHo (in two specific zones), which brought up an interesting set of criteria on what makes one an artist (awesome when law and philosophy meet, no?). It sounds like artists had to fill these out when applying to live in the neighborhood. When an artist applied to live in SoHo, their "commitment to [their] creative work" would be assessed.

1. A description of the artist’s work.

2. A description of the artist’s need for space.

3. A biographical sketch including data the artist feels is pertinent; education, professional training, public exhibitions or performances, reviews, or grants.

4. Other data. If the artist does not feel properly represented by 1, 2, or 3, above, he can: a) present documentation of his work in the form of slides, photographs or other data which will back up his commitment and space needs—but not his aesthetics, or b) ask a few members of the Committee to visit his studio or working space to discuss his situation.

5. The names of two people who are familiar with the artist’s work and who can testify to his commitment and his need for loft space.

It doesn't sound like this law has formally disappeared: "Every non-artist who moves into SoHo today could theoretically be told to move out unless he or she can prove artistic legitimacy, but the probability of that aspect of the law being enforced is low."

There were tugs of war between artist tenants and landlords, and various social shifts that over a couple of decades have turned SoHo into what it is today. The article glosses over the minutiae of how these "economic and social" shifts happened, which I'd be really interested to read more about. This paragraph should feel more familiar to anybody who's been to the area recently:

The change in the socio-economic makeup of SoHo residents brought with it commercial development. Art galleries began to move out of the neighborhood in the 1980s and 1990s, mostly to Chelsea where rents were more reasonable, and were replaced by high-end boutiques, restaurants, bars, and nightclubs. Nightlife destinations brought unwelcome street noise, and the SoHo Alliance fought hard against the issuing of new liquor licenses.

So good. Heading over to the writer's more permanent home, SoHo Memory Project, to see if I can find out more.

Florent.

If you have never lived in New York, you may not be familiar with Florent. It was a 24-hour diner in the Meatpacking District, founded in 1985, that had to close a few years ago because of a rent hike. New York Magazine ran a lovely homage to the restaurant when they heard the news. Florent was a New York institution, and when its biggest fans found out about its fate, things started disappearing.

Florent has a fervid following that includes (but is not limited to) neighborhood stalwarts, fashion icons, queer activists, famous drag performers, eccentric night owls, club kids, the offspring of club kids, maverick politicians, burlesque dancers, and celebrities ranging from Lou Reed to Sarah Jessica Parker—some of whom, after learning of the restaurant’s impending closure, have developed a nostalgia-induced kleptomania. “The menus, they have started vanishing!” continued Morellet. Wine lists, saucers, coffee cups, cloth napkins, and silverware have also gone missing in recent weeks.

I guess I was no different, but I took something that patrons are expected to snatch as souvenirs at all kinds of venues – matchbooks. They had different illustrations of diner objects on them – a salt shaker, a fork – and each featured a shade of (what I, perhaps inaccurately, remember to be) Florent's signature shade of green on the inside. I took three different ones with me the last time I ever visited the restaurant, intent on memorializing them in some way.

And then, in the confusion of re-organizing during my last move… they disappeared. That is, until the frenzy of making things hit me – I was digging deep in my closet this morning to find acrylic paint, and grabbed a plastic container wondering why the heck I had held onto it. I felt something shake inside. And there they were. I tore into my Florent-green paper, found an empty frame, and now I have a new little friend in my kitchen – one that makes me pause and imagine countless Saturday and Sunday dawns in the 1990s, with gold glitter heels under metal tables, false eyelashes falling into coffee, and cigarette butts strewn into ditches among cobblestones.

Do read the New York Magazine article, regardless of where you live. It's a beautiful time capsule.

The Puck Building

Over a year ago, I read American Psycho for the first time. A hundred or so pages in, I caught a mention of The Puck Building.



I am usually heads down when I'm going somewhere with purpose in New York, but the Puck Building isn't just an ordinary-looking building. It's huge, details of its striking architecture aren't just reserved for its top several feet (as is the case with many buildings in SoHo), and it's a rich, rich red.





Over the next several months, I found myself staring at the building every time I walked by it. I became incredibly curious about what it was built for, and what had happened in it over the years. I turned to where any history-curious person would - Wikipedia.* And here it is:

The Puck Building was built in the late 1800's. It housed the offices of Puck Magazine, which seems to have been one of the first humorous, political-satire-ridden publications. At some point more printers had offices in there, and for years one could smell ink up and down the hallways. Now it is mostly used by NYU. You can have events in its ballrooms.

Somehow, I was disappointed. I was half hoping for something creepy or strange to have happened in the building. I can with 80% certainty say that this was influenced by the book that referenced it. American Psycho is one of the best books I've read, but it was also the most horrifying and disturbing.



The remaining 20% lies in the defining characteristic of the building – there is a gold figure of Shakespeare's Puck (from A Midsummer Night's Dream) above its doorways, and one on the back corner. Now, I know Puck isn't supposed to look cute, and is a pretty mischievous fellow, but in these statues he looks downright creepy. Like he knows something you don't.



One interesting thing I read was about this guy Alger Hiss, who was a salesman in one of the stationery companies housed in the Puck Building. Prior to this, he actually helped establish the United Nations, and was later accused of being a Soviet spy. The case was never 100% solved, and a historian mentioned that until all documents surrounding the trial are recovered (they are sealed up and won't be available until 2026), we will never know the whole story.


[source]

What's my point? Not sure. I still, still give the Puck Building my suspicious sideways glance whenever I pass by, and I felt compelled to share this, 15 months later. This is most definitely my imagination filling in blanks that don't exist and running away with me. Oh well, see you guys in 15 years ;)

* Here's a fun fact: Before writing this post, I edited my first Wikipedia article, ever. I added the bullet point about the building's appearance in American Psycho under In Popular Culture. Hooray!

The Door To Hell

Mike sent me an IM one morning a few weeks ago, and I've been thinking of this thing ever since.


[source]

That's a crater in the middle of Derweze, which is a village in Turkmenistan. And it's on fire. It's been on fire for 40 years.

Here is the Wikipedia page; there's not a ton of information, but I guess enough to give context. In 1971, this crater formed while some people were drilling, and they realized that methane was emanating from it. Geologists decided that burning the gas would be less dangerous than letting it permeate the atmosphere, and figured that it would burn out in a matter of hours. It's still burning.

Isn't that nuts? The crater (which is 230 feet across, by the way, that little dot on the right of the crater is an SUV (I must have either seen another picture when I first learned about Derweze with an SUV in it, or I'm hallucinating, thank you Anon; it is actually a hunk of metal)) has come to be affectionately (maybe not affectionately) referred to as the Door To Hell.

I immediately put the town's name into Metafilter, because this is exactly the sort of thing that would be posted in there. And, you know what, not really. Why don't more people talk about this thing?

Check out some more pictures on Flickr.

Counter Space: Design and the Modern Kitchen

I took the day off today, and set out for the MoMA bright and early for some much-needed inspiration. I didn't know what I would find, really, as I haven't been great at reading my member emails. The most delightful surprise was an exhibit that's been around for around 4 months, called Counter Space: Design and the Modern Kitchen.



In their words:

Over the course of the past century no other room has been the focus of such intensive aesthetic and technological innovation, or as loaded with cultural significance. Kitchen design has been both a central concern of modernism and fundamental to our concept of modern life. Drawn entirely from MoMA’s collection, this exhibition explores the twentieth-century transformation of the kitchen as a barometer of changing technologies, aesthetics, and ideologies.

I read this description after walking around for a bit, and found that I'm definitely not alone in my fascination with kitchens. I don't do a ton of cooking, though I love the idea of it and always plan to do more. I always love kitchen-related gifts the most (you should have seen me when I opened a wine foil cutter at Christmas), love kitchen-related photography, and always daydream when I apartment-hunt that I'll find one with a window to filter Saturday morning sunlight in as I make tea. Not sure why, the way I frame kitchens in my head... it's almost like peering into a dollhouse.

Anyway, the exhibit. What a delight. There were rotating models of 70s modular kitchens, movie stills from the 50s, a plastic food collection from Japan, old appliances, historical photographs and ads (I noticed one on loan from DDB's archive, how cool is that), kitchen efficiency books, and a ton of stuff about the "Frankfurt Kitchen," which was part of a movement in 20s Germany relating to egalitarianism. Here are some pictures I took with my phone (why I didn't bring my camera today, I have no idea) --


This is an Irving Penn photo. I recently found out that he shot the first Clinique print ads, in the 1960s. Cool, no?


I have worked with GE for quite some time, so this was far out and awesome to see.


This was the first thing I saw when I walked in. Looking closely revealed old egg shells in the egg cups and cigarettes in the ashtray.

I also saw this thing – and I'm really annoyed that I didn't take a picture of it – that looked like a small bicycle wheel. I knew was it was before I even read the plaque: it was a cake slicer. My head blew up a little, because I've throughout my life always remembered this Betty Boop cartoon that features her inventor-friend, Grampy, opening an umbrella skeleton and pushing it down onto a cake to slice it instantly. I always thought that was so cool, and I can't believe it's actually a thing that existed once. Why don't I ever see those now? It seems like the most efficient way to do things, ever.



Anyway. I recommend paying this exhibit a visit if you're in the area and this sounds remotely interesting to you. Here is the exhibit site (there is a blog, too!). Also a few more pictures with commentary in this Flickr set.

Art Historians, German Translators, Frankish Kings, and Scrooge McDuck

A text message conversation with Brandi this morning about Disney characters led me down my second rabbit hole of the week. This one is about Frankish kings in the 7th century. The question that prompted this:

"Who is your favorite Disney character?"

The immediate answer of "Dagobert" came from my father.

?

He said that Dagobert was the rich uncle of Donald Duck – the one who would dive into a pile of gold coins while being a very stingy guy on the side. I am admittedly a bit ignorant about the side stories of Disney characters, but I knew who he was talking about.


[source]

Dagobert is what Scrooge McDuck was called in Germany.

I started Googling. The first result on my phone was for Dagobert I - the king of Austrasia (623–634), king of all the Franks (629–634), and king of Neustria and Burgundy (629–639).

??

Okay, too weird. Was there a connection? Unsure. Digging into this one took a really long time. Two hours. I read about Dagoberts I, II, and III, and none of them really gave any hints as to why this name was given to Scrooge in Germany. Well, Dagobert I took me down a side-rabbit-hole that ended up being a clue, but more on this later.

I also read about Dagobert of Pisa and Erich Dagobert von Drygalski.* I read about a famous German extortionist named Arno Funke.** I read the near-eleven-page Scrooge McDuck Wikipedia article.***

Still nothing. I searched on Metafilter, more Wikipedia, and then just started Googling all over the place. My father told me that his brother might know the answer. It was dinnertime in Germany at that moment, so I waited on that one. He also said that perhaps he was just called Dagobert Duck because it sounded good, and because it allowed for him to have an alliterative DD emblem all over the place. I supposed that was possible.

THEN, my final resort – which I was just turning to so I wouldn't feel like I had abandoned an unsolved mystery – got me close enough to feeling I had the answer. I went to the German Wikipedia page for Dagobert Duck and winced as I hit the Translate button (I'm still used to the horrors of Babelfish days). It introduced me to the person who gave Scrooge his German name – German Walt Disney translator Erika Fuchs.


[source]

Fuchs was a prolific Disney translator in Germany, and stuck all kinds of wordplay and hidden meaning into the stories. She seemed to have a ton of fun with it, and once said, "You can't be educated enough to translate comic books." Apparently some phrases have stayed in pop culture throughout time and there is even a term - Erikativ - for popular phrases she coined (no Scrooge pun intended). In 2001, she got a prestigious literature prize "for her work on Duckburg." I am SO DELIGHTED that someone became successful and famous for translating Duckburg stories for most of her career. She was an honorary member of – ready? - D.O.N.A.L.D. This stands for "Deutsche Organisation nichtkommerzieller Anhänger des lauteren Donaldismus" or the "German Organization of Non-commercial Devotees of the true Donaldism". HA! This is the best thing I've heard in weeks.

Anyway. It was Erika Fuchs who gave Scrooge the name Dagobert in her Duckburg translations, named after those Frankish Kings Dagobert I, II, and III. So my initial impulse WAS the right one, but I needed that Translator button (ha, das ironie).

And you know why this makes sense? I will tell you. First, let's go back to the Dagobert I clue I mentioned earlier.


[source]

That is a cathedral close to Paris called Saint Denis. Dagobert I founded this cathedral in Saint Denis's name, and is now buried there. Who is Saint Denis? A patron Saint of France. How was he martyred? By beheading.


[source]

That is a statue of Saint Denis. Apparently after he was beheaded, he walked six miles, preaching the word of God while holding his own head (yes). And apparently saints were beheaded happened enough that there is a term for statues depicting saints holding their own heads – cephalophores. Good grief. Anyway, at Saint Denis's burial place was erected a shrine, and this is where Dagobert I founded the Abbey of Saint Denis (a Benedictine monastery). This is now the cathedral of Saint Denis. The shrine was made by a goldsmith named Eligius.

Above all, Eligius fabricated a mausoleum for the holy martyr Denis in the city of Paris with a wonderful marble ciborium over it marvelously decorated with gold and gems. He composed a crest [at the top of a tomb] and a magnificent frontal and surrounded the throne of the altar with golden axes in a circle. He placed golden apples there, round and jeweled. He made a pulpit and a gate of silver and a roof for the throne of the altar on silver axes. He made a covering in the place before the tomb and fabricated an outside altar at the feet of the holy martyr. So much industry did he lavish there, at the king's request, and poured out so much that scarcely a single ornament was left in Gaul and it is the greatest wonder of all to this very day. [source]

So. A very lavish shrine, with gold and jewels everywhere. And these, unrelated to Saint Denis but very related to Dagobert I: gold Dagobert coins.


[source]


[source] and [source]

Know why this is interesting to me? Because I am an Art History nut.

Know who else was an Art History nut? Erika Fuchs. In the 1930s (about 10-15 years before Scrooge was invented and entered into German pop culture), Erika Fuchs studied Art History in university. And I'm fairly certain that this stuff is why she named this character after Dagobert I.



So cool. And now I'm exhausted. Hooray! I guess it's still a theory, but hopefully pretty close. And as I tweeted earlier:



* Erich Dagobert von Drygalski was a really cool geographer and took the first Antarctic aerial photo from a balloon, ever.
** Arno Funke used to place bombs all over Germany to get ransom money. He always strategically placed the bombs to minimize people getting hurt – he was mostly seen as a prankster who kept trying to get rich. He gave himself the pseudonym Dagobert after Scrooge McDuck, because he had visions of himself one day swimming in gold coins.
*** You have to read this thing. It is more thorough an historical account than some articles I have read about real people. It contains a personal history; educational history; professional history; psychological analysis; code of values and moral conduct; log of traveled countries and languages spoken; analyses on his relationship with Donald and Huey, Dewey and Louie; and short list of wealthy duck rivals in Duckburg. I can't believe how extensive this article is. It blew my mind.

Thanks to Brandi and my father for making this afternoon amusingly strange ^^

From The Turtles to 1800s Organs

Tonight I had the intense urge to listen to You Showed Me by The Turtles:



I was compelled to Google "circus organ" after thinking that one never sounded so nice as it does in the opening notes of this song. And I found some really cool pictures:


[source]


[source]


[source]

This type of organ – called a calliope – was wheeled around by traveling circuses in the late 1800s. They work via steam (what?) passing through pipes (what??). Here is an old ad for one from 1874:


[source]

The calliope is kind of distant cousins with the train whistle (which makes sense now, steam and all).

Calliope mechanics evolved a bit over time: First they were played via a series of pins on a metal cylinder (like in a music box). Then there were organ keys, and a person played them (like in that ad, above). Then things went back to rotation-based systems with rolls of paper, and resembled player pianos.

I suppose I've only heard "good" versions of what a calliope sounds like, because apparently it's impossible to keep in tune, can be heard from a mile away (no volume control), and the notes' sound depends on how hot the steam is.

Here's a video of a riverboat calliope; you can see the steam flying out of the pipes:



EDIT: I just received an email from Zachary saying that he played this very calliope on the Delta Queen in the 1980s, "When I was about 5 while traveling down the Mississippi River on a riverboat trip that included a visit to the real setting of Mark Twain's work." Amazing.

And here's a video that came up when I searched "circus organ" on YouTube. The sound is different from a calliope, but I wonder if the vast world of 1800s organs gets mixed up easily since it still came up in search results. A quick Wikipedia search helped me figure out that this is a fairground organ, which is (it turns out) different. These were found around fairs and amusement parks, and if you play this video with your eyes closed, it will make perfect sense. Though, don't listen to this if you're not in a good mood, because you will want to throw your shoe out a window.



Randomly falling into a rabbit hole like this one at 1am makes me realize how many other insane things I don't know about yet. Jeez. I could easily spend another 2 hours researching different types of organs from the mid- to late-1800s (there are dance organs and street organs too; which of these sounds the most like a baseball game?).

Talk about rent controlled.

When I was visiting my parents over the holidays, my father clipped a WSJ article out for me.

There is a housing settlement in Southern Germany called Fuggerei. It was built as a charitable trust in the early 1500s by a very, very rich man named Jakob Fugger (Jakob "The Rich"). I am kind of embarrassed to not have heard of Fugger before, because check out what a big shot he was:

He minted coins for the Vatican, bankrolled the Holy Roman Empire and helped steer Europe's spice trade in the early 16th century to become one of the wealthiest and most powerful financiers in history. He left more than seven tons of gold to his successors.

By the early 16th century, he had become the chief financial backer of the Habsburg family, whose members sat on thrones across Europe. He bankrolled the election of Spain's King Charles V as Emperor of the Holy Roman Empire in 1519.

The settlement (the oldest housing project in the world!) is Roman Catholic, and one of the stipulations of being allowed to live there – other than being poor – is that residents say 3 prayers for Fugger (and his descendants) a day.


[image from Wikipedia]

[image from WSJ.com]
Okay, here is the best part. The rent? 1 Rhein guilder, annually. In 2009 words? €0.88. That – as of now – is $1.18 USD.

A dollar eighteen a year, for rent.

Pretty soon, a monthly Metrocard will cost more than an entire lifetime of rent in Fuggerei – and that's only assuming that someone pays rent every single year that they're alive, which is pretty silly. Also, from what I understand, Fuggerei's mostly for widowers and the retired. So that's, what, nearly $15 of rent, total (or, the price of a hamburger at Five Leaves). Amazing. Okay, I'll stop doing ridiculous math now, because this stuff is a little silly to compare as if everything is equal. But still, fun to think about.

Other things I found interesting:

– Mozart's great grandfather lived there

– The doorbells are all ornately shaped, so that residents could find their homes in the dark

– The settlement was almost destroyed by bombs in WWII, but was rebuilt in its original style

– One of the first floor apartments is uninhabited, and serves as a museum for visitors (anyone wanna go?)

– The take turns guarding the main gate of the settlement at night (which is locked after 10pm). If people wander home too late, they have to pay to be let back in

Watch this video from WSJ too! The embed code was glitchy and wouldn't let me publish the entry, unfortunately.

The Boston Molasses Disaster

I have been to Boston once in my life; it was one of the stops in my "visiting colleges" trip of 1998. While doing some research last week, I was suddenly reminded of one of the strangest stories I've ever heard – the one and only thing I remember from the bus tour I was made to go on while there – the Boston Molasses Disaster.

Nearly 90 years ago – ironically, as I'll explain, one day before the Prohibition – a 50 foot-tall molasses tank exploded, sending 2.3 million gallons of the stuff down the streets of Boston. Imagine a 15 foot-high wave of molasses coming at you at 35 miles per hour. It flooded a few blocks up to waist level, crushed and swept away buildings, ultimately killed 21 people, injured 150 and killed 20 horses (some of the horses had to be shot because of how deep into the molasses they were, unable to move). Here is a shot of the NYTimes headline from the next day:


Apparently there were some structural problems with the tank, and it had been painted brown to camouflage the molasses leaking out. The irony I referenced earlier: this molasses was being fermented to make alcohol. Another theory is that the fermentation increased the pressure inside the tank, causing it to burst. Can you imagine how terrifying this must have been?

Envision a disaster scene with smashed buildings, overturned vehicles, drowned and crushed victims, and terrified survivors running away covered in molasses. Like the modern-day disasters with which we are unfortunately familiar, there was chaos, terror, buildings in ruins, victims to be dug out, trapped survivors to be rescued, rescue workers among the victims, and anguished families rushing to relief centers to find their relatives. It was like any horrible disaster scene, with the addition that everything was covered in smelly sticky brown molasses. [source]

In the end, it took 87,000 man hours to clean up the mess, and Boston Harbor ran brown for 6 months. Apparently all there is to mark the spot is a tiny plaque by a recreational complex. Why this isn't more widely known, I don't know. I was so fascinated by all the details just now that I kept interrupting a meeting to talk about it (sorry Eric).

Soon to be x-posted to House of Naked.

Colonia Tovar

When I was little, my mom told me a crazy story. This is the way I remember it, twenty or so years later (I actually called her just now to make sure I didn't get it completely wrong):

A looooooong time ago, a congressman in Venezuela invited a small community from Germany to come across the ocean. They promised Germany land, and said they were free to integrate themselves into the population if they wanted to.

It apparently took the Germans a while to get organized, gather a group together and travel all the way to South America. By the time they got there, the congressman was no longer around. Venezuela didn't quite know what to do with this group of Germans who seemingly appeared out of nowhere, so they said, "Well, just go figure out where you want to be and let us know and that's fine." They did some exploring and found an area in the mountains that reminded them of the Black Forest.

The Germans established themselves there and seemed to disappear; nobody ever heard from them again. Many, many years later, a Venezuelan was wandering around and found this German village in the middle of nowhere. Imagine a Venezuelan's surprise at stumbling upon a perfectly preserved Bavarian village, full of blonde and blue-eyed people, caring for their own crops and animals, etc.

Roads started being built between this village and Caracas (the nearest city in Venezuela), and now it's a tourist destination. Before this, they all spoke in a German dialect; now, most of them don't speak it at all. Dad and I went once and he started speaking to a girl in German (she was in full Bavarian style clothing), and received a blank stare in return.

I remembered this a couple of years ago, when my parents were telling someone else about this Colonia Tovar (the village's name). It was at this point that I realized that this actually happened and wasn't just some nice bedtime story that my mother had made up. I told MT about this in an airplane somewhere between Brazil and Colombia last year. When we got back to New York, she did some investigating and found some more information for me. It turns out that I remembered the story fairly accurately:

Founded in 1843 by German settlers, the city remained isolated from the rest of the country for decades, a factor that permitted the inhabitants to keep their culture and traditions. The majority of its residents are descendants of Germans and have a Northern European appearance. The Alemannic dialect of German, known as Alemán Coloniero ("colony German"), is nearly extinct.

It also mentioned that one would be "unlikely to find anyone who understands German fluently," which explains the blank stare my father got when he visited.

I clicked on the official site link in the Wikipedia entry, looked at some photos, and WOW. This place looks just like the village my father grew up in in Germany!






This is incredible. I love stuff like this. If anyone has a similarly mind-blowing story like this, please please share.

EDIT [13 August 2008] For anybody who stumbled upon this, apparently my parents' information and most of the stuff on the web is a bit off. Here are some edits, thanks to Ed.

The colonists were not forgotten, nor did a long time pass between the government agreements and the arrival of the Germans. In fact, it took less than two years to get everything set up (including the arrival of the Germans). They did not wander aimlessly; the land was actually donated and chosen specifically by the government who took into account cultural differences and geographical specifications in order to properly accommodate the arrivals. Regarding their isolation, part of the agreement between the governments and the new settlers was to allow the colonists to remain as a closed society until they felt the desire to integrate to the rest of the country, which they finally did in the mid 20th century. By this time the colonists were fully able to marry whomever they wanted outside of the colony as well. Lastly, regarding their language, their German dialect wouldn't be understood by most Germans nowadays since it is either extinct in Germany and/or spoken by a small minority on some rural areas of the previous Baden Duchy. Just thought I'd set the record straight, as I was born in Venezuela and spent a great part of my childhood in Tovar.

Thanks again for clearing those things up, Ed.