Cape Canaveral, Disneyland for Space Fans
The entertainment industry around the space center functions perfectly--in contrast to the shuttle.
My fascination with America began on July 20th, 1969 with a sensational incident: the moon landing. I’ll never forget how my grandfather sat in front of the television screen, shaking his head and saying, “They’re lying.” He grew up in a time when there weren’t even any automobiles. And now this.
I was seven at the time and believed the headline in the Bild newspaper: “The moon is now an American.”
From then on America was an unattainable dream, as far away and unreachable as the moon itself and with the same gravitational force as the sun. It was the pinnacle of progress and the drive for research. NASA! The National Aeronautics and Space Administration. The very sound of that. Competent. All-knowing. Last week the German astronaut Hans Schlegel was to fly to the space station aboard the shuttle “Atlantis.”
The countdown was planned for Thursday. For me it was a childhood dream come true. I wanted to see the liftoff live, so I flew from New York to Miami and from there I drove to that legendary place: Cape Canaveral!
I should have stayed at home . . .
After several hours driving up I-95 I arrived just before dark at Cocoa Beach, the hotel-suburb of NASA headquarters some 16 miles away. The thought of how different this America was compared to New York or Miami raced through my mind.
A four-lane thruway fringed with power and telephone lines the likes of which one can’t find in Germany anymore, not even in the tiniest village. It’s no wonder the lights go out here in a hurricane. Left and right, fast food restaurants, used car dealers, churches with the most remarkable architecture (pyramids, globes), filling stations, and decaying strip joints calling themselves “gentleman’s clubs.”
I drove to a Radisson Hotel where I’m met in the lobby by posters saying: “Welcome to the Shuttle Launch.” The Americans have done what they always do: create an industry out of an attraction. Earlier, towns grew up where gold had been discovered. Today, cities are stamped out next to gigantic prisons, golf courses or mega-casinos. In this case, it was built around the Kennedy Space Center.
Disney-NASA.
The hotel is booked solid and so are all the others as well. The woman at the reception desk tells me, “It’s always sold out for a shuttle launch.”
She locates a “suite” for me at the neighboring “Comfort Inn.” About 200 dollars. When I enter this “suite” it’s like a body blow: it’s as musty smelling as a cellar. The beige carpeting cries out, “Danger! Athlete’s foot! Lift your feet!" The kitchen floor is covered with linoleum. There’s an odor of ashtrays. The air conditioning rattles like a 30 year-old Chevy. When I turn it down, the receptionist is adamant, saying I had made a telephone reservation and she can’t just cancel it. But when I tell her I’m a non-smoker (unfortunately not true), she takes pity and lets me go. It’s a powerful complaint in America.
I wind up at a Holiday Inn Express. The room is more expensive, but it’s clean.
Everything here is decorated for the Atlantis liftoff. A sign informs everybody, “Shuttle Launch-–Thursday 4:31 PM.” A cardboard astronaut stands in the middle of the lobby. The lobby television set features NASA’s TV studio. The mission is explained and astronauts introduced-–Hans Schlegel included--around the clock.
Sobering news the following morning: The countdown is delayed. There’s a defective fuel sensor in one of the tanks. New countdown: Friday, 4:09 PM.
Memories of Challenger and Columbia quickly return. One exploded 73 seconds after liftoff on January 28th, 1986. The other disintegrated on landing February 1st, 2003. Both accidents plunged NASA into deep crises.
I drive to the Space Center anyway. On the way I see numerous hotels advertising the planned Atlantis liftoff. The McDonald’s has even built a model shuttle as a kid’s playground.
At the Space Center, I’m in for more astonishment. The first thing to greet me is an old Redstone rocket, predecessor of the Mercury-Atlas, from the Mercury program in which John Glenn made history in 1962 as the first American in space. It was the answer to the Soviet Sputnik. I’m astonished at its simplicity. I would have never gotten into it. The early astronauts were pioneers, indeed.
Later, I get to the “Astronauts Hall of Fame,” a sort of NASA museum also done in Disney-style. Right next to it, a covered target range boasting air conditioning. Beyond that, orange groves and heat. The Kennedy Space Center launch pad is shielded and isn’t visible from here.
That afternoon comes the word “Earliest liftoff Saturday.” I’m disappointed and decide to leave. Breakdown-NASA.
Where is the fascination of the 1960s when the Americans and Russians offered us a race into space?
At checkout, I see the cardboard astronaut in the lobby has already been swapped for a Santa Claus. In the parking lot, I see a man in NASA uniform. I begin a conversation with him. He’s German. A physician. His uncle, a German émigré now living in Virginia came to Florida especially to see his nephew for the first time in 20 years–-and to see the shuttle liftoff.
“What can one do?” asks the NASA doctor. “Since the Challenger and Columbia catastrophes, nobody wants to take the risk. People’s lives are at stake.” Of course, he’s right. On Saturday afternoon, the flight is finally canceled altogether.
Next attempt: sometime in January.
My fascination with America began on July 20th, 1969 with a sensational incident: the moon landing. I’ll never forget how my grandfather sat in front of the television screen, shaking his head and saying, “They’re lying.” He grew up in a time when there weren’t even any automobiles. And now this.
I was seven at the time and believed the headline in the Bild newspaper: “The moon is now an American.”
From then on America was an unattainable dream, as far away and unreachable as the moon itself and with the same gravitational force as the sun. It was the pinnacle of progress and the drive for research. NASA! The National Aeronautics and Space Administration. The very sound of that. Competent. All-knowing. Last week the German astronaut Hans Schlegel was to fly to the space station aboard the shuttle “Atlantis.”
The countdown was planned for Thursday. For me it was a childhood dream come true. I wanted to see the liftoff live, so I flew from New York to Miami and from there I drove to that legendary place: Cape Canaveral!
I should have stayed at home . . .
After several hours driving up I-95 I arrived just before dark at Cocoa Beach, the hotel-suburb of NASA headquarters some 16 miles away. The thought of how different this America was compared to New York or Miami raced through my mind.
A four-lane thruway fringed with power and telephone lines the likes of which one can’t find in Germany anymore, not even in the tiniest village. It’s no wonder the lights go out here in a hurricane. Left and right, fast food restaurants, used car dealers, churches with the most remarkable architecture (pyramids, globes), filling stations, and decaying strip joints calling themselves “gentleman’s clubs.”
I drove to a Radisson Hotel where I’m met in the lobby by posters saying: “Welcome to the Shuttle Launch.” The Americans have done what they always do: create an industry out of an attraction. Earlier, towns grew up where gold had been discovered. Today, cities are stamped out next to gigantic prisons, golf courses or mega-casinos. In this case, it was built around the Kennedy Space Center.
Disney-NASA.
The hotel is booked solid and so are all the others as well. The woman at the reception desk tells me, “It’s always sold out for a shuttle launch.”
She locates a “suite” for me at the neighboring “Comfort Inn.” About 200 dollars. When I enter this “suite” it’s like a body blow: it’s as musty smelling as a cellar. The beige carpeting cries out, “Danger! Athlete’s foot! Lift your feet!" The kitchen floor is covered with linoleum. There’s an odor of ashtrays. The air conditioning rattles like a 30 year-old Chevy. When I turn it down, the receptionist is adamant, saying I had made a telephone reservation and she can’t just cancel it. But when I tell her I’m a non-smoker (unfortunately not true), she takes pity and lets me go. It’s a powerful complaint in America.
I wind up at a Holiday Inn Express. The room is more expensive, but it’s clean.
Everything here is decorated for the Atlantis liftoff. A sign informs everybody, “Shuttle Launch-–Thursday 4:31 PM.” A cardboard astronaut stands in the middle of the lobby. The lobby television set features NASA’s TV studio. The mission is explained and astronauts introduced-–Hans Schlegel included--around the clock.
Sobering news the following morning: The countdown is delayed. There’s a defective fuel sensor in one of the tanks. New countdown: Friday, 4:09 PM.
Memories of Challenger and Columbia quickly return. One exploded 73 seconds after liftoff on January 28th, 1986. The other disintegrated on landing February 1st, 2003. Both accidents plunged NASA into deep crises.
I drive to the Space Center anyway. On the way I see numerous hotels advertising the planned Atlantis liftoff. The McDonald’s has even built a model shuttle as a kid’s playground.
At the Space Center, I’m in for more astonishment. The first thing to greet me is an old Redstone rocket, predecessor of the Mercury-Atlas, from the Mercury program in which John Glenn made history in 1962 as the first American in space. It was the answer to the Soviet Sputnik. I’m astonished at its simplicity. I would have never gotten into it. The early astronauts were pioneers, indeed.
Later, I get to the “Astronauts Hall of Fame,” a sort of NASA museum also done in Disney-style. Right next to it, a covered target range boasting air conditioning. Beyond that, orange groves and heat. The Kennedy Space Center launch pad is shielded and isn’t visible from here.
That afternoon comes the word “Earliest liftoff Saturday.” I’m disappointed and decide to leave. Breakdown-NASA.
Where is the fascination of the 1960s when the Americans and Russians offered us a race into space?
At checkout, I see the cardboard astronaut in the lobby has already been swapped for a Santa Claus. In the parking lot, I see a man in NASA uniform. I begin a conversation with him. He’s German. A physician. His uncle, a German émigré now living in Virginia came to Florida especially to see his nephew for the first time in 20 years–-and to see the shuttle liftoff.
“What can one do?” asks the NASA doctor. “Since the Challenger and Columbia catastrophes, nobody wants to take the risk. People’s lives are at stake.” Of course, he’s right. On Saturday afternoon, the flight is finally canceled altogether.
Next attempt: sometime in January.
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