An Infinite Number of Monkeys....

Street Fare

2011-05-24T01:13:00.007+01:00

I think most people have a love-hate relationship with street festivals. They are fun, enjoyable and are a welcomed break from the repetition of life. However, they are also expensive, crowded, and cause traffic jams in normally sane parts of town. I tend to avoid street festivals because the activation energy to overcome the latter tends to outweigh the benefits of the former. It’s not to say that I don’t enjoy them – if I run across one by happenstance, I will generally spend some quality time at it and take pleasure in their surprises. So when I ran into three street festivals in three different cities in the same weekend, I knew that it would be hopeless to resist the urge to buy a deep-fried Twinkie.

The weekend started inauspiciously. I needed to go to work on a Saturday and I found that the road to the office was blocked off. The Armed Services Day parade wound through downtown and a large swath was transformed into a pedestrian-only haven. By the time I found parking, I had to walk over a mile to the office in the rain. And uphill. Both ways. (Which was technically true! The office is near the top of one hill and I parked on top of a different one.) When I got to the office, I realized that not only did I have a bird’s eye view overlooking the parade, but I also had undampened acoustics from the nearly twenty creatively off-key high school marching bands below. Drowning out the cacophony with Tristan und Isolda was largely unsuccessful, but John Cage would have been proud of the attempt.

Festivals, in general, are full of amusing juxtapositions. The St. Giles fair in Oxford was by far on one extreme, with a Ferris Wheel next to 16th century architecture, cotton candy sold next to a martyr’s monument and a ring toss next to a medieval graveyard. Sweden takes full advantage of a short summer season by cramming many festivals into their long summer days. Their Restaurant Festival featured the top cuisines from Sweden, Russia, China and the Middle East. The International Festival was catered by Russian, Chinese, Middle Eastern and Swedish restaurants. The Midsummer’s Party had booths from China, the Middle East, Sweden, and Russia while the American Festival had…well, you get the idea. Vikingfest in Poulsbo had a Lukefisk eating contest. What’s Vikingfest, where’s Poulsbo and what is Lukefisk, you may ask? All I will say is, “You’re not missing much.”

But I digress. The deep-fried Twinkie was quite good. It was of a limited-vintage strawberry-crème filling variety that has seasonal availability. It was gently battered and expertly fried, such that there was a crispy outside that complemented the moist cake and crème on the inside. A dusting of powdered sugar, a generous dollop of whipped cream and a drizzle of caramel enhanced the natural flavor of the Twinkie without over powering it. But as good as the deep-fried Twinkie was, it was completely left in the dust by the gooey goodness of the deep-fried peanut butter and jelly sandwich. That was simply heavenly.

A Moment in the Woods

2009-09-22T03:54:00.003+01:00

Oh, if life were only moments,
Even now and then a bad one.
But if life were only moments,
How’d you ever know you had one?
-The baker’s wife, from Into the Woods by Stephen Sondheim

A year at Oxford has been a moment in the woods. It has been a year in a temporary bubble, away from people, places, and the pressures of life. To say Oxford is a fairytale is not far from the truth. JK Rowling did not invent Hogwarts. She described a year of a student at Christ Church College. Tolkien did not imagine Middle Earth. He wrote about the shires of the surrounding countryside. Lewis Caroll did not dream up Alice’s adventures in Wonderland. He embellished what he saw.

Sylvesters, a black-tie celebration in June, was the beginning of a long goodbye. It was here, during the class superlatives awards, where one realizes that nine months is all it takes to be able to share a communal laugh. That nine months is all it takes for one to induct new members into their inner circle of friends. And that nine months is not nearly enough time to hear 239 stories of how one arrived at Oxford.

Like Alice and Harry soon discovered, being in wonderland has its perils. Alice nearly got her head chopped off and Harry’s life was always in danger. We too had our trials and tribulations, our frustrations and criticisms, and our doubts and worries. But the biggest challenge of wonderland is leaving it behind. On the outside, life is not spent running after the Mad-Hatter and eating imaginary cakes, but it is a place where one has to face issues - jobs, obligations, familial and societal responsibilities. The lessons learned in the safety of wonderland are to be applied to the problems that are prevalent in our wider communities.

The goodbyes at the graduation ceremony in September, like at any graduation, were difficult. All throughout the day, people said goodbye with a sense of finality – as if our time together was ending. But is that really true? Yes, our time has ended as classmates, but our time has just begun as peers. True, as we spread across the globe, some of us will never cross paths again; but we are all separated by a single phone call. As I flew over the Atlantic, all I could think of was “what a small pond!”

I was amused at how similar the first few days were with the last few days. The prevailing question at the beginning, “what did you do?” was asked so many times that the answer became trite. Likewise, the question at the end, “what are you going to do?” achieved the same level of annoyance. As we move forward, we will ask each other with great curiosity and genuine interest, “What have you been doing?” Given the different paths we are taking, I am sure the answer will never be the same and it will always be fascinating.

Be seeing you…

A Trumpeter on the Basilica

2009-07-26T05:32:00.006+01:00

A trumpeter on the Basilica. Sounds crazy, no? But here in Krakow, everyone is a musician moving to their own tune. The accordion trio in the market square crooning polkas, the gymnastic students breakdancing to techno music, and the klezmer bands in the Jewish Quarter keeping the city beating to its heritage. To know Krakow, one must get to know their inhabitants. Take the neighborhood granny. At night, she can be seen using a tupperware container scooping sand from the public sandbox and putting it into her granny shopping cart. Or the group of young men, dressed in full leprechaun costumes complete with a fake scraggy red beard. And do not forget the Jehovah’s Witnesses that speak English with a heavy Polish accent. They are aggressive in their conversations, no matter what the language.

I was here as part of an orchestra tour that kept springing surprises. When we traveled to Zakopane, a resort town about 2 hours outside of Krakow, we got stuck behind a horse-drawn carriage while climbing the last hill. The chapel we played in was very practical in its construction – the bell tower doubled as a cell phone tower. When we went to Rebka, a small township, the city was so appreciative that the mayor came out to give a speech, and the organizers treated us to dinner. But during our first concert in St. Catherine’s in Krakow, we were introduced to another Polish tradition. Since programs are not handed out, it is customary to have an emcee announce the music and give a little background talk. The description of Beethoven’s 3rd symphony sounded something like this: “… polish … polish … Ludwig van Beethoven … polish … Michael Jackson …” We looked around quizzically at each other, trying to figure out the connection.

Sometimes it felt that we spent more time eating than playing. While wandering with a few other musicians around the old town in Krakow one evening, we were stopped by a sign outside of a restaurant.

We welcome you kindly with our bread with
home-made lard free as a greeting gift.

How could we refuse such a generous offer? As we poured over the menu, the waitress came up and offered to provide us with 200 Zlotys worth of food. A quick calculation put the amount at less than £7 per person. After confirming that it would be enough to feed 6 people, we sat back and enjoyed our beers. Imagine our delight when we found ourselves staring at three-foot long wooden trough full of perogis, chicken wings, fried fish, ribs, pork, sauerkraut and sausages, potatoes and fried cheese. Although we only finished lunch at 3pm, we made ourselves hungry anyways.

The history and lore were what made the trip. Up on the hill is the old castle, built, rebuilt, and re-rebuilt. As legend has it, below the castle is a cave where a dragon dwelt. It terrorized the countryside until a king/prince/farmer/alien (depending on the version) tricked the dragon by stuffing a cow with sulfur. The dragon, after eating the cow, died a horrible death. After that, the Kingdom of Poland was safe for many hundreds of years. As for the trumpeter, he plays from the tower of St. Mary’s Basilica every hour on the hour. According to folklore, an invading horde of Mongols in the 13th century shot the poor musician in the middle of his fanfare. In tribute to his death, it is now customary to abruptly stop the fanfare where he was killed. When the trumpeter does stop, however, he waves to the crowds below, something that the unfortunate victim most likely did not do. But the tradition carries on, adding to the mix of people and experiences that makes up Krakow.

And the best part was laughing about all of them over a liter of beer.

Oxford, Take Two

2009-04-21T01:31:00.007+01:00

My mother frequently asks me if it has rained. I look out the window at the low clouds, hazy skyline, and ground full of puddles. “No,” I reply. “It hasn’t rained. It’s just wet.” I am in a similar conundrum when trying to describe the previous term at Oxford. There wasn't work to do. I was just busy. It was a misty form of busyness, like picking out vegetables at the supermarket just as they turn on the water spray in the produce section. You get your carrots, but you are wet and annoyed.

The break in between terms was anything but normal, for I was invited to an Indian wedding in Delhi. I arrived at the Indira Gandhi International Airport, ready for a good time, but not quite sure what to expect, for I was told to buy a plane ticket and “not worry about anything else after that”. I found a driver waiting for me and we quickly got on our way. That short 90 minute drive to the resort was my only image of India, where we shared the road with nearly every form of locomotion – trucks, tractors, motorbikes, bicycles, camel-drawn carriages, pedestrian and wandering cows. Traffic lanes, as I learned, were to be treated as mere suggestions and not as rigid fact. After a bumpy ride down a pot-hole riddled road, we arrived at the resort and entered into a magical wonderland.

Indian weddings are known to be big, lavish occasions with an overabundance of food and drinks. Parties extend well into the nights with hundreds of guests. My driver let me off under a red canopy where a group of Indian musicians greeted me with a rambunctious drum roll. Someone put a fresh lei over my head while Laurel and Hardy and Charlie Chaplin shook my hand to welcome me to the resort. And this was only at 2:00 in the afternoon.

As the rest of the days unfolded, the size and scope of the wedding became apparent. There were three separate pavilions that were built – a blue one for the first night, a white one for the second, and a red one for the wedding – each with a custom stage. The insides were decorated with peacock feathers, candles and flower petal sculptures that scented the night air. The buffet stretched all around the pavilion while waiters carrying plates of hors d'oeuvre kept asking over and over again if you want something to eat. The entertainment was first-rate as some of the biggest stars of Bollywood came to sing their hits. The least famous one was merely a one hit wonder. We danced to their tunes till the wee hours in the morning.

The procession on the wedding night was the most indescribable moment, so I’ll attempt to do so. We were a quarter of a mile outside the resort, dressed in the best Indian Kurta Pajama, head dress and all, accompanied by two dancing bands that could be heard for miles around. If that was not enough, fireworks were set off as we progressed down the street, as if to announce our location to the rest of the world. The groom, meanwhile, sat in his carriage being drawn by four handsome white horses. All of this kept building up to the climax of reaching the bride’s party at the resort. Wow.

This was the first wedding I’ve been to that has lasted for more than a day. This was also the first wedding I’ve been to that had a game of tug-of-war and a wrap-your-husband-in-toilet-paper contest. It set a new benchmark for ‘large wedding’ and raised the standard for ‘hardcore partying’. Indeed, this wedding made up for all of the weeks of cold, British wetness.

A Review of Eastern European Prepackaged Foods

2009-01-19T01:00:00.002Z

Winter break 2009 was the perfect opportunity to start writing the travel book that has been missing from the genre – on processed goodies that we now all take for granted. To do so, I planned to start in the Czech Republic and take a train to Istanbul, following the route of the Orient Express. I would jump on and off as I felt like through Hungary, Romania and Bulgaria. Since most of the trains would not have a restaurant car, I would have ample opportunity to buy groceries and experience the prepackaged foods of the former Soviet Bloc. It was to be an adventure full of intrigue, unexpected twists, and trying to figure out if the Cyrillic-printed label was for liverwurst or cat food.

In Prague, I realized two follies. Firstly, even though I had armed myself with three new pairs of long underwear, traveling through Eastern Europe in January should have been considered more carefully. Second, I had neglected to bring utensils and I did not know where to buy them, for the local supermarket did not stock them. It significantly limited my diet to pre-sliced deli meats and cheese. But no matter, for Prague is a picturesque city, and where else would there be a Barbie exhibit inside the old Castle?

In Brasov, Romania, I ran into another unexpected issue: people usually take the weekend closest to New Years off. Few museums and historical sites were open as most people spent time with their families. So instead, I went skiing, which is what everyone else was doing anyways. Unfortunately, the snow did not arrive as ordered, so only the easiest slopes were open. However, they very quickly reminded me of my beginner’s status. After a few runs and a few spills, I retired to a food booth and got some freshly grilled sausage. In true Romanian fashion, I got a large dollop of mustard that rivaled the sausage’s size and weight.

Veliko Turnovo (Or Tarnovo (Or Tarnovgrad (Or Велико Търново))), Bulgaria had even fewer museums open, but the ruins of the Tsarevets fortifications were a giant playground. I was perhaps the only tourist that morning and no one told me where I couldn’t go. There were city walls with watchtowers high up on the mountains and stairs leading up the remains of old castle. Everything was covered with fresh snow, giving the impression of a winter wonderland. It was also here in Turnovo that I found a large supermarket and concluded that protein bars taste horrible, no matter which country you’re in.

Finally, Istanbul with fresh squeezed pomegranate juice, Kebab shops and candy stores at every street corner gave me a well needed change in diet. Street vendors hocked roasted chestnuts, pastries and corn, to name a few. A friend recommended a walk through the fish bazaar, which consisted of several narrow pedestrian streets filled with fresh fish all caught that day.

While there, I was lured by a convincing restaurant proprietor. The prices were decent, so I went in and sat down. He stood there next to me and asked, “What do you want to eat?”

“Uh…Can I see the menu?” I thought it rather strange that he would want to take my order before even presenting me with choices.

He paused for a moment and then said, “Here, come with me and you can see for yourself!” With that, he led me across the street to the fish shop facing his restaurant. He pointed to the burgeoning variety on display and asked again, “What do you want to eat?”

If there are any present or future restaurant owners who read this, here is a note to you: this is how I want to be served seafood. After negotiating a meal, he barked some orders to a waiter who quickly scurried away. He returns a few moments later with a bag of fish. Within 15 minutes, I had a fantastic plate filled with tasty bites.

With that, I found myself back in the familiarity of the Mark and Spencer in Gatwick airport. As I munched on a ham and cheese sandwich, I could not help but reminisce on the delectables of the journey. To help jog the memory was a box of Turkish Delights purchased that morning from the Grand Bazaar. It was a fitting end to a fantastic journey.

Oxford: Business as Usual

2008-12-29T17:54:00.002Z

Oxford is a quiet place on Christmas Day. I cycled leisurely through a deserted town, pleased at the total absence of taxis and busses that usually speed through Queen Street. The Christmas lights that adorned the city center were turned off for no one was there to appreciate them. Even the mannequins stood naked in the shops, taking a day off from posing in the latest fashions. I was on my way to help cook a goose for Christmas dinner, in traditional English style, when I had a flashback in reverse-chronological order of the most recent three months of my life.

I immediately shuddered at the thought of the exams which just passed. Six in one week! What a marathon! They were unpleasant at best, kind of like someone peppering you with an automatic rubber band shooter while you’re standing naked. They sting for a moment but don’t do lasting damage. I quickly banished the thought from my mind (both the exams and me naked on Queen Street in January).

Who could forget the penguins – the South African Jackass Penguins – at the Oxford Union Ball? There they stood, staring at the men in tuxes and women in black gowns, and posing for the steady flashes of cameras. They were the perfect complement to the fire jugglers under the snow blowers and the chocolate fountain next to Santa Claus. If you could not guess, the theme of the Ball was “Fire & Ice”. To top it all off, there was free champagne, complimentary overcooked hamburgers and all-you-can-eat ketchup.

I see myself putting on my Sunday best to attend formal dinners at Hall. The evening starts with Evensongs with our chapel choir in our 15th century chapel. We move to a candlelit hall decorated with portraits of royalty and stained glass windows. Finally, we retire to the common room for coffee and biscuits.

I remember filling out a survey. I don’t recall exactly what it is for because it was the fifth survey of the week. Maybe it was for improvements in the graduate student website. Perhaps it was requesting feedback on whether to hold the end-of-term dinner on a Thursday or Friday. Or was it for ways to improve the admission process for USA based applicants? Ahh, now I remember: it was a survey asking if electing separate slates of officers for class rep, student rep and alumni rep who each sent around their own surveys were meeting all of my needs and expectations at the business school.

Then we had the real March of the Penguins. All of us new admits, dressed in full academic regalia, a sub-fusc of a black suit, white bow tie and a scholar’s gown and cap, marched off to have our photo taken as part of the matriculation ceremony. In most schools, one dresses in academic regalia to get out of the place. At Oxford, one has to dress up just to enter. Plus, you also have to dress up for exams. And certain formal Balls. And the Sexy Sub-Fusc party (or rather, that is more of dressing less than dressing up).

So I finally arrived at my college, looking for the Porter’s lodge to pick up the key to my room. I wander around the grounds, walking through medieval cloisters and into the meadows. Pretty soon the Magdalen tower becomes a distant view, behind the deer and the trees. The flowers are in their final bloom of the season. I find my room and I make myself comfortable with a hot cup of tea. I breathe a sigh of relief. I have arrived and I was full of excitement in anticipation of the adventures that were to come.

55 Cents in Dublin

2008-12-22T18:46:00.001Z

My trip to Dublin was motivated by one fact – to spend a large stack of Euro coins that had accumulated from my previous travels. The €1 and €2 I did not mind, for they are hefty and feel important, but I had 55¢ comprised of 1, 2, 5 and 10¢ coins that took up space but did not amount to much. It was these coins that plagued me for the journey.

I arrived in Dublin slightly before noon and made my way to Temple Bar, a pedestrian district full of pubs, restaurants and small shops. Being Ireland, they were open at noon and the streets were bustling with people having a mid-day drink. Narrow streets wind around just off of the river and the music of an accordion player filled the streets. I had Guinness for lunch. I am sure St. Paddy would approve.

I headed in the direction of the Irish Museum of Modern Art and found their exhibit on Hospitals to be incredible. I was very impressed on how they were able to capture the artistic reality of health. The bottles of the pharmacy room made an intriguing mosaic on the wall. Actors playing doctors pushed gurneys with other actors playing patients. IV’s hung realistically from patient’s rooms. The ICU Exhibit even had a reenactment of a cardiac arrest. I walked away in awe of the imaginative uniqueness of the exhibit. Later on that night, I glanced at map and found that the Museum was right next to the local hospital. How wonderful it is for the two institutions to have such a close relationship.

Meanwhile, I had been unable to spend the €0.55. Everywhere I went, I was stymied. Museum? Free. Lunch? Too expensive for cash – had to be charged. How I wished they simply charged €0.50! I wandered around town looking for a place to buy something small and found a fruit cart with a sign “8 plumbs for €1”. I ordered four, but was told that they did not do half orders. They weren’t that sweet either.

So I found myself at the Dublin Airport, with my last chance of spending the loose change. Not only was I ineffective in spending 55¢, over the course of the day, it had grown to 87¢. Have you ever tried to find something at the airport that cost less than 87¢? It is hard. Caviar is €800. Whisky is €20. Even little things like candy bars were €0.95. I walked up and down the airport mall nearly three times frantically looking for something cheap. Finally, underneath the cash register at a coffee shop, I found my El Dorado – a 70¢ bag of salt and vinegar potato chips.

So here I am, sitting on the no-frills Ryan Air flight back to London. The interior is bright yellow and the flight attendants treat you as if you’re on a bus. But no matter – I have successfully spent my loose change and am munching on chips!

Santa Claus is Buried in Bari

2008-11-23T16:21:00.004Z

It’s true, you know. Saint Nicholas’s final resting place is in the local basilica. So if a kid ever asks me again if I believe in Santa Claus, I can answer, “Yes, I do. But he’s dead now.” Then I can show him a photo of his grave. I am sure the kid will thank me in the long run for telling the truth!

I arrived after a one hour bus ride and set off looking for a hotel. The Moderna was recommended as reasonably priced for a lone traveler, but I was unhappy to learn that there was only one room left at the price of €70.

“€70!” I said. “Is there any place cheaper?” The man laughed and said, “You can try beyond the city center. This area will be hard.”

I had thought that traveling in mid-September would have allowed me to escape the tourist rush. I asked him “Is there a special event going on?”

“Si, the Exhibition.” He answered, as if I should have known that already.

“Exhibition!” My ears perked. I had attended Expo2000, the Universal Exhibition in Hannover, Germany and greatly enjoyed the experience. “Can you tell me more?”

He stared me incredulously. “You did not know about the exhibition?” He cleared his throat and put himself into travel guide mode. “Every year, there is an exhibition. It is the largest one of its kind in Italy, and larger than many in Europe. Many countries come and exhibit. You can eat their foods. It is good. You should go.” That was all he had to say. I took the room and half an hour later, entered the fairgrounds.

The expo was good sized, with about a third dedicated to random countries. India had the largest booth while Peru and Columbia were close behind. France actually had its own building full of chocolate, candies and crepes. The place was packed. About a third of the exhibit was for interior design. It was reminiscent of walking through IKEA. Countless numbers of bedrooms, kitchens and dining room sets were displayed with virtually all combinations of colors. The most visually stunning booth was the company selling staircases. Half a dozen spiral staircases that led to nowhere stood in the center of the exhibition floor.

The rest of the exhibition was for selling everything else. You could watch demonstrations of fruit slicers, talk to the Roomba salesman, or buy self-cleaning pans. There were electronic gadgets and washing machines and blenders and antiques. There was a large emphasis on meat slicers and industrial sized automatic pasta makers. Leave it up to the Italians to value their Salami and Linguini.

By this point, I felt it necessary to purchase something Italian. I had been in Italy for two whole days and all I had to show for it was a Babushka doll from the Russian booth. In the agriculture building, sausage, prosciutto, wine and cheese filled the room. After browsing the stalls, I decided that the best thing to buy was olive oil, especially given the number of olive trees I saw during the bus ride from Taranto.

I walked up to a guy standing in front of a row of bottles and told him that I was interested in buying one.

“Ah, non, signore, we are not selling here. We can offer you a tasting of the region’s best olive oil.” I had never heard of an olive oil tasting before, so I went for it. He handed me a shot glass of olive oil and began his personalized lecture. Ten cups later, he was still going strong on his “light” vs “filtered” vs “produced by a 2000 year old tradition”. He found many words to describe the differences in the species of olives from Lecce to Brindisi. Never once did he use the words “extra” and “virgin”, the only two words I associate with olive oil. Truth be told, I could smell the difference with my nose, see the difference in swirling the cup and taste the difference as I rolled it over my tongue. But after 15 cups, I felt sick. Mercifully, he ended his talk.

Taking my newfound knowledge in olive oil, I walked to the closest booth that sold the oils. “I’ll take that one!” I said, pointing to the first one I saw. I still don’t know if it’s best suited for salads or to be cooked with meats.

Taranto, not Toronto

2008-11-16T01:35:00.000Z

We arrived in Taranto, Italy, in the cover of the night – appropriate for a town that has been invaded at least four times and completely razed at least once in its 2500 year history. A glance out of my freighter window when I awoke gave a most depressing sight of a petroleum refinery spewing tons of pollutants. Taranto is an industrial city and the skyline reflected that fact. To my surprise, the giant cranes here are candy striped. Yes, they looked like giant candy canes.

People here functioned on Italian time and the inefficiencies it caused would plague me for the rest of the day. Even though the ship docked a 4:00AM, the customs agent did not arrive until 9:00. We met and he was kind enough to arrange a taxi for me and told me that I could leave by 11:00 – that was when the immigration officer would arrive and process the paperwork. I was stranded on the vessel until then even though I woke up at sunrise in order to get an early start.

Upon reaching the city at noon, I armed myself with a Gelato and began my explorations, partially to stretch the legs after two weeks of atrophy. Taranto was founded by Greeks and functioned as the capital of the colony. Over time, it was conquered by X, razed by Y and pillaged by the Z’s. In the old city, ancient Grecian columns have survived and still stand next to 200-year old infants. In the new city, Roman ruins and archaeological sites are open to the public. It was quite humbling to walk around the Archaeological Museum and see the ancient history of the local artifacts.

Halfway through the afternoon, it began to thunderstorm and I retired to my hotel. The exhaustion of the day must have caught up with me because I soon fell fast asleep. I considered setting my alarm clock but was asleep before I was able to do so. It did not matter, for Italian Inefficiency interrupted my slumber at 4:00PM. I was woken up by a knock on my door. A loud voice echoed through, “Mr Jia! This is Customs! I have an urgent matter to attend to!” I nearly jumped into my pants. In my head flew dozens of illogical explanations for all possible international crises that could have been caused by my arrival. I opened the door and there stood the customs official I had met earlier in a wet uniform jacket looking apologetic. “I am sorry to disturb you but there has been a misunderstanding. The Immigration official neglected to stamp your passport!”

He was kind enough to drive me back to the immigration building where three officials carefully inspected my passport. Keep in mind, immigration office at the port usually doesn’t have much to do. Every once and awhile there is a crew change and once in a blue moon a passenger disembarks. This was the most excitement they had in years. Eventually, the senior official got up and opened a safe on the other side of the room. He took out a lockbox and set it on the table. He ceremoniously opened the lockbox and set a large stamp on the table. I am sure that it had not been used in many months. He carefully tested it at couple of times on a blank piece of paper to check if it had any ink left and to update the date. Finally, in a regal manner, he gave my passport a long, firm, stamping.

As we left, the customs agent thanked me profusely for my troubles. It turned out that he drove around Taranto for nearly two and a half hours before tracking me down to the hotel. He offered to drop me off anywhere I wanted in the city. I thought carefully for a moment and knew exactly where I wanted to go.

“Take me to your best seafood restaurant!”

I wish every international crisis could be resolved so happily.

Vegetables of the Voyage

2008-10-29T22:44:00.000Z

I arrived on the vessel on August 31 and had my first meal on board that evening. I walked into the Officer’s Mess and was greeted by the Steward. He showed me to my seat and brought the food to my table and waited on me for the entire meal. Once I was done, he cleaned the table. It was quite nice to be waited on so promptly and expertly. As I sat there digesting my meal, I reflected on the meal and how impressed I was with the food. But would the quality stay steady?

That first meal was steak flanks with asparagus as a side dish. The dish was expertly prepared and the vegetables were freshly procured from the Savannah, GA markets. But such fresh vegetables do not last very long, even with modern day advances in refrigeration. With a 12-day journey ahead of us, I was curious as to what sort of meals to expect.

The first few days after we left port, we had a fresh salad for every meal. The tomatoes were ripe, the cucumbers were fresh and the lettuce was crunchy. The crew and I found ourselves in good spirits as people smiled and laughed their way around the vessel. While walking around the bow, I would find myself humming a tune while staring at the endless horizon, looking forward to the journey.

Soon, the tomatoes were replaced by radishes in the salads. Starchier vegetables, like cauliflower and broccoli appeared in the cooked meals. The dishes were still very comforting and filling. They gave much energy to everyone on board, as the officers would intently mark our progress on the navigation charts. The engineers scurried around below deck, adhering carefully to the maintenance schedule and taking inventory of all spare parts. During this phase, the ping pong games were very competitive. Everyone would intently concentrate on the ball and ready to smash a point for victory.

A few more days later and the radish-and-carrot salad were garnished with a few lettuce leafs. Carrots also show up in the cooked meals, alternating days with canned beets. The meals were hearty and got one through the day, but there is no more joy. One eats to work and works to eat. People become automatic machines, performing their routine and nothing more. This is the phase where drinking starts. Only later did I notice that patches of my hair had fallen off.

But then you run out of the root vegetables and dinner comes with canned peas. Canned peas have an odd effect on the human psyche. They are small wrinkled green dots that temporarily shrink your brain to their size. Capabilities for physical motion are greatly diminished and spoken language is reduced to babble. I struggled at times to have enough energy for a game of darts and could barely manage change my own clothes.

You wonder how much worse it can get, and then you see the vegetable of the day: brussel sprouts. I don’t exactly remember what happened after that meal, but I remember waking up the next morning having gnawed off the leg of my chair. In walking around the next day, I noticed strange graffiti around the vessel and zombie-like sounds emanating from the cargo holds.

Luckily, we were within site of Malta and a chance to replenish our supplies. Indeed, when at our next meal, when we had a bowlful of lettuce in our salads, the crew’s and my joviality returned to normal.

Now, dear reader, I do have to admit, this is a slight exaggeration of what happens due to the lack of fresh vegetables. But it does explain the straight jacket found in my closet.

Fruits of the Road Trip

2008-10-22T20:22:00.000+01:00

Consider the grape. It is probably the most perfect fruit to have in the car while driving across the country. It is bite sized so it is easy to handle. There are no seeds to dispose of, at least if they are seedless grapes. They are juicy, thus they hydrate you on a hot summer’s drive. One can easily eat grapes while concentrating intently on the road. They are the most delightful gift a traveler can receive and I started off my journey thankful for a bag of grapes given to me by a friend.

Cherries, purchased in a roadside farm stand, are a good secondary choice. They too are bite sized and the stem makes handling the fruit very simple. The only downside is the pit. It is a minor inconvenience to collect them in your cheek as you begin to chew fresh cherry. Every once and awhile, you can shoot them out of the window in a steady stream, not unlike machine gun fire.

Probably the most difficult fruit to eat while driving is a watermelon. Ideally, you would want one hand to hold the knife and the other to steady the melon. This is the point where you wish you had a third hand to steer the car, but thankful that you have an extra foot (assuming your car has automatic transmission). As you eat your slices, your hands will become irreversibly sticky, but the smell of watermelon will be authentic, unlike the watermelon-scented air freshener hanging from the rear view mirror. That freshness will be short-lived, however, as the sugars ferment in the oppressive heat of a non air-conditioned car.

But the oppressive heat makes cooking a pot roast easier. Just prepare everything as if you were going to put it into an oven. Then roll up all of the windows and put the pot in the sun while you drive. When you reach your destination 8 hours later, dinner will be ready.

Perhaps the most difficult dish to prepare in a car is a daquiri. This is because hardly anyone manufactures a blender with a 12V adapter. In fact, you will have to splice the wire yourself and modify the circuit of the blender to work in those conditions. Since it consumes a lot of electricity, you also have to drive your car extra fast to recharge the battery such that it can keep up with the appliance’s demand. This is best done on a rural interstate where there are fewer obstructions in the road.

Unfortunately, the state trooper in South Dakota did not accept that as an excuse as he booked me for speeding.

Voyage: 5 Seconds in Malta

2008-10-10T17:07:00.003+01:00

Malta is pretty much as far off the beaten track of Europe as you can get. It is a little island between Sicily and Libya, stranded all by its lonesome in the middle of the Mediterranean Sea. On our approach you could see the entire width of the island in one fell swoop. Huge cliffs grew to the left and right with the gentle slope of the port city in front. However, the cannons of the fortress were aimed directly at the passage to the harbor, deterring anyone from the notion of invasion. Soon, little tug boats appeared and started to nudge us in the direction of our berth. It made me feel like a kid playing in a bathtub, except the tug was dark green and I wasn’t splashing around water.

Marsaxlokk is as far off the beaten path in Malta as you can get. It is at the southern tip of the island and there really isn’t much here except for some beaches, lighthouses, and the port. A quick walk through the seaside and you could feel the influences of all the cultures that intersect here. Pizza joints littered the streets gave it a feeling of lower Manhattan while the light sandstone gave the buildings a distinct Mediterranean look. All signs were printed in English and people drove on the left side of the road. The Maltese dialect is a mixture of Italian, English, French, and languages from the other 184 countries that have tried to conquer it. As far as I know, Turkmenistan is the only country so far that has not launched an invasion at one point or another. But they will correct that discrepancy as soon as they commission their navy.

Our arrival in Malta was not exactly opportune. We docked at 5:00 PM on a Sunday in this heavily Catholic country and were not able to leave the ship till nearly 6:00 PM. Since we were to launch sometime in the early morning, we had to be content with seeing as much as we could in the few remaining hours of daylight. The only thing that could have made the timing worse was if the thunderstorm lurking off the coast had decided to make landfall. Lucky for us, we only found all shops to be closed and the streets nearly deserted.

We jumped on the bus for Valetta, the capitol, and immediately I had a “We’re not in Kansas anymore” moment. For one thing, although Valetta is half the island away, it took us a mere 30 minutes to reach it. For another, the bus drove the entire way without bothering to shut the door! I thought, “Why did they bother installing one anyways? Couldn’t they have saved the steel and glass for some other construction project?” In addition, the bus would not even stop completely to let someone off. The bus would slow down and the passengers would hop off as we continued on our merry way.

Valetta was founded in 1566 on the eastern side of the island and its fortifications extend over 27 km. We entered the city walls and were welcomed by the historical architecture. Unfortunately, we did not have the luxury to admire any one site as our ration of daylight was running short. Eventually our wanderings brought us to a park on the top of a fortress overlooking the city and bay. The blue from the water, yellow from the stone buildings, and orange from the streetlights presented a magnificent feast for the eyes. By this point, the sun had set, making it too dark to do any more sightseeing. Instead, we settled down in an Internet Café and reacquainted ourselves with the rest of the world.

Indeed, our time in Malta was too short to satisfy one’s curiosity, but this sort of view can only inspire a return visit.

Voyage: On Crossing Gibraltar

2008-10-01T23:42:00.000+01:00

Sight of land! What a wonderful change to the monotony of sea. Two continents at once fill your view with mountains growing out of the water on both sides. We arrived at the Strait at 8pm and saw the mountains reflecting the deep orange glow of the sun. Mark Twain, in his The Innocents Abroad puts it succinctly, “The picture … was very beautiful to the eyes weary of the changeless sea”

During the ten days of the ocean crossing, there is a slow but gradual buildup of tension. This tension comes from the constant rumbling of the engine, the rocking movement of the ship, and the difficulty to find quiet places to get away. It was considered eventful if we saw one ship in a day. But every day, you cheerfully carried on by looking for the simple amusements to occupy the mind.

But here, the entire traffic of the Mediterranean is squeezed through a channel 13 miles wide. First we saw ships, over a dozen on the horizon. Then we spot birds. And finally, the green mountains make their majestic appearance. At that moment, I got caught off guard by a wave of relief that flowed through my body. It was the culmination of a week and a half of patiently enduring the slow passage of time. It did not matter that we will not dock for two more days. Land has been sighted. Land is near. It brought comfort to the mind and soul.

Sadly, we crossed Gibraltar itself after dark. It was a blurry silhouette against a black background. For most of the next day, we hugged the African coast, passing Algeria, Tunisia and going between Africa and the Ile de la Galite. I asked the 2nd mate why we were traveling so close to land when the Mediterranean Sea was so large. He shrugged his shoulders and said, “So we can get cell phone and TV reception.”

It is nice to be close to land!

Voyage: On Breakfast

2008-09-28T22:49:00.000+01:00

When I boarded the ship, I was very determined to follow a regular routine. I felt that it would be healthy to do so, given the long stretches of daytime that needed to be filled. On the Oceano, breakfast was served between 7:00 and 7:30 every morning, so I made it a goal to wake up early enough to enjoy it every day. The first few days were nice – I was able to rise with plenty of time to spare. As we crossed the Atlantic, however, the earth began to conspire against me. At least once every other day, we would enter a new time zone. Pretty soon, it became more and more difficult to wake up at 7:00 since 7:00 kept moving forward by an hour.

It was such a frustrating experience. Here you are, thinking to yourself, “Ok buddy, just get up this once and you’ll get acclimated.” But then the time changes and now 7:00 is an hour earlier than it used to be. You lie awake in bed, unable to fall asleep till 2:00 or 3:00 in the morning and by the time your alarm rings, you only feel like putting it on snooze till 10:00. Pretty soon, I was happy if I woke up by noon, for any later and I would have missed lunch too.

When we reached GMT, I felt that it was the perfect opportunity to set my internal clock to what would be my new time zone. I diligently set my alarm for 7:00 and swore to get up, no matter how difficult the task. Indeed, I was proud that the next morning I dragged myself out of bed and down to the Officer’s Mess. When I arrived, I was puzzled that the plates were put away and found the kitchen strangely quiet. To my horror, I realized that I had neglected to change the time zone on my alarm clock. By now, it was well after 8:00AM and the cooking staff had retired for the morning.

I went back to my cabin in a gloomy state. In a dream-like stupor, I rummaged around my luggage for awhile and found a beaten up granola bar. It was a gold mine. I feasted on it and savored the taste for a whole three bites. It was the best breakfast of the entire voyage.

Voyage: A Stubby Note

2008-09-24T17:50:00.000+01:00

The experiment has failed. Enough was enough. After two weeks of natural growth, I shaved off my facial hair. Please note, I did not say, “I shaved off my beard,” or “goatee” or any form of hair growth that we would recognize. The only thing I succeeded at in those two weeks was to grow long stubble. It wasn’t very uniform nor dense at all. In essence, it was ugly.

The plan was to go from California to England without shaving and to see what would happen. Somewhere slightly east of the Azores, I noticed each of the crew shaving off their beards, one after another. I took a good look at myself in the mirror and realized in horror what everyone else was seeing. I looked like a prickly pear, a badly mowed lawn, a porcupine in puberty. The crew must have been internally laughing at me. And so I shaved, eliminating from my face what was not meant to be.

Satisfied with my work, I went to dinner. I walked into the Officer’s Mess and to my bemusement, the third mate broke out in laughter. With food in his mouth, he said in broken English, “You got sick of your face?” He tried to hide his amusement at my change in appearance.

My attempt at preventing the crew from laughing at me had failed. I could only take consolation in no longer being a walking cactus.

Voyage: On Smells

2008-09-21T21:11:00.000+01:00

During my fifth day at sea, I began to miss something that I had taken for granted – odors. Let me explain. I am not talking about the smell of athletes foot or the stink of rotten trash. Rather, the Earth itself gives off a smell that is noticeable only when it is missing. Here on the ocean, there are no trees giving off fresh oxygen, no moist soil giving off the smell of a fresh garden, no animals giving off odor to either attract mates or to keep away predators. Here on the ocean, there is a characteristic lack of any smell.

In addition, the water we drink is distilled sea water. It has gone through the most stringent of a filtering system that takes out any and all contaminants that may exist in it. In effect, it is tasteless, without any of the common minerals and nutrients that we associate with tap water. As the days went by, I began to have a longing for mealtime, and I realized that it was not only because of the nourishment, but because the mess hall smelled different. To be precisely, the mess hall had a smell, a familiar smell that broke the monotony from the lack of it.

Imagine my surprise then, when, on a round of the deck of the ship, I came across the Filipino crew roasting a suckling pig on spit. Now, I knew that Saturdays were barbeque days, but I had no idea that meant a whole pig. It looked very happy and content, but probably not very comfortable since its rib cage was cut open and all of its innards removed. The smell of salted meat permeated the entire stern. The entire crew was there, relaxing and having a party. Pretty soon, one of them hands me a beer and we sat there shooting the breeze.

Apparently the pig is something of a tradition. It usually happens on ocean crossings, and apparently is common enough that stores at ports sell whole pigs. In fact, one of the crew mentioned that he had never been on a ship that did not have this tradition. I took a look off the stern and spotted another freighter off in the distance going in the other direction. I could imagine that, on the stern of the other vessel, a group of Filipino drinking beer, roasting a pig and giving a toast to the universal seaman’s barbeque.

Two hours later, I was sitting on the wing of the Bridge overlooking the water. The sun was setting behind us, the speakers were blasting techno music, and the alcohol flowed freely. All of the people on board the vessel were there, officers, engineers, cadets and able-bodied men. The chief engineer grilled the sausages and the captain made his special pesto sauce. We milled around, laughing, sharing stories, and having a great time. There was even a whale sighting off the starboard side. For a moment, you drowned out the constant rumbling of the motor and could forget that you were on a vessel going full speed across the Atlantic.

The barbeque was a welcomed distraction from the daily routine. Today, we were people enjoying good food, good beer and good company. Tomorrow, we would be back to being seafaring voyagers and void of any smells.

Voyage: On Adaptation

2008-09-18T22:25:00.000+01:00

As the first few days went by, I began to notice many little things around me that were not the same as on land. Many little nuances are taken for granted and when they are missing from the environment, it can take quite awhile to adapt.

For instance, during the first day on board, I got thirsty, and realized that I had no idea where to get water. Yes, I could have gone to the pantry and purchased soda, mineral water or beer, but I wanted plain and tap water. At that point, I remembered the jug of water at breakfast and regretted not drinking more. For the next few meals, I adapted myself by drinking like a camel, stocking up on it and trying not to expend much energy during the day. At our first stop in Miami, I made it a point to go and purchase a gallon of drinking water. Even then, I rationed it strictly, for it had to last my whole two weeks at sea. Then, two days into the voyage, I found the water fountain. It tasted delicious. That was the happiest day of my life, even though I still felt like a camel. Stupid as one, that is.

Given now, that I had a steady supply of water, I no longer prevented myself from activities that caused sweating. I started looking for places to do simple exercises. There was a pool, but it was small and looked like it could last for 1½ strokes, so did not look like a feasible place to get any real exercising done. There are three staircases that go the tower structure. Two of them are outside with a sheer drop to the ocean waters below. One is indoors, but the landings are so close to one another that you would get dizzy just turning around so many corners.

Then I found it. It was a hatch at the bow that led into one of the store rooms. It was just the right height to be able to step up and down. And so, every afternoon, I would go to the bow and do a few minutes of step aerobics. It turned out to be a satisfactory workout, although I would constantly glance over my shoulders for fear of being spotted. As I went up and down, the ship would rock to and fro and I found myself wishing for a DVD series on step aerobics. It was the only time in my life to have that wish. Really.

A couple of days later, as I was talking to the 2nd mate about my “discovery”, he said, “why don’t you use the weight room?” I was surprised, for I thought I did a thorough tour of the ship when I came on board. I did not see a weight room. He led me to a door labeled “Void Space” and inside was a large assortment of free weights and a bench press. Of course, I thought to myself. I should have guessed that “Void Space” meant “Weight Room”.

But this posed a new problem. The water on board is distilled seawater, with no minerals or electrolytes. As I sweated, salt was flushed out of my system and not being replenished. Thus I began generously sprinkling salt over my meals. It is ironic that I was essentially adding salt to a meal cooked with distilled salt water. Such is the paradox of life.

So there you have it. It took several days to go from rationing water to eating salt. This adaptation took several days to mature but was kept up for the entire journey. Not all adaptations take that long, however. An adaptation which took less than a minute was learning how to shower. Very quickly, I learned that I had to wedge myself firmly in the corner of the shower stall to prevent from falling over!

Voyage: Getting to Know the Ital Oceano

2008-09-14T19:22:00.002+01:00

So here I was, flying to Savannah to board my freighter. I was nervous, for no one I knew had ever traveled by freighter before. As we landed, we passed over the port itself. From above, the ships looked like miniature game pieces from Axes and Allies and the containers themselves looked like the blue, orange, red and white roads from the Settlers of Catan. My heart raced, both for the excitement of the upcoming journey, but also for nervousness as to whether this was the right decision.

After landing, I called the port, as instructed by the travel agency. The operations manager was very friendly, but confused. “Now, wait a minute, why do you want to go on board?” she asked, with a southern drawl.
“Um…I am the passenger on the ship?” I replied hesitantly.
“Oh.” There was a long pause. “So you’re a paying passenger?”
“Yes I am.”
“Oh, Ok.” Another pause. “Does the captain know your coming?”
“Um…I hope so?” Through the rest of the conversation, she gave me directions on how to enter the port and where to go. When we hung up, I had an uneasy feeling that I would be an unwelcomed guest.

Thus you can imagine my apprehension while boarding the vessel. The 212 meter long ship dwarfed the taxi I was in. I made my way cautiously up the gangplank and was greeted by two Filipino crew members who welcomed me aboard with smiles and laughter. They probably noticed my discomfort as they took down my ticket and passport information, but the more they joked, the more uncomfortable I became. It seemed as if they were merely putting up with me.

A big non-smiling Caucasian walked into the ship’s office wearing white overalls and took a look at me. In thickly accented English, he said “Are you the passenger?” After answering in the affirmative and showing him my papers, he said, “Well, I was not expecting you, but perhaps the captain knows you are arriving. Come with me. I will show you to your cabin.” With that he turned around and took off.

“Great,” I thought to myself. “The port agent was right. They don’t know that I’m coming on board.” My fears of being a parasite were coming to fruition. He led me to a very small elevator and we went to the 7th floor. While in that small space, I learned that he, Petar, was the second officer and a Montenegrin. We arrived at a door marked “Owner” and he said, “This is the officer’s deck. This is your cabin.”

I took a cursory glance. Everything in the room was white, giving it a clean but sterile look. It was of the size of a comfortable single with its own shower. There was a bed, desk, bookshelf, closet, couch and table. Everything was tightly bolted down to the floor or the wall. In effect, it looked like a prison cell.

He continued with his instructions. “Dinner is at 5:30 on Deck A. We set sail at midnight.” I looked at my watch. It was 3:00, nine hours before undocking. As he turned to leave, I realized I had no idea if I was supposed to stay in my room for that entire time. “Excuse me but, is there any place on board that I should not go?”

He shrugged his shoulders. “Go anywhere you’d like. The bridge is right there.” He points up the staircase. “Just don’t go on deck. You need a hard hat and safety training.” With that, he left.

I began to unpack and took stock of what would be my room for the next two week. There was a window over the bed and I was pleased that I had an unobstructed view of the shipyard. I found a mini-fridge under the desk. There were electrical outlets to plug in my laptop. I was pleasantly surprised that the walls were magnetic. It made it easier to attach my map of the world with some souvenir magnets.

I started to wander down the staircase, opening any door that did not look like a personal room or say “Restricted”. Quickly, I located the laundry room, recreation room, a ping pong table, a pool and the mess hall. I ran into the 2nd engineer, a German raised in Lithuania who offered a tour of the engine room. We descended below deck and entered a cavernous chamber painted green-and-white. On the way down, we pass a spare piston that was taller than a human. Then we saw the engine, all 50 feet of it with 8 of those pistons. We continued descending for three stories to reach the base and saw the 2.5 foot shaft attached to the propeller outside the hull. It makes a mean whirling sound that makes migraines seem tame. After the tour, I told the 2nd engineer how impressed I was by the engine. He shrugged his shoulders and said through his thick Russian accent, “This small motor. Last one was three times larger for a ship three times bigger.” All I could think of was “wow.”

I returned upstairs to visit the bridge. Outside of it was an ominous red lightbulb and a large “Restricted” sign. But Petar said I could go, so hesitantly I opened the door, half expecting to be chewed out by someone, but found it quite deserted. The view was amazing. Below us were rows and columns of containers all neatly stacked one on top of another like Legos. Two giant cranes towered above. A steady stream of trucks drove alongside the ship with containers and the cranes would grab one and place it neatly on the ship. I looked up and saw the lone operator controlling the crane and moving containers at a rate of more than one per minute. The crane, I realized, was the ultimate power tool. What an adrenaline rush it must be to operate a 15 story tall piece of machinery?

At dinner, I met the captain. He is Romanian, but spoke perfect English. He too welcomed me on board and after a quick conversation, invited me to the bridge for the launch. At midnight, I made my way up to the darkened bridge where I met the River Pilot, who was responsible for guiding us out into the ocean. He sat at the front of the bridge and beckoned for me to join him. For the next two hours, we talked about hiking, fishing, Europe, traveling, and all the subjects we could think of. Every once and awhile, he would give coordinates to the navigator as we maneuvered around the sand bars.

As we entered the open ocean, I stared out into the black horizon. The bright orange halo from the street lights became fainter as more and more stars became visible in the darken sky. But no matter how black the sky became, the sea was a darker, purer shade of black. Out here, there were no landmarks, no gas stations or 7-11s to take a left at. We were completely dependent on our electronic gadgets, gyroscopic compass, radar, GPS, etc., for navigational support. I felt sympathy and respect for the renaissance sailors who could navigate in these conditions with only magnetic compass and a sextant.

That night, as I lied in bed, all I could think of was what an amazing day it had been. I could feel the bare excitement of the open ocean. I was in a world that only seamen see and experience. The next 15 days were to contain some very unique moments that could only be experienced on a vessel. I would find out that Petar was a very gentle and kind person after you got to know him. But that first night threw away all doubt about traveling by freighter. I knew that I did belong, and was looking forward to the journey across the Atlantic.

Dear Friends,

2008-08-30T18:11:00.002+01:00

From Aug 31st to Sept 15th I will be unreachable, as I will be on board the Ital Oceano, a freighter traveling from Savannah, Georgia, to Taranto, Italy. Reactions to this news have run the gauntlet.

“WHAT!?!?!?!” was the common response.
“That’s terrific! You’re going to have such a great time!” sometimes followed.
“Oh my god, you’ll be bored out of your mind!” was the other most common follow-up.

In polling my friends, about half of them thought I was crazy. The other half though I was crazy too, but wanted to hear all about it.

The normal conventions of travel do not exist as surprises pop up at every turn of the whole process. For instance, my ticket was printed in German. Regarding luggage, I was told “Take only as much as you can carry. It is 1-2 miles from the terminal to your ship and you’ll have to walk.” “Oh, and by the way, your Antwerp trip was canceled. But we can rebook you to Italy”.

Friends would hear me talk about this and exclaim with amazement that I was still interested in going.

“But its two weeks of peace and quiet,” I would argue. “No internet, no cell phone.”
“I would rather go to a beach and turn off my cell phone,” they would counter.

“Do you get sea sick?” they would inquire.
“I don’t think so. I’ve never been motion sick before.”
“But you realize it will be hurricane season?”

“Aren’t you worried about pirates?” some would ask.
“Uh, no? They are more of an issue off the coasts of Nigeria and Somalia. I’m going through the Straight of Gibraltar.”
“Dude – do you also go through the Bermuda Triangle?”
“Um…yes?”

So here I am, the day before boarding. Truth be told, I am a tad nervous – no one has told me what language the crew speaks. I wonder if I brought enough books. Whatever happens, it is sure to be an adventure.

http://www.vesseltracker.com/en/Ships/Ital-Oceano-9300984.html

Roadtrip Second Half Report

2008-08-30T18:04:00.004+01:00

There is a popular map of the world that NASA publishes of the entire world at night. You can see the outlines of the continents as cities light up the darkened earth. Upon close inspection of the USA, there is a distinct line in the middle of the country. If you look east, there are large clusters of lights next to large clusters of lights. If you look west, there are sporadic pinpoints, until the solid sheet of light that makes up the California coast. There are not many people in this middle area that make up the Great Plains and the Rocky Mountains. This was the second part of the road trip.

The rural nature is obvious. Kadoka, SD, the closest large town to the South Dakota Badlands has a whopping 5 hotels. Gas stations on the interstate are separated by 40 miles or more. You’d think you couldn’t get any smaller, but then you hit Lost Spring, Wyoming, population 1. Yes, one, lone person. Literally, you miss it in a blink as it is merely a sign next to a house. One can only imagine what sort of industry can be sustained by a population of 1. In fact, the population itself isn’t even stable. It needs at least two.

Some small cities are able to profit on being a tourist trap. Wall, SD is one of these places. The world’s largest drug store is in Wall, covering a city block. But when you walk in, you quickly realize that this is no ordinary drug store. A robotic T-Rex next to the gem sluice roars as you walk to the restrooms. Billboards advertising for Wall Drug start all the way in Minnesota, and there are subsequent ones at least every ten miles. The first few billboards scream of “tourist trap!” especially when they tout their media exposure on Oprah. But when that is all you see for the next 300 miles, you wonder, “is that all that’s out here?” By the time you reach Wall, you feel obligated to at least stop in and take a look at the Western Orchestra, made out of wax figurines. If you’re wondering, yes, they will fill your prescriptions too.

The Bonneville Salt Flat was eerie. It was flat and white. In most of my travels, I have visited cities or natural parks that have some topology – mountains, trees, lakes, valleys. The salt flats are formed when large deposits of salt water evaporate, leaving behind miles and miles of salt that follows the natural curvature of the earth. Even Kansas, scientifically proven to be flatter than a pancake, cannot compare to the pure flatness of the salt flats. It is white for as far as the eye can see. The salt crystals are huge, formed in its natural environment. But what makes it eerie is that it is dead. Death Valley, by its namesake, is dead, but every year, after a spring shower, wild flowers shoot up for a few short weeks and spread their seeds before succumbing to the brutal environment. Death Valley is called that because life does not usually grow. But nothing can grow on salt. The flats are eerie because there is no choice for life.

What amazes me the most about America is the amazing extremes the country has to offer. Twenty-four hours after the salt flats, I drove through the San Joachim Valley of California, home to some of the best fruit crops. At the Casa De Fruta store, there were dried mangos, kiwis, strawberries, cherries, apricots, along with a dozen different nuts roasted a dozen different ways, such as tequila walnuts, chili pistachios, and guacamole almonds. But be careful. This too is a tourist trap. After being welcomed by the parking lot peacock, you can go to Casa de Restaurant for meals, Casa de Sweets for candy, and Casa de Choo Choo for the kid that lives in all of us.

Thus I arrived at my destination, having visited majestic mountains and urban jungles, harsh deserts and fertile farmlands. I feel rested and full of memories of people, places and things. My favorite moment was staring at the sky in the Grand Tetons, seeing the Milky Way and thinking how we are being whipped around the galactic core at thousands of miles per second and the only thing keeping us from flying off into oblivion is a force called gravity. Then I fell asleep. My friends along the route, thank you for your hospitality, my country, thank you for sharing your beauty, and my car, thank you for not overheating.

Hiking in the Grand Teton National Forest

2008-08-15T06:17:00.003+01:00

Dave and I were finally going to be climbing Jackson Peak in the Teton National Forest in Wyoming. This 10,700 peak is south of the national park and gives a grand view of the mountains in the horizon and the valley and buttes below. From a distance, you could see snow on parts of the mountain through the rugged terrain. Our plan was simple. On the first day, we would climb up to Goodwin Lake at 9000 feet and set up camp. From there, we would take the second day to summit the peak at 10,700.

To guide us through the harrowing journey, we hired a local sherpa, Dawa, to lead the expedition. He had safely taken many people up to the summit before and we felt confident that he would be able to lead us safely. He spent much time warning us of the dangers of what we were attempting, but we were determined. After agreeing to help us, Dawa rounded up an expedition of 10 men along with a full complement of horses and mules. He purchased nearly 2 weeks worth of food and supplies, including fresh basil for cooking and a glockenspiel for the evening’s entertainment. Confident that we had everything we need, we set off on the journey.

As we started off on our hike, tragedy struck. One of our horses was not shoed properly and quickly lost her footing on the rocky path. She fell over and was in no condition to continue. Determined to overlook this temporary setback, we set off on our journey. Two long hours later, we arrived in a daze at the Goodwin Lake campsite. The first part of the journey was much more difficult than any of us could have anticipated. A wandering bear had attacked our group and took out two sherpas before we were able to subdue it with the most blunt of force. They were the masseuse sherpas for we had hoped to rest our aching muscles at base camp that night. Along with them went a few of the horses that carried scented perfumes and oils. The odor of the broken bottles attracted a herd of attack chipmunks that crossed our path. There were too many of these little pests such that our machetes were of no use. Dawa commanded us to out-run them and so the crew took off on a sprint. When we stopped to catch our breath, we found that 3 sherpas lost their nerves and ran back to the starting point, 4 were still with us, and one was unaccounted for. Animalwise, we had lost a total of four mules and two more horses.

Goodwin Lake, named for its discoverer, Goodwin, appears calm on the surface. Its crystal clear water flows from snowmelt in surrounding mountains. Nestled between several hills, it is protected from the harsh winds and is somewhat of a sanctuary in the wilderness. The pine trees grow calmly and quietly and reflect in the water below. As the sun set, the surrounding hills turned deep red and the sky turned an ominous blue. As night set in, we sat outside, staring at the Milky Way and surrounding visible stars, clear of air pollution and light pollution. Dawa, playing the glockenspiel, brooded about the hike. “This not right. Stars is not right. Wind is not right. Trouble for climb tomorrow. Better rest well tonight.” He then got up and went into his tent and left us with a haunted feeling that maybe we were over our head in what we could handle.

The next day, we awoke to two more horses missing. When we questioned Dawa, he quickly said, “Never mind horses! We need to get moving before worse happen!” Up and up we went, hiking through forests, scaling boulders and occasionally passing though patches of snow. Every once and awhile, we would take a rest in a meadow before continuing our upward trek. It was a strenuous hike – one of the sherpas collapsed in exhaustion and slid down a rocky side of the mountain.

The scene was beautiful. Across the low-lying valley, the snow covered Grand Teton mountains rose majestically in the distance. Clouds hung effortlessly above us and were close enough that you could seemingly touch them in the next mountain range. Green meadows, pine trees, snow and rocks littered the surrounding mountains to make a beautiful collage of colors and textures. Words can describe the world as it unfolded to us but it cannot capture the emotive beauty of the moment. As we looked around, we saw Goodwin Lake from above and understood the reason for Dawa’s haste in leaving in the early morning. There was a giant eel-like creature swimming in circles. What had looked like gnarled tree branches were in actuality digested bone fragments form this horrible creature!

When we returned to camp, we understood what happened to the animals last night. Dawa had left them tied up next to the lake as an offering, hoping to satiate the lake monster such that it would leave us alone. Tonight, we helped Dawa and his crew perform the same gruesome task. We only had two horses left, but Dawa was adamant. “Tie both next to lake!” he demanded. “Better them than us!” We went to bed fearful of any sound that came out of the woods.

The next morning at sunrise, we were awoken with a “whoosh” off in the distance. Dawa ran out from his tent to the lake just in time to see the tail of the giant eel disappear into the lake. The horses were nowhere to be seen. Dawa ran back to camp. “Quickly! Leave now! Monster feeds in the morning!” We immediately began to break down the tents and put away our gear. Fear was in the eyes of our remaining Sherpas. “No more time! Must leave now!” Dawa yelled. We took what we had put into our packs and ran off on foot as fast as we could. As we approached the trail near the lake, we saw two giant eyes looking at us and we took off on a sprint. Behind us, we could hear the yell of two of our sherpas that lagged behind a bit too long and a few more seconds later, silence, except for the crackling of branches below our feet.

Dawa, Dave and I, the only three left on the expedition, slowed down to catch our breath once we were a good distance from the lake. “Good job”, said Dawa, huffing and puffing, more tired than we’ve seen him this entire journey. “I have seen that monster eye to eye many times. Each time he scares me. Do not tempt monster.” We were proud that we performed so well in the face of such danger. We stumbled the rest of the way down the hill. Just as we were about to turn around the clearing to where the car was parked, Dawa collapsed.

“Dawa!” I exclaimed. “You cannot stop now! We are almost at the car! You can almost see it from here!”

1301
1505

Dawa shook his head as I held his hands. “It is too late for me. I have seen it in the creature’s eyes. He had claimed me. It is my time to go.”

“Dawa! No!”

But it was too late. With one last nod, his head ceased to move and his body became a lifeless mass.

Somberly, Dave and I made it the rest of the way to the car with no problems. As we drove off down from the parking lot, we could not but think back and remember our brave sherpa guide, his crew of able-bodied men, and the spectacular views and scenery that unfolded before our eyes. Photos can only act as memory beads to the weekend’s events. And for as long as I live, I shall never be able to look at a glockenspiel without remembering this story.

A suspiciously calm looking Goodwin lake. Who knew danger lurked below?

The Grand Tetons mountain range as seen from Jackson Peak, a treacherous hike.

Canvas in the Sky

2008-08-05T05:15:00.003+01:00

Brush strokes of orange, red, purple and made up the clouds while the dark silhouette of the distant hills provided the horizon. The sky itself became vivid red for a moment and reflected itself onto the dark green grassland below. All around, the crickets chirped their approval, the horseflies buzzed with excitement and the mosquitoes … feasted. Dave and I were at the world’s largest 4-D IMAX Theater and boy, were we treated to a show.

I picked up my housemate Dave at the Minneapolis - St. Paul airport halfway through my trek across the northern part of America. We went to the Mall of America in Minneapolis for lunch, which was merely one exit away on the highway. It is the world’s largest mall and it feels like a fantasy world, to wander through the labyrinth of halls, walkways and staircases. Its size and scope is apparent by the full—fledged amusement park in the center of the mall and the food courts. Yes, “courts”. There are multiple.

But we had quite a bit of a drive to get to the world’s largest 4-D IMAX. The Badlands National Park is about a 8 hour drive away without stops in the southwestern corner of South Dakota. Hours and hours of passed of corn growing on rolling hills, prairies, and truck stops finally brought us to the entrance gate. From the visitor’s center, it took about another hour of driving through winding paved and dirt roads before we reached a suitable overlook. We then donned our packs and headed off into the grassland below, climbing over rocks, buttes and ravines.

The Badlands are a unique place to go hiking. Most of the park is grassland so there is no point in building trails. The buttes are also free to climb, being of dry clay formations. Furthermore, buffalos roam freely and climb whatever butte they want. Buttes, by the way, are a geological formation where a higher ground erodes away into a lower ground. Sometimes, the erosion does not happen uniformly and jutted figures form at the points of slow erosion. Over time, the valley itself sinks so much that the buttes become veritable hills.

We walked for an hour south of our parked car. Every time we moved through the knee-deep grass, herds of crickets would jump in front of us as we disturbed their environment. We could not move too fast, as there were bison hoof tracks that were big and deep enough to twist your ankle, should you step in the wrong place. The grass was also littered with bison pies the size of your head. Eventually, we arrived at a spot nestled between two ranges of buttes and set up camp.

As we ate our dinner, the show started. The sky turned dark blue and the clouds became fiery red. Along the periphery, purple clouds shown down to the clay hills turning them reddish purple. Behind us, the orange sun only accentuated the red striations in eroded earth. We sat there in the evening breeze happily snapping photo after photo as the scenes evolved around us. When the sky finally became dark, the sky became littered with stars, satellites, and meteors. All the while, the crickets chirped, the horseflies buzzed, and the mosquitoes…feasted.

The Roadtrip Half-Time Report

2008-07-28T16:16:00.002+01:00

Road trips can be the exemplar studies of random spontaneity. Nothing can be more random and cause a more spontaneous reaction than the I Love Lucy Museum in her hometown, Jamestown NY. What are you supposed to do, dear reader, when you are confronted with a billboard-sized face of our favorite red-head with the printed imperative “Exit Now!” Yes, it did put me two hours behind on the already long leg from Ithaca, NY to Lexington, KY, but it was worth it. I Love Lucy paraphernalia is readily available in any major tourist attraction, but this was the mother-lode. In fact, you couldn’t buy anything without her likeliness, be it cup, dish, t-shirt or underwear.

Ohio was the most aromatic of states. In driving through the north, you could smell sweet corn as they ripened on the stalk. In passing by Columbus, the capital, you could smell the landfill as the refuse stink wafted over the interstate. And as you got close to the Kentucky border, horse and cow manure permeated the air. The second place winner was Wisconsin, when the interstate weaved right by a mint farm.

In America, we have these people called “presidents” and we like to build statues after their names. One of these statues resides in Cincinnati in Garfield Square, named for James A. Garfield, the 18th president. This reminds me: have you ever heard of the comic strip Garfield minus Garfield (http://garfieldminusgarfield.net/)? Apparently, if you remove the cat Garfield completely from the strip, it becomes surreal yet incredibly funny in it's own right. Imagine what the USA would have been like if we did not have President Garfield. Coincidentally, President Garfield was assassinated 8 months into his administration. Surreal, isn’t it?

The American Diner is a fine example of the ingenuity it took to standardize food quality across the thousands of miles of roads that make up American highways. In order to meet the difficulties in supply, the foods are made from goods that were readily available across the country, such as eggs, beef and potatoes. In order to satisfy even the pickiest eaters, the dishes are filling yet inoffensive in smell and taste. In order to standardize cooking practices, skillets and deep fryers are the only cooking methods allowed. In essence, everything must be fried to a standard blandness.

In that regard, the Taco Salad I had for lunch was a smashing success. The diner succeeded in not only making a salad into fried grease ball, but they also succeeded in removing the spicy pectins from a Jalapeno pepper. The lettuce was crunchy, tasteless and full of water. Imagine my surprise when I realized that, half way through the salad, that the tomatoes did not have their tartness. They were so bland that I did not even know they were in the salad until I found one while picking at my food.

In Indiana, the most popular billboard advertisement was for billboard advertising space.

In Wisconsin, I got stung by a mosquito. Normally this is not anything to write home about, but in this particular time, I got stung on my right hand ring finger, right next to my Brass Rat. I went to bed not thinking anything of it, but I woke up the next morning with the ring constricting the swollen finger and I could not budge it over the now swollen knuckle. Taking a page from the MacGyver textbook, I recalled an episode where he escaped from being tied down by using water as a lubricant. I went into the shower, soaped up my finger, and painfully pulled the ring off.

That’s it for now. More stories to come.

Gambling with Postcards

2008-07-26T02:42:00.000+01:00

I am at Hoosier Park in Indiana. It is a racetrack and casino, popular with many of the locals. I am sitting at the roulette table watching the ball go round and round. Occasionally, I would glance haphazardly around the room and see people forgetting their worries and having the time of their lives smoking, drinking, and losing money. I too, lose myself in the momentary rush of a spin and forget my misery, for I could not find a postcard.

Let me explain. I have an obsession with postcard. Ever since high school, I have bought a postcard at every place I’ve ever visited. This has created a nice collection of travel logs of different places I’ve been and things I’ve done. On the other hand, it has also caused me undue stress when a postcard cannot be found. This happened once in Houston – I did not get a chance to buy a postcard and to this day, there is a place-holder for it for it in my postcard album.

The day before, I arrived in Cincinnati too late to be able to visit the touristy areas. The museums had closed and I figured that I would have the next morning to find one. However, my host lived north of the city and since I was northward bound, it did not make sense to pay for a parking space in the city just for a postcard. After breakfast, I left in the direction of Indiana, thinking that I could pick up a postcard at some attraction on the way, or at, the very least, a gas station.

As it turns out, Cincinnati is merely 20 miles away from the border, and when I got on the interstate, I realized the shortness of time and distance I had to accomplish this mission. I stopped at the first gas station, having to fill up my tank anyways, and entered into the travel mart. No postcard. I feigned as if I needed the men’s room, used the facilities, and left. There were several more exits before the border, so I drove to the next gas station and walked in. No postcard. I had already used the men’s room, so I bought a bag of potato chips. At the next stop, I still had no luck. I thought to myself, “What are the chances that no gas station between Cincinnati and Indiana will sell postcards?” Five bags of potato chips, two Twinkies and a Gatorade later, I concluded “100%”.

After crossing the border into Indiana, I decided to change tactics. Instead of stopping at every gas station, I would stop at the first tourist attraction and go to the gift shop. Thus I ended up at the Hoosier Park Racetrack and Casino. I walk into the smoked filled room, made my way around islands of flashing slot machines and while inundated with background racket beeps and clanks. The room was filled with sad and miserable people, gambling their hard earned cash away in the hopes of something better. Retirees attached to oxygen machines stared intently at the slot machines praying for their jackpot. The gift shop too, was depressingly small and although there was a large selection of “Get Well Soon!” cards, there was not a single postcard. Dejected, I sat down at the Roulette table. I anted my postcard budget and joined the masses in forgetting my troubles.

I lamented this story to my friend whom I was visiting in Culver, Indiana. She cheerfully replied, “Well, Culver may be a small town, but I do know the hardware store sells postcards. In fact, I bought one last week there!” Happily, we walked to the hardware store that served the town of 7000. When we arrived, we saw a container marked “Postcards: $1.00” - empty. We questioned the owner of the store and he confirmed that not only were they completely out, but he had just sold the last one only moments ago. Seeing my crushed look, he quickly added, “But you can go down the street to the Poet and Painter. They sell postcards.” We made a beeline to the store and sure enough, there was quite a nice selection. I was happier than an ant in a sugar factory.

I bought 7 and put my roulette winnings to good use too.

87600 Hours in Boston

2008-07-22T21:17:00.002+01:00

Boston is a great place to visit. It is a historic city, with roots from before the revolutionary war. Its neighborhoods are quaint and each has a distinct atmosphere and personality. Most people come for a weekend or a few weekdays. I would recommend 10 years as an ideal stay in order to really get to know the city and to be able to act like a local.

Where to stay:
You should try to get accommodations at one of the local colleges or universities. These accommodations are popular and deadlines for applications are typically in March for a September room. Your commitment to one of these accommodations is about 4 years, although some people like it so much they will extend their stay for several years. Amenities will vary, depending on the college, and depending on how long you’ve been at one. Prices range from expensive ($$$$ - Harvard, MIT, Boston University) to the economical ($ - Bunker Hill Community College). While there, you should take advantages of the free activities offered at these living communities, such as Introduction to Differential Equations, or The Opera and the Mind. Some will have state-of-the-art athletic facilities are available for general use, including Olympic-sized pools.

What to do:
The easiest way to find a job in Boston is to look on monster.com or careerbuilder.com. Many temp agencies also work in the area, such as Beacon Hill Staffing Group and the Professional Staffing Group. Jobs vary from simple but busy assistant positions all the way up to roller-coaster rides on the financial markets. Working for a living not for you? You can also make it as a well-paying bum. The local homeless are known by the street corner they frequent or the Dunkin’ Donuts they occupy. Boston is the only city I know where the obituary of a homeless man can make the front page of the newspaper.

Where to eat:
The cheapest place to eat in Boston is at a friend’s house. Befriend a whole bunch of people and invite yourself over to dinner on a rotating basis. Make sure that don’t go to any one person’s place more than once a month. Also make sure that your friends don’t know each other. This way, you can easily rotate trough many of them without being caught. Always make an offer to bring drinks and some recipe ideas so that it seems like you are contributing to the evening’s party.

Your stay in Boston will surely be memorable and you will find that you’ve may even feel like a local after a decade. You may find it difficult to leave. The best way to do so is to chain yourself to a tractor-trailer and not let yourself free until you reach Cincinnati. That way, it would be difficult to hitchhike back. Just make sure the tractor-trailer is a U-Haul, all of your belongings are inside, and you are in the driver’s seat. As you drive off into the sunset (literally), you can reminisce about close friends, fond memories and good times. And more than once, you might wish that the sun set in the east instead of the west, so that you didn’t have to be staring at it while driving on the highway.

Goodbyes are not forever.
Goodbyes are not the end.
They simply mean I'll miss you
Until we meet again!
~Author Unknown

The T-Terminus Trek Travelog

2008-06-30T16:39:00.004+01:00

My friend Matt Herman once asked www.chacha.com, "How long would it take to ride to every terminus station on the Boston subway system?" The answer he received was, "A looooooong time." On Saturday, June 28th, Matt and I endeavored to find out how long a "looooooong" time took. There were a couple of ground rules. Our goal was to reach every terminus station via public transportation. That meant we allowed ourselves to travel between terminus stations that were nearby. We would travel every length of track that was operational – shuttle bus service did not qualify and we would skip lines that had no weekend service. Furthermore, by spending a day traveling to the far reaches of the subway, we would also be able to answer a secondary question: What sort of people live in the different neighborhoods of Boston?

When we started our journey, we immediately, we began to notice trends. Unsurprisingly, the Green line toward Newton was filled with affluent Caucasian families and college students while the Red line towards Mattapan was mostly used by African American families. Orange line towards Oak Grove had many older people, possibly indicating a higher percentage of generational families and long time residences. Other trends emerged. For instance, people who wore sandals typically wore hats. Perhaps the unconscious mind wants one end of the body to be covered at all times? This would be a question some sociology graduate student may wish to answer. By coincidence, most people who wore sandals and carried picnic baskets got off the train at the Revere Beach station. Matt and I did not fit into this social microculture of residents wearing flip-flops and carrying picnic baskets. Similarly, we noticed that people who got on and off at the Airport station usually carried luggage. What a strange culture to carry luggage everywhere you went!

As the train whizzed across the system, we noticed that JetBlue and the State of Vermont had purchased the most advertisement space. Sadly, there was no synergy, as Vermont is not a JetBlue destination nor does JetBlue allow in-flight flyfishing. Residents on the Braintree extension of the Red Line drew the best graffiti. The designs were large with brazen colors. Some included the blending of hues and shades to create stunning shadow effect. The worst graffiti was on the Orange lines. Here, unimaginative outlines were rarely filled in and typically the artists utilized dark earth-tones.

By late evening, we returned to our home base in a PF Chang Bistro and compiled the statistics of the day. We spent the most amount of time on the Red line: 2 hours and 34 minutes going through 61 stations. The least amount of time was on the Silver Line from Boylston St. to Dudley square: 14 minutes for 10 stations. Silver Line to South Boston had the longest wait of 16 minutes. Over the course of the day, I consumed 3 granola bars and 1 bottle of water. (In our defense, we did not plan to go the entire day without eating. We kept saying "Let's take a break after this next leg of our journey.") We saw six baby carriages, one pair of knee-high orange socks, and overheard one conversation of "Would you shoot someone if they robbed your house?" But most importantly, 11 hours and 17 minutes after we started, we had our answer of how long would it take to ride to every terminus station on the Boston subway system: A reeeeeaally looooooong time.

Ode to a Turboprop

2008-06-12T04:16:00.001+01:00

There is something about turboprop planes that make them alluring. They are small beasts that can be terrifying to ride. Yet there is also an allure and exoticism that draws you to look forward to the experience. Indeed, as I write this, I am sitting in one, an EMB 120 Brasilia, sandwiched between two Boeing jumbo jets, waiting for our turn to take off.

The flights can be very uncomfortable. Physically, their diminutive size is apparent when you stare up at the giant Rolls-Royce engine of the Boeing 747-400, as if it is ready to suck you in. There is not much of a buffer between you and the fast moving blades. The noise generated by the engines cut through the hull with a volume rivaling that of rock concert. Puddle hoppers, as they are affectionately called, are subject to the minute bumps and changes in wind patterns that transmit the turbulence undampened to your seat.

Yet I am willing to forgive the discomfort of the flight. A small plane is exotic because chances are, you are going to a place that is small and quiet. Indeed, the smallest plane I’ve ever been on was an 11-seater to Hagfors Sweden, population 7000. Sometimes, I’d be the only person on the jaunt and it became rather embarrassing when the first officer gave me the safety spiel for the 4^th time that summer, even though I was the sole passenger.

But, more often than not, I am one of a handful of people flying from San Francisco to Monterey. I walk along the tarmac to the staircase next to the plane. I duck to enter the door and, once inside, cannot stand up straight. I try to make myself comfortable for the quick 20 minute flight. But in my mind, I am at ease. I feel the satisfaction of being on the last leg of my 2500 mile journey. I feel the warmth of home, and it calls to me.

Caution: Frequent Moose Accidents Next 3 miles

2008-06-02T21:45:00.027+01:00

Thus we were welcomed to Mt. Blue State Park where a few friends and I were going camping the last weekend in May. We were desperate to escape the hustle and bustle of city life and chose to spend it in the serene quietness of the Maine wilderness. The highway sign merely indicated that we had gone far enough, to a place where moose ruled the earth. Indeed, this would turn out to be a weekend with us hardly seeing another soul. Even the campsite was nearly deserted upon our arrival. Perhaps we had traveled so far away that humans barely knew of the park’s existence. Perhaps the rest of the world coincidentally decided to pay their mother a visit on the same weekend. Most likely, however, it was because there was a forecasted 90% chance of rain.

Things could have been much worse. While we were shooting emails around, Craig sent out a warning message, “Checkout the weather up north…egad lots of rain…” There was no in-depth discussion as to whether we should continue with the trip or to postpone the journey to a sunnier weekend. The three of us merely added a rain jacket to the packing list and proceeded to make plans as if nothing was out of the ordinary. We left for the mountain prepared for anything Mother Nature could throw at us. We just couldn’t find it.

Mind you, most of the time, mountains are easy to find – they are these large and tall protrusions that stick out of the ground. However, all mountains look alike when covered by low clouds. In a moment of weakness, I made a phone call and got directions to the campsite. It was to be the last connection to the urbanized world. As we began our climb, I realized that I couldn't find my cell phone.

The trip up was uneventful but the summit was fascinating. It was the most beautiful fog I had ever seen. On one side was a steep drop and a solid white canvas that luminesced by the hidden sunlight. On the other side, a small pond became an infinite-sized ocean with a full palette of whites gently floating with the breeze. Trust me, dear reader, countless thousands have witnessed the tree-covered mountains and lake-filled valleys of Maine. But very few people have been lucky enough to relax for a moment inside of a storm cloud.

That being said, it was pouring rain and time to go. Our descent on the steep side of the mountain was also uneventful and devoid of civilization - except for three suspiciously convenient metal rungs embedded inside a vertical cave. Once back to the campsite, Brent quickly built a shelter and a fire for us to dry off and warm up. The rain jackets and rain pants did their jobs and we stayed mostly dry. The packs were dry save for a few damp spots here or there. Good rain gear is a worthwhile investment. Even my cell phone stayed dry. Yes, for as it turned out, I had stashed my phone in the mesh on the outside of my backpack. Take note: the Motorola Razr V2 can function after being subjected to 5 hours of torrential rain.

Were we disappointed? Of course not. We knew what we were getting ourselves into. Indeed, we would have been more disappointed if we scaled the mountain only to find a Dunkin’ Donuts doling out coffee and greasy foods. It would have been far more disappointing if we found Bob Dole handing out free autographed copies of his biography. It would have been extremely disappointing if we were kidnapped by pirates. Years of indentures servitude is not my idea of a relaxing get-away. Indeed, this was a vacation of solitude, a vacation of nature, a vacation of peaceful rain.

Adventures Along the Coast

2008-05-09T05:00:00.002+01:00

It was mid April and I was in Newport, RI. It was the perfect time to visit, after the bitterness of the winter cold and before the massive onrush of the summer tourists. The weather was pleasant, a warm day cooled by a soft offshore breeze. Waves gently lapped the rocks along the coast making for a chronic, yet light, crashing sound. I came to tour the historic mansions from the American Guilded Age, envisioning a peaceful and relaxing weekday. However, as common with spontaneous trips, strange adventures have a way of finding you.

It was Hasid Day at Newport. Men with black yarmulkes and curly locks of hair near their ears lined filled the streets with their long-skirted wives and children in tow. Their well-pressed white shirts and black pants offered stark contrast to the colorful lawns and gardens of the summer “cottages” of some of America’s wealthiest tycoons. I happened to have purchased the last ticket to the 3 o’clock tour of the Vanderbilt’s summer cottage and found myself surrounded by an entire congregation of Hasidic Jews, complete with a waddling rabbi. As a Chinaman, it made me feel very conspicuous and out of place as I tried my best to fit into this crowd. I had misread my calendar, thinking today was China Days at Newport, and had arrived wearing a bright-red royal robe from the Qing Dynasty, complete with a Fu Manchu moustache.

Our tour began uneventfully, as the crowd did its best to smile and make me feel comfortable. One of the fathers was carrying his young son who was eating a Hamentaschen. The kid made an offering gesture and, not wanting to be rude, I graciously accepted his treat. I began munching on it when we entered into the great hall. Our tour guide stopped in the middle of his talk and glared at me. “Excuse me! Can you understand English?!? I said at the beginning no eating on this tour! Put it away or I will have to ask you to leave!” I blushed and quickly stuffed the half-eaten pastry into my pocket on my overly large sleeve.

Feeling slighted, I plotted my revenge. As we were walking between rooms, I tapped the father who was holding his now sleeping son and motioned to a room we had not toured. When we were alone, I pulled out my pocket sledgehammer and smashed a hole into a heave mahogany door. Before the father could react, I grabbed his kid out of his arms and put the sledgehammer in its stead. Frantically, the tour guide ran in, looked at the hole, saw a sleeping kid wrapped around the sleeves of my robe, and kicked out wide-eyed Hasidic Jew holding the sledgehammer, banning him from ever returning. The rest of the tour was very informative if rather uneventful. When it was over, I was glad I did it, but I was stuck with a sleeping kid wearing a Yarmulke.

Not knowing what to do, I went to the center of town and bought him some saltwater taffy. I am a firm believer that saltwater taffy tastes better if it was made on a wharf above the ocean. There is something about the essence of salt water in the air that enhances the taste. Unfortunately, the Newport saltwater taffy was made on land, so it was not such a high-quality delicacy. However, a few days later, I visited Rockport MA, where they do sell saltwater taffy made over the ocean. It was delicious. But unfortunately, I once again misread my calendar. It was Qing Dynasty day in Rockport and I was dressed as a Hasidic Jew.

Eviler Emily

2008-04-24T04:42:00.001+01:00

Eviler Emily awoke to the sound of her alarm clock blaring in its usual annoying fashion. Brightness strewed through her window as an indication of the start of a new day. She groaned as she rolled out of bed, a noisy complaint on her tiredness. Today was the day of the big history test and she was in no way prepared. She began the brushing of her teeth, the combing of her hair and the general ritual of making herself into an attractive teenager. As she made her way downstairs, she smelled the sweet aroma of coffee and she finally began to wake up.

You see, there were three Emilys at Central Valley High and each had nicknames to tell them apart. Eviler Emily was actually one of the most generous girls in all of the school. The night before, her best friend threw a party and invited the entire sophomore class, of whom most of which attended. Eviler Emily knew it would be a major undertaking and so she volunteered to help. While her classmates binged on beer and vodka, she spent the party bartending and diligently mixing the drinks. While her classmates complained of the munchies, she would order out for pizza and Chinese food to satisfy the urges. And while her friends complained of headaches and the onset of the inevitable hangover, she laid them down as comfortably as she could.

As she got off the bus to Central Valley High, she ran into her best friend, Evilest Emily. She looked just as sleep deprived, if not more so. Evilest Emily was probably the most generous girl in the entire school. Whenever Evilest Emily’s parents were out of town, she would host massive after-hours parties. So many people would be invited that there would hardly be any standing space. She would always find a way to supply the alcohol no matter what the situation and there was always an endless supply of it. She never asked anyone to bring anything in return. Since her parents were out of town fairly regularly, the parties she throws have gained a reputation for being a large orgy of drunken bacchanalian debauchery. Only Eviler Emily ever helped out because the two girls really enjoyed entertaining their classmates.

They caught up a little at their lockers and walked into their history classroom. Most of their classmates in the rooms were nursing their massive hangovers from the night before and by the looks of it, very few had a chance to study for the exam. The class gave a collective groan as the clock struck 8AM and their teacher, the third and final Emily at their school, stormed in with a fit of rage. Evil Emily, as they called her, was clearly on a rampage with smoke coming out of her ears and fire spewing from her mouth. Her deadly glare would bore into the students as she went to tear into each and every student about their attitudes. When she got to the two Emilys, she stopped her diatribe and a smile broke out over her face. “Class,” she said. “You are lucky that you have two wonderfully evil students in your class to bring down your average. Why can’t you all be more like them?”

You see, Center Valley High was also known as the Devil’s Vocational School and Evil Emily was the Principle. She immediately began to heap praises on Eviler and Evilest Emily as the instigator of the party that would allow the rest of the class to fail the history final. Without them, an inordinate number of students would actually pass. The class gave groans of appreciation and was glad to have such good peers that watched out for their wellbeing. Eviler and Evilest Emily smiled at each other. They loved being the teacher’s pets.

Travel Log April 10, 2008. Maine

2008-04-12T03:50:00.002+01:00

Maine is an exciting place. Close your eyes and imagine a land lush with forests on rolling hills with streams that empty into lakes and rivers that flow out to the ocean. Now imagine pristine land perfect for hiking, rafting, climbing, biking, skiing, and mountaineering. Add to that people in plaid shirts with large, bushy beards shopping for hunting rifles and fishing poles. Now imagine the population density spread out so thin that living one hour from town is “close enough” to feel connected to the rest of the world. Imagine stores serving dual purposes, like the Tanning + DVD Salon.

Now imagine what sort of exciting newsflashes can be had in such an environment.

Queen Elizabeth the Second Invades Bar Harbor.
Bar Harbor, ME. On a warm and sunny day, the quaint, New England town of Bar Harbor received a surprise. The 2nd Infantry division on board the QE II landed right off of the Porcupine Islands and launched an amphibious assault. The town, caught unawares, surrendered without firing a single shot from their two ceremonious canons located at the harbor. Thousands of invaders landed in a span of a few hours and mercilessly pillaged the town. The soldiers noisily went into the taverns and public houses to eat and drink their fill. They would stumble out onto the streets and take the best clothes, jewelry and crafts. The local inhabitants were unable to protest the small sheets of paper traded in return. They put on a valiant yet futile effort to keep some semblance of order in their small town but the local police force was vastly outnumbered. Rioting hit the streets at night when there were not enough accommodations. Several taverns were burnt to the ground with the loss of several lives – mostly locals. The eerie orange glow of the fires lasted till late into the night. By the early morning, Bar Harbor was only a shell of what it once was.

Low-bush Blueberry farmers Attacked by Swarm of Ladybugs.
Columbia Falls, ME. The National Guard was deployed to defend Watson’s Blueberry Farm from a swarm of invading Ladybugs. Henry Watson, the owner, said that his farm hands put up a brave fight but were no match for the vicious insects. “Normally they fly through in order to feed on the Aphids but this is almost like a plague. Indeed, the entire field was covered with small crawly red bugs and what used to be the farmhouse is now a lair for the insects.

“This is the worse infestation of ladybugs I’ve ever seen” said Sam Winterpool, Captain of the National Guard. “For now, we are at a stand-off. Our smoke machines are just good enough to keep the insects at bay and prevent them from attacking the town. We have special equipment being flown in from the Capitol that will hopefully repel the invasion for good.”

Mr. Watson was thankful, however, that the National Guard arrived when they did. “My farm hands and I were getting overpowered and if the Guard arrived a few hours later, we would have been a goner. Usually the ladybugs will fly through outside in the fields, but this year they came into the barn – and there are no aphids in there!”

General Announcements
The National Chainsaw Artwork Association will be holding their annual banquet and fundraiser auction Thursday night at the Mexican-Italian Restaurant. All proceeds will benefit the Foundation for Chainsaw Artwork Insurance.

See how exciting Maine can be? For when you live in Maine, your imagination is all you have.

Me Vs. Green

2008-02-19T23:41:00.000Z

My body is in conflict between the feelings of aching and elation. I have finished my first day of skiing ever and my brain is on the last leg of an adrenaline high while soreness is slowly spreading through my legs. My cheeks feel flushed with heat while my fingers are frigid in comparison. Overall, it was a great day, and here are the numbers. I fell 4 times, went down the bunny slopes 10 times, ate 1 teriyaki chicken sandwich for lunch and 42 french fries. I swore 26 times, tore 1 hole in my hat once, and had 3 shots of Jägermeister. I punched my ski instructor twice, got a bloody nose in return once, broke 3 bones on the half-pipe, had 1 airlift, and a monster medical bill.

Seriously though, I only had 27 french fries.

By far the biggest take-away for the day is green slopes are much more difficult than the bunny slopes. That might sound obvious for veteran skiers, but for me, my rationale of attempting such a feat was “how much harder can it be?”

Let us explain how much harder it can be. At the first ski lesson, the first skill taught is how to stop. This makes sense, because if one ever loses control, one can stop and restart from the beginning. So we spent quite a bit of time learning the wedge technique of starting and stopping and how to turn by bending the opposite knee. After several practice runs, I thought I was ready.

Thus began Mistake #1. What I didn’t know was that on a steeper slope, the wedge on its own is not enough to counteract your downward momentum. After finding out the hard way, I start to frantically turn and found out that I was not turning but merely sliding sideways down the mountain. Eventually, my skis caught the ice and I jetted towards the trees on the side of the trail. Then I learned that self-preservation was the best ski instructor. As I was approaching the trees at full speed, I dug my outside ski into the ice and made the sharpest turn ever and avoided a Wile E. Coyote-style collision. By the time I reached the lodge, I was exhausted and took a much needed break, for both physical and mental reasons.

Returning to the bunny slopes, I ran into a few of my fellow classmates from the lessons in the morning. One of them felt adventurous and debated attempting a green slope. I felt rested and wanted to take a second shot. Thus began Mistake #2. We took a different trail, thinking that it was flatter. It wasn’t. I took the lead and a short time from the lifts, we approached a hill far steeper than on my previous run. Knowing that the wedge method would not work, I stopped in order to see if there was an alternate descent. My friend, however, whizzed right by before I could say anything. I stood and watched in suspense as she accelerated down the slope towards an intersection with another trail. Suddenly, there was a plume of white and when everything settled, one ski was several feet to the left, the other to the right, and she was lying face down in the middle. Calling upon all of my courage, I took my skis off and walked down the slope. Rather, I slipped and fell the entire way and landed awkwardly on my butt. To add insult to injury, when I stood up, there was a 5-year old girl in a light-purple parka gracefully meandering down the hill like it was second-nature.

Thus, the green slopes won twice in one day. After such an experience, there are only three things one can possibly do. The first is to laugh about it for it makes such a good story. The second is to write about it so that you, dear reader, can share in the mirth. And the third is to drink and forget all about it.

The Emptyness of Defeat

2008-02-04T04:31:00.000Z

An audible groan fell upon Boston and most of New England tonight. Eli Manning threw the winning touchdown with 35 seconds left to spare for the New York Giants’ win in Super Bowl XLII over the New England Patriots. This was not just any Super Bowl victory. With their win, the Giants stopped a juggernaut in reaching a perfect 19-0 season. They prevented a 4th title in 7 years. They destroyed the dreams of a football dynasty from the dynamic partnership of Coach Bill Belichick and quarterback Tom Brady. Even Vegas betted against them by 12 points. No, this game was a major upset.

I said goodbye to my hosts for the night and headed home. Out on the streets, small groups of people briskly passed each other as they walked home from the football parties, the bars and pubs, and the presumptuous celebrations. Their breaths would condense around their noses and mouths to give a gray aura of dejection. All had stunned looks on their faces as they stared distantly down the streets, and they barely noticed the cars whizzing by not more than two feet away. Indeed, as a driver, it was difficult to concentrate on the road.

Oh Nike, great goddess of victory, why do you taunt us so? Why do you bait our hopes for the history books? You appear to us as an oasis in the desert, as a shiny object in a haystack, as Penelope waiting for Odysseus to return. Yet you are nothing more than a harsh mirage, a rusty nail, or a speck of dust on the horizon. Yes, it is great to cheer for the underdogs, but sometimes, you just want the establishment to win.

Tomorrow is another day. In a week, all that will be talked about is the primary election that will happen on Tuesday. Obama or Clinton? Romney or McCain? Life will be back to normal. There will be other years to live for, other Super Bowls to root for, and many more trophies to vie for. What really matters in the end is that the Red Sox are the defending champions and the Yankees still suck.

Haberdashery

2007-11-19T03:22:00.000Z

(It has been too long since I’ve last written creatively, so here’s a quickie.)

Two months ago, I was in pain. It wasn’t the acute pains you get when you accidentally stab yourself with a fork while you are cutting a burnt rack-of-lamb in the dark because the electricity just went out. It wasn’t like the dull pain that you feel when you mildly electrocute yourself while you’re trying to replace the blown fuse in the basement. It was more like the chronic pain of a stomachache caused by having too many harmful bacteria in your food that rotted from the lack of refrigeration.

It was for this pain that I got fired. I walk into work one day, with my hands over my stomach and walking slightly keeled forward. My boss is coming down the hallway towards me. She is someone who enjoys confrontation and loves to take out her temper on the poor worker who happens to be within shouting distance. My co-workers and I have worked out a fool-proof system. We devised a system of claps and clicks we do as she walks down the hallway to notify people where she is and where she is going so that people can avoid her. Unfortunately for me, I was so concerned with holding my coffee cup without spilling that I did not notice the frantic clicking until I was staring at the white of my boss’s eyes. Bad.

So here I am, out on the street because I cannot afford a decent apartment. I have been living off of charity by the Homeless Shelter for Middle-Aged Veterans Who Suffer from Dementia. However, since I am neither middle-aged, a veteran, nor do I suffer from dementia, I only get to eat leftover macaroni and cheese. So please, any help would be great. All I want is a shower and a hot meal. Just no lamb chops. I’m allergic to them and I get stomachaches from mint jelly.

London Journal

2007-08-15T01:49:00.001+01:00

London arouses a sense of passion from person like no other city. Perhaps it is the pulsating rhythm that enraptures every body. Perhaps it is the air of pomp and circumstance that surrounds its daily life. Or perhaps it is the sound of music of a British accent to an America ear that makes it incredibly romantic. Due to my latest experience in England, I tend to favor the latter.

During my latest trip across the pond, I found myself falling victim to that said seductive accent in a most peculiar manner. You see, I was not at a bar ogling over the masses. I was in a checkout line of a supermarket in downtown London when I heard those magical words “Hey mate, can you move over a bit so I can reach the chocolate?” Well, the words were not that magical, but the accent was. I turned around ready to ask the person out right then and there and found myself awkwardly face to face with a wrinkled old pensioner trying to buy some sweets. He stood there and smiled, amused, while I grinned weakly and awkwardly. And the date afterwards was awkward too.

But the Toad-in-the-Hole I had was delicious. One part fat and one part fried, drowned in a thick brown sauce served with sausage and potatoes followed by a traditional apple cobbler and wash it all down with a pint of rich Guinness made for a hearty British meal. You could hear in the background the music for the changing of the guard and people yelling, “Hail Britannica!” with every bite.

Mind you, London also has an array of healthy food options from all round the world, due to its location as a major transportation and trading hub. One can go and find Middle Eastern stuffed aubergine, Spanish grilled berenjena, Italian melanzane alla parmigiana, South African baked brinjal, and Trinidad & Tobago stewed Baigan all within a block of each other. It is amazing that this array of dishes arose from the Sanskrit word vatinganah, which means eggplant.

Then there was the street performer. Never have I ever been chosen to be a “volunteer” for a street performer. I think I was singled out because I was not wildly applauding any of his antics nor laughing at his jokes. My hands were in my pockets firmly gripping my passport and wallet while scanning the crowd for pickpockets. He singled me out as someone who could use a little bit more enthusiasm and had me wrap him up in 20 meters of heavy chains and lock him up with three padlocks. He could have easily escaped within a few seconds, but he dragged his show out for nearly half an hour.

Well, half an hour was nearly enough for me to miss my flight. I ran back to my hotel as soon as the show ended, grabbed my luggage, hopped on the Heathrow Express, and blazed through check-in and security at the airport. As I settled into my luxurious coach-class seat, reminiscing about the journey, I came to the conclusion that London is romantic for many reasons, but one should really try to go on dates with people their own age.

Memphis Journal

2007-03-13T01:31:00.000Z

When most people hear of the town Memphis, they think of the ancient Egyptian capital of the first Nome of Lower Egypt that existed from around 3100 BC to 1300BC. Unbeknown to most, there is also a Memphis right here in our backyard, located in the state of Tennessee.

There are a few must-go places in Memphis that will make or break your trip. The first place you should go is to the airport. This is especially true if you fly into the city. As you get off of your plane you will see a few of FedEx planes - well over a hundred to be exact. Memphis is the central facility of all FedEx central facilities. Anywhere else, you will see a fleet of trucks and delivery vehicles. But here in Memphis, you will see a fleet of planes, ready to transport important cargo to all corners of the globe. On the far side of the airport, near a very small cargo building, there were two UPS planes. I was surprised that there were so many.

Schnucks is a name for a supermarket chain. Isn’t that a great name? It rolls off of your tongue far better than “Stop and Shop” or “Albertsons”. Schnucks also sounds a lot like schmuck. Schmuck, by the way, is the Yiddish word for jewel. To say “Schnucks is a schmuck” sounds far better than saying “Schnucks is a jewel.” To say “Albertsons is a schmuck” does not have the same ring, but saying “Albertsons is a jewel” sounds much better. However, any schnook that says Schnucks a jewel must be a schmooze, as no self-respecting schmuck would be that schmaltzy.

Different regions of the US all have their own regional foods, but rarely does the aroma of that dish permeate the entire city. Indeed, as you stroll down Beale Street listening to Jazz and Blues, you cannot escape the sweet smell of hickory barbequed ribs as it wafts out of every restaurant. Beale street is one of the few “five senses” streets that I’ve seen. You see history, you hear music, you feel the bass through your bones, you smell the barbeque, and you salivate for a taste of it. Remarkable, isn’t it?

So that is Memphis in a nutshell. Yes, there is by far more to see of Memphis than the Airport and a supermarket chain and there is more to eat than just ribs. But who in their right mind would skip all of that in order to see Graceland, a Redbird baseball game or the Civil Rights museum? I didn’t.

A Complaint

2007-01-21T06:32:00.000Z

Dear Reader,

I am sorry to do this to you. I’ve tried desperately to stay away from writing anything like this in the past but I cannot control the urge to do so any longer. This week has been more stressful than usual and I need to vent. For the first (and hopefully last time ever), I am going to complain about the weather.

Those of you who know me well will know that I am not a fan of the Boston Winter. This is a frequent topic of my banter, as I curse under my breath while putting on my jacket, hat, gloves, neck warmers, ear warmers, extra pants, three pairs of socks, and a portable electric blanket to prepare for crossing the street from my house to the supermarket. Needless to say, the temperatures are not exactly temperate and the winds are not exactly kind.

Routine daily tasks become dangerous trials of survival. It is an onerous challenge to walk on the snowy and icy build-up on the sides of the roads without falling. Add to that vehicles sliding down the streets, splashing freezing slush in your direction makes crossing the street an obstacle course worthy of a Marine recruit.

Frequently, it has been raised to me, that I am merely a warm-blooded Californian who does not understand the joys of living through each of the seasons. That’s balderdash. What most people do not understand is that in California, we do have seasons. To prove it, here are three photos, one of summer, one of spring and one of winter:

Photo taken at Carmel Beach with the sun setting behind the silhouetted rocks of Point Lobos.

Monarch Butterflies drying their wings in the rays of suns. Taken in Pacific Grove, where the monarchs come to live out the winters before their long migration to the borders of Canada.

A photo of the snow while driving by Lake Tahoe.

In most places, one has to wait many months for the seasons to change before it is possible to take these images. But in California, this was all done in a weekend.

You see, the secret to seasons in California is that they do not come to you; rather, you go to them. Carmel, Pacific Grove, and Lake Tahoe each have their own climates and temperatures. Yet they are separated by about 6 hours of driving on the interstate. Thus, you can go visit three seasons, have lunch, and still arrive at your destination for a mid-afternoon nap. That is the way one should enjoy their seasons!

So next time you hear me complain about the weather, you now understand why. In Boston, the seasons are separated by months. In California, they are separated by miles.

The Tyranny of the Cerebral Cortex

2006-11-05T17:36:00.000Z

It’s good to be the king.

That was what Cerebral Cortex told himself. Cerebral was no ordinary tyrant or absolute monarch. He was the ruling power of his domain. Lord Hippocampus bowed to his every demand. Chancellor Cerebellum cowered under terror. Even the masses of Synaptic Nerves did not dare cross his path.

He controlled his land as tightly as he controlled the royal court. Viceroy Heart never knew which ventricle was under the pay of The Cortex and Baron Epidermis could not keep his pores dilated for the stress that he was under. Not all the aristocracy was against him, however. Baron Liver gleefully put any traitor to work in the toxic environments of the digestive system where they would eventually find themselves in inescapable exile.

But in the far away serfdom of Podiakstan, civil unrest abounded. “We demand better working conditions! We want shorter hours! We want cleaner work environments! We refuse to carry the weight of the Kingdom on our backs while working the dark!” Their leader, Hallux (a.k.a Big Toe), was a mean figure. He was calloused from working endlessly in the pitch black conditions of the mines. His nail was chaffed and a generally offensive odor permeated the immediate space surrounding him. No one messed with Big Toe.

So in secret, Big Toe and his nine associates plotted to overthrow the kingdom. Little Toe (a.k.a Babyface), would innocently curl up and cause the entire kingdom to topple. Middle Toe would cramp itself in the middle of the night. The ankle, meanwhile, would send acute messages to the brain in an effort to overwhelm them with pain.

King Cortex was at breakfast when his world came crashing down. Reports of damage came from all over the kingdom. The upper right limb became immobile. Elite guards of white blood cells were dispatched to repair as much of the damage as possible. Meanwhile, the message from Podiakstan arrived. He writhed in agony. King Cortex was disconcerted. This was the most serious challenge to his authority that he had ever experienced. Should he send down an army of white blood cells to subdue the uprising? Or maybe he could lay siege and prevent supplies from reaching Podiakstan? No. This was too big for him to act alone. He had to call for help. But who could he call?

“911 operator, how may I help you?”
“Pain! Ankle is sprained! I fell and landed on my right arm! I think it’s broken!”
“An ambulance is on it’s way sir. Please hold tight.”

A day later, the arm was in a sling and recovering well. The ankle was put into a cast such that it could not cause any more trouble. As for the mutineers in Podiakstan, they were found guilty of plotting to overthrow the kingdom and every cell in their serfdom was replaced within 20 days by loyalists.

It's good to be the king.

A Practical Joke

2006-10-29T22:49:00.000Z

And the church bells rang with clarion sound. The pigeons flew out of their nests. Men cheered, women applauded, kids screamed. The pastor smiled and the groundskeeper waved. The town clown finally got married.

His shtick-full existence had caused the clown to become rather lonely since very few people bothered to talk to him and really understand what he was about. As time wore on, his antics became stale and his clowning lost it's edge. That was when the citizens of Townsvilleburg decided that it was time to mobilize. The clown had to get married.

It was not easy task mind you. I mean, who in their right mind would want to marry a guy with a pale white face, red nose, a permanent goofy grin and orange hair who wore shoes that were eight sizes too large? It was hard to get to know him too. If you approached him directly, you'd get shot in the eye with a jet of water that sprayed out of his fake flower on his plaid coat.

The citizens put wanted adds in the major newspapers all across the country - from San Francisco to New York, from Chicago to Cape Canaveral - calling out to the citizens of the world "We need a wife for our clown!" Applications poured in from all over the globe including exotic places such as Zimbabwe, Timbuktoo, and Rhode Island.

So they held an audition. They screened nearly three hundred candidates for the role of Town Clown and they wanted to be just as rigorous for the role of First Lady Clown. The prospectives had to dance, sing, act, perform stand-up comedy, acrobatics and cook - all while dribbling a basket ball. They even hired a city clown and she had to make him laugh. Have you ever tried making a clown laugh? It's hard.

After the initial screening, they settled on five potential candidates and called in their town clown. He walked into the auditorium and saw the lineup of women. Five lady clowns stood lined up in the middle of the room. He began to walk in front of them, pacing up and down. The third one squirted him with her fake flower. He shook her hand with an electric buzzer. They gave each other a great big smooch.

The wedding was brief but all of Townsvilleburg was there. As they left for their honeymoon, the town clown said to his new wife, "You know, for a town of their size, they treat us clowns pretty well!"

"I'll say" said his wife. "And wait till the Mayor sees the Jack-in-the-Box under his pillow!"

Musings

2006-08-26T16:49:00.000+01:00

Good evening, and welcome to this week’s celebrity interview. I’m Larry Sommers. This week we are very lucky to have with us a woman of great stature in the world of literature. Her works are rooted in the Greek traditions but has inspired writings in virtually all languages of the world. Her talents are unmatched and along with her eight sisters, they form a dominating force in the artistic development of the western hemisphere. Please welcome, a very special guest, Erato, the muse of poetry.

Erato: Thank you Larry, thank you very much.
Larry: So Erato, you are best known as a daughter of Zeus which makes you a demigod. I know I will get in trouble for asking this of a lady, but how old are you?
Erato: Oh, you don’t have to be embarrassed. I’m nearly 4,000 years old.
Larry: You don’t look a day over 18.
Erato: (Giggles) I know. It’s what happens to us demigods.
Larry: You are the muse of poetry. What is it that you do exactly?
Erato: Well, it’s my job to be inspirational to poets. Anyone who wants to write a poem will find me there. You see, the ancient Greeks – as we call them today –wanted to communicate as beautifully as they could. Prose was not enough. After I was born, I worked with the great poet Aristpapoutsi and inspired him to integrate rhythm into the written word. His work became an instant bestseller. Scribes couldn’t carve stone tablets fast enough. We sold nearly 500 copies. Keep in mind, only 600 people in the known world could read at that time. It is unfortunate that none of his works survive to this day.
Larry: What is the most challenging aspect of your job?
Erato: Really, the most challenging part is illiteracy. For instance, during the height of the Greek era, I had four under-muses and they each had several underunder-muses, each with a full compliment of workers and staff. Responsibilities were divided by languages and regions. Enough poems were being produced to keep all of us very busy. However, during the dark ages, the entire department was let go and I easily covered all of Europe alone. After a few centuries of that, I was even in danger of being downsized and sent to early retirement. Luckily, the renaissance kicked in when it did!
Larry: What do you consider your best work?
Erato: That’s a tough one, as there’s so many great works. There are really two that stands out. The first one is Dante’s Divine Comedy. That took so much effort both of our parts. You see, Dante, by that point, wasn’t really interested in writing anymore. He felt that he was pass his prime and was more inclined to tend to his vineyard. It took years to convince him to write seriously again. When he did, he really put his heart into it and voila, you get Purgatory.
Larry: What’s the second one?
Erato: Sam I Am. It looks so simple yet if one takes the time to examine the underlying structure, one can see the works of a genius.
Larry: Well, that’s all the time we have for now. Thank you for joining us, Erato.
Erato: It was my pleasure.
Larry: And now, an inspiration:

My guest for next week -
You won’t find him anywhere
The Unknown Soldier

An Improvised Story

2006-08-20T15:10:00.000+01:00

Once upon a time there was a princess that lived in the Castle-in-the-Clouds. She was a fair maiden and although her cloud was neither the largest nor the highest in the sky, it was by far the whitest. Her skin and hair was pure blonde and the reputation of her beauty extended throughout the skies and beyond.

Every day she would wait by the window for a prince to come and take her away. However, most princes these days were interested in only the princesses that lived in the really big clouds or the really high ones. This distressed her greatly and she would spend many hours looking forlornly out the window.

Until one day, she got so fed up that she officially declared herself a maiden in distress. She sent her couriers out to all the neighboring kingdoms seeking a knight in shining armor to urgently come and rescue her.

Because of that, several knights came gallivanting towards her cloud asking for her hand in marriage. In order to choose between them, she set them in competitions to fight for her hand. It was a great circus and people from all the kingdoms came to catch this one-in-a-lifetime event.

Because of that, the cloud treasury grew by ten-fold from the tax revenues of the spectators. The princess looked at the money she made and realized that there was quite a business to be had!

And ever since then, she was known not only as the princess that lived in the Castle-in-the Clouds but also as the CEO of RoyaltyMatch.com, an exclusive dating website for princes and princesses.

Her husband was simply known as Bob.

Competitions to Follow

2006-08-13T05:39:00.000+01:00

The World Cup, the Olympics, the Superbowl. These are just three of the great competitive events that are broadcasted worldwide and enjoyed by millions of fans. And yet these are merely three competitions out of the thousands that take place around the world. This entry is here to merely inform the reader of other competitions that are out there.

Every July, the Bulwyer-Lytton literary contest announces the winners. It is given to the person who writes the worst opening sentence to a novel. Bulwyer-Lytton wrote the opening sentence “It was a dark and stormy night…” that has been immortalized by Snoopy in Peanuts comic strips. All of the entries are a fantastic read and you can find the past winners here at their official website (http://www.bulwer-lytton.com/).

The 2006 winner submitted this entry:
Detective Bart Lasiter was in his office studying the light from his one small window falling on his super burrito when the door swung open to reveal a woman whose body said you've had your last burrito for a while, whose face said angels did exist, and whose eyes said she could make you dig your own grave and lick the shovel clean.
Jim Guigli
Carmichael, CA

What about a more physical contest? Have you ever hear of chess-boxing? It is for those people who thinks that chess needs to incorporate full-body contact and that boxing needs to be more intellectual. Mind you, I do have a lot of respect for these athletes. Not everyone can castle a rook while throwing an uppercut. (http://site.wcbo.org/content/e14/index_en.html)

Elephant polo has made quite a splash in recent years. Apparently the Malaysian team knocked out the favorites to win. Teams of three sit on top of African grey elephants carrying 8 foot long polls and try to knock a softball-sized object into a goal. It is the perfect game summer league sport. It would be trivial to bully those pesky baseball players off the field so your team can practice. (http://www.elephantpolo.com/)

The competitive world of Rock-Paper-Scissors is also a season to follow closely. It is a sport where one nervous twitch can cost one the competition. Injuries can devastate the careers of these great athletes. The human body is not made for repetitive motion and RPS competitors, if they throw too many scissors in a row, may find themselves with a bad case of repetitive-stress-injury or even tendonitis. (http://www.worldrps.com/)

So let us come up with our own! There are many great ideas that have not been done yet. Submarine drag racing? Add figure skating as an event for the World’s Strongest Man Competition? Or start the International Hungry-Hungry Hippo congress? Leave a comment with your ideas!

The Great Stink

2006-08-05T06:17:00.000+01:00

Festivals are always named after their theme. The Cannes film festival and the Rockport Chamber Music Festival are just what they seem to be. Burning Man is about embracing the counter culture that culminates in burning an effigy of a man. But there are some festivals that not only have a descriptive name but also have an apt nickname. The Gilroy Garlic festival, commonly referred to as “The Great Stink” is one that falls into the latter category.

Mind you, there is nothing stinky about garlic if you’re from the area. If one is driving down the highway, one can tell that they entered Gilroy city limits by the odor wafting through the air conditioning unit. Indeed, the smell is inescapable as one window shops in the downtown and surrounding areas. It would be imminently suitable to nickname the entire city as the Great Stink, not just the festival. For garlic lovers, of which I am one, the smell is heavenly.

Over 100,000 people come to the festival every year to partake in garlic steak, garlic chicken stir-fry, garlic stuffed mushrooms or roasted corn-on-the-cob with garlic butter. Some braver folks will taste garlic ice cream or garlic chocolate. Still others will walk away with garlic mayonnaise, pickled garlic and garlic pesto - ready to try them on recipes from their new garlic cookbooks. Dedicated visitors will pick up their souvenirs of the event that is now in its 26th year.

Here, there are no chasings of greased pigs, but there is a mad garlic-dash similar to an Easter egg hunt. There are no apple pie baking competitions but there is a cookoff. There is no three-legged race, but there is a garlic pealing competition. All of it being family friendly, olfactorically stimulating and gastronomically adventurous.

Because of this festival, I can enjoy my garlic flavored cashew nuts, ponder a recipe for garlic jam while wearing my garlic shaped cap. I just hope my neighbors on my flight don’t mind the stink!

Hiatus

2006-06-13T03:35:00.000+01:00

Dear Readers,

I apologize for my recent hiatus and I am glad to say that I should be back on a somewhat regular posting schedule. My absence was due to unexpected occurrences in my life that were outside of my control. As with everything, there is a perfectly good and logical explanation for my absence so please indulge me in a narrative of my last few weeks.

The story begins with my going jogging. It was well after dark and I did not notice the warning sign for “Construction Ahead” along the Esplanade. As a result, I found myself tripping and falling down a storm drain. I survived only because the recent wet weather filled the drain with water that broke my fall. Unfortunately, however, the torrents of water swept me far out into Boston Harbor.

Once I surfaced, I took stock of my situation and saw the light of a fast approaching ship. Luckily, the water was calm that evening so someone on the ship heard my cries of help. I was thrown a lifesaver and hauled onboard. The boat happened to be filled with Russian prisoners being exiled to Siberia. This was disconcerting as I didn’t have my parka with me. Fortunately, the boat stocked a few extra ones just in case they picked up stragglers and I was assigned one.

Upon our arrival to Siberia, we were assigned to rock-chipping duty. Being the only foreigner in the group, the other prisoners selected me King. This was a nice gesture, as it entitled me to an extra packet of airline peanuts for breakfast. Unfortunately, my nut allergy kicked in and I had to be sent for treatment by dog-sled to the nearest hospital, a hundred miles away.

While recuperating at the hospital, I ran into an undercover KGB agent. I convinced the guy that I was a CIA double-agent and I needed to get to the Kremlin to report to my superiors. He agreed to give me a lift to Moscow. Upon my arrival, I realized I had no money, so I put a cap on the ground and started tap-dancing in the Red Square. In a few hours, I had a stack of Rubles – enough for a hotel room and a train ticket to Warsaw. In Poland, I polkaed a fare to Vienna and in Austria, I waltzed to Paris. But in France, there were so many out of work ballet dancers that I could not make a Euro dancing in the Metro.

That’s when I took up basket weaving. I sold what I weaved and with the profits, purchased more bamboo and other building material. I continued the cycle of weaving, selling and buying until I had more building material than I needed. I went to the ocean shore and weaved the largest basket that I could, lined the bottom with tar, and purchased supplies for a long journey. I then weaved a sail that caught the northern trade winds and cruised to America. I landed at Plymouth Rock and hitchhiked back to Boston where I wrote the account that you’ve just read.

So please understand the reason for my absence. It won’t happen again -- Unless, of course, I find myself in Siberia.

The Proverbial Myth-Busters

2006-05-23T02:27:00.000+01:00

Consider the tea kettle. Although it is up to its neck in hot water, it sings.

It is common for people to be reminded of the tea kettle when they are in dire situations. Few people, however, question the validity of the statement. Does the statement imply that a tea kettle sings when it is filled with hot water? If so, can it sing some of the world's greatest arias? Can a human be taught how to sing when up to one's neck in hot water?

Let us consider the first question – how does a kettle sing. For our experiment, we purchased a KitchenAid tea kettle and used a Kenmore gas stove. We measured 2 quarts of water in a graduated cylinder and transferred the fluid into the kettle. Before running the experiment, we donned our safety glasses – remember, kids, we are professionals. Do not try this at home.

The kettle was placed on the stove. The initial temperature was 25.6^oC. No sound was detected from the kettle at this point. The heat was turned to “high”. After 2 minutes, we heard a rumbling sound, as if a tractor was revving its engines. We assumed this was equivalent to the warm up exercises of singers. After 4 minutes 42 seconds, the kettle began to exhibit steam. Ten seconds later, a loud whistling was heard – presumably, the kettle was now singing. The temperature of the water was 100^oC. We then attempted to decipher what it was singing. The language was unknown and sounded but sounded like a high-pitched equivalent of a blue whale’s mating call.

Next, we tried to teach it to sing. Since we did not know its voice part, we chose four distinct pieces of music, Don Giovanni’s Aria from Mozart’s opera, a tenor part, “I am the Very Model of a Modern Major General”, a bass part, “Habarera” from Carmen, alto, and “Hit me Baby, one More Time”, soprano. The kettle sang all four pieces of music with the exact same sound and the exact same interpretation.

To test the second question, whether anyone can sing when up to one’s neck in hot water, we went to Times Square in New York City. We built a 6’ tall wooden pyre and set a large human-sized cauldron filled with water. Then, with our safety glasses on, we solicited volunteers from the streets to sit in the cauldron while we lit the pyre in order to see if they could sing when the water temperature reached 100^oC. Unfortunately, for this part of the experiment, we were unable to procure any volunteers; however, our safety glasses did prevent us from obtaining several black eyes.

We concluded that although the kettle sings in hot water, its language is unknown and it does not seem capable of learning a human language. It is unknown if a human could be taught how to sing by standing in hot water.

Thus:
The myth that kettles sing: CONFIRMED
The myth that kettles can sing great music: BUSTED
The myth that anyone can sing in hot water: INCONCLUSIVE

Tune in next time as we find out whether the pen is truly mightier than the sword, or if actions speak louder than words.

This Man's Life

2006-05-08T03:49:00.000+01:00

"What should I do for the rest of my life?" Dave asked Ms. Henry.

She laughed out loud. "David!" she exclaimed. "You're only in kindergarten! You don’t need to worry about it at your age! Here, go and enjoy yourself in the playground. See, there are some of your friends playing kickball. Why don’t you go join them?

And so he played to his heart’s content.

"What should I do for the rest of my life?" Dave asked Prof. Thurber.

"Well," answered Prof. Thurber with a thoughtful pause. "I don't think I'm qualified to answer that. What I can say is for you to use your freshman year to explore the opportunities out there for you. There is the core curriculum that everyone has to take, but use your electives to take a few introductory classes in the different departments and see what you really like. Use this time to explore your options, to learn about what out there really fascinates you."

And so he learned as much as his head could hold.

"What should I do for the rest of my life?" Dave asked his boss.

"You're on a good track for a career. Work hard. Take advantage of the opportunities that are offered to you here. Put in your time and effort and you’ll do well. But don’t get stuck. If it seems like your career isn’t moving, then find something else to do that is moving. Never stagnate.

And so he worked hard and moved up quickly.

"What should I do for the rest of my life?" Dave asked his mother on his wedding day.

"You now have a sacred responsibility to another. Be a faithful husband and when it is time, a faithful and father. You must be there to support them and when you're in need, they will be there to support you. Your wife will be your guide through life and your children will be your legacy."

And so he bore his responsibility nobly.

"What should I do for the rest of my life?" Dave asked the rabbi in between chemotherapy treatment.

The rabbi smiled. "You have lived a rich and full life. You should rest."

And so he did.

A Major Catastrophe

2006-04-23T16:21:00.000+01:00

Have you ever had the sinking feeling in your stomach that you did not belong anymore? There you are, minding your own business when all of a sudden, a wave of panic ripples through your body and you have the internal urge to be anywhere but here. It is the feeling of waking up to reality, right before your mind has time to fully digest the dire situation you are in and your brain simply wants to yell “help”.

That’s what happened to me this morning when I missed my stop while riding the bus to work.

Luckily, with lighting-fast reflexes, I was able to press the “stop requested” strip and hop off the bus one stop later, thus avoiding a major catastrophe. But what would have happened if my reflexes weren’t so quick? What if I never noticed that I passed my stop? What would happen if I simply stayed on the bus?

After ten minutes, I would have reached Lechmere T stop where the bus would have turned around and headed back to Harvard Square via Cambridge Street.

After an hour, there would have been a shift change and a new driver would command the bus up and down Cambridge Street.

After ten hours, the bus would be parked overnight at the central bus facility.

After a day, the morning shift driver would probably be wondering why I’m still on the bus after all this time. But they never say when you have to get off the bus after paying your fare.

After a year, the bus would be at the mechanic for its regularly scheduled maintenance.

After twenty years, the bus would be decommissioned and disposed at a junkyard.

After a hundred years, the bus would be buried under a mountain of mechanical parts and refuse.

After a thousand years, the landfill would be full and covered. Due to the lack of space, the surface of the landfill would be terraformed to be a new residential zone.

After a million years, new species would evolve that will marvel at the archaeological significance of a fossilized bus.

After four billion years, the sun will go supernova, consuming the remainder of the atoms of the bus.

After 100 billion years, the universe will suffer a massive heat loss as all the stars burn out. The world, as we know it, will end.

Good thing I got off the bus when I did. I don’t want to cause the universe to end!

A Strange Happening

2006-04-04T20:45:00.000+01:00

The strangest thing happened to me the second week of March. I woke up and found myself at Disney World. Now, that by itself is not particularly strange as every morning thousands of people wake up and find themselves at Disney World. It is even less strange when you consider that I went to bed the night before at Disney World too. In fact, it would have been stranger if I woke up and found myself in Boston or Nashville instead of the Port Orleans Riverside Resort.

The Port Orleans Riverside Resort, not surprisingly, is pretty much like what it sounds. Nearly thirty building all designed with the quaint architecture from the French Quarter lines the banks of a man-made river. All the rooms open to the outside where pristinely maintained gardens and water fountains separate the many pools from the residential buildings. A ferry, departing from the local port, heads to Downtown Disney, a short fifteen minute ride away. And, unsurprisingly, the wait to board the boat is about half an hour.

It was a strange morning for me, though. I got up, brushed my teeth, shaved and performed the other rituals of the morning before heading to the pool. Mind you, that’s not all that strange either as every morning I go through the same hygienic routine in order to make myself presentable. I do have to admit, however, that I don’t head to the pool every morning. But frankly, if I could wake up, open my door, find myself in a blossoming garden with a clear sky and 70 degree weather at 7:00 in the morning during March while heading to an outside swimming pool, I would add it to my morning practice too.

When one’s at Disney World, many ordinary occurrences would be considered extraordinary anywhere else. Everyone goes mouse hunting at Disney World. That is a given. Most people, however, do it at the Disney Store. At the store, after making a purchase, all the cashiers sign off with “and have a magical day” while beaming a cheerful smile oblivious to the twenty screaming kids that are standing behind you in line at the counter. And, unsurprisingly, after buying souvenirs, not only can the purchase be charged to your room, but you can have it delivered there too so you don’t have to be carrying shopping bags while you enjoy your vacation.

So what was so strange about the trip? Looking back on it all, my visit to Disney World was rather typical. Everything that did happen should have happened. There really wasn’t anything out of the ordinary. In fact, I am sure that the armadillo I ran into in the hallway of my hotel thought to himself, “What an ordinary day, and there’s another guy going to the pool for a morning swim.”

Letter to a Time Traveler

2006-03-29T01:05:00.000+01:00

Dear Slartibartfast3,

It has been many years since we’ve met but my memory of your visit lives on. I hope that you’ve arrived in your own time safe and sound. I remember, before you left, you mentioned that it would be a long and hard journey, full of great perils and many unknowns far beyond your control. If you did not make it back, then this letter is nothing more than words from a fool. But if you are reading this, then I am sure you are well.

I hope that you still remember who I was and that you recall the great times we had together during our youth. I still remember our travels through Europe, Asia and America. I remember the times spent at the great opera houses, the historic palaces and the ancient temples. I introduced you to my friends and we spent the holidays eating, drinking and being merry. They were great days of joy and laughter that I hold dear to my heart.

Please remember that when I first met you, you were disoriented, unorganized, and a miserable wreck. You did not know the time of day, nor day of the year. It was I who nursed you back to health. I let you sleep in my own bed and wear my own clothes. I gave you access to my bank account and credit cards when you were broke. I even helped you land a job and become integrated in the society that was “today” so that you could afford supplies for your journey forward in time. In short, it was I who got you to where you are now.

Now I am writing to ask for a favor in return. You are the only person who’s capable of telling my future and I want to know about it. Where will I live? What will I be doing? Who will I marry? How can I be happy? How do I become rich? Will life be fulfilling? Will I find peace? I gave you your life back. Are the answers to these questions too much to ask for?

Since I don’t know when you will receive this letter, nor if and when you will act upon it, consider this to be a constant reminder from a creditor that payment is eminently due. I do not know when you will pay in full, but I have full faith that you will. Time is a tricky mechanism, so please ignore this letter if you’ve already answered them. If not, I look forward to a speedy response.

I hope your journey was a good one. I hope you passed your trials and tribulations with little to show for them. And I hope, for my own sake, that you arrived safe and sound.

Truly Yours,
Slartibartfast3
April 2006

How to Chase Windmills

2006-03-22T14:46:00.000Z

1) Locate a windmill. An old wooden one with four blades is ideal. A three bladed windmill used for generating electricity can be used if a wooden windmill is unavailable. Windmills with metalic turbines are also acceptable but they rust rather easily.

2) Find a horse. Although it is possible to chase windmills without utilizing a horse, it is commonly accepted that "giving chase" in the proper fashion will involve an equine. A steed is prefereable as it will give you the most amount of manuverability to dodge the windmill. If one is not readily available, any four-legged animal that will accept a saddle will suffice.

3) Obtain a lance. If one is not readily available, find a tree, chop it down and carve out a solid piece of wood. If you have a strong horse, your lance should be 12 to 15 feet long. If you have a weak horse, 6 to 10 feet will be enough. If you are on foot, you may want to use a broomstick or mop handle.

4) Imagine that the windmills are really giants ravaging the countryside. This is the hardest step and involves the most amount of concentration. Close your eyes and think hard. Furrow your eyebrows if necessary. Do not open your eyes until you see fearsome giants.

5) Charge. This is a straightforward step.

6) Get your lance caught in the spoke of the windmill. Depending on your strength, you can hold onto the lance and be dragged up into the air as the windmill turns or you may let go of your grip and fall face first into the ground. The choice is yours.

7) Wait for the medical team to arrive. Mumble something about giants turning into windmills so that they could escape your wrath. Be very insistent that the gods are having a joke at your expense.

8) Be deemed mentally unfit and be dragged off to the psychiatric ward. Be put into a straightjacket in solitary confinement. Most places will perform this only at last resort. Charging at windmills is an uncommon ailment and warrants drastic measures.

9) Imagine a windmill. This should not be too hard since you succeeded at step 4.

10) Imagine a horse.

11) Repeat.

How the Platypus got its Duckbill

2006-03-16T01:37:00.000Z

Platypus busily worked on repairing his thatched roof. This evening’s forecast called for rain and Platypus needed to prepare for it. But he could not work too late. You see, tonight was also the night of Bear’s Annual Honey Party.

Bear’s Annual Honey Party ranked as the largest party in the forest. It was far bigger than Rabbit’s V8 Party with 45 varieties of carrot juice. It was much better attended than Stork’s Anchovies Party where only Pelican came and all the fish boycotted their invitations. The Honey Party was where any animals who was some animal came to be seen. Eagle changed her migration patterns in order to attend. Lion scheduled a speech for re-election. Even Rocky and Bullwinkle put off saving the world for a day in order to make an appearance.

So Platypus had to go. But there was a problem. He hated honey. Now, in most other cases, it would not make a difference. People never attended Vulture’s Roadkill Party for the food or Koala’s Bark Party for the eucalyptus cough drops. But everyone in the forest loved honey. Everyone but Platypus.

Last year, Platypus tried not eating the honey but everyone made fun of him. Two years ago, he tried to be allergic to honey. It worked for a short time until Doctor Frog came by and said that there was no such thing as a honey allergy. This year, he had a fool-proof plan. Old Duck, who happens to live next door to Platypus, had a pair of false bills. Since Old Duck was injured, he could not make the party but agreed to lend his false bills to Platypus. Platypus would pretend to eat the honey but instead store it in the bill so that he could dump it into the river when he got home. It was a fool-proof plan. Nothing could go wrong.

Platypus finished patching his roof with not a moment to spare so he donned his costume and left. Later that night, Platypus returned fully satisfied with himself. His plan worked like a charm. No one guessed that he was actually storing all the honey he ate in his false bills. In fact, he got so confident with himself, he ate more than anyone else at the party. Everyone commented on how much he loved honey this year after hating it for all previous years. Platypus went straight to bed, tired but happy, with the intention of cleaning out the bill first thing in the morning.

But as fate would have it, it not only rained that night, it snowed. The sudden drop in temperature froze the honey inside the bills and Platypus awoke to the bill firmly stuck in place. Platypus tried desperately to remove the bill to no avail. Doctor Frog came by to see what he could do but all he did was shake his head. The honey had frozen into Platypus’s fur and the attachment was permanent.

For all the years that Platypus lived, he never attended the honey party ever again.

And that is how the platypus got its duckbill.

The Truly Great

2006-03-08T00:15:00.000Z

Great cities are a rare find. History has but a handful and in the modern world, achieving Great status is just as difficult as maintaining it. Great cities must be artistic centers. Paris has the famous Opera House and the Louvre. They must be the center of trade and commerce. The Tokyo, Hong Kong and London stock exchanges control the world’s economy. Being a capitol city helps but does not guarantee Great status. Very few people would make a trip solely to visit Brasilia or Canberra instead of Rio de Janeiro or Sydney. Hosting an international event helps raise its global profile. Who paid attention to Seoul before they hosed the Olympic Games? Now it has an honor that few cities obtain.

Among all of the Great cities in the world, there is but one and only one that is Truly Great: New York. It has all the prerequisites, being the home to Picasso, Copland and John Steinbeck while performers flock to debut at Carnegie Hall or the MET. Its port is the nexus of commerce east of the Mississippi. It has hosted world fairs and is the permanent home of the UN while the New York Stock Exchange dwarfs the importance of all the other exchanges combined.

But there was one event that happened on a brisk February afternoon in Union Square that catapulted New York far above its peers to earn it the rank of Truly Great. It was a day when a crowd of people gathered nervously, some still in their pajamas. All came with armed with one weapon in common: a pillow. Yes, it was the day of the Great Pillowfight.

For an hour, pillows got tossed, swung, stabbed, parried, flung, jabbed, hurled, dodged, thrown and blocked. Every once and awhile a pillow would burst, sending a cloud of feathers up into the air that slowly dispersed through the neighborhood. From a distance they looked like flakes of snow, until they landed on a nice black fleece and you realized that the only way to remove it was with a lint roller.

One brave lady sat on the shoulders of a comrade that gave her an immense advantage in height. But that advantage was quickly subdued when she became the center of attention and all of those around began to attach her mercilessly. All she could do was but fend off the attack by fluffy objects. Her victory was short and in the end, her thoughts of conquest dashed, she joined the masses in their free-for-all.

During this entire time, four NYC policemen stood by and watched. They looked rather perturbed, as if they did not quite know how to handle the situation. I’m sure they were very well trained with their firearms, knives and nightsticks, but pillows are not included in standard policeman issue so they were unfortunately outclassed.

You may be saying to yourself at this point, “How silly! That never happened! You must be running out of ideas and have started inventing stories to write about!”

I will tell you this. Sometimes reality is the best imagination we will ever have.

The Importance of Reading

2006-02-20T19:16:00.002Z

“We Serve Only Patented IH-22 Lactic Acid Bacteria Kimchi.”

These were the words that greeted me on my placemat as I sat down for lunch at a korean restaurant in New York City. They surprised me - I did not expect to delve too deeply into digestive sciences before my meal, but this is New York and anything can happen. After navigating the menu and choosing my meal, I began to study the writings in front of me.

“By using soybean protein instead of salted fish for fermentation, Dok-do Kimchi contains plenty of bean oligo peptide, amino acid, calcium from vegetables, iron, and vitamins.”

So much can be learned about a culture by reading their placemats. In Chinatown, customers are greeted with colorful placemats with the twelve animals of the zodiac and can read descriptions of each trait. You can tell that the Chinese greatly value animals and their mystical abilities. If one wants to have a long life, they will eat a monkey. If one wants to be handsome, they can eat a snake. Wise people are in short supply because the last time a dragon was slayed was in 274AD by St. George.

“Dok-do Kimchi contains a large quantity of lactic acid bacteria IH-22 which stays active when ingested. This aids in creating a self protective film against acid in the stomach.”

The larger-than-life color photos of Big Macs on McDonald placemats never made me want to eat more Big Macs. Rather, they made me disappointed that the one I just purchased was only a quarter of the picture size. If they really wanted to court my business, the real-deal has to be at least the same size as the ones in the advertisements.

“The patented lactic acid bacteria IH-22 and the dietary fiber in Dok-do Kimchi help remove toxic wastes from your digestive tract by drawing them out of your body.”

Placemats at diners along America’s superhighways are filled with local advertisements. Here, drivers can relax and truly appreciate the commercialization of America without having to worry about passing a billboard before memorizing the telephone number. As an added bonus, the placemat can even be folded up and taken away as a constant reminder that yes, you too can save 15% or more on auto insurance by calling Geico.

IH-22 lactic acid has been proven to eliminate and suppress harmful bacteria that cause food poisoning (from a clinical test at Seoul Women’s University, Korea).”

But the truly sublime ones are pure Bond White and textured with curly edges. Their slate is empty, they sit there seemingly silent and tame and yet they taunt “write on me” to someone armed with a crayon. Their story is yet to be told, their life has yet to be lived.

“In a clinical test performed at Chung-Nam National University of Korea, Dok-do Kimchi proved effective on more than 80 percent of patients who suffered from chronic constipation.”

The Koreans are unique in their love of their beloved single-celled organisms. How many cultures would display prominently the features and benefits of the bacteria harbored by their most famous dish? The French do not talk about the yeast cells in their wines and no one discusses the mold in blue cheese.

“Children love Dok-do Kimchi for its non offensive smell. Dok-do Kimchi provides beneficial bacteria to everyone including the elderly.”

An hour later, I left the restaurant with the full knowledge that I ate some pleasant-smelling spicy fermented cabbage which provided me with billions of beneficial bacteria that busily removed carcinogenic waste from my intestinal tract while preventing constipation.

“Great tasting Kimchi without the smell!”

And that is why I’m glad I can read.

Answers

2006-02-09T03:28:00.000Z

Why?
Why not?
Why not ask?
Why ask?
Why ask why?
Why ask anything?
Why pursue anything?
Why pursue answers?

What is not known?
What is known?
What can be known?
Do we know what we don't know?
What is the value of learning what we don't know?
What do we do with the knowledge?
Why not pass it onto someone else?
Who would we pass it to?
Who does not know yet?
Where would we go to find them?
What do they know?
What do they not know?

How does one teach them what they don't know?
How does one teach them to ask for it?
How does one teach them to ask why not?
How does one teach them to ask why?
How does one teach them to ask?
How does one teach them why?

Change

2006-02-03T03:26:00.000Z

That's funny, thought John. I can't seem to feel my right hand. It was an odd sensation but not particularly alarming one. It was early in the morning and he had no need for his right hand yet. After awhile, he tried again, this time testing each finger individually, but they still did not respond to his mental commands. He shifted his attention over to his left hands. Index finger? No response. Ring finger? Same result. Next, he tried to bend his arms but they were both locked into position. He moved his attention to his neck muscles but they refused to budge. He then moved his concentration to his lower body. He thought hard about his knees but they refused to flex. What about the toes? No such luck. John sighed. It was going to be one of those mornings. At least I’m warm.

This had been going on for several long months now and John was sick of it. Initially, he thought nothing of it, being rather glad that he had no more responsibility but now he was becoming irritated. He hated being in a vegetative state. To occupy himself, he mentally flexed each muscle every day although they could not respond with physical motion. His morning exercise over, John sighed again and resigned himself to his fate. Usually after his morning exercise, he entertained himself by counting to a million. He averaged about two thousand numbers per day. Yesterday he stopped at two hundred ninety seven thousand eight hundred twenty two. He hoped to break three hundred thousand today.

All of a sudden, there was a tremendous jerk and his world began to shake violently. What’s going on? He thought with alarm. His neck began to squirm, his arms clawed at empty space his legs began to spasm uncontrollably. Stop it! He commanded with all of his energy. Stop it now! His heart pounded faster and faster as his body writhed while being tossed around. All of a sudden, a rush of cold air tingled every nerve in his body. He felt fear like he never felt before and he gave a guttural cry that strained his tender voice box and stretched the capacity of his newly developed lungs.

"Congratulations!" said the nurse to his mother. "It’s a boy!"

Nothing to Read

2006-01-20T01:32:00.000Z

"Nothing," as defined by Webster's 7th online dictionary, means "no thing." How simple it is. Most definitions are not as lucky - compound words rarely reflect the meanings of their constituents. “Cargo” does not mean an automobile ride and “mankind” does not mean that people are generous. But this particular definition is rather elegant.

Nothing.

No thing.

Its own existence is a paradox. The concept of “nothing” does not lack conception. On the contrary, the concept of nothing is full of meaning that it cannot be simply described as “no thing”. If it was truly “no thing”, then it should not even have a definition. It is a void in space, a missing link or a deficiency of substance. A day spent doing nothing is still a day spent. Nothing can be more expensive than the Mona Lisa or cheaper than dirt. (Of course, since there is a sand shortage in Saudi Arabia, dirt may actually be worth more.)

It is the answer to the great quandaries of existence. What was before the big bang? Nothing. What is the space between electrons? Nothing. What did you do on your date last night? Oh, nothing. Since nothing travels faster than light, it could potentially be used to propel humans to the stars.

We could not survive without nothing. Nothing gets us through the day like having nothing to worry about. Buying nothing costs little and does not create clutter in your home. Spending nothing will never cause inflation. Stealing nothing will never land you in jail, no matter how hard you try. If nothing didn't exist, we would not have nine seasons of Seinfeld.

It can land us into trouble. If we did away with nothing, we would be just as badly off as we are now. If we ignore nothing, then we become deluged with work.

But it also can save us from awkward endings. After all, nothing is said, when there is nothing left to say.

Your Average Joe

2006-01-11T22:11:00.000Z

I'm 5'10". Some may consider me tall while others will consider me short. America is consumed by averages of all sorts. On average, Boston receives 3.1 inches of rain in June, KFC serves 3,000 customers per week and people spend $271 on electricity per year. But in reality, it is very difficult to be dead-on-average. To be truly average is an unattainable goal.

For instance, the average american family has 3.14 persons and they would own 1.9 cars, according to the US Census Bureau. I don't know of a single household with 0.14 persons occupying it. Maybe they only come out at night? Likewise, I've never seen 0.9 of a car being driven around on the streets. Perhaps they're missing a wheel so they can't move?

Sometimes, it seems luxurious to be average. On average, a person will fall asleep in seven minutes and sleep for 8.6 hours per day. On average, americans spend 5.18 hours in leisure activities per day.

Sometimes, it's good to be above average. Most people have more than the average number of fingers on their hands. The average lifespan is 76 years.

Sometimes it's better to be below - the average speeding ticket costs $150.

But it is rare to be dead-on-average. The average height in America happens to be 5'10". I happen to be very proud of my mediocrity. I stand by it with pride.

Two Dimensions

2006-01-04T04:27:00.000Z

Have you ever wondered what it would be like to live in a 2 dimensional universe?

Trees would stand like telephone poles and a forest would be perfectly lined like a white picket fence. Seasons would disappear - the sun would travel along the same path every day. Hurricanes and tornados would not exist. Rivers would not wind like a snake, neither would snakes. All roads would lead to Rome.

Refrigerator doors would not open to the right or left. Planes would not have wings. There would be no such thing as theater-in-the-round. If you were caught in traffic during the morning commute, there would be no lane to change to. TV would be a blinking line. There would be no road for the chicken to cross.

You would never throw a gutter ball. The hockey goalie would block everything. Tug-of-War would be the main Olympics attraction. There would be only one lane at the swimming pool. Cartwheels would be easy for anyone. Baseball would only have two bases.

Only one person could fish in the ocean at a time. There would be no left or right side of politics. No one would be able to cut in line. You would not be able to roll out of bed. Zen gardens would lose its meaning. You would never come to a fork in a road. Anyone could walk the tightrope. The fat man and the thin man would look exactly the same.

It would not matter which side the knife goes on. You would not be able to put your elbows on the table. Pies would look like spaghetti. All bread would be sliced. Doughnuts would not have holes.

And the people would be so one dimensional.

An 11 Month Christmas Season

2005-12-27T19:17:00.000Z

Christmas is a time to gather with family and friends, catch up with their lives and reflect on the year before returning to the busyness that defines our lives. But Christmas tends to be overshadowed by a long to-do list with a hard deadline of midnight on the 24th. It is ironic that what should be an enjoyable season turns into perhaps the most stressful and there is a certain sense of relief when it is over. Frequently one hears that the meaning of Christmas is all but lost.

This year, I found myself in a strange predicament. I usually finish my holiday responsibilities early; all my shopping was done and cards were sent. But furthermore, through a strange twist of events, I found myself in between jobs and my holiday plans did not start until Christmas Day. The upshot: it was two day before Christmas and I had absolutely nothing to do.

“This,” I thought to myself, “gives me the perfect opportunity to search for the elusive Christmas spirit!” But where does one begin this search? I decided to go to where one finds the most number of people in one place during the Christmas season: the mall.

The mall, at 9:30 PM, was a place inviting chaos. Lines for registers wound around stores while shelves looked disheveled and unkempt. All of the stereotypical shoppers were here - last minute shopper carrying multitudes of bags, the mother with her whinny child and the unruly high school mob on holiday. Exhausted sales clerks sat on the floor while yuppie families browsed for the latest gadgetry. The food court was crowded with people taking a break from their shopping marathons. All of this happened over the din of Christmas music played on loop - done, redone, until it’s overdone.

While sitting at the food court, I realized that there was a common theme in all of the pandemonium. The mall, for all its frenzied and materialistic nature, became a nexus for people to gather. It became a lively meeting spot for friends to converse over a plate of Lo Mein at an hour most people usually reserve for bedtime preparation. Families chatted the hours away as they rested their feet. Since the mall was open later than usual, homeless people had a warm place to stay for a few extra hours. In essence, the act of shopping for gifts had brought people together in ways that do not happen during the normal year. During Christmas, we go to parties that are held once a year. We spend time with family that we see infrequently. We meet new people through mutual friends. The only problem is that we are so busy we do not enjoy each other's company.

So as we recover from Christmas and clean up the mess left behind, let us stop and be thankful for the friendships that we already have. Now that the holiday responsibilities are over, let us spread the holiday spirit throughout the year. Let us spend time with friends old and new no matter what the occasion and take the time to truly enjoy their company. After all, we only have eleven months before we will have to ignore everybody in order to shop for them.

A Short Short Tail

2005-12-23T00:53:00.000Z

Aston and Nora were strolling by the ocean one day when they stumbled upon a bottle. When Aston opened the bottle, a well-aged parchment fell out.

"Hello, you have reached the answering parchment of Najeeb the Genie. Please leave your name, the date, an address, and your three wishes, and I will grant them upon my return. Thank you very much and have a great life!"

The rest of the parchment was filled with scribbles of people's names, addresses and wishes.

Aston was the first to speak. "Remember how the others laughed at us as we planned our escape? They would be so jealous of our fortunes right now."

"Indeed," replied Nora. "Let us take it with us. It will make a good addition to our home."

So Aston and Nora took the parchment and left the bottle behind. At home, they put it on top of a pile of wood shavings.

Several centuries pass and upon his return, Najeeb found the front door to his house ajar, the inside flooded with ocean water and his answering parchment missing. He could not have known that his residence was left in such a state by two rabbits that escaped from a local petting zoo. The answering parchment was used as part of their bedding until it disintegrated from overuse. There really was no way Aston and Nora could have followed his succinct instructions.

After all, rabbits can't read.

No To Be's

2005-12-17T23:16:00.001Z

A frequent occurrence in my life: at best, I lose the things I really wanted.

In 5th grade, I wanted a toy microscope. Now it lies somewhere in my basement, forgotten for many years. I wanted to drive across the country in high school. Now that I've crisscrossed the country multiple times, it no longer appeals to me. I wanted to make music my profession but now my skills as a violinist grows stale as the days go by.

Many things I wanted I cannot even have. I wanted to fly to the moon but I hate rollercoasters and would never survive lift-off. I wanted to own a cat but found that I'm allergic to them.

Although I could not keep what I wanted, they have given me more than I needed. From my toy microscope, I found an insatiable curiosity that carried me through my college career. From my dreams of driving across the country, I have found a love for meeting people around the globe and understanding them no matter what their background. From my aspirations in music, I have found an anchor that keeps me grounded.

Keeping what one wants may be difficult but having what one needs makes up for it.

Schoenberg vs. Mozart

2005-12-11T04:43:00.000Z

It is an age-old question that spawned many battle over countless generations. Scholars fought to the death in giant roman coliseums over the question. Musicians representing each faction jockeyed for position in the world's greatest orchestras. Massive demonstrations in public squares cheered one side and jeered the other.

Who was better? Mozart or Schoenberg?

In order to spare the health of humans, some scientists have already tested this question on animals.

Biological Analysis: In Vivo Study
A group of laboratory rats in a University of Texas experiment were subjected to daily doses of Mozart, and another group of rats had Arnold Schoenberg as their daily fare. The rats as a total group preferred Mozart. (Cross, Halcomb, and Matter, Psychonomic Science 7, 233, 1967)

Rebuttal to Biological Analysis:
Rats are deaf to much of the music because more than half the notes of a Mozart sonata are below the absolute threshold for what rats can hear. (Kenneth Steele, Music Perception 21, 251, 2003)

Veterinary Health:
It has been discovered that research causes cancer in lab rats.

Conclusion:
Who in their right mind would compose music for rats to enjoy? That's like building a car for dogs to drive. If you really want to see which one is the better composer, sponsor a concert where they are playing back-to-back Mozart and Schoenberg. Then count the number of people who leave after the Mozart piece and before the Schoenberg piece. Common sense wins again.

An Infinite Number of Monkeys

2005-11-30T04:31:00.000Z

The goal of this blog is to recreate all of the works of Shakespeare. Sounds crazy no? Consider this common saying:

An infinite number of monkeys typing on an infinite number of typewriters for an infinite amount of time can recreate all of the works of Shakespeare.

The problem with this method is that it is virtually impossible to obtain an infinite number of typewriters, or the modern equivalent, the computer. Nor is it an easy task to gather an infinite number of monkeys. The problem becomes exponentially more complicated when you have to consider that you will need an infinite number of animal trainers to teach them how to type, an infinite number of bananas to feed them, an infinite amount of water to quench their thirst and an infinite amount of refuse to clean up afterwards. Furthermore, we would probably all be dead after an infinite amount of time has elapsed.

Luckily for us, the problem can be simplified by eliminating some of the redundant infinities. An infinite number of monkeys on an infinite number of typewriters for one human lifespan will accomplish the same task. This is convenient because we would solve the temporal problem and can see the results in our lifetime. However, it would not eliminate the spatial problem of gathering the necessary monkeys and typewriters. Alternatively, one monkey on one typewriter for an infinite amount of time can also work but this solves the spatial problem and not the temporal one.

Not all simplifications will solve the problem, mind you. An infinite number of monkeys on one typewriter for no matter how short of a time span would simply create a headache.

The answer is to combine the two previous solutions into one. All you need is one monkey (me) on one computer (my laptop) with one lifespan (mine) to recreate all of the works of Shakespeare. You don't believe me? Come back when I'm dead and we'll see who's right.

Of course, if you don't want to wait that long, you can always refer to the Shakespeare section of Project Gutenberg.