Friends - This will be my last note on this version of the site. Please visit jimmyjia.blogspot.com for the continued update on An Infinite Number of Monkeys!
Jimmy
Thursday, February 28, 2013
Sand, I Ego
Jimmy Carter is a lot shorter than he looks on television. That was one of the more unexpected conclusions while visiting friends in San Diego. I am embarrassed to admit that this was my (mostly) first time to the city even though I grew up in California. The “mostly” comes from the fact that in high school, I was participated in a college tour of UCSD, but we were literally bussed in and out of the university with no time to see the rest of the city. This time, however, outside of a few hours in a biomedical laboratory, which looks like every other biomedical laboratory in the world, I had a chance to really get to know the place.
I left Seattle early in the morning, after a short drive to the airport in the cold rain on Interstate 5. I was welcomed by a warm sun in San Diego before being whisked away on The 5. The similarities between the cities were striking. Both cities have strong aerospace traditions with Boeing in one and Lindbergh the other. Both have a vibrant downtown and personality driven neighborhoods. Both enjoys microbrews and both serve really good ice cream, but only one has a climate suitable for eating it in winter. Both also have strong maritime traditions with large naval bases for air craft carriers. We toured the Maritime Museum with submarines and tall ships amongst the collection. My favorite part of the museum was touring the boiler room of the steam ship Berkeley. The three-hour whale watching tour also had many sights that we would not normally see in Seattle, namely fighter jets take off and landings, helicopters flying in formation and tall ships sailing in and out of harbor.
The highlight of the trip was meeting Samson and Delilah, the Saint-Saëns version. Delilah had a nice voice but the tenor, we all agreed afterwards, didn’t start truly singing till the 3rd act when he was forced to push a giant mill stone as punishment by the Philistine. As Samson belted his remorse at his own failures, he begs God for one last chance to redeem himself and save his people. He gets his wish. During the last scene, he is chained to two large pillars near the altar of the Philistine temple when God returns his enormous strength. With his new-found strength, he destroys the pillars, bringing the roof down onto the worshipers, thus killing the oppressors and freeing his people. As we left the opera, the humor of life did not escape us. We had parked under the Church of Scientology, a building that is held up by pillars to enable street-level parking underneath.
Running into Jimmy Carter was perhaps the most unplanned part of the trip. We were walking down a sidewalk on our way to the Hotel del Coronado, a well-known seaside resort, when we passed a contingent of men dressed in black suits and wearing ear buds. Typically, when one passes a contingent of men in black with ear buds, it means that they are escorting someone of importance. A quick glance at the person walking in the middle proved that theory correct, with the former President holding hands with his wife.
Indeed, our the trip was full of the sights and sounds of San Diego interspersed with speakeasies, Mary’s chicken, gelato, aircraft carriers and Jimmy Carter. Perhaps the only thing we did not get to see was whales. Sadly, I was also denied the request to tour the engine room on our vessel – and was told that no one had ever requested to tour it before. Those experiences will need to be rectified on future visits!
I left Seattle early in the morning, after a short drive to the airport in the cold rain on Interstate 5. I was welcomed by a warm sun in San Diego before being whisked away on The 5. The similarities between the cities were striking. Both cities have strong aerospace traditions with Boeing in one and Lindbergh the other. Both have a vibrant downtown and personality driven neighborhoods. Both enjoys microbrews and both serve really good ice cream, but only one has a climate suitable for eating it in winter. Both also have strong maritime traditions with large naval bases for air craft carriers. We toured the Maritime Museum with submarines and tall ships amongst the collection. My favorite part of the museum was touring the boiler room of the steam ship Berkeley. The three-hour whale watching tour also had many sights that we would not normally see in Seattle, namely fighter jets take off and landings, helicopters flying in formation and tall ships sailing in and out of harbor.
The highlight of the trip was meeting Samson and Delilah, the Saint-Saëns version. Delilah had a nice voice but the tenor, we all agreed afterwards, didn’t start truly singing till the 3rd act when he was forced to push a giant mill stone as punishment by the Philistine. As Samson belted his remorse at his own failures, he begs God for one last chance to redeem himself and save his people. He gets his wish. During the last scene, he is chained to two large pillars near the altar of the Philistine temple when God returns his enormous strength. With his new-found strength, he destroys the pillars, bringing the roof down onto the worshipers, thus killing the oppressors and freeing his people. As we left the opera, the humor of life did not escape us. We had parked under the Church of Scientology, a building that is held up by pillars to enable street-level parking underneath.
Running into Jimmy Carter was perhaps the most unplanned part of the trip. We were walking down a sidewalk on our way to the Hotel del Coronado, a well-known seaside resort, when we passed a contingent of men dressed in black suits and wearing ear buds. Typically, when one passes a contingent of men in black with ear buds, it means that they are escorting someone of importance. A quick glance at the person walking in the middle proved that theory correct, with the former President holding hands with his wife.
Indeed, our the trip was full of the sights and sounds of San Diego interspersed with speakeasies, Mary’s chicken, gelato, aircraft carriers and Jimmy Carter. Perhaps the only thing we did not get to see was whales. Sadly, I was also denied the request to tour the engine room on our vessel – and was told that no one had ever requested to tour it before. Those experiences will need to be rectified on future visits!
Sunday, December 23, 2012
Mixed
T’was a dark and stormy night, and all through the train,
Not a sound could be heard, just the pitter-patter rain.
All luggage was stowed, no one feared the pickpocket,
Since our attendant was the man from Nantucket.
The Parlor Car was filled and passengers well fed,
While thoughts of green eggs and ham, danced in their heads,
And I in my coach seat, my computer on my lap,
Grading some term papers, before taking a nap.
When out in the distance, there arose such a shout,
Like in Mudville – where Mighty Casey had struck out.
I jumped from my seat and others listened to hear,
Half expecting a message from Mister Revere.
The streetlights from above cast down an orange glow,
Like a fire in the Yukon, dancing in the snow.
When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But the Walrus and the Carpenter, eight oysters and beer.
“The time has come” The walrus said, “to talk of many things".
“Of fox in socks — and Goldilocks — of mice and men — and kings".
“Old men in boats, out deep at sea, and eggs that sit on walls",
“Of pigs and wolves and jabberwocks, of holly decked in halls".
They spoke no more, their lunch was set, drank wine and broke the bread.
And did not stop their massive feast till both of them were fed.
Poor mollusks, sad oysters, unlucky pearls of the sea.
They liked you here, they liked you there, they liked you with their tea.
There is a place where the sidewalk ends, where the raths do outgrabe,
Where the caged bird sings and spiders swings on a web spun for their Babe.
But on this train droned on a dirge, a melancholy burden bore,
For a blackbird stood, above the door, quothed the raven “Nevermore”.
Not a sound could be heard, just the pitter-patter rain.
All luggage was stowed, no one feared the pickpocket,
Since our attendant was the man from Nantucket.
The Parlor Car was filled and passengers well fed,
While thoughts of green eggs and ham, danced in their heads,
And I in my coach seat, my computer on my lap,
Grading some term papers, before taking a nap.
When out in the distance, there arose such a shout,
Like in Mudville – where Mighty Casey had struck out.
I jumped from my seat and others listened to hear,
Half expecting a message from Mister Revere.
The streetlights from above cast down an orange glow,
Like a fire in the Yukon, dancing in the snow.
When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But the Walrus and the Carpenter, eight oysters and beer.
“The time has come” The walrus said, “to talk of many things".
“Of fox in socks — and Goldilocks — of mice and men — and kings".
“Old men in boats, out deep at sea, and eggs that sit on walls",
“Of pigs and wolves and jabberwocks, of holly decked in halls".
They spoke no more, their lunch was set, drank wine and broke the bread.
And did not stop their massive feast till both of them were fed.
Poor mollusks, sad oysters, unlucky pearls of the sea.
They liked you here, they liked you there, they liked you with their tea.
There is a place where the sidewalk ends, where the raths do outgrabe,
Where the caged bird sings and spiders swings on a web spun for their Babe.
But on this train droned on a dirge, a melancholy burden bore,
For a blackbird stood, above the door, quothed the raven “Nevermore”.
Sunday, April 22, 2012
A Leitmotif
Virtually everyone I know will say they like music. It is certainly true for me as well. However, what most people mean when they say that they like music is that they enjoy listening to music. As a violinist, I can add another layer of complexity and say that I also enjoy creating music. Indeed, listening to music only uses one of the senses - sound. Creating music requires not just the ears but also eyes to follow the notes, touch for tactile feedback, muscles to execute techniques, the mind to weave the narrative and the soul to instill emotions. It is enjoyable be in an audience listening to a Mahler symphony. It is gratifying to sit in the middle of a full orchestra playing the same piece.
As an entrepreneur, my days are usually full of tasks and deliverables and the stress levels of work can be very high. No doubt, listening to music is a stress reliever. It has a calming, soothing sensation that helps recharge some energy to keep going. But there is a limit on how effective it can be. After all, it is tempting to continue working and one easily finds oneself writing reports or responding to emails while listening to music. In fact, music sometimes diverts attention away from the important task at hand, thus negating the benefits of it being a stress reliever.
Playing music, however, is the exact opposite. It is hardly possible to do anything else while creating music. It gives one a temporary reprieve from the busyness of life. One’s mind is too busy trying to figure out how to vibrate the fourth finger on the G string that one cannot think about accounting discrepancies, legal reconciliations, or personnel problems. One’s ears listens to luscious melodies, drowning out the monotonous hum of a computer. It also helps put one’s problems into perspectives - it occurred to me once while playing that Mozart probably had bad days too, but it didn’t stop him from composing beautiful music.
Music plays different roles in my life depending on what I need. Like most people, if I had a hard day, I’ll listen to the radio or a playlist. However, if I had a stressful day, I’ll pull out my violin and play Mendelssohn, Bruch or Vitali. Whereas other people will go to a gym to take their anger out on a punching bag, if I feel the need to be loud and violent, I’ll play the 3-octave A major scale, building from 2 notes to a bow to a frenzied 24 notes to a bow. If my fingers are cramped from typing at the keyboard all day, I’ll play one-string arpeggios or double stops thirds. If I’ve been working on rote paperwork, I’ll improvise some klezmer. If I’m super stressed, I’ll do all of the above.
This relationship with music evolved over time as it found a niche in my life. In college, I noticed that my academically worst terms were always the terms where I did not participate in a performance group. That made me realize that music was not just an interest or a hobby. It was a necessity to keep at my best. That has stayed true as I continued into graduate school and my professional life. Today, whether it is sight reading chamber music with a group of friends or playing scales in the office, a little bit of music makes a lot of life.
As an entrepreneur, my days are usually full of tasks and deliverables and the stress levels of work can be very high. No doubt, listening to music is a stress reliever. It has a calming, soothing sensation that helps recharge some energy to keep going. But there is a limit on how effective it can be. After all, it is tempting to continue working and one easily finds oneself writing reports or responding to emails while listening to music. In fact, music sometimes diverts attention away from the important task at hand, thus negating the benefits of it being a stress reliever.
Playing music, however, is the exact opposite. It is hardly possible to do anything else while creating music. It gives one a temporary reprieve from the busyness of life. One’s mind is too busy trying to figure out how to vibrate the fourth finger on the G string that one cannot think about accounting discrepancies, legal reconciliations, or personnel problems. One’s ears listens to luscious melodies, drowning out the monotonous hum of a computer. It also helps put one’s problems into perspectives - it occurred to me once while playing that Mozart probably had bad days too, but it didn’t stop him from composing beautiful music.
Music plays different roles in my life depending on what I need. Like most people, if I had a hard day, I’ll listen to the radio or a playlist. However, if I had a stressful day, I’ll pull out my violin and play Mendelssohn, Bruch or Vitali. Whereas other people will go to a gym to take their anger out on a punching bag, if I feel the need to be loud and violent, I’ll play the 3-octave A major scale, building from 2 notes to a bow to a frenzied 24 notes to a bow. If my fingers are cramped from typing at the keyboard all day, I’ll play one-string arpeggios or double stops thirds. If I’ve been working on rote paperwork, I’ll improvise some klezmer. If I’m super stressed, I’ll do all of the above.
This relationship with music evolved over time as it found a niche in my life. In college, I noticed that my academically worst terms were always the terms where I did not participate in a performance group. That made me realize that music was not just an interest or a hobby. It was a necessity to keep at my best. That has stayed true as I continued into graduate school and my professional life. Today, whether it is sight reading chamber music with a group of friends or playing scales in the office, a little bit of music makes a lot of life.
Tuesday, March 06, 2012
The Magic of Big Sur
In no particular order...
Stormyness
Vastness
Sheerness
Ruggedness
Stormyness
Colorfulness
Sea Urchin nests
Monday, May 23, 2011
Street Fare
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.
Monday, September 21, 2009
A Moment in the Woods
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…
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…
Saturday, July 25, 2009
A Trumpeter on the Basilica
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.
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.
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.
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.
Monday, April 20, 2009
Oxford, Take Two
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.
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.
Sunday, January 18, 2009
A Review of Eastern European Prepackaged Foods
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.
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.
Monday, December 29, 2008
Oxford: Business as Usual
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.
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.
Monday, December 22, 2008
55 Cents in Dublin
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!
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!
Sunday, November 23, 2008
Santa Claus is Buried in Bari
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.
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.
Saturday, November 15, 2008
Taranto, not Toronto
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.
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.
Wednesday, October 29, 2008
Vegetables of the Voyage
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.
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.
Wednesday, October 22, 2008
Fruits of the Road Trip
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.
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.
Friday, October 10, 2008
Voyage: 5 Seconds in Malta
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.
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.
Wednesday, October 01, 2008
Voyage: On Crossing Gibraltar
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!
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!
Sunday, September 28, 2008
Voyage: On Breakfast
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.
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.
Wednesday, September 24, 2008
Voyage: A Stubby Note
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.
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.
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