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.
Monday, December 29, 2008
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 1, 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.
Sunday, September 21, 2008
Voyage: On Smells
During my fifth day at sea, I began to miss something that I had taken for granted – odors. Let me explain. I am not talking about the smell of athletes foot or the stink of rotten trash. Rather, the Earth itself gives off a smell that is noticeable only when it is missing. Here on the ocean, there are no trees giving off fresh oxygen, no moist soil giving off the smell of a fresh garden, no animals giving off odor to either attract mates or to keep away predators. Here on the ocean, there is a characteristic lack of any smell.
In addition, the water we drink is distilled sea water. It has gone through the most stringent of a filtering system that takes out any and all contaminants that may exist in it. In effect, it is tasteless, without any of the common minerals and nutrients that we associate with tap water. As the days went by, I began to have a longing for mealtime, and I realized that it was not only because of the nourishment, but because the mess hall smelled different. To be precisely, the mess hall had a smell, a familiar smell that broke the monotony from the lack of it.
Imagine my surprise then, when, on a round of the deck of the ship, I came across the Filipino crew roasting a suckling pig on spit. Now, I knew that Saturdays were barbeque days, but I had no idea that meant a whole pig. It looked very happy and content, but probably not very comfortable since its rib cage was cut open and all of its innards removed. The smell of salted meat permeated the entire stern. The entire crew was there, relaxing and having a party. Pretty soon, one of them hands me a beer and we sat there shooting the breeze.
Apparently the pig is something of a tradition. It usually happens on ocean crossings, and apparently is common enough that stores at ports sell whole pigs. In fact, one of the crew mentioned that he had never been on a ship that did not have this tradition. I took a look off the stern and spotted another freighter off in the distance going in the other direction. I could imagine that, on the stern of the other vessel, a group of Filipino drinking beer, roasting a pig and giving a toast to the universal seaman’s barbeque.
Two hours later, I was sitting on the wing of the Bridge overlooking the water. The sun was setting behind us, the speakers were blasting techno music, and the alcohol flowed freely. All of the people on board the vessel were there, officers, engineers, cadets and able-bodied men. The chief engineer grilled the sausages and the captain made his special pesto sauce. We milled around, laughing, sharing stories, and having a great time. There was even a whale sighting off the starboard side. For a moment, you drowned out the constant rumbling of the motor and could forget that you were on a vessel going full speed across the Atlantic.
The barbeque was a welcomed distraction from the daily routine. Today, we were people enjoying good food, good beer and good company. Tomorrow, we would be back to being seafaring voyagers and void of any smells.
In addition, the water we drink is distilled sea water. It has gone through the most stringent of a filtering system that takes out any and all contaminants that may exist in it. In effect, it is tasteless, without any of the common minerals and nutrients that we associate with tap water. As the days went by, I began to have a longing for mealtime, and I realized that it was not only because of the nourishment, but because the mess hall smelled different. To be precisely, the mess hall had a smell, a familiar smell that broke the monotony from the lack of it.
Imagine my surprise then, when, on a round of the deck of the ship, I came across the Filipino crew roasting a suckling pig on spit. Now, I knew that Saturdays were barbeque days, but I had no idea that meant a whole pig. It looked very happy and content, but probably not very comfortable since its rib cage was cut open and all of its innards removed. The smell of salted meat permeated the entire stern. The entire crew was there, relaxing and having a party. Pretty soon, one of them hands me a beer and we sat there shooting the breeze.
Apparently the pig is something of a tradition. It usually happens on ocean crossings, and apparently is common enough that stores at ports sell whole pigs. In fact, one of the crew mentioned that he had never been on a ship that did not have this tradition. I took a look off the stern and spotted another freighter off in the distance going in the other direction. I could imagine that, on the stern of the other vessel, a group of Filipino drinking beer, roasting a pig and giving a toast to the universal seaman’s barbeque.
Two hours later, I was sitting on the wing of the Bridge overlooking the water. The sun was setting behind us, the speakers were blasting techno music, and the alcohol flowed freely. All of the people on board the vessel were there, officers, engineers, cadets and able-bodied men. The chief engineer grilled the sausages and the captain made his special pesto sauce. We milled around, laughing, sharing stories, and having a great time. There was even a whale sighting off the starboard side. For a moment, you drowned out the constant rumbling of the motor and could forget that you were on a vessel going full speed across the Atlantic.
The barbeque was a welcomed distraction from the daily routine. Today, we were people enjoying good food, good beer and good company. Tomorrow, we would be back to being seafaring voyagers and void of any smells.
Thursday, September 18, 2008
Voyage: On Adaptation
As the first few days went by, I began to notice many little things around me that were not the same as on land. Many little nuances are taken for granted and when they are missing from the environment, it can take quite awhile to adapt.
For instance, during the first day on board, I got thirsty, and realized that I had no idea where to get water. Yes, I could have gone to the pantry and purchased soda, mineral water or beer, but I wanted plain and tap water. At that point, I remembered the jug of water at breakfast and regretted not drinking more. For the next few meals, I adapted myself by drinking like a camel, stocking up on it and trying not to expend much energy during the day. At our first stop in Miami, I made it a point to go and purchase a gallon of drinking water. Even then, I rationed it strictly, for it had to last my whole two weeks at sea. Then, two days into the voyage, I found the water fountain. It tasted delicious. That was the happiest day of my life, even though I still felt like a camel. Stupid as one, that is.
Given now, that I had a steady supply of water, I no longer prevented myself from activities that caused sweating. I started looking for places to do simple exercises. There was a pool, but it was small and looked like it could last for 1½ strokes, so did not look like a feasible place to get any real exercising done. There are three staircases that go the tower structure. Two of them are outside with a sheer drop to the ocean waters below. One is indoors, but the landings are so close to one another that you would get dizzy just turning around so many corners.
Then I found it. It was a hatch at the bow that led into one of the store rooms. It was just the right height to be able to step up and down. And so, every afternoon, I would go to the bow and do a few minutes of step aerobics. It turned out to be a satisfactory workout, although I would constantly glance over my shoulders for fear of being spotted. As I went up and down, the ship would rock to and fro and I found myself wishing for a DVD series on step aerobics. It was the only time in my life to have that wish. Really.
A couple of days later, as I was talking to the 2nd mate about my “discovery”, he said, “why don’t you use the weight room?” I was surprised, for I thought I did a thorough tour of the ship when I came on board. I did not see a weight room. He led me to a door labeled “Void Space” and inside was a large assortment of free weights and a bench press. Of course, I thought to myself. I should have guessed that “Void Space” meant “Weight Room”.
But this posed a new problem. The water on board is distilled seawater, with no minerals or electrolytes. As I sweated, salt was flushed out of my system and not being replenished. Thus I began generously sprinkling salt over my meals. It is ironic that I was essentially adding salt to a meal cooked with distilled salt water. Such is the paradox of life.
So there you have it. It took several days to go from rationing water to eating salt. This adaptation took several days to mature but was kept up for the entire journey. Not all adaptations take that long, however. An adaptation which took less than a minute was learning how to shower. Very quickly, I learned that I had to wedge myself firmly in the corner of the shower stall to prevent from falling over!
For instance, during the first day on board, I got thirsty, and realized that I had no idea where to get water. Yes, I could have gone to the pantry and purchased soda, mineral water or beer, but I wanted plain and tap water. At that point, I remembered the jug of water at breakfast and regretted not drinking more. For the next few meals, I adapted myself by drinking like a camel, stocking up on it and trying not to expend much energy during the day. At our first stop in Miami, I made it a point to go and purchase a gallon of drinking water. Even then, I rationed it strictly, for it had to last my whole two weeks at sea. Then, two days into the voyage, I found the water fountain. It tasted delicious. That was the happiest day of my life, even though I still felt like a camel. Stupid as one, that is.
Given now, that I had a steady supply of water, I no longer prevented myself from activities that caused sweating. I started looking for places to do simple exercises. There was a pool, but it was small and looked like it could last for 1½ strokes, so did not look like a feasible place to get any real exercising done. There are three staircases that go the tower structure. Two of them are outside with a sheer drop to the ocean waters below. One is indoors, but the landings are so close to one another that you would get dizzy just turning around so many corners.
Then I found it. It was a hatch at the bow that led into one of the store rooms. It was just the right height to be able to step up and down. And so, every afternoon, I would go to the bow and do a few minutes of step aerobics. It turned out to be a satisfactory workout, although I would constantly glance over my shoulders for fear of being spotted. As I went up and down, the ship would rock to and fro and I found myself wishing for a DVD series on step aerobics. It was the only time in my life to have that wish. Really.
A couple of days later, as I was talking to the 2nd mate about my “discovery”, he said, “why don’t you use the weight room?” I was surprised, for I thought I did a thorough tour of the ship when I came on board. I did not see a weight room. He led me to a door labeled “Void Space” and inside was a large assortment of free weights and a bench press. Of course, I thought to myself. I should have guessed that “Void Space” meant “Weight Room”.
But this posed a new problem. The water on board is distilled seawater, with no minerals or electrolytes. As I sweated, salt was flushed out of my system and not being replenished. Thus I began generously sprinkling salt over my meals. It is ironic that I was essentially adding salt to a meal cooked with distilled salt water. Such is the paradox of life.
So there you have it. It took several days to go from rationing water to eating salt. This adaptation took several days to mature but was kept up for the entire journey. Not all adaptations take that long, however. An adaptation which took less than a minute was learning how to shower. Very quickly, I learned that I had to wedge myself firmly in the corner of the shower stall to prevent from falling over!
Sunday, September 14, 2008
Voyage: Getting to Know the Ital Oceano
So here I was, flying to Savannah to board my freighter. I was nervous, for no one I knew had ever traveled by freighter before. As we landed, we passed over the port itself. From above, the ships looked like miniature game pieces from Axes and Allies and the containers themselves looked like the blue, orange, red and white roads from the Settlers of Catan. My heart raced, both for the excitement of the upcoming journey, but also for nervousness as to whether this was the right decision.
After landing, I called the port, as instructed by the travel agency. The operations manager was very friendly, but confused. “Now, wait a minute, why do you want to go on board?” she asked, with a southern drawl.
“Um…I am the passenger on the ship?” I replied hesitantly.
“Oh.” There was a long pause. “So you’re a paying passenger?”
“Yes I am.”
“Oh, Ok.” Another pause. “Does the captain know your coming?”
“Um…I hope so?” Through the rest of the conversation, she gave me directions on how to enter the port and where to go. When we hung up, I had an uneasy feeling that I would be an unwelcomed guest.
Thus you can imagine my apprehension while boarding the vessel. The 212 meter long ship dwarfed the taxi I was in. I made my way cautiously up the gangplank and was greeted by two Filipino crew members who welcomed me aboard with smiles and laughter. They probably noticed my discomfort as they took down my ticket and passport information, but the more they joked, the more uncomfortable I became. It seemed as if they were merely putting up with me.
A big non-smiling Caucasian walked into the ship’s office wearing white overalls and took a look at me. In thickly accented English, he said “Are you the passenger?” After answering in the affirmative and showing him my papers, he said, “Well, I was not expecting you, but perhaps the captain knows you are arriving. Come with me. I will show you to your cabin.” With that he turned around and took off.
“Great,” I thought to myself. “The port agent was right. They don’t know that I’m coming on board.” My fears of being a parasite were coming to fruition. He led me to a very small elevator and we went to the 7th floor. While in that small space, I learned that he, Petar, was the second officer and a Montenegrin. We arrived at a door marked “Owner” and he said, “This is the officer’s deck. This is your cabin.”
I took a cursory glance. Everything in the room was white, giving it a clean but sterile look. It was of the size of a comfortable single with its own shower. There was a bed, desk, bookshelf, closet, couch and table. Everything was tightly bolted down to the floor or the wall. In effect, it looked like a prison cell.
He continued with his instructions. “Dinner is at 5:30 on Deck A. We set sail at midnight.” I looked at my watch. It was 3:00, nine hours before undocking. As he turned to leave, I realized I had no idea if I was supposed to stay in my room for that entire time. “Excuse me but, is there any place on board that I should not go?”
He shrugged his shoulders. “Go anywhere you’d like. The bridge is right there.” He points up the staircase. “Just don’t go on deck. You need a hard hat and safety training.” With that, he left.
I began to unpack and took stock of what would be my room for the next two week. There was a window over the bed and I was pleased that I had an unobstructed view of the shipyard. I found a mini-fridge under the desk. There were electrical outlets to plug in my laptop. I was pleasantly surprised that the walls were magnetic. It made it easier to attach my map of the world with some souvenir magnets.
I started to wander down the staircase, opening any door that did not look like a personal room or say “Restricted”. Quickly, I located the laundry room, recreation room, a ping pong table, a pool and the mess hall. I ran into the 2nd engineer, a German raised in Lithuania who offered a tour of the engine room. We descended below deck and entered a cavernous chamber painted green-and-white. On the way down, we pass a spare piston that was taller than a human. Then we saw the engine, all 50 feet of it with 8 of those pistons. We continued descending for three stories to reach the base and saw the 2.5 foot shaft attached to the propeller outside the hull. It makes a mean whirling sound that makes migraines seem tame. After the tour, I told the 2nd engineer how impressed I was by the engine. He shrugged his shoulders and said through his thick Russian accent, “This small motor. Last one was three times larger for a ship three times bigger.” All I could think of was “wow.”
I returned upstairs to visit the bridge. Outside of it was an ominous red lightbulb and a large “Restricted” sign. But Petar said I could go, so hesitantly I opened the door, half expecting to be chewed out by someone, but found it quite deserted. The view was amazing. Below us were rows and columns of containers all neatly stacked one on top of another like Legos. Two giant cranes towered above. A steady stream of trucks drove alongside the ship with containers and the cranes would grab one and place it neatly on the ship. I looked up and saw the lone operator controlling the crane and moving containers at a rate of more than one per minute. The crane, I realized, was the ultimate power tool. What an adrenaline rush it must be to operate a 15 story tall piece of machinery?
At dinner, I met the captain. He is Romanian, but spoke perfect English. He too welcomed me on board and after a quick conversation, invited me to the bridge for the launch. At midnight, I made my way up to the darkened bridge where I met the River Pilot, who was responsible for guiding us out into the ocean. He sat at the front of the bridge and beckoned for me to join him. For the next two hours, we talked about hiking, fishing, Europe, traveling, and all the subjects we could think of. Every once and awhile, he would give coordinates to the navigator as we maneuvered around the sand bars.
As we entered the open ocean, I stared out into the black horizon. The bright orange halo from the street lights became fainter as more and more stars became visible in the darken sky. But no matter how black the sky became, the sea was a darker, purer shade of black. Out here, there were no landmarks, no gas stations or 7-11s to take a left at. We were completely dependent on our electronic gadgets, gyroscopic compass, radar, GPS, etc., for navigational support. I felt sympathy and respect for the renaissance sailors who could navigate in these conditions with only magnetic compass and a sextant.
That night, as I lied in bed, all I could think of was what an amazing day it had been. I could feel the bare excitement of the open ocean. I was in a world that only seamen see and experience. The next 15 days were to contain some very unique moments that could only be experienced on a vessel. I would find out that Petar was a very gentle and kind person after you got to know him. But that first night threw away all doubt about traveling by freighter. I knew that I did belong, and was looking forward to the journey across the Atlantic.
After landing, I called the port, as instructed by the travel agency. The operations manager was very friendly, but confused. “Now, wait a minute, why do you want to go on board?” she asked, with a southern drawl.
“Um…I am the passenger on the ship?” I replied hesitantly.
“Oh.” There was a long pause. “So you’re a paying passenger?”
“Yes I am.”
“Oh, Ok.” Another pause. “Does the captain know your coming?”
“Um…I hope so?” Through the rest of the conversation, she gave me directions on how to enter the port and where to go. When we hung up, I had an uneasy feeling that I would be an unwelcomed guest.
Thus you can imagine my apprehension while boarding the vessel. The 212 meter long ship dwarfed the taxi I was in. I made my way cautiously up the gangplank and was greeted by two Filipino crew members who welcomed me aboard with smiles and laughter. They probably noticed my discomfort as they took down my ticket and passport information, but the more they joked, the more uncomfortable I became. It seemed as if they were merely putting up with me.
A big non-smiling Caucasian walked into the ship’s office wearing white overalls and took a look at me. In thickly accented English, he said “Are you the passenger?” After answering in the affirmative and showing him my papers, he said, “Well, I was not expecting you, but perhaps the captain knows you are arriving. Come with me. I will show you to your cabin.” With that he turned around and took off.
“Great,” I thought to myself. “The port agent was right. They don’t know that I’m coming on board.” My fears of being a parasite were coming to fruition. He led me to a very small elevator and we went to the 7th floor. While in that small space, I learned that he, Petar, was the second officer and a Montenegrin. We arrived at a door marked “Owner” and he said, “This is the officer’s deck. This is your cabin.”
I took a cursory glance. Everything in the room was white, giving it a clean but sterile look. It was of the size of a comfortable single with its own shower. There was a bed, desk, bookshelf, closet, couch and table. Everything was tightly bolted down to the floor or the wall. In effect, it looked like a prison cell.
He continued with his instructions. “Dinner is at 5:30 on Deck A. We set sail at midnight.” I looked at my watch. It was 3:00, nine hours before undocking. As he turned to leave, I realized I had no idea if I was supposed to stay in my room for that entire time. “Excuse me but, is there any place on board that I should not go?”
He shrugged his shoulders. “Go anywhere you’d like. The bridge is right there.” He points up the staircase. “Just don’t go on deck. You need a hard hat and safety training.” With that, he left.
I began to unpack and took stock of what would be my room for the next two week. There was a window over the bed and I was pleased that I had an unobstructed view of the shipyard. I found a mini-fridge under the desk. There were electrical outlets to plug in my laptop. I was pleasantly surprised that the walls were magnetic. It made it easier to attach my map of the world with some souvenir magnets.
I started to wander down the staircase, opening any door that did not look like a personal room or say “Restricted”. Quickly, I located the laundry room, recreation room, a ping pong table, a pool and the mess hall. I ran into the 2nd engineer, a German raised in Lithuania who offered a tour of the engine room. We descended below deck and entered a cavernous chamber painted green-and-white. On the way down, we pass a spare piston that was taller than a human. Then we saw the engine, all 50 feet of it with 8 of those pistons. We continued descending for three stories to reach the base and saw the 2.5 foot shaft attached to the propeller outside the hull. It makes a mean whirling sound that makes migraines seem tame. After the tour, I told the 2nd engineer how impressed I was by the engine. He shrugged his shoulders and said through his thick Russian accent, “This small motor. Last one was three times larger for a ship three times bigger.” All I could think of was “wow.”
I returned upstairs to visit the bridge. Outside of it was an ominous red lightbulb and a large “Restricted” sign. But Petar said I could go, so hesitantly I opened the door, half expecting to be chewed out by someone, but found it quite deserted. The view was amazing. Below us were rows and columns of containers all neatly stacked one on top of another like Legos. Two giant cranes towered above. A steady stream of trucks drove alongside the ship with containers and the cranes would grab one and place it neatly on the ship. I looked up and saw the lone operator controlling the crane and moving containers at a rate of more than one per minute. The crane, I realized, was the ultimate power tool. What an adrenaline rush it must be to operate a 15 story tall piece of machinery?
At dinner, I met the captain. He is Romanian, but spoke perfect English. He too welcomed me on board and after a quick conversation, invited me to the bridge for the launch. At midnight, I made my way up to the darkened bridge where I met the River Pilot, who was responsible for guiding us out into the ocean. He sat at the front of the bridge and beckoned for me to join him. For the next two hours, we talked about hiking, fishing, Europe, traveling, and all the subjects we could think of. Every once and awhile, he would give coordinates to the navigator as we maneuvered around the sand bars.
As we entered the open ocean, I stared out into the black horizon. The bright orange halo from the street lights became fainter as more and more stars became visible in the darken sky. But no matter how black the sky became, the sea was a darker, purer shade of black. Out here, there were no landmarks, no gas stations or 7-11s to take a left at. We were completely dependent on our electronic gadgets, gyroscopic compass, radar, GPS, etc., for navigational support. I felt sympathy and respect for the renaissance sailors who could navigate in these conditions with only magnetic compass and a sextant.
That night, as I lied in bed, all I could think of was what an amazing day it had been. I could feel the bare excitement of the open ocean. I was in a world that only seamen see and experience. The next 15 days were to contain some very unique moments that could only be experienced on a vessel. I would find out that Petar was a very gentle and kind person after you got to know him. But that first night threw away all doubt about traveling by freighter. I knew that I did belong, and was looking forward to the journey across the Atlantic.
Saturday, August 30, 2008
Dear Friends,
From Aug 31st to Sept 15th I will be unreachable, as I will be on board the Ital Oceano, a freighter traveling from Savannah, Georgia, to Taranto, Italy. Reactions to this news have run the gauntlet.
“WHAT!?!?!?!” was the common response.
“That’s terrific! You’re going to have such a great time!” sometimes followed.
“Oh my god, you’ll be bored out of your mind!” was the other most common follow-up.
In polling my friends, about half of them thought I was crazy. The other half though I was crazy too, but wanted to hear all about it.
The normal conventions of travel do not exist as surprises pop up at every turn of the whole process. For instance, my ticket was printed in German. Regarding luggage, I was told “Take only as much as you can carry. It is 1-2 miles from the terminal to your ship and you’ll have to walk.” “Oh, and by the way, your Antwerp trip was canceled. But we can rebook you to Italy”.
Friends would hear me talk about this and exclaim with amazement that I was still interested in going.
“But its two weeks of peace and quiet,” I would argue. “No internet, no cell phone.”
“I would rather go to a beach and turn off my cell phone,” they would counter.
“Do you get sea sick?” they would inquire.
“I don’t think so. I’ve never been motion sick before.”
“But you realize it will be hurricane season?”
“Aren’t you worried about pirates?” some would ask.
“Uh, no? They are more of an issue off the coasts of Nigeria and Somalia. I’m going through the Straight of Gibraltar.”
“Dude – do you also go through the Bermuda Triangle?”
“Um…yes?”
So here I am, the day before boarding. Truth be told, I am a tad nervous – no one has told me what language the crew speaks. I wonder if I brought enough books. Whatever happens, it is sure to be an adventure.
http://www.vesseltracker.com/en/Ships/Ital-Oceano-9300984.html
“WHAT!?!?!?!” was the common response.
“That’s terrific! You’re going to have such a great time!” sometimes followed.
“Oh my god, you’ll be bored out of your mind!” was the other most common follow-up.
In polling my friends, about half of them thought I was crazy. The other half though I was crazy too, but wanted to hear all about it.
The normal conventions of travel do not exist as surprises pop up at every turn of the whole process. For instance, my ticket was printed in German. Regarding luggage, I was told “Take only as much as you can carry. It is 1-2 miles from the terminal to your ship and you’ll have to walk.” “Oh, and by the way, your Antwerp trip was canceled. But we can rebook you to Italy”.
Friends would hear me talk about this and exclaim with amazement that I was still interested in going.
“But its two weeks of peace and quiet,” I would argue. “No internet, no cell phone.”
“I would rather go to a beach and turn off my cell phone,” they would counter.
“Do you get sea sick?” they would inquire.
“I don’t think so. I’ve never been motion sick before.”
“But you realize it will be hurricane season?”
“Aren’t you worried about pirates?” some would ask.
“Uh, no? They are more of an issue off the coasts of Nigeria and Somalia. I’m going through the Straight of Gibraltar.”
“Dude – do you also go through the Bermuda Triangle?”
“Um…yes?”
So here I am, the day before boarding. Truth be told, I am a tad nervous – no one has told me what language the crew speaks. I wonder if I brought enough books. Whatever happens, it is sure to be an adventure.
http://www.vesseltracker.com/en/Ships/Ital-Oceano-9300984.html
Roadtrip Second Half Report
There is a popular map of the world that NASA publishes of the entire world at night. You can see the outlines of the continents as cities light up the darkened earth. Upon close inspection of the USA, there is a distinct line in the middle of the country. If you look east, there are large clusters of lights next to large clusters of lights. If you look west, there are sporadic pinpoints, until the solid sheet of light that makes up the California coast. There are not many people in this middle area that make up the Great Plains and the Rocky Mountains. This was the second part of the road trip.
The rural nature is obvious. Kadoka, SD, the closest large town to the South Dakota Badlands has a whopping 5 hotels. Gas stations on the interstate are separated by 40 miles or more. You’d think you couldn’t get any smaller, but then you hit Lost Spring, Wyoming, population 1. Yes, one, lone person. Literally, you miss it in a blink as it is merely a sign next to a house. One can only imagine what sort of industry can be sustained by a population of 1. In fact, the population itself isn’t even stable. It needs at least two.
Some small cities are able to profit on being a tourist trap. Wall, SD is one of these places. The world’s largest drug store is in Wall, covering a city block. But when you walk in, you quickly realize that this is no ordinary drug store. A robotic T-Rex next to the gem sluice roars as you walk to the restrooms. Billboards advertising for Wall Drug start all the way in Minnesota, and there are subsequent ones at least every ten miles. The first few billboards scream of “tourist trap!” especially when they tout their media exposure on Oprah. But when that is all you see for the next 300 miles, you wonder, “is that all that’s out here?” By the time you reach Wall, you feel obligated to at least stop in and take a look at the Western Orchestra, made out of wax figurines. If you’re wondering, yes, they will fill your prescriptions too.
The Bonneville Salt Flat was eerie. It was flat and white. In most of my travels, I have visited cities or natural parks that have some topology – mountains, trees, lakes, valleys. The salt flats are formed when large deposits of salt water evaporate, leaving behind miles and miles of salt that follows the natural curvature of the earth. Even Kansas, scientifically proven to be flatter than a pancake, cannot compare to the pure flatness of the salt flats. It is white for as far as the eye can see. The salt crystals are huge, formed in its natural environment. But what makes it eerie is that it is dead. Death Valley, by its namesake, is dead, but every year, after a spring shower, wild flowers shoot up for a few short weeks and spread their seeds before succumbing to the brutal environment. Death Valley is called that because life does not usually grow. But nothing can grow on salt. The flats are eerie because there is no choice for life.
What amazes me the most about America is the amazing extremes the country has to offer. Twenty-four hours after the salt flats, I drove through the San Joachim Valley of California, home to some of the best fruit crops. At the Casa De Fruta store, there were dried mangos, kiwis, strawberries, cherries, apricots, along with a dozen different nuts roasted a dozen different ways, such as tequila walnuts, chili pistachios, and guacamole almonds. But be careful. This too is a tourist trap. After being welcomed by the parking lot peacock, you can go to Casa de Restaurant for meals, Casa de Sweets for candy, and Casa de Choo Choo for the kid that lives in all of us.
Thus I arrived at my destination, having visited majestic mountains and urban jungles, harsh deserts and fertile farmlands. I feel rested and full of memories of people, places and things. My favorite moment was staring at the sky in the Grand Tetons, seeing the Milky Way and thinking how we are being whipped around the galactic core at thousands of miles per second and the only thing keeping us from flying off into oblivion is a force called gravity. Then I fell asleep. My friends along the route, thank you for your hospitality; my country, thank you for sharing your beauty; and my car, thank you for not overheating.
The rural nature is obvious. Kadoka, SD, the closest large town to the South Dakota Badlands has a whopping 5 hotels. Gas stations on the interstate are separated by 40 miles or more. You’d think you couldn’t get any smaller, but then you hit Lost Spring, Wyoming, population 1. Yes, one, lone person. Literally, you miss it in a blink as it is merely a sign next to a house. One can only imagine what sort of industry can be sustained by a population of 1. In fact, the population itself isn’t even stable. It needs at least two.
Some small cities are able to profit on being a tourist trap. Wall, SD is one of these places. The world’s largest drug store is in Wall, covering a city block. But when you walk in, you quickly realize that this is no ordinary drug store. A robotic T-Rex next to the gem sluice roars as you walk to the restrooms. Billboards advertising for Wall Drug start all the way in Minnesota, and there are subsequent ones at least every ten miles. The first few billboards scream of “tourist trap!” especially when they tout their media exposure on Oprah. But when that is all you see for the next 300 miles, you wonder, “is that all that’s out here?” By the time you reach Wall, you feel obligated to at least stop in and take a look at the Western Orchestra, made out of wax figurines. If you’re wondering, yes, they will fill your prescriptions too.
The Bonneville Salt Flat was eerie. It was flat and white. In most of my travels, I have visited cities or natural parks that have some topology – mountains, trees, lakes, valleys. The salt flats are formed when large deposits of salt water evaporate, leaving behind miles and miles of salt that follows the natural curvature of the earth. Even Kansas, scientifically proven to be flatter than a pancake, cannot compare to the pure flatness of the salt flats. It is white for as far as the eye can see. The salt crystals are huge, formed in its natural environment. But what makes it eerie is that it is dead. Death Valley, by its namesake, is dead, but every year, after a spring shower, wild flowers shoot up for a few short weeks and spread their seeds before succumbing to the brutal environment. Death Valley is called that because life does not usually grow. But nothing can grow on salt. The flats are eerie because there is no choice for life.
What amazes me the most about America is the amazing extremes the country has to offer. Twenty-four hours after the salt flats, I drove through the San Joachim Valley of California, home to some of the best fruit crops. At the Casa De Fruta store, there were dried mangos, kiwis, strawberries, cherries, apricots, along with a dozen different nuts roasted a dozen different ways, such as tequila walnuts, chili pistachios, and guacamole almonds. But be careful. This too is a tourist trap. After being welcomed by the parking lot peacock, you can go to Casa de Restaurant for meals, Casa de Sweets for candy, and Casa de Choo Choo for the kid that lives in all of us.
Thus I arrived at my destination, having visited majestic mountains and urban jungles, harsh deserts and fertile farmlands. I feel rested and full of memories of people, places and things. My favorite moment was staring at the sky in the Grand Tetons, seeing the Milky Way and thinking how we are being whipped around the galactic core at thousands of miles per second and the only thing keeping us from flying off into oblivion is a force called gravity. Then I fell asleep. My friends along the route, thank you for your hospitality; my country, thank you for sharing your beauty; and my car, thank you for not overheating.
Thursday, August 14, 2008
Hiking in the Grand Teton National Forest
Dave and I were finally going to be climbing Jackson Peak in the Teton National Forest in Wyoming. This 10,700 peak is south of the national park and gives a grand view of the mountains in the horizon and the valley and buttes below. From a distance, you could see snow on parts of the mountain through the rugged terrain. Our plan was simple. On the first day, we would climb up to Goodwin Lake at 9000 feet and set up camp. From there, we would take the second day to summit the peak at 10,700.
To guide us through the harrowing journey, we hired a local sherpa, Dawa, to lead the expedition. He had safely taken many people up to the summit before and we felt confident that he would be able to lead us safely. He spent much time warning us of the dangers of what we were attempting, but we were determined. After agreeing to help us, Dawa rounded up an expedition of 10 men along with a full complement of horses and mules. He purchased nearly 2 weeks worth of food and supplies, including fresh basil for cooking and a glockenspiel for the evening’s entertainment. Confident that we had everything we need, we set off on the journey.
As we started off on our hike, tragedy struck. One of our horses was not shoed properly and quickly lost her footing on the rocky path. She fell over and was in no condition to continue. Determined to overlook this temporary setback, we set off on our journey. Two long hours later, we arrived in a daze at the Goodwin Lake campsite. The first part of the journey was much more difficult than any of us could have anticipated. A wandering bear had attacked our group and took out two sherpas before we were able to subdue it with the most blunt of force. They were the masseuse sherpas for we had hoped to rest our aching muscles at base camp that night. Along with them went a few of the horses that carried scented perfumes and oils. The odor of the broken bottles attracted a herd of attack chipmunks that crossed our path. There were too many of these little pests such that our machetes were of no use. Dawa commanded us to out-run them and so the crew took off on a sprint. When we stopped to catch our breath, we found that 3 sherpas lost their nerves and ran back to the starting point, 4 were still with us, and one was unaccounted for. Animalwise, we had lost a total of four mules and two more horses.
Goodwin Lake, named for its discoverer, Goodwin, appears calm on the surface. Its crystal clear water flows from snowmelt in surrounding mountains. Nestled between several hills, it is protected from the harsh winds and is somewhat of a sanctuary in the wilderness. The pine trees grow calmly and quietly and reflect in the water below. As the sun set, the surrounding hills turned deep red and the sky turned an ominous blue. As night set in, we sat outside, staring at the Milky Way and surrounding visible stars, clear of air pollution and light pollution. Dawa, playing the glockenspiel, brooded about the hike. “This not right. Stars is not right. Wind is not right. Trouble for climb tomorrow. Better rest well tonight.” He then got up and went into his tent and left us with a haunted feeling that maybe we were over our head in what we could handle.
The next day, we awoke to two more horses missing. When we questioned Dawa, he quickly said, “Never mind horses! We need to get moving before worse happen!” Up and up we went, hiking through forests, scaling boulders and occasionally passing though patches of snow. Every once and awhile, we would take a rest in a meadow before continuing our upward trek. It was a strenuous hike – one of the sherpas collapsed in exhaustion and slid down a rocky side of the mountain.
The scene was beautiful. Across the low-lying valley, the snow covered Grand Teton mountains rose majestically in the distance. Clouds hung effortlessly above us and were close enough that you could seemingly touch them in the next mountain range. Green meadows, pine trees, snow and rocks littered the surrounding mountains to make a beautiful collage of colors and textures. Words can describe the world as it unfolded to us but it cannot capture the emotive beauty of the moment. As we looked around, we saw Goodwin Lake from above and understood the reason for Dawa’s haste in leaving in the early morning. There was a giant eel-like creature swimming in circles. What had looked like gnarled tree branches were in actuality digested bone fragments form this horrible creature!
When we returned to camp, we understood what happened to the animals last night. Dawa had left them tied up next to the lake as an offering, hoping to satiate the lake monster such that it would leave us alone. Tonight, we helped Dawa and his crew perform the same gruesome task. We only had two horses left, but Dawa was adamant. “Tie both next to lake!” he demanded. “Better them than us!” We went to bed fearful of any sound that came out of the woods.
The next morning at sunrise, we were awoken with a “whoosh” off in the distance. Dawa ran out from his tent to the lake just in time to see the tail of the giant eel disappear into the lake. The horses were nowhere to be seen. Dawa ran back to camp. “Quickly! Leave now! Monster feeds in the morning!” We immediately began to break down the tents and put away our gear. Fear was in the eyes of our remaining Sherpas. “No more time! Must leave now!” Dawa yelled. We took what we had put into our packs and ran off on foot as fast as we could. As we approached the trail near the lake, we saw two giant eyes looking at us and we took off on a sprint. Behind us, we could hear the yell of two of our sherpas that lagged behind a bit too long and a few more seconds later, silence, except for the crackling of branches below our feet.
Dawa, Dave and I, the only three left on the expedition, slowed down to catch our breath once we were a good distance from the lake. “Good job”, said Dawa, huffing and puffing, more tired than we’ve seen him this entire journey. “I have seen that monster eye to eye many times. Each time he scares me. Do not tempt monster.” We were proud that we performed so well in the face of such danger. We stumbled the rest of the way down the hill. Just as we were about to turn around the clearing to where the car was parked, Dawa collapsed.
“Dawa!” I exclaimed. “You cannot stop now! We are almost at the car! You can almost see it from here!”
1301
1505
Dawa shook his head as I held his hands. “It is too late for me. I have seen it in the creature’s eyes. He had claimed me. It is my time to go.”
“Dawa! No!”
But it was too late. With one last nod, his head ceased to move and his body became a lifeless mass.
Somberly, Dave and I made it the rest of the way to the car with no problems. As we drove off down from the parking lot, we could not but think back and remember our brave sherpa guide, his crew of able-bodied men, and the spectacular views and scenery that unfolded before our eyes. Photos can only act as memory beads to the weekend’s events. And for as long as I live, I shall never be able to look at a glockenspiel without remembering this story.
A suspiciously calm looking Goodwin lake. Who knew danger lurked below?
The Grand Tetons mountain range as seen from Jackson Peak, a treacherous hike.
To guide us through the harrowing journey, we hired a local sherpa, Dawa, to lead the expedition. He had safely taken many people up to the summit before and we felt confident that he would be able to lead us safely. He spent much time warning us of the dangers of what we were attempting, but we were determined. After agreeing to help us, Dawa rounded up an expedition of 10 men along with a full complement of horses and mules. He purchased nearly 2 weeks worth of food and supplies, including fresh basil for cooking and a glockenspiel for the evening’s entertainment. Confident that we had everything we need, we set off on the journey.
As we started off on our hike, tragedy struck. One of our horses was not shoed properly and quickly lost her footing on the rocky path. She fell over and was in no condition to continue. Determined to overlook this temporary setback, we set off on our journey. Two long hours later, we arrived in a daze at the Goodwin Lake campsite. The first part of the journey was much more difficult than any of us could have anticipated. A wandering bear had attacked our group and took out two sherpas before we were able to subdue it with the most blunt of force. They were the masseuse sherpas for we had hoped to rest our aching muscles at base camp that night. Along with them went a few of the horses that carried scented perfumes and oils. The odor of the broken bottles attracted a herd of attack chipmunks that crossed our path. There were too many of these little pests such that our machetes were of no use. Dawa commanded us to out-run them and so the crew took off on a sprint. When we stopped to catch our breath, we found that 3 sherpas lost their nerves and ran back to the starting point, 4 were still with us, and one was unaccounted for. Animalwise, we had lost a total of four mules and two more horses.
Goodwin Lake, named for its discoverer, Goodwin, appears calm on the surface. Its crystal clear water flows from snowmelt in surrounding mountains. Nestled between several hills, it is protected from the harsh winds and is somewhat of a sanctuary in the wilderness. The pine trees grow calmly and quietly and reflect in the water below. As the sun set, the surrounding hills turned deep red and the sky turned an ominous blue. As night set in, we sat outside, staring at the Milky Way and surrounding visible stars, clear of air pollution and light pollution. Dawa, playing the glockenspiel, brooded about the hike. “This not right. Stars is not right. Wind is not right. Trouble for climb tomorrow. Better rest well tonight.” He then got up and went into his tent and left us with a haunted feeling that maybe we were over our head in what we could handle.
The next day, we awoke to two more horses missing. When we questioned Dawa, he quickly said, “Never mind horses! We need to get moving before worse happen!” Up and up we went, hiking through forests, scaling boulders and occasionally passing though patches of snow. Every once and awhile, we would take a rest in a meadow before continuing our upward trek. It was a strenuous hike – one of the sherpas collapsed in exhaustion and slid down a rocky side of the mountain.
The scene was beautiful. Across the low-lying valley, the snow covered Grand Teton mountains rose majestically in the distance. Clouds hung effortlessly above us and were close enough that you could seemingly touch them in the next mountain range. Green meadows, pine trees, snow and rocks littered the surrounding mountains to make a beautiful collage of colors and textures. Words can describe the world as it unfolded to us but it cannot capture the emotive beauty of the moment. As we looked around, we saw Goodwin Lake from above and understood the reason for Dawa’s haste in leaving in the early morning. There was a giant eel-like creature swimming in circles. What had looked like gnarled tree branches were in actuality digested bone fragments form this horrible creature!
When we returned to camp, we understood what happened to the animals last night. Dawa had left them tied up next to the lake as an offering, hoping to satiate the lake monster such that it would leave us alone. Tonight, we helped Dawa and his crew perform the same gruesome task. We only had two horses left, but Dawa was adamant. “Tie both next to lake!” he demanded. “Better them than us!” We went to bed fearful of any sound that came out of the woods.
The next morning at sunrise, we were awoken with a “whoosh” off in the distance. Dawa ran out from his tent to the lake just in time to see the tail of the giant eel disappear into the lake. The horses were nowhere to be seen. Dawa ran back to camp. “Quickly! Leave now! Monster feeds in the morning!” We immediately began to break down the tents and put away our gear. Fear was in the eyes of our remaining Sherpas. “No more time! Must leave now!” Dawa yelled. We took what we had put into our packs and ran off on foot as fast as we could. As we approached the trail near the lake, we saw two giant eyes looking at us and we took off on a sprint. Behind us, we could hear the yell of two of our sherpas that lagged behind a bit too long and a few more seconds later, silence, except for the crackling of branches below our feet.
Dawa, Dave and I, the only three left on the expedition, slowed down to catch our breath once we were a good distance from the lake. “Good job”, said Dawa, huffing and puffing, more tired than we’ve seen him this entire journey. “I have seen that monster eye to eye many times. Each time he scares me. Do not tempt monster.” We were proud that we performed so well in the face of such danger. We stumbled the rest of the way down the hill. Just as we were about to turn around the clearing to where the car was parked, Dawa collapsed.
“Dawa!” I exclaimed. “You cannot stop now! We are almost at the car! You can almost see it from here!”
1301
1505
Dawa shook his head as I held his hands. “It is too late for me. I have seen it in the creature’s eyes. He had claimed me. It is my time to go.”
“Dawa! No!”
But it was too late. With one last nod, his head ceased to move and his body became a lifeless mass.
Somberly, Dave and I made it the rest of the way to the car with no problems. As we drove off down from the parking lot, we could not but think back and remember our brave sherpa guide, his crew of able-bodied men, and the spectacular views and scenery that unfolded before our eyes. Photos can only act as memory beads to the weekend’s events. And for as long as I live, I shall never be able to look at a glockenspiel without remembering this story.
A suspiciously calm looking Goodwin lake. Who knew danger lurked below?
The Grand Tetons mountain range as seen from Jackson Peak, a treacherous hike.Monday, August 4, 2008
Canvas in the Sky
Brush strokes of orange, red, purple and made up the clouds while the dark silhouette of the distant hills provided the horizon. The sky itself became vivid red for a moment and reflected itself onto the dark green grassland below. All around, the crickets chirped their approval, the horseflies buzzed with excitement and the mosquitoes … feasted. Dave and I were at the world’s largest 4-D IMAX Theater and boy, were we treated to a show.
I picked up my housemate Dave at the Minneapolis - St. Paul airport halfway through my trek across the northern part of America. We went to the Mall of America in Minneapolis for lunch, which was merely one exit away on the highway. It is the world’s largest mall and it feels like a fantasy world, to wander through the labyrinth of halls, walkways and staircases. Its size and scope is apparent by the full—fledged amusement park in the center of the mall and the food courts. Yes, “courts”. There are multiple.
But we had quite a bit of a drive to get to the world’s largest 4-D IMAX. The Badlands National Park is about a 8 hour drive away without stops in the southwestern corner of South Dakota. Hours and hours of passed of corn growing on rolling hills, prairies, and truck stops finally brought us to the entrance gate. From the visitor’s center, it took about another hour of driving through winding paved and dirt roads before we reached a suitable overlook. We then donned our packs and headed off into the grassland below, climbing over rocks, buttes and ravines.
The Badlands are a unique place to go hiking. Most of the park is grassland so there is no point in building trails. The buttes are also free to climb, being of dry clay formations. Furthermore, buffalos roam freely and climb whatever butte they want. Buttes, by the way, are a geological formation where a higher ground erodes away into a lower ground. Sometimes, the erosion does not happen uniformly and jutted figures form at the points of slow erosion. Over time, the valley itself sinks so much that the buttes become veritable hills.
We walked for an hour south of our parked car. Every time we moved through the knee-deep grass, herds of crickets would jump in front of us as we disturbed their environment. We could not move too fast, as there were bison hoof tracks that were big and deep enough to twist your ankle, should you step in the wrong place. The grass was also littered with bison pies the size of your head. Eventually, we arrived at a spot nestled between two ranges of buttes and set up camp.
As we ate our dinner, the show started. The sky turned dark blue and the clouds became fiery red. Along the periphery, purple clouds shown down to the clay hills turning them reddish purple. Behind us, the orange sun only accentuated the red striations in eroded earth. We sat there in the evening breeze happily snapping photo after photo as the scenes evolved around us. When the sky finally became dark, the sky became littered with stars, satellites, and meteors. All the while, the crickets chirped, the horseflies buzzed, and the mosquitoes…feasted.
I picked up my housemate Dave at the Minneapolis - St. Paul airport halfway through my trek across the northern part of America. We went to the Mall of America in Minneapolis for lunch, which was merely one exit away on the highway. It is the world’s largest mall and it feels like a fantasy world, to wander through the labyrinth of halls, walkways and staircases. Its size and scope is apparent by the full—fledged amusement park in the center of the mall and the food courts. Yes, “courts”. There are multiple.
But we had quite a bit of a drive to get to the world’s largest 4-D IMAX. The Badlands National Park is about a 8 hour drive away without stops in the southwestern corner of South Dakota. Hours and hours of passed of corn growing on rolling hills, prairies, and truck stops finally brought us to the entrance gate. From the visitor’s center, it took about another hour of driving through winding paved and dirt roads before we reached a suitable overlook. We then donned our packs and headed off into the grassland below, climbing over rocks, buttes and ravines.
The Badlands are a unique place to go hiking. Most of the park is grassland so there is no point in building trails. The buttes are also free to climb, being of dry clay formations. Furthermore, buffalos roam freely and climb whatever butte they want. Buttes, by the way, are a geological formation where a higher ground erodes away into a lower ground. Sometimes, the erosion does not happen uniformly and jutted figures form at the points of slow erosion. Over time, the valley itself sinks so much that the buttes become veritable hills.
We walked for an hour south of our parked car. Every time we moved through the knee-deep grass, herds of crickets would jump in front of us as we disturbed their environment. We could not move too fast, as there were bison hoof tracks that were big and deep enough to twist your ankle, should you step in the wrong place. The grass was also littered with bison pies the size of your head. Eventually, we arrived at a spot nestled between two ranges of buttes and set up camp.
As we ate our dinner, the show started. The sky turned dark blue and the clouds became fiery red. Along the periphery, purple clouds shown down to the clay hills turning them reddish purple. Behind us, the orange sun only accentuated the red striations in eroded earth. We sat there in the evening breeze happily snapping photo after photo as the scenes evolved around us. When the sky finally became dark, the sky became littered with stars, satellites, and meteors. All the while, the crickets chirped, the horseflies buzzed, and the mosquitoes…feasted.
Monday, July 28, 2008
The Roadtrip Half-Time Report
Road trips can be the exemplar studies of random spontaneity. Nothing can be more random and cause a more spontaneous reaction than the I Love Lucy Museum in her hometown, Jamestown NY. What are you supposed to do, dear reader, when you are confronted with a billboard-sized face of our favorite red-head with the printed imperative “Exit Now!” Yes, it did put me two hours behind on the already long leg from Ithaca, NY to Lexington, KY, but it was worth it. I Love Lucy paraphernalia is readily available in any major tourist attraction, but this was the mother-lode. In fact, you couldn’t buy anything without her likeliness, be it cup, dish, t-shirt or underwear.
Ohio was the most aromatic of states. In driving through the north, you could smell sweet corn as they ripened on the stalk. In passing by Columbus, the capital, you could smell the landfill as the refuse stink wafted over the interstate. And as you got close to the Kentucky border, horse and cow manure permeated the air. The second place winner was Wisconsin, when the interstate weaved right by a mint farm.
In America, we have these people called “presidents” and we like to build statues after their names. One of these statues resides in Cincinnati in Garfield Square, named for James A. Garfield, the 18th president. This reminds me: have you ever heard of the comic strip Garfield minus Garfield (http://garfieldminusgarfield.net/)? Apparently, if you remove the cat Garfield completely from the strip, it becomes surreal yet incredibly funny in it's own right. Imagine what the USA would have been like if we did not have President Garfield. Coincidentally, President Garfield was assassinated 8 months into his administration. Surreal, isn’t it?
The American Diner is a fine example of the ingenuity it took to standardize food quality across the thousands of miles of roads that make up American highways. In order to meet the difficulties in supply, the foods are made from goods that were readily available across the country, such as eggs, beef and potatoes. In order to satisfy even the pickiest eaters, the dishes are filling yet inoffensive in smell and taste. In order to standardize cooking practices, skillets and deep fryers are the only cooking methods allowed. In essence, everything must be fried to a standard blandness.
In that regard, the Taco Salad I had for lunch was a smashing success. The diner succeeded in not only making a salad into fried grease ball, but they also succeeded in removing the spicy pectins from a Jalapeno pepper. The lettuce was crunchy, tasteless and full of water. Imagine my surprise when I realized that, half way through the salad, that the tomatoes did not have their tartness. They were so bland that I did not even know they were in the salad until I found one while picking at my food.
In Indiana, the most popular billboard advertisement was for billboard advertising space.
In Wisconsin, I got stung by a mosquito. Normally this is not anything to write home about, but in this particular time, I got stung on my right hand ring finger, right next to my Brass Rat. I went to bed not thinking anything of it, but I woke up the next morning with the ring constricting the swollen finger and I could not budge it over the now swollen knuckle. Taking a page from the MacGyver textbook, I recalled an episode where he escaped from being tied down by using water as a lubricant. I went into the shower, soaped up my finger, and painfully pulled the ring off.
That’s it for now. More stories to come.
Ohio was the most aromatic of states. In driving through the north, you could smell sweet corn as they ripened on the stalk. In passing by Columbus, the capital, you could smell the landfill as the refuse stink wafted over the interstate. And as you got close to the Kentucky border, horse and cow manure permeated the air. The second place winner was Wisconsin, when the interstate weaved right by a mint farm.
In America, we have these people called “presidents” and we like to build statues after their names. One of these statues resides in Cincinnati in Garfield Square, named for James A. Garfield, the 18th president. This reminds me: have you ever heard of the comic strip Garfield minus Garfield (http://garfieldminusgarfield.net/)? Apparently, if you remove the cat Garfield completely from the strip, it becomes surreal yet incredibly funny in it's own right. Imagine what the USA would have been like if we did not have President Garfield. Coincidentally, President Garfield was assassinated 8 months into his administration. Surreal, isn’t it?
The American Diner is a fine example of the ingenuity it took to standardize food quality across the thousands of miles of roads that make up American highways. In order to meet the difficulties in supply, the foods are made from goods that were readily available across the country, such as eggs, beef and potatoes. In order to satisfy even the pickiest eaters, the dishes are filling yet inoffensive in smell and taste. In order to standardize cooking practices, skillets and deep fryers are the only cooking methods allowed. In essence, everything must be fried to a standard blandness.
In that regard, the Taco Salad I had for lunch was a smashing success. The diner succeeded in not only making a salad into fried grease ball, but they also succeeded in removing the spicy pectins from a Jalapeno pepper. The lettuce was crunchy, tasteless and full of water. Imagine my surprise when I realized that, half way through the salad, that the tomatoes did not have their tartness. They were so bland that I did not even know they were in the salad until I found one while picking at my food.
In Indiana, the most popular billboard advertisement was for billboard advertising space.
In Wisconsin, I got stung by a mosquito. Normally this is not anything to write home about, but in this particular time, I got stung on my right hand ring finger, right next to my Brass Rat. I went to bed not thinking anything of it, but I woke up the next morning with the ring constricting the swollen finger and I could not budge it over the now swollen knuckle. Taking a page from the MacGyver textbook, I recalled an episode where he escaped from being tied down by using water as a lubricant. I went into the shower, soaped up my finger, and painfully pulled the ring off.
That’s it for now. More stories to come.
Friday, July 25, 2008
Gambling with Postcards
I am at Hoosier Park in Indiana. It is a racetrack and casino, popular with many of the locals. I am sitting at the roulette table watching the ball go round and round. Occasionally, I would glance haphazardly around the room and see people forgetting their worries and having the time of their lives smoking, drinking, and losing money. I too, lose myself in the momentary rush of a spin and forget my misery, for I could not find a postcard.
Let me explain. I have an obsession with postcard. Ever since high school, I have bought a postcard at every place I’ve ever visited. This has created a nice collection of travel logs of different places I’ve been and things I’ve done. On the other hand, it has also caused me undue stress when a postcard cannot be found. This happened once in Houston – I did not get a chance to buy a postcard and to this day, there is a place-holder for it for it in my postcard album.
The day before, I arrived in Cincinnati too late to be able to visit the touristy areas. The museums had closed and I figured that I would have the next morning to find one. However, my host lived north of the city and since I was northward bound, it did not make sense to pay for a parking space in the city just for a postcard. After breakfast, I left in the direction of Indiana, thinking that I could pick up a postcard at some attraction on the way, or at, the very least, a gas station.
As it turns out, Cincinnati is merely 20 miles away from the border, and when I got on the interstate, I realized the shortness of time and distance I had to accomplish this mission. I stopped at the first gas station, having to fill up my tank anyways, and entered into the travel mart. No postcard. I feigned as if I needed the men’s room, used the facilities, and left. There were several more exits before the border, so I drove to the next gas station and walked in. No postcard. I had already used the men’s room, so I bought a bag of potato chips. At the next stop, I still had no luck. I thought to myself, “What are the chances that no gas station between Cincinnati and Indiana will sell postcards?” Five bags of potato chips, two Twinkies and a Gatorade later, I concluded “100%”.
After crossing the border into Indiana, I decided to change tactics. Instead of stopping at every gas station, I would stop at the first tourist attraction and go to the gift shop. Thus I ended up at the Hoosier Park Racetrack and Casino. I walk into the smoked filled room, made my way around islands of flashing slot machines and while inundated with background racket beeps and clanks. The room was filled with sad and miserable people, gambling their hard earned cash away in the hopes of something better. Retirees attached to oxygen machines stared intently at the slot machines praying for their jackpot. The gift shop too, was depressingly small and although there was a large selection of “Get Well Soon!” cards, there was not a single postcard. Dejected, I sat down at the Roulette table. I anted my postcard budget and joined the masses in forgetting my troubles.
I lamented this story to my friend whom I was visiting in Culver, Indiana. She cheerfully replied, “Well, Culver may be a small town, but I do know the hardware store sells postcards. In fact, I bought one last week there!” Happily, we walked to the hardware store that served the town of 7000. When we arrived, we saw a container marked “Postcards: $1.00” - empty. We questioned the owner of the store and he confirmed that not only were they completely out, but he had just sold the last one only moments ago. Seeing my crushed look, he quickly added, “But you can go down the street to the Poet and Painter. They sell postcards.” We made a beeline to the store and sure enough, there was quite a nice selection. I was happier than an ant in a sugar factory.
I bought 7 and put my roulette winnings to good use too.
Let me explain. I have an obsession with postcard. Ever since high school, I have bought a postcard at every place I’ve ever visited. This has created a nice collection of travel logs of different places I’ve been and things I’ve done. On the other hand, it has also caused me undue stress when a postcard cannot be found. This happened once in Houston – I did not get a chance to buy a postcard and to this day, there is a place-holder for it for it in my postcard album.
The day before, I arrived in Cincinnati too late to be able to visit the touristy areas. The museums had closed and I figured that I would have the next morning to find one. However, my host lived north of the city and since I was northward bound, it did not make sense to pay for a parking space in the city just for a postcard. After breakfast, I left in the direction of Indiana, thinking that I could pick up a postcard at some attraction on the way, or at, the very least, a gas station.
As it turns out, Cincinnati is merely 20 miles away from the border, and when I got on the interstate, I realized the shortness of time and distance I had to accomplish this mission. I stopped at the first gas station, having to fill up my tank anyways, and entered into the travel mart. No postcard. I feigned as if I needed the men’s room, used the facilities, and left. There were several more exits before the border, so I drove to the next gas station and walked in. No postcard. I had already used the men’s room, so I bought a bag of potato chips. At the next stop, I still had no luck. I thought to myself, “What are the chances that no gas station between Cincinnati and Indiana will sell postcards?” Five bags of potato chips, two Twinkies and a Gatorade later, I concluded “100%”.
After crossing the border into Indiana, I decided to change tactics. Instead of stopping at every gas station, I would stop at the first tourist attraction and go to the gift shop. Thus I ended up at the Hoosier Park Racetrack and Casino. I walk into the smoked filled room, made my way around islands of flashing slot machines and while inundated with background racket beeps and clanks. The room was filled with sad and miserable people, gambling their hard earned cash away in the hopes of something better. Retirees attached to oxygen machines stared intently at the slot machines praying for their jackpot. The gift shop too, was depressingly small and although there was a large selection of “Get Well Soon!” cards, there was not a single postcard. Dejected, I sat down at the Roulette table. I anted my postcard budget and joined the masses in forgetting my troubles.
I lamented this story to my friend whom I was visiting in Culver, Indiana. She cheerfully replied, “Well, Culver may be a small town, but I do know the hardware store sells postcards. In fact, I bought one last week there!” Happily, we walked to the hardware store that served the town of 7000. When we arrived, we saw a container marked “Postcards: $1.00” - empty. We questioned the owner of the store and he confirmed that not only were they completely out, but he had just sold the last one only moments ago. Seeing my crushed look, he quickly added, “But you can go down the street to the Poet and Painter. They sell postcards.” We made a beeline to the store and sure enough, there was quite a nice selection. I was happier than an ant in a sugar factory.
I bought 7 and put my roulette winnings to good use too.
Tuesday, July 22, 2008
87600 Hours in Boston
Boston is a great place to visit. It is a historic city, with roots from before the revolutionary war. Its neighborhoods are quaint and each has a distinct atmosphere and personality. Most people come for a weekend or a few weekdays. I would recommend 10 years as an ideal stay in order to really get to know the city and to be able to act like a local.
Where to stay:
You should try to get accommodations at one of the local colleges or universities. These accommodations are popular and deadlines for applications are typically in March for a September room. Your commitment to one of these accommodations is about 4 years, although some people like it so much they will extend their stay for several years. Amenities will vary, depending on the college, and depending on how long you’ve been at one. Prices range from expensive ($$$$ - Harvard, MIT, Boston University) to the economical ($ - Bunker Hill Community College). While there, you should take advantages of the free activities offered at these living communities, such as Introduction to Differential Equations, or The Opera and the Mind. Some will have state-of-the-art athletic facilities are available for general use, including Olympic-sized pools.
What to do:
The easiest way to find a job in Boston is to look on monster.com or careerbuilder.com. Many temp agencies also work in the area, such as Beacon Hill Staffing Group and the Professional Staffing Group. Jobs vary from simple but busy assistant positions all the way up to roller-coaster rides on the financial markets. Working for a living not for you? You can also make it as a well-paying bum. The local homeless are known by the street corner they frequent or the Dunkin’ Donuts they occupy. Boston is the only city I know where the obituary of a homeless man can make the front page of the newspaper.
Where to eat:
The cheapest place to eat in Boston is at a friend’s house. Befriend a whole bunch of people and invite yourself over to dinner on a rotating basis. Make sure that don’t go to any one person’s place more than once a month. Also make sure that your friends don’t know each other. This way, you can easily rotate trough many of them without being caught. Always make an offer to bring drinks and some recipe ideas so that it seems like you are contributing to the evening’s party.
Your stay in Boston will surely be memorable and you will find that you’ve may even feel like a local after a decade. You may find it difficult to leave. The best way to do so is to chain yourself to a tractor-trailer and not let yourself free until you reach Cincinnati. That way, it would be difficult to hitchhike back. Just make sure the tractor-trailer is a U-Haul, all of your belongings are inside, and you are in the driver’s seat. As you drive off into the sunset (literally), you can reminisce about close friends, fond memories and good times. And more than once, you might wish that the sun set in the east instead of the west, so that you didn’t have to be staring at it while driving on the highway.
Where to stay:
You should try to get accommodations at one of the local colleges or universities. These accommodations are popular and deadlines for applications are typically in March for a September room. Your commitment to one of these accommodations is about 4 years, although some people like it so much they will extend their stay for several years. Amenities will vary, depending on the college, and depending on how long you’ve been at one. Prices range from expensive ($$$$ - Harvard, MIT, Boston University) to the economical ($ - Bunker Hill Community College). While there, you should take advantages of the free activities offered at these living communities, such as Introduction to Differential Equations, or The Opera and the Mind. Some will have state-of-the-art athletic facilities are available for general use, including Olympic-sized pools.
What to do:
The easiest way to find a job in Boston is to look on monster.com or careerbuilder.com. Many temp agencies also work in the area, such as Beacon Hill Staffing Group and the Professional Staffing Group. Jobs vary from simple but busy assistant positions all the way up to roller-coaster rides on the financial markets. Working for a living not for you? You can also make it as a well-paying bum. The local homeless are known by the street corner they frequent or the Dunkin’ Donuts they occupy. Boston is the only city I know where the obituary of a homeless man can make the front page of the newspaper.
Where to eat:
The cheapest place to eat in Boston is at a friend’s house. Befriend a whole bunch of people and invite yourself over to dinner on a rotating basis. Make sure that don’t go to any one person’s place more than once a month. Also make sure that your friends don’t know each other. This way, you can easily rotate trough many of them without being caught. Always make an offer to bring drinks and some recipe ideas so that it seems like you are contributing to the evening’s party.
Your stay in Boston will surely be memorable and you will find that you’ve may even feel like a local after a decade. You may find it difficult to leave. The best way to do so is to chain yourself to a tractor-trailer and not let yourself free until you reach Cincinnati. That way, it would be difficult to hitchhike back. Just make sure the tractor-trailer is a U-Haul, all of your belongings are inside, and you are in the driver’s seat. As you drive off into the sunset (literally), you can reminisce about close friends, fond memories and good times. And more than once, you might wish that the sun set in the east instead of the west, so that you didn’t have to be staring at it while driving on the highway.
Goodbyes are not forever.
Goodbyes are not the end.
They simply mean I'll miss you
Until we meet again!
~Author Unknown
Goodbyes are not the end.
They simply mean I'll miss you
Until we meet again!
~Author Unknown
Monday, June 30, 2008
The T-Terminus Trek Travelog
My friend Matt Herman once asked www.chacha.com, "How long would it take to ride to every terminus station on the Boston subway system?" The answer he received was, "A looooooong time." On Saturday, June 28th, Matt and I endeavored to find out how long a "looooooong" time took. There were a couple of ground rules. Our goal was to reach every terminus station via public transportation. That meant we allowed ourselves to travel between terminus stations that were nearby. We would travel every length of track that was operational – shuttle bus service did not qualify and we would skip lines that had no weekend service. Furthermore, by spending a day traveling to the far reaches of the subway, we would also be able to answer a secondary question: What sort of people live in the different neighborhoods of Boston?
When we started our journey, we immediately, we began to notice trends. Unsurprisingly, the Green line toward Newton was filled with affluent Caucasian families and college students while the Red line towards Mattapan was mostly used by African American families. Orange line towards Oak Grove had many older people, possibly indicating a higher percentage of generational families and long time residences. Other trends emerged. For instance, people who wore sandals typically wore hats. Perhaps the unconscious mind wants one end of the body to be covered at all times? This would be a question some sociology graduate student may wish to answer. By coincidence, most people who wore sandals and carried picnic baskets got off the train at the Revere Beach station. Matt and I did not fit into this social microculture of residents wearing flip-flops and carrying picnic baskets. Similarly, we noticed that people who got on and off at the Airport station usually carried luggage. What a strange culture to carry luggage everywhere you went!
As the train whizzed across the system, we noticed that JetBlue and the State of Vermont had purchased the most advertisement space. Sadly, there was no synergy, as Vermont is not a JetBlue destination nor does JetBlue allow in-flight flyfishing. Residents on the Braintree extension of the Red Line drew the best graffiti. The designs were large with brazen colors. Some included the blending of hues and shades to create stunning shadow effect. The worst graffiti was on the Orange lines. Here, unimaginative outlines were rarely filled in and typically the artists utilized dark earth-tones.
By late evening, we returned to our home base in a PF Chang Bistro and compiled the statistics of the day. We spent the most amount of time on the Red line: 2 hours and 34 minutes going through 61 stations. The least amount of time was on the Silver Line from Boylston St. to Dudley square: 14 minutes for 10 stations. Silver Line to South Boston had the longest wait of 16 minutes. Over the course of the day, I consumed 3 granola bars and 1 bottle of water. (In our defense, we did not plan to go the entire day without eating. We kept saying "Let's take a break after this next leg of our journey.") We saw six baby carriages, one pair of knee-high orange socks, and overheard one conversation of "Would you shoot someone if they robbed your house?" But most importantly, 11 hours and 17 minutes after we started, we had our answer of how long would it take to ride to every terminus station on the Boston subway system: A reeeeeaally looooooong time.
When we started our journey, we immediately, we began to notice trends. Unsurprisingly, the Green line toward Newton was filled with affluent Caucasian families and college students while the Red line towards Mattapan was mostly used by African American families. Orange line towards Oak Grove had many older people, possibly indicating a higher percentage of generational families and long time residences. Other trends emerged. For instance, people who wore sandals typically wore hats. Perhaps the unconscious mind wants one end of the body to be covered at all times? This would be a question some sociology graduate student may wish to answer. By coincidence, most people who wore sandals and carried picnic baskets got off the train at the Revere Beach station. Matt and I did not fit into this social microculture of residents wearing flip-flops and carrying picnic baskets. Similarly, we noticed that people who got on and off at the Airport station usually carried luggage. What a strange culture to carry luggage everywhere you went!
As the train whizzed across the system, we noticed that JetBlue and the State of Vermont had purchased the most advertisement space. Sadly, there was no synergy, as Vermont is not a JetBlue destination nor does JetBlue allow in-flight flyfishing. Residents on the Braintree extension of the Red Line drew the best graffiti. The designs were large with brazen colors. Some included the blending of hues and shades to create stunning shadow effect. The worst graffiti was on the Orange lines. Here, unimaginative outlines were rarely filled in and typically the artists utilized dark earth-tones.
By late evening, we returned to our home base in a PF Chang Bistro and compiled the statistics of the day. We spent the most amount of time on the Red line: 2 hours and 34 minutes going through 61 stations. The least amount of time was on the Silver Line from Boylston St. to Dudley square: 14 minutes for 10 stations. Silver Line to South Boston had the longest wait of 16 minutes. Over the course of the day, I consumed 3 granola bars and 1 bottle of water. (In our defense, we did not plan to go the entire day without eating. We kept saying "Let's take a break after this next leg of our journey.") We saw six baby carriages, one pair of knee-high orange socks, and overheard one conversation of "Would you shoot someone if they robbed your house?" But most importantly, 11 hours and 17 minutes after we started, we had our answer of how long would it take to ride to every terminus station on the Boston subway system: A reeeeeaally looooooong time.
Wednesday, June 11, 2008
Ode to a Turboprop
There is something about turboprop planes that make them alluring. They are small beasts that can be terrifying to ride. Yet there is also an allure and exoticism that draws you to look forward to the experience. Indeed, as I write this, I am sitting in one, an EMB 120 Brasilia, sandwiched between two Boeing jumbo jets, waiting for our turn to take off.
The flights can be very uncomfortable. Physically, their diminutive size is apparent when you stare up at the giant Rolls-Royce engine of the Boeing 747-400, as if it is ready to suck you in. There is not much of a buffer between you and the fast moving blades. The noise generated by the engines cut through the hull with a volume rivaling that of rock concert. Puddle hoppers, as they are affectionately called, are subject to the minute bumps and changes in wind patterns that transmit the turbulence undampened to your seat.
Yet I am willing to forgive the discomfort of the flight. A small plane is exotic because chances are, you are going to a place that is small and quiet. Indeed, the smallest plane I’ve ever been on was an 11-seater to Hagfors
Monday, June 2, 2008
Caution: Frequent Moose Accidents Next 3 miles
Thus we were welcomed to Mt. Blue State Park where a few friends and I were going camping the last weekend in May. We were desperate to escape the hustle and bustle of city life and chose to spend it in the serene quietness of the Maine wilderness. The highway sign merely indicated that we had gone far enough, to a place where moose ruled the earth. Indeed, this would turn out to be a weekend with us hardly seeing another soul. Even the campsite was nearly deserted upon our arrival. Perhaps we had traveled so far away that humans barely knew of the park’s existence. Perhaps the rest of the world coincidentally decided to pay their mother a visit on the same weekend. Most likely, however, it was because there was a forecasted 90% chance of rain.
Things could have been much worse. While we were shooting emails around, Craig sent out a warning message, “Checkout the weather up north…egad lots of rain…” There was no in-depth discussion as to whether we should continue with the trip or to postpone the journey to a sunnier weekend. The three of us merely added a rain jacket to the packing list and proceeded to make plans as if nothing was out of the ordinary. We left for the mountain prepared for anything Mother Nature could throw at us. We just couldn’t find it.
Mind you, most of the time, mountains are easy to find – they are these large and tall protrusions that stick out of the ground. However, all mountains look alike when covered by low clouds. In a moment of weakness, I made a phone call and got directions to the campsite. It was to be the last connection to the urbanized world. As we began our climb, I realized that I couldn't find my cell phone.
The trip up was uneventful but the summit was fascinating. It was the most beautiful fog I had ever seen. On one side was a steep drop and a solid white canvas that luminesced by the hidden sunlight. On the other side, a small pond became an infinite-sized ocean with a full palette of whites gently floating with the breeze. Trust me, dear reader, countless thousands have witnessed the tree-covered mountains and lake-filled valleys of Maine. But very few people have been lucky enough to relax for a moment inside of a storm cloud.
That being said, it was pouring rain and time to go. Our descent on the steep side of the mountain was also uneventful and devoid of civilization - except for three suspiciously convenient metal rungs embedded inside a vertical cave. Once back to the campsite, Brent quickly built a shelter and a fire for us to dry off and warm up. The rain jackets and rain pants did their jobs and we stayed mostly dry. The packs were dry save for a few damp spots here or there. Good rain gear is a worthwhile investment. Even my cell phone stayed dry. Yes, for as it turned out, I had stashed my phone in the mesh on the outside of my backpack. Take note: the Motorola Razr V2 can function after being subjected to 5 hours of torrential rain.
Were we disappointed? Of course not. We knew what we were getting ourselves into. Indeed, we would have been more disappointed if we scaled the mountain only to find a Dunkin’ Donuts doling out coffee and greasy foods. It would have been far more disappointing if we found Bob Dole handing out free autographed copies of his biography. It would have been extremely disappointing if we were kidnapped by pirates. Years of indentures servitude is not my idea of a relaxing get-away. Indeed, this was a vacation of solitude, a vacation of nature, a vacation of peaceful rain.
Things could have been much worse. While we were shooting emails around, Craig sent out a warning message, “Checkout the weather up north…egad lots of rain…” There was no in-depth discussion as to whether we should continue with the trip or to postpone the journey to a sunnier weekend. The three of us merely added a rain jacket to the packing list and proceeded to make plans as if nothing was out of the ordinary. We left for the mountain prepared for anything Mother Nature could throw at us. We just couldn’t find it.
Mind you, most of the time, mountains are easy to find – they are these large and tall protrusions that stick out of the ground. However, all mountains look alike when covered by low clouds. In a moment of weakness, I made a phone call and got directions to the campsite. It was to be the last connection to the urbanized world. As we began our climb, I realized that I couldn't find my cell phone.
The trip up was uneventful but the summit was fascinating. It was the most beautiful fog I had ever seen. On one side was a steep drop and a solid white canvas that luminesced by the hidden sunlight. On the other side, a small pond became an infinite-sized ocean with a full palette of whites gently floating with the breeze. Trust me, dear reader, countless thousands have witnessed the tree-covered mountains and lake-filled valleys of Maine. But very few people have been lucky enough to relax for a moment inside of a storm cloud.
That being said, it was pouring rain and time to go. Our descent on the steep side of the mountain was also uneventful and devoid of civilization - except for three suspiciously convenient metal rungs embedded inside a vertical cave. Once back to the campsite, Brent quickly built a shelter and a fire for us to dry off and warm up. The rain jackets and rain pants did their jobs and we stayed mostly dry. The packs were dry save for a few damp spots here or there. Good rain gear is a worthwhile investment. Even my cell phone stayed dry. Yes, for as it turned out, I had stashed my phone in the mesh on the outside of my backpack. Take note: the Motorola Razr V2 can function after being subjected to 5 hours of torrential rain.
Were we disappointed? Of course not. We knew what we were getting ourselves into. Indeed, we would have been more disappointed if we scaled the mountain only to find a Dunkin’ Donuts doling out coffee and greasy foods. It would have been far more disappointing if we found Bob Dole handing out free autographed copies of his biography. It would have been extremely disappointing if we were kidnapped by pirates. Years of indentures servitude is not my idea of a relaxing get-away. Indeed, this was a vacation of solitude, a vacation of nature, a vacation of peaceful rain.
Thursday, May 8, 2008
Adventures Along the Coast
It was mid April and I was in Newport, RI. It was the perfect time to visit, after the bitterness of the winter cold and before the massive onrush of the summer tourists. The weather was pleasant, a warm day cooled by a soft offshore breeze. Waves gently lapped the rocks along the coast making for a chronic, yet light, crashing sound. I came to tour the historic mansions from the American Guilded Age, envisioning a peaceful and relaxing weekday. However, as common with spontaneous trips, strange adventures have a way of finding you.
It was Hasid Day at Newport. Men with black yarmulkes and curly locks of hair near their ears lined filled the streets with their long-skirted wives and children in tow. Their well-pressed white shirts and black pants offered stark contrast to the colorful lawns and gardens of the summer “cottages” of some of America’s wealthiest tycoons. I happened to have purchased the last ticket to the 3 o’clock tour of the Vanderbilt’s summer cottage and found myself surrounded by an entire congregation of Hasidic Jews, complete with a waddling rabbi. As a Chinaman, it made me feel very conspicuous and out of place as I tried my best to fit into this crowd. I had misread my calendar, thinking today was China Days at Newport, and had arrived wearing a bright-red royal robe from the Qing Dynasty, complete with a Fu Manchu moustache.
Our tour began uneventfully, as the crowd did its best to smile and make me feel comfortable. One of the fathers was carrying his young son who was eating a Hamentaschen. The kid made an offering gesture and, not wanting to be rude, I graciously accepted his treat. I began munching on it when we entered into the great hall. Our tour guide stopped in the middle of his talk and glared at me. “Excuse me! Can you understand English?!? I said at the beginning no eating on this tour! Put it away or I will have to ask you to leave!” I blushed and quickly stuffed the half-eaten pastry into my pocket on my overly large sleeve.
Feeling slighted, I plotted my revenge. As we were walking between rooms, I tapped the father who was holding his now sleeping son and motioned to a room we had not toured. When we were alone, I pulled out my pocket sledgehammer and smashed a hole into a heave mahogany door. Before the father could react, I grabbed his kid out of his arms and put the sledgehammer in its stead. Frantically, the tour guide ran in, looked at the hole, saw a sleeping kid wrapped around the sleeves of my robe, and kicked out wide-eyed Hasidic Jew holding the sledgehammer, banning him from ever returning. The rest of the tour was very informative if rather uneventful. When it was over, I was glad I did it, but I was stuck with a sleeping kid wearing a Yarmulke.
Not knowing what to do, I went to the center of town and bought him some saltwater taffy. I am a firm believer that saltwater taffy tastes better if it was made on a wharf above the ocean. There is something about the essence of salt water in the air that enhances the taste. Unfortunately, the Newport saltwater taffy was made on land, so it was not such a high-quality delicacy. However, a few days later, I visited Rockport MA, where they do sell saltwater taffy made over the ocean. It was delicious. But unfortunately, I once again misread my calendar. It was Qing Dynasty day in Rockport and I was dressed as a Hasidic Jew.
It was Hasid Day at Newport. Men with black yarmulkes and curly locks of hair near their ears lined filled the streets with their long-skirted wives and children in tow. Their well-pressed white shirts and black pants offered stark contrast to the colorful lawns and gardens of the summer “cottages” of some of America’s wealthiest tycoons. I happened to have purchased the last ticket to the 3 o’clock tour of the Vanderbilt’s summer cottage and found myself surrounded by an entire congregation of Hasidic Jews, complete with a waddling rabbi. As a Chinaman, it made me feel very conspicuous and out of place as I tried my best to fit into this crowd. I had misread my calendar, thinking today was China Days at Newport, and had arrived wearing a bright-red royal robe from the Qing Dynasty, complete with a Fu Manchu moustache.
Our tour began uneventfully, as the crowd did its best to smile and make me feel comfortable. One of the fathers was carrying his young son who was eating a Hamentaschen. The kid made an offering gesture and, not wanting to be rude, I graciously accepted his treat. I began munching on it when we entered into the great hall. Our tour guide stopped in the middle of his talk and glared at me. “Excuse me! Can you understand English?!? I said at the beginning no eating on this tour! Put it away or I will have to ask you to leave!” I blushed and quickly stuffed the half-eaten pastry into my pocket on my overly large sleeve.
Feeling slighted, I plotted my revenge. As we were walking between rooms, I tapped the father who was holding his now sleeping son and motioned to a room we had not toured. When we were alone, I pulled out my pocket sledgehammer and smashed a hole into a heave mahogany door. Before the father could react, I grabbed his kid out of his arms and put the sledgehammer in its stead. Frantically, the tour guide ran in, looked at the hole, saw a sleeping kid wrapped around the sleeves of my robe, and kicked out wide-eyed Hasidic Jew holding the sledgehammer, banning him from ever returning. The rest of the tour was very informative if rather uneventful. When it was over, I was glad I did it, but I was stuck with a sleeping kid wearing a Yarmulke.
Not knowing what to do, I went to the center of town and bought him some saltwater taffy. I am a firm believer that saltwater taffy tastes better if it was made on a wharf above the ocean. There is something about the essence of salt water in the air that enhances the taste. Unfortunately, the Newport saltwater taffy was made on land, so it was not such a high-quality delicacy. However, a few days later, I visited Rockport MA, where they do sell saltwater taffy made over the ocean. It was delicious. But unfortunately, I once again misread my calendar. It was Qing Dynasty day in Rockport and I was dressed as a Hasidic Jew.
Wednesday, April 23, 2008
Eviler Emily
Eviler Emily awoke to the sound of her alarm clock blaring in its usual annoying fashion. Brightness strewed through her window as an indication of the start of a new day. She groaned as she rolled out of bed, a noisy complaint on her tiredness. Today was the day of the big history test and she was in no way prepared. She began the brushing of her teeth, the combing of her hair and the general ritual of making herself into an attractive teenager. As she made her way downstairs, she smelled the sweet aroma of coffee and she finally began to wake up.
You see, there were three Emilys at Central Valley High and each had nicknames to tell them apart. Eviler Emily was actually one of the most generous girls in all of the school. The night before, her best friend threw a party and invited the entire sophomore class, of whom most of which attended. Eviler Emily knew it would be a major undertaking and so she volunteered to help. While her classmates binged on beer and vodka, she spent the party bartending and diligently mixing the drinks. While her classmates complained of the munchies, she would order out for pizza and Chinese food to satisfy the urges. And while her friends complained of headaches and the onset of the inevitable hangover, she laid them down as comfortably as she could.
As she got off the bus to Central Valley High, she ran into her best friend, Evilest Emily. She looked just as sleep deprived, if not more so. Evilest Emily was probably the most generous girl in the entire school. Whenever Evilest Emily’s parents were out of town, she would host massive after-hours parties. So many people would be invited that there would hardly be any standing space. She would always find a way to supply the alcohol no matter what the situation and there was always an endless supply of it. She never asked anyone to bring anything in return. Since her parents were out of town fairly regularly, the parties she throws have gained a reputation for being a large orgy of drunken bacchanalian debauchery. Only Eviler Emily ever helped out because the two girls really enjoyed entertaining their classmates.
They caught up a little at their lockers and walked into their history classroom. Most of their classmates in the rooms were nursing their massive hangovers from the night before and by the looks of it, very few had a chance to study for the exam. The class gave a collective groan as the clock struck 8AM and their teacher, the third and final Emily at their school, stormed in with a fit of rage. Evil Emily, as they called her, was clearly on a rampage with smoke coming out of her ears and fire spewing from her mouth. Her deadly glare would bore into the students as she went to tear into each and every student about their attitudes. When she got to the two Emilys, she stopped her diatribe and a smile broke out over her face. “Class,” she said. “You are lucky that you have two wonderfully evil students in your class to bring down your average. Why can’t you all be more like them?”
You see, Center Valley High was also known as the Devil’s Vocational School and Evil Emily was the Principle. She immediately began to heap praises on Eviler and Evilest Emily as the instigator of the party that would allow the rest of the class to fail the history final. Without them, an inordinate number of students would actually pass. The class gave groans of appreciation and was glad to have such good peers that watched out for their wellbeing. Eviler and Evilest Emily smiled at each other. They loved being the teacher’s pets.
You see, there were three Emilys at Central Valley High and each had nicknames to tell them apart. Eviler Emily was actually one of the most generous girls in all of the school. The night before, her best friend threw a party and invited the entire sophomore class, of whom most of which attended. Eviler Emily knew it would be a major undertaking and so she volunteered to help. While her classmates binged on beer and vodka, she spent the party bartending and diligently mixing the drinks. While her classmates complained of the munchies, she would order out for pizza and Chinese food to satisfy the urges. And while her friends complained of headaches and the onset of the inevitable hangover, she laid them down as comfortably as she could.
As she got off the bus to Central Valley High, she ran into her best friend, Evilest Emily. She looked just as sleep deprived, if not more so. Evilest Emily was probably the most generous girl in the entire school. Whenever Evilest Emily’s parents were out of town, she would host massive after-hours parties. So many people would be invited that there would hardly be any standing space. She would always find a way to supply the alcohol no matter what the situation and there was always an endless supply of it. She never asked anyone to bring anything in return. Since her parents were out of town fairly regularly, the parties she throws have gained a reputation for being a large orgy of drunken bacchanalian debauchery. Only Eviler Emily ever helped out because the two girls really enjoyed entertaining their classmates.
They caught up a little at their lockers and walked into their history classroom. Most of their classmates in the rooms were nursing their massive hangovers from the night before and by the looks of it, very few had a chance to study for the exam. The class gave a collective groan as the clock struck 8AM and their teacher, the third and final Emily at their school, stormed in with a fit of rage. Evil Emily, as they called her, was clearly on a rampage with smoke coming out of her ears and fire spewing from her mouth. Her deadly glare would bore into the students as she went to tear into each and every student about their attitudes. When she got to the two Emilys, she stopped her diatribe and a smile broke out over her face. “Class,” she said. “You are lucky that you have two wonderfully evil students in your class to bring down your average. Why can’t you all be more like them?”
You see, Center Valley High was also known as the Devil’s Vocational School and Evil Emily was the Principle. She immediately began to heap praises on Eviler and Evilest Emily as the instigator of the party that would allow the rest of the class to fail the history final. Without them, an inordinate number of students would actually pass. The class gave groans of appreciation and was glad to have such good peers that watched out for their wellbeing. Eviler and Evilest Emily smiled at each other. They loved being the teacher’s pets.
Friday, April 11, 2008
Travel Log April 10, 2008. Maine
Maine is an exciting place. Close your eyes and imagine a land lush with forests on rolling hills with streams that empty into lakes and rivers that flow out to the ocean. Now imagine pristine land perfect for hiking, rafting, climbing, biking, skiing, and mountaineering. Add to that people in plaid shirts with large, bushy beards shopping for hunting rifles and fishing poles. Now imagine the population density spread out so thin that living one hour from town is “close enough” to feel connected to the rest of the world. Imagine stores serving dual purposes, like the Tanning + DVD Salon.
Now imagine what sort of exciting newsflashes can be had in such an environment.
Queen Elizabeth the Second Invades Bar Harbor.
Bar Harbor, ME. On a warm and sunny day, the quaint, New England town of Bar Harbor received a surprise. The 2nd Infantry division on board the QE II landed right off of the Porcupine Islands and launched an amphibious assault. The town, caught unawares, surrendered without firing a single shot from their two ceremonious canons located at the harbor. Thousands of invaders landed in a span of a few hours and mercilessly pillaged the town. The soldiers noisily went into the taverns and public houses to eat and drink their fill. They would stumble out onto the streets and take the best clothes, jewelry and crafts. The local inhabitants were unable to protest the small sheets of paper traded in return. They put on a valiant yet futile effort to keep some semblance of order in their small town but the local police force was vastly outnumbered. Rioting hit the streets at night when there were not enough accommodations. Several taverns were burnt to the ground with the loss of several lives – mostly locals. The eerie orange glow of the fires lasted till late into the night. By the early morning, Bar Harbor was only a shell of what it once was.
Low-bush Blueberry farmers Attacked by Swarm of Ladybugs.
Columbia Falls, ME. The National Guard was deployed to defend Watson’s Blueberry Farm from a swarm of invading Ladybugs. Henry Watson, the owner, said that his farm hands put up a brave fight but were no match for the vicious insects. “Normally they fly through in order to feed on the Aphids but this is almost like a plague. Indeed, the entire field was covered with small crawly red bugs and what used to be the farmhouse is now a lair for the insects.
“This is the worse infestation of ladybugs I’ve ever seen” said Sam Winterpool, Captain of the National Guard. “For now, we are at a stand-off. Our smoke machines are just good enough to keep the insects at bay and prevent them from attacking the town. We have special equipment being flown in from the Capitol that will hopefully repel the invasion for good.”
Mr. Watson was thankful, however, that the National Guard arrived when they did. “My farm hands and I were getting overpowered and if the Guard arrived a few hours later, we would have been a goner. Usually the ladybugs will fly through outside in the fields, but this year they came into the barn – and there are no aphids in there!”
General Announcements
The National Chainsaw Artwork Association will be holding their annual banquet and fundraiser auction Thursday night at the Mexican-Italian Restaurant. All proceeds will benefit the Foundation for Chainsaw Artwork Insurance.
See how exciting Maine can be? For when you live in Maine, your imagination is all you have.
Now imagine what sort of exciting newsflashes can be had in such an environment.
Queen Elizabeth the Second Invades Bar Harbor.
Bar Harbor, ME. On a warm and sunny day, the quaint, New England town of Bar Harbor received a surprise. The 2nd Infantry division on board the QE II landed right off of the Porcupine Islands and launched an amphibious assault. The town, caught unawares, surrendered without firing a single shot from their two ceremonious canons located at the harbor. Thousands of invaders landed in a span of a few hours and mercilessly pillaged the town. The soldiers noisily went into the taverns and public houses to eat and drink their fill. They would stumble out onto the streets and take the best clothes, jewelry and crafts. The local inhabitants were unable to protest the small sheets of paper traded in return. They put on a valiant yet futile effort to keep some semblance of order in their small town but the local police force was vastly outnumbered. Rioting hit the streets at night when there were not enough accommodations. Several taverns were burnt to the ground with the loss of several lives – mostly locals. The eerie orange glow of the fires lasted till late into the night. By the early morning, Bar Harbor was only a shell of what it once was.
Low-bush Blueberry farmers Attacked by Swarm of Ladybugs.
Columbia Falls, ME. The National Guard was deployed to defend Watson’s Blueberry Farm from a swarm of invading Ladybugs. Henry Watson, the owner, said that his farm hands put up a brave fight but were no match for the vicious insects. “Normally they fly through in order to feed on the Aphids but this is almost like a plague. Indeed, the entire field was covered with small crawly red bugs and what used to be the farmhouse is now a lair for the insects.
“This is the worse infestation of ladybugs I’ve ever seen” said Sam Winterpool, Captain of the National Guard. “For now, we are at a stand-off. Our smoke machines are just good enough to keep the insects at bay and prevent them from attacking the town. We have special equipment being flown in from the Capitol that will hopefully repel the invasion for good.”
Mr. Watson was thankful, however, that the National Guard arrived when they did. “My farm hands and I were getting overpowered and if the Guard arrived a few hours later, we would have been a goner. Usually the ladybugs will fly through outside in the fields, but this year they came into the barn – and there are no aphids in there!”
General Announcements
The National Chainsaw Artwork Association will be holding their annual banquet and fundraiser auction Thursday night at the Mexican-Italian Restaurant. All proceeds will benefit the Foundation for Chainsaw Artwork Insurance.
See how exciting Maine can be? For when you live in Maine, your imagination is all you have.
Tuesday, February 19, 2008
Me Vs. Green
My body is in conflict between the feelings of aching and elation. I have finished my first day of skiing ever and my brain is on the last leg of an adrenaline high while soreness is slowly spreading through my legs. My cheeks feel flushed with heat while my fingers are frigid in comparison. Overall, it was a great day, and here are the numbers. I fell 4 times, went down the bunny slopes 10 times, ate 1 teriyaki chicken sandwich for lunch and 42 french fries. I swore 26 times, tore 1 hole in my hat once, and had 3 shots of Jägermeister. I punched my ski instructor twice, got a bloody nose in return once, broke 3 bones on the half-pipe, had 1 airlift, and a monster medical bill.
Seriously though, I only had 27 french fries.
By far the biggest take-away for the day is green slopes are much more difficult than the bunny slopes. That might sound obvious for veteran skiers, but for me, my rationale of attempting such a feat was “how much harder can it be?”
Let us explain how much harder it can be. At the first ski lesson, the first skill taught is how to stop. This makes sense, because if one ever loses control, one can stop and restart from the beginning. So we spent quite a bit of time learning the wedge technique of starting and stopping and how to turn by bending the opposite knee. After several practice runs, I thought I was ready.
Thus began Mistake #1. What I didn’t know was that on a steeper slope, the wedge on its own is not enough to counteract your downward momentum. After finding out the hard way, I start to frantically turn and found out that I was not turning but merely sliding sideways down the mountain. Eventually, my skis caught the ice and I jetted towards the trees on the side of the trail. Then I learned that self-preservation was the best ski instructor. As I was approaching the trees at full speed, I dug my outside ski into the ice and made the sharpest turn ever and avoided a Wile E. Coyote-style collision. By the time I reached the lodge, I was exhausted and took a much needed break, for both physical and mental reasons.
Returning to the bunny slopes, I ran into a few of my fellow classmates from the lessons in the morning. One of them felt adventurous and debated attempting a green slope. I felt rested and wanted to take a second shot. Thus began Mistake #2. We took a different trail, thinking that it was flatter. It wasn’t. I took the lead and a short time from the lifts, we approached a hill far steeper than on my previous run. Knowing that the wedge method would not work, I stopped in order to see if there was an alternate descent. My friend, however, whizzed right by before I could say anything. I stood and watched in suspense as she accelerated down the slope towards an intersection with another trail. Suddenly, there was a plume of white and when everything settled, one ski was several feet to the left, the other to the right, and she was lying face down in the middle. Calling upon all of my courage, I took my skis off and walked down the slope. Rather, I slipped and fell the entire way and landed awkwardly on my butt. To add insult to injury, when I stood up, there was a 5-year old girl in a light-purple parka gracefully meandering down the hill like it was second-nature.
Thus, the green slopes won twice in one day. After such an experience, there are only three things one can possibly do. The first is to laugh about it for it makes such a good story. The second is to write about it so that you, dear reader, can share in the mirth. And the third is to drink and forget all about it.
Seriously though, I only had 27 french fries.
By far the biggest take-away for the day is green slopes are much more difficult than the bunny slopes. That might sound obvious for veteran skiers, but for me, my rationale of attempting such a feat was “how much harder can it be?”
Let us explain how much harder it can be. At the first ski lesson, the first skill taught is how to stop. This makes sense, because if one ever loses control, one can stop and restart from the beginning. So we spent quite a bit of time learning the wedge technique of starting and stopping and how to turn by bending the opposite knee. After several practice runs, I thought I was ready.
Thus began Mistake #1. What I didn’t know was that on a steeper slope, the wedge on its own is not enough to counteract your downward momentum. After finding out the hard way, I start to frantically turn and found out that I was not turning but merely sliding sideways down the mountain. Eventually, my skis caught the ice and I jetted towards the trees on the side of the trail. Then I learned that self-preservation was the best ski instructor. As I was approaching the trees at full speed, I dug my outside ski into the ice and made the sharpest turn ever and avoided a Wile E. Coyote-style collision. By the time I reached the lodge, I was exhausted and took a much needed break, for both physical and mental reasons.
Returning to the bunny slopes, I ran into a few of my fellow classmates from the lessons in the morning. One of them felt adventurous and debated attempting a green slope. I felt rested and wanted to take a second shot. Thus began Mistake #2. We took a different trail, thinking that it was flatter. It wasn’t. I took the lead and a short time from the lifts, we approached a hill far steeper than on my previous run. Knowing that the wedge method would not work, I stopped in order to see if there was an alternate descent. My friend, however, whizzed right by before I could say anything. I stood and watched in suspense as she accelerated down the slope towards an intersection with another trail. Suddenly, there was a plume of white and when everything settled, one ski was several feet to the left, the other to the right, and she was lying face down in the middle. Calling upon all of my courage, I took my skis off and walked down the slope. Rather, I slipped and fell the entire way and landed awkwardly on my butt. To add insult to injury, when I stood up, there was a 5-year old girl in a light-purple parka gracefully meandering down the hill like it was second-nature.
Thus, the green slopes won twice in one day. After such an experience, there are only three things one can possibly do. The first is to laugh about it for it makes such a good story. The second is to write about it so that you, dear reader, can share in the mirth. And the third is to drink and forget all about it.
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