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I have a theory that the reason there are so many geeks fascinated by the medieval time period is because of the peaks and valleys of stress in the technical industry. For many, either you are utterly stressed or bored out of your skull. We (and I say “we” because I consider myself part of this group) long for simpler times. In Utopian terms, there were two main phases you were in.
1) You were putting on armor, grabbing a long stick with a deadly bit on the end of it and dealing with your problem.
2) You were celebrating the fact that your problem was dealt with, feasting on whole animals, and listening to musicians sing tales of your courage and strength.
The reality is, there was plenty to stress about. To name a few: disease, foul odors everywhere, Vikings showing up and wreaking havoc, frightening medical practices- and, worst of all, lack of instant access to reliable information on any topic. Also, being under siege for years is a whole new level of boredom and stress.
My point here is that computer geeks often have stress which leads to odd ways of dealing with it – I know I did. It was based on a technique that Native Americans would use when they were suffering from grief or anger or any emotion that they could not get under control.
First, he would fast for a day or two just to let his body know that he meant business. Next, he would go down to a riverbed and search for a rock that "called to him." After that, he would take this rock and go far out into the woods, grip the rock as tight as he could and visualize himself pouring all his negative emotion into it. Finally, he would bury the rock and walk away, leaving whatever was troubling him behind.
If you are an insomniac like me, this may make more sense. The goal is to have a memory of something you can latch onto instead of whatever is bothering you repeatedly forcing itself into the forefront of your mind. You just remember burying the rock when the emotion pops up and eventually it fades away.
I was not about to fast or bury a quarry’s worth of rocks to deal with stress, but here was my procedure. On my walk home at the end of the day, I would press my hand against a certain cement pillar and leave my work stress there. If I started to think back about my job, I would remember the pillar. And, believe it or not, it worked pretty well for me.
When we moved houses I needed a new pillar. After giving it much thought, I decided on a weird sculpture-thing I would be passing by every day. The next evening, following my pattern, I placed my hand on it and, to my surprise, it moved. I grabbed it and experimented and realized that it was meant to spin and, also, the main pieces rotate on their own while the base is spinning.
This is way cooler than the pillar. On particularly bad days I would get the whole thing spinning as fast as I could, nearly slamming myself in the head a couple of times.
I still don’t know what the sculpture-thing is or what it’s supposed to represent. I’ve included a short video below – if you have any idea of the true meaning of my stress totem, I’d love to hear it.
Showing posts with label travel. Show all posts
Showing posts with label travel. Show all posts
Thursday, October 7, 2010
Tuesday, June 15, 2010
One of these things does not belong
Context: This happened in February 2010.
A friend of mine is visiting from out of town so Wife and I take him around Walnut Creek to enjoy some beer and people-watching. Walking down one of the main drags, we pass a place completely new to us. It's called "1515" which is what I assume is the address, a two story building gives customers the chance to look outside to the street below and it sounds like a good plan for our next stop.
We go inside, walk past security to go upstairs and find a table next to the window. Wife proceeds to the bar to order drinks and I look around the room. Immediately something doesn't seem right. I can't put my finger on it, but I am uneasy.
A few minutes later, the DJ turns the volume up from five to seven and the crowd starts to non-chalantly dance wherever they are standing. Time passes as we chat with each other, catch up on the past couple of months, and watch people passing by below.
We all exchange some confused and worried looks when, later the volume goes from seven to nine and we can't hear each other talk. That's when I realize it : I am in a game of "Which one of these things is not like the others?" and we are the outsiders.
My first thought is "I do not have nearly enough gel in my hair to fit in here."
My second thought is "I also do not have nearly enough hair on my face to fit in here."
I look to my left and one of the girls has written letters on her knuckles with a ballpoint pen. When she puts her fists together they read : LADY GAGA.
I look around the room and it's teeming with guys in their early twenties wearing their plaid shirts and Livestrong bracelets like badges of honor.
We leave immediately. If any readers saw me walking out of there - that's the explanation. It was an accident, please don't assume I have any desire to be around (or be like) that crowd.
In the future, I'll be sure to ask the doorman what the percentage of hair gel to actual hair the clientele usually has and make an informed decision.
A friend of mine is visiting from out of town so Wife and I take him around Walnut Creek to enjoy some beer and people-watching. Walking down one of the main drags, we pass a place completely new to us. It's called "1515" which is what I assume is the address, a two story building gives customers the chance to look outside to the street below and it sounds like a good plan for our next stop.
We go inside, walk past security to go upstairs and find a table next to the window. Wife proceeds to the bar to order drinks and I look around the room. Immediately something doesn't seem right. I can't put my finger on it, but I am uneasy.
A few minutes later, the DJ turns the volume up from five to seven and the crowd starts to non-chalantly dance wherever they are standing. Time passes as we chat with each other, catch up on the past couple of months, and watch people passing by below.
We all exchange some confused and worried looks when, later the volume goes from seven to nine and we can't hear each other talk. That's when I realize it : I am in a game of "Which one of these things is not like the others?" and we are the outsiders.
My first thought is "I do not have nearly enough gel in my hair to fit in here."
My second thought is "I also do not have nearly enough hair on my face to fit in here."
I look to my left and one of the girls has written letters on her knuckles with a ballpoint pen. When she puts her fists together they read : LADY GAGA.
I look around the room and it's teeming with guys in their early twenties wearing their plaid shirts and Livestrong bracelets like badges of honor.
We leave immediately. If any readers saw me walking out of there - that's the explanation. It was an accident, please don't assume I have any desire to be around (or be like) that crowd.
In the future, I'll be sure to ask the doorman what the percentage of hair gel to actual hair the clientele usually has and make an informed decision.
Friday, June 11, 2010
Northern Ireland - Part 3
Context: This was in May of 2002.
We wake up on our final day and sign up for a local tour that takes us through some of the grittier parts of Belfast. I wasn’t too frightened, after all, I’ve lived near major cities most of my life and I firmly believe that if you mind your own business, you are usually safe.
The main division in Northern Ireland is along a combination of political and religious lines. On one side you have the British/Protestants and the other the Irish/Catholics. Our first destination is a neighborhood where everything is painted the colors of the Irish flag (sidewalks, fire hydrants, lamp posts, houses, fences, everything.) Shortly after, we pass through one for the opposite side where the theme is the Union Jack.
The driver has a running discourse on the various acts of violence that have happened and I wonder just how much is fabricated just to make things sound more dangerous. We pass by a pub that has a gigantic metal barrier covering the entrance and he explains that, when it became difficult to throw pipe bombs inside, they started to drive cars through the front of the pub to blow it up. The barrier looks new and this is where I begin to get nervous.
Our next stop is a neighborhood where the sides of two-story houses had huge murals – each one describing someone brave soldier fighting for their side of the cause. The driver motions to one in particular which is of a man called “Mad Dog Adair”, whose nickname pretty much describes his behavior and propensity for violence.
He story ends with, “Oh! And there’s your man right there!” and standing on the other side of the street, smoking a cigarette, is Mad Dog himself glaring at our bus. This is where I start to get really nervous.
Leaving the neighborhood, I note a group of about fifty armored police gathering up the street. The driver explains that every year they have a march which proceeds right in front of the other faction’s church – so rather than have the factions kill each other (sparking yet another blood feud), the police step in between and fight them directly. I let Wife know I am ready to go back to Dublin now.
Arriving home, I read the news and there were over thirty injuries but only a few deaths, so it is reported as “relatively calm”. Belfast is definitely one of the most sobering places I have ever seen, but I am pretty sure I would go back to learn more about the city itself. They say that children going to school together is slowly breaking down the division, but only time will tell.
We wake up on our final day and sign up for a local tour that takes us through some of the grittier parts of Belfast. I wasn’t too frightened, after all, I’ve lived near major cities most of my life and I firmly believe that if you mind your own business, you are usually safe.
The main division in Northern Ireland is along a combination of political and religious lines. On one side you have the British/Protestants and the other the Irish/Catholics. Our first destination is a neighborhood where everything is painted the colors of the Irish flag (sidewalks, fire hydrants, lamp posts, houses, fences, everything.) Shortly after, we pass through one for the opposite side where the theme is the Union Jack.
The driver has a running discourse on the various acts of violence that have happened and I wonder just how much is fabricated just to make things sound more dangerous. We pass by a pub that has a gigantic metal barrier covering the entrance and he explains that, when it became difficult to throw pipe bombs inside, they started to drive cars through the front of the pub to blow it up. The barrier looks new and this is where I begin to get nervous.
Our next stop is a neighborhood where the sides of two-story houses had huge murals – each one describing someone brave soldier fighting for their side of the cause. The driver motions to one in particular which is of a man called “Mad Dog Adair”, whose nickname pretty much describes his behavior and propensity for violence.
He story ends with, “Oh! And there’s your man right there!” and standing on the other side of the street, smoking a cigarette, is Mad Dog himself glaring at our bus. This is where I start to get really nervous.
Leaving the neighborhood, I note a group of about fifty armored police gathering up the street. The driver explains that every year they have a march which proceeds right in front of the other faction’s church – so rather than have the factions kill each other (sparking yet another blood feud), the police step in between and fight them directly. I let Wife know I am ready to go back to Dublin now.
Arriving home, I read the news and there were over thirty injuries but only a few deaths, so it is reported as “relatively calm”. Belfast is definitely one of the most sobering places I have ever seen, but I am pretty sure I would go back to learn more about the city itself. They say that children going to school together is slowly breaking down the division, but only time will tell.
Wednesday, June 9, 2010
Northern Ireland - Part 2
Context: This was in May of 2002.
Bushmills is not my first choice of Irish whiskey (I am a Jamesons drinker), but I am fascinated by any process of manufacturing – especially brewing and distilling. Every time I order a pint of something bubbly I can't help but think on all the pieces that went into creating it.
After being split into several groups, it is announced that there will be no pictures on the inside. After the initial disappointment, it’s clarified that the spark from the flash is dangerous in an area with fumes that are flammable. Everyone looks around to make sure that no one is thinking of turning us into a ball of flame because they want to add a memento to their photo album.
The guide takes us through the process (the barrels, the mash, the bottling) and this is where I learn that during the aging phase some of the whiskey evaporates. This has been called “the angels’ share” for a long time and I envision an explanation many years ago with someone being called to account for missing whiskey and saying “Don’t look at me, I have no idea. Maybe some angels drank it.”
At the end of the tour there is a tasting and an opportunity to buy a bottle that is specially aged and has a label with your name printed on it – I pass and head back to the bus. (Ten years later, in hindsight, it would be awesome to have it on my shelf.)
Our final stop for the day is the “Giant’s Causeway”, which is a field of hexagonal rocks sticking out varying heights. They were created by the famous Irish giant Finn McCool. He heard there was an even bigger, tougher giant living over in Scotland so he started building a rock bridge to connect to the neighboring coast. When he got close, he saw that there was, indeed, a massive giant so Finn hightails it back the way he came, ripping up the bridge behind him. (This is the shortest variation on the tale. Scientists say that it was actually caused by a volcano erupting underwater a long time ago, causing the instant cooling and shaping magma into hexagons, but what do they know.)
Our finale was a visit to Newgrange - which is a subject for a whole other post. It's an ancient limestone tomb older than the Pyramids at Giza and deserve more than a couple paragraphs.
Getting back to our hotel, we ask the staff for suggestions on where to go the following day (our train doesn’t leave until late afternoon) Over dinner, we decide to take a bus tour of Belfast itself. I knew Belfast’s reputation, but so far it seemed like a normal European city. Nothing different had jumped out at us and the tour supposedly takes you through the “real” Belfast.
Next up, the “troubles”, the colors and a mad dog.
Bushmills is not my first choice of Irish whiskey (I am a Jamesons drinker), but I am fascinated by any process of manufacturing – especially brewing and distilling. Every time I order a pint of something bubbly I can't help but think on all the pieces that went into creating it.
After being split into several groups, it is announced that there will be no pictures on the inside. After the initial disappointment, it’s clarified that the spark from the flash is dangerous in an area with fumes that are flammable. Everyone looks around to make sure that no one is thinking of turning us into a ball of flame because they want to add a memento to their photo album.
The guide takes us through the process (the barrels, the mash, the bottling) and this is where I learn that during the aging phase some of the whiskey evaporates. This has been called “the angels’ share” for a long time and I envision an explanation many years ago with someone being called to account for missing whiskey and saying “Don’t look at me, I have no idea. Maybe some angels drank it.”
At the end of the tour there is a tasting and an opportunity to buy a bottle that is specially aged and has a label with your name printed on it – I pass and head back to the bus. (Ten years later, in hindsight, it would be awesome to have it on my shelf.)
Our final stop for the day is the “Giant’s Causeway”, which is a field of hexagonal rocks sticking out varying heights. They were created by the famous Irish giant Finn McCool. He heard there was an even bigger, tougher giant living over in Scotland so he started building a rock bridge to connect to the neighboring coast. When he got close, he saw that there was, indeed, a massive giant so Finn hightails it back the way he came, ripping up the bridge behind him. (This is the shortest variation on the tale. Scientists say that it was actually caused by a volcano erupting underwater a long time ago, causing the instant cooling and shaping magma into hexagons, but what do they know.)
Our finale was a visit to Newgrange - which is a subject for a whole other post. It's an ancient limestone tomb older than the Pyramids at Giza and deserve more than a couple paragraphs.
Getting back to our hotel, we ask the staff for suggestions on where to go the following day (our train doesn’t leave until late afternoon) Over dinner, we decide to take a bus tour of Belfast itself. I knew Belfast’s reputation, but so far it seemed like a normal European city. Nothing different had jumped out at us and the tour supposedly takes you through the “real” Belfast.
Next up, the “troubles”, the colors and a mad dog.
Monday, June 7, 2010
Northern Ireland - Part 1
Context: This was in May of 2002.
After the closing of my previous employer, we packed our bags and flew to Ireland to see if I might be able to get work there.
After going on over a dozen interviews during the course of three months, the reality of our situation in Ireland sinks in – everyone is intrigued about an American techie trying to get work he is over-qualified for, but they are going to end up giving the job to a local.
There is no guarantee that we will ever get back to Ireland so Wife and I make an agreement: we each choose one last place to see before we go back. I decide on the Aran Islands (which is a whole other story) and she chooses the city and surroundings of Belfast, Northern Ireland.
Two days later we are on a train to Northern Ireland. The excitement of seeing something totally new is tempered with a melancholy of knowing that we are soon leaving and may never see the emerald isle again.
Our tour bus picks us up at our hotel and is packed with people (all with cameras at the ready). It’s our first taste of “group tourism” (where you are confined to ride with about thirty strangers) and we decide quickly that it’s not our cup of tea. I find myself really rubbed the wrong way with certain behavior and hated being lumped in with that group.
For example, one lady would be talking loudly about her pets (or job, or new purse) while the driver was describing a landmark we were passing. After he was finished, she would notice the landmark, scream, “Excuse me! What’s that?!”
He would repeat himself from the beginning. After about the fifth time doing this, he would simply respond, “I don’t know.”
She noted she was very disappointed in his lack of knowledge. (In hindsight, I find the whole scene hilarious, but at the time it was torturous.)
Our first stop was Carrick a Rede, the main feature being a rope bridge over a massive gap where fishermen catch salmon. In pictures it doesn’t look like much, but in person it can be quite daunting. The churning waves crashing against the rocks underneath you invoke the stereotypical feeling of danger.
Our tour group slowly crosses the bridge and, as we approach the midway point, the woman in front of me stops walking and starts screaming.
“I can’t do it! I can’t do it!” she yells. I don’t know what to do, so I ask “Do you want to go back?” and look behind me strategizing on how to get the woman out of there.
“No!” she yells and I am confused. “Ok, well, you’re almost across, just take it one step at a time.”
“No!” she yells again, and the man behind me says “Come on man, get her moving!”
I realize that, for some reason, I have become responsible for this woman’s panic attack. A young boy starts bouncing up and down and the panicked woman screams louder. I lose patience and scream at her “Hey! You can’t just stay here, you have to go forward or go back! Make up your mind!”
She turns and stares daggers at me, she purses her lips and starts moving forward again. Reaching the other side she marches off in a fury. I let Wife know that we are going to cross the bridge before that woman on the way back since I don’t want to get stuck behind her again.
The initial drama over with, I look around and realize it’s gorgeous.
The rolling waves crashing into rock all around us, random shades of green covering the rock and the inland scenery.
Arriving back at the bus without much incident, we set aim to our next destination : the Bushmills Distillery. It’s a good thing because, although it’s only mid-morning, I know I am going to need some whiskey to deal with the group dynamics.
After the closing of my previous employer, we packed our bags and flew to Ireland to see if I might be able to get work there.
After going on over a dozen interviews during the course of three months, the reality of our situation in Ireland sinks in – everyone is intrigued about an American techie trying to get work he is over-qualified for, but they are going to end up giving the job to a local.
There is no guarantee that we will ever get back to Ireland so Wife and I make an agreement: we each choose one last place to see before we go back. I decide on the Aran Islands (which is a whole other story) and she chooses the city and surroundings of Belfast, Northern Ireland.
Two days later we are on a train to Northern Ireland. The excitement of seeing something totally new is tempered with a melancholy of knowing that we are soon leaving and may never see the emerald isle again.
Our tour bus picks us up at our hotel and is packed with people (all with cameras at the ready). It’s our first taste of “group tourism” (where you are confined to ride with about thirty strangers) and we decide quickly that it’s not our cup of tea. I find myself really rubbed the wrong way with certain behavior and hated being lumped in with that group.
For example, one lady would be talking loudly about her pets (or job, or new purse) while the driver was describing a landmark we were passing. After he was finished, she would notice the landmark, scream, “Excuse me! What’s that?!”
He would repeat himself from the beginning. After about the fifth time doing this, he would simply respond, “I don’t know.”
She noted she was very disappointed in his lack of knowledge. (In hindsight, I find the whole scene hilarious, but at the time it was torturous.)
Our first stop was Carrick a Rede, the main feature being a rope bridge over a massive gap where fishermen catch salmon. In pictures it doesn’t look like much, but in person it can be quite daunting. The churning waves crashing against the rocks underneath you invoke the stereotypical feeling of danger.
Our tour group slowly crosses the bridge and, as we approach the midway point, the woman in front of me stops walking and starts screaming.
“I can’t do it! I can’t do it!” she yells. I don’t know what to do, so I ask “Do you want to go back?” and look behind me strategizing on how to get the woman out of there.
“No!” she yells and I am confused. “Ok, well, you’re almost across, just take it one step at a time.”
“No!” she yells again, and the man behind me says “Come on man, get her moving!”
I realize that, for some reason, I have become responsible for this woman’s panic attack. A young boy starts bouncing up and down and the panicked woman screams louder. I lose patience and scream at her “Hey! You can’t just stay here, you have to go forward or go back! Make up your mind!”
She turns and stares daggers at me, she purses her lips and starts moving forward again. Reaching the other side she marches off in a fury. I let Wife know that we are going to cross the bridge before that woman on the way back since I don’t want to get stuck behind her again.
The initial drama over with, I look around and realize it’s gorgeous.
The rolling waves crashing into rock all around us, random shades of green covering the rock and the inland scenery.
Arriving back at the bus without much incident, we set aim to our next destination : the Bushmills Distillery. It’s a good thing because, although it’s only mid-morning, I know I am going to need some whiskey to deal with the group dynamics.
Thursday, February 4, 2010
I may not be there yet, but I'm closer than I was yesterday
(Context: This was around 1996, in the days before airport security was as stringent as it is now.)
We are at Sacramento Airport and my fiancée has her ticket and is getting ready to go through security. She lives in Seattle and I live in the San Francisco area so the parting is emotionally charged – we know we aren’t going to be seeing each other face-to-face again for some time.
The clock ticks and it’s time for her to start making her way toward the gate. We come to a set of escalators and there is a woman stationed there that is stopping people. She is asking them if they have a ticket to board a flight, which I do not.
She says, “She can go, YOU stay down here,” and I wonder why this woman is so angry.
I ask, “I only want to walk her to the security point, are there any exceptions?”
Her lips turn into an honest-to-goodness sneer and asks, “Exceptions like what? Like you’re in love?”
Her words are dripping with sarcasm and disdain. We share a last embrace and I watch my fiancée ride the escalator up and then walk out of sight. I stand there in shock and just stare at the grumpy woman.
I mill around and consider asking for her supervisor’s name. She continues to stop random people, but not everyone. My anger builds and builds until I realize something.
For her not to have a grain of empathy for me, she must not have any similar feeling to relate to. She’s never had to tear herself away from a loved one getting on a plane and flying to a far off place. It’s likely that the only satisfaction she has at the end of the day is knowing that she kept all the lowly non-ticket holders like myself from seeing what lies at the top of the escalator.
Suddenly, I feel bad for her. I walk past her and smile sadly saying, “I’m sorry.”
It sets off something inside her. She yells, “Sorry for what?! Sorry for what?!” but I am already walking away. I turn back to see her eyes turn from anger to a little bit of pain and confusion. It lasts for maybe two seconds and then the shields slam down again, her sneer returns and she purposefully turns to face a long hallway that is completely empty.
I continue back to my car- frustrated, angry and forlorn. I take solace in knowing that, even though my fiancée lives far away, I never have to feel like I am all alone staring down a vast florescent-lit empty hallway.
We are at Sacramento Airport and my fiancée has her ticket and is getting ready to go through security. She lives in Seattle and I live in the San Francisco area so the parting is emotionally charged – we know we aren’t going to be seeing each other face-to-face again for some time.
The clock ticks and it’s time for her to start making her way toward the gate. We come to a set of escalators and there is a woman stationed there that is stopping people. She is asking them if they have a ticket to board a flight, which I do not.
She says, “She can go, YOU stay down here,” and I wonder why this woman is so angry.
I ask, “I only want to walk her to the security point, are there any exceptions?”
Her lips turn into an honest-to-goodness sneer and asks, “Exceptions like what? Like you’re in love?”
Her words are dripping with sarcasm and disdain. We share a last embrace and I watch my fiancée ride the escalator up and then walk out of sight. I stand there in shock and just stare at the grumpy woman.
I mill around and consider asking for her supervisor’s name. She continues to stop random people, but not everyone. My anger builds and builds until I realize something.
For her not to have a grain of empathy for me, she must not have any similar feeling to relate to. She’s never had to tear herself away from a loved one getting on a plane and flying to a far off place. It’s likely that the only satisfaction she has at the end of the day is knowing that she kept all the lowly non-ticket holders like myself from seeing what lies at the top of the escalator.
Suddenly, I feel bad for her. I walk past her and smile sadly saying, “I’m sorry.”
It sets off something inside her. She yells, “Sorry for what?! Sorry for what?!” but I am already walking away. I turn back to see her eyes turn from anger to a little bit of pain and confusion. It lasts for maybe two seconds and then the shields slam down again, her sneer returns and she purposefully turns to face a long hallway that is completely empty.
I continue back to my car- frustrated, angry and forlorn. I take solace in knowing that, even though my fiancée lives far away, I never have to feel like I am all alone staring down a vast florescent-lit empty hallway.
Monday, February 1, 2010
Good sliding versus Bad sliding
(Context note: This was January 2008.)
After many months of discussing going up snowboarding, I found a great deal through Sliding On The Cheap and got a package with room, lift tickets and some restaurant coupons. (If you like to ski or snowboard I highly recommend signing up for their email list to save a buck.)
In a previous post, I mentioned that I don’t like driving in icy road conditions and let Wife drive if at all possible. I let her handle the driving and I manage the stereo, snacks and comic relief. We arrive Friday evening, have a blast Saturday and drive back Sunday morning.
After sleeping in and lazily eating breakfast we realize that there is a storm coming in and we will be racing it over the summit. As we approach the grade, there are workers forcing people to pull over and put on chains.
I look to Wife to take care of this since I assume this falls squarely in the “driving in icy conditions” category, which is her domain. She looks at me and asks, “Where are the instructions for these things?”
I do not like the sound of that. My gut starts to churn and my breathing gets faster as I begin the first stages of freaking out. After some messing around, we get the chains on and are waved through to go up the hill. Traffic proceeds slowly but nicely up the windy mountain freeway.
After traffic comes to a brief stop, Wife steps on the gas and the tires just spin in place. She checks that she is in a low gear, slowly steps on the gas again and the tires spin and the car stars sliding toward the mountain. I begin phase two of freaking out which is also known as “wanting out of there so bad that I am contemplating just running for it.”
All traffic in both directions is stopped as we try to figure out what to do next. I feel like I did when I was a city boy that had just moved to the mountains. Two truckers come marching up to the car and assess the situation without asking if they are needed. The one with the Budweiser ball-cap looks at me and laughs. He says, “Those chain monkeys at the bottom of the hill put the chains on the wrong tires! They need to go on the front!”
I could have fessed up. I could have taken accountability for the major mistake, but I ended up saying, “Oh, man. I can’t believe that.”
They take matters into their own hands and get the chains on the front tires even though we are in an awkward position. I had visions of the car suddenly sliding into one of the men and crushing them – thankfully nothing like that happened. We got over the summit and down the hill and the chains started breaking off. At my insistence we just kept driving, ruining the set of chains in the process.
Sunday evening we got to tell people about how great the mountain was – sunshine, new snow, no crowds. People would mention that they heard traffic was horrible and I only mentioned to a select few the full story.
(I’ll say it now, if anyone was affected by the traffic that day, I am sorry. That was me. Won’t happen again.)
After many months of discussing going up snowboarding, I found a great deal through Sliding On The Cheap and got a package with room, lift tickets and some restaurant coupons. (If you like to ski or snowboard I highly recommend signing up for their email list to save a buck.)
In a previous post, I mentioned that I don’t like driving in icy road conditions and let Wife drive if at all possible. I let her handle the driving and I manage the stereo, snacks and comic relief. We arrive Friday evening, have a blast Saturday and drive back Sunday morning.
After sleeping in and lazily eating breakfast we realize that there is a storm coming in and we will be racing it over the summit. As we approach the grade, there are workers forcing people to pull over and put on chains.
I look to Wife to take care of this since I assume this falls squarely in the “driving in icy conditions” category, which is her domain. She looks at me and asks, “Where are the instructions for these things?”
I do not like the sound of that. My gut starts to churn and my breathing gets faster as I begin the first stages of freaking out. After some messing around, we get the chains on and are waved through to go up the hill. Traffic proceeds slowly but nicely up the windy mountain freeway.
After traffic comes to a brief stop, Wife steps on the gas and the tires just spin in place. She checks that she is in a low gear, slowly steps on the gas again and the tires spin and the car stars sliding toward the mountain. I begin phase two of freaking out which is also known as “wanting out of there so bad that I am contemplating just running for it.”
All traffic in both directions is stopped as we try to figure out what to do next. I feel like I did when I was a city boy that had just moved to the mountains. Two truckers come marching up to the car and assess the situation without asking if they are needed. The one with the Budweiser ball-cap looks at me and laughs. He says, “Those chain monkeys at the bottom of the hill put the chains on the wrong tires! They need to go on the front!”
I could have fessed up. I could have taken accountability for the major mistake, but I ended up saying, “Oh, man. I can’t believe that.”
They take matters into their own hands and get the chains on the front tires even though we are in an awkward position. I had visions of the car suddenly sliding into one of the men and crushing them – thankfully nothing like that happened. We got over the summit and down the hill and the chains started breaking off. At my insistence we just kept driving, ruining the set of chains in the process.
Sunday evening we got to tell people about how great the mountain was – sunshine, new snow, no crowds. People would mention that they heard traffic was horrible and I only mentioned to a select few the full story.
(I’ll say it now, if anyone was affected by the traffic that day, I am sorry. That was me. Won’t happen again.)
Friday, January 29, 2010
Something that was definately not lost in translation
(Context note: This is back when I was 21 and working as a ski-lift operator near Aspen, Colorado.)
The greatest days for skiing are the worst days for working the ski lift. An endless stream of people means more grooming of the lanes, and more complaints about congestion.
It also means more people falling or dropping something in the approach of the lift which means I get to do the most important part of my job – hit the big red button that stops the lift. From there, I am not allowed to assist the customer in any way for fear of the resort being sued for an employee making their injury worse somehow. It was always uncomfortable when someone would look to you for assistance in standing up and I would have to stand there and say, “I’m sorry, I can’t.”
We had received five inches of fresh powder the evening before and the day was clear and sunny. Thousands of people shelled out the eighty dollars for a lift ticket to take advantage of the beautiful conditions. My post was a high-speed quad going to the top of one of the peaks and I was working furiously to keep things safe and moving quickly.
Snowmass Mountain gets travelers from all over the world, many very wealthy. It’s conveyed in no uncertain terms that the resort will fire you rather than lose the repeat business of a good customer. Service is a priority and the team did its best to accommodate whatever the guests wanted.
At about 1 PM, the after-lunch rush sets in. People can see the end of the day in sight and are anxious to get in as much sliding time as possible. There are a few arguments about cutting in line but I mediate and keep things moving – I am in the zone. It’s as if the mountain is a living entity and I am doing my part to pump blood through the veins. The quad hasn’t been stopped for hours and I hear the phrase “best day of the season” more than once.
Then a hitch in the works – a man in a red ski-suit comes out of the single-rider line and speaks to me in a foreign language. I am usually pretty good at indentifying languages, but I have no idea what this man is speaking – let alone trying to say.
Holding my hands out, I shrug my shoulders in what I hope is the universal sign for “I don’t understand you.” This causes him to gesture wildly and talk even louder. I say “Sorry, I don’t know what you’re saying!”
The line is at a standstill since I haven’t waved anyone through to the lift yet. With everyone watching and waiting, the man unzips his ski-suit and begins urinating right next to the walkway.
The crowd of people in line starts groaning and yelling as my jaw drops. A woman screams to me, “Stop him! Do something!”
“What do you want me to do?” I yell back.
“I’LL do something!” screams a snowboarder in his late twenties. He leans over, makes a snowball, takes aim and fires at the peeing man.
Time stops. Everyone is silent as we watch the snowball arch toward the man. It connects and the powder grenade explodes all over the man. Snow covers his entire torso and down inside his ski-suit. The man erupts a flurry of gibberish while shaking his fist. The snowboarder responds, “That will teach you to pee in front of me!”
The man zips up, walks down the ramp and gets on the lift. I get people moving up the lift again and call ski-patrol who arrives shortly. They lecture me about calling in pranks and how their time is valuable. After reiterating that I am serious, they continue to not believe me. Having no other choice, I walk them over to Exhibit A : yellow snow.
I hear they found the man and ejected him from the park, but I am not sure how I feel about that. If anything, it’s proven to me that a well thrown snowball can break any language barrier.
The greatest days for skiing are the worst days for working the ski lift. An endless stream of people means more grooming of the lanes, and more complaints about congestion.
It also means more people falling or dropping something in the approach of the lift which means I get to do the most important part of my job – hit the big red button that stops the lift. From there, I am not allowed to assist the customer in any way for fear of the resort being sued for an employee making their injury worse somehow. It was always uncomfortable when someone would look to you for assistance in standing up and I would have to stand there and say, “I’m sorry, I can’t.”
We had received five inches of fresh powder the evening before and the day was clear and sunny. Thousands of people shelled out the eighty dollars for a lift ticket to take advantage of the beautiful conditions. My post was a high-speed quad going to the top of one of the peaks and I was working furiously to keep things safe and moving quickly.
Snowmass Mountain gets travelers from all over the world, many very wealthy. It’s conveyed in no uncertain terms that the resort will fire you rather than lose the repeat business of a good customer. Service is a priority and the team did its best to accommodate whatever the guests wanted.
At about 1 PM, the after-lunch rush sets in. People can see the end of the day in sight and are anxious to get in as much sliding time as possible. There are a few arguments about cutting in line but I mediate and keep things moving – I am in the zone. It’s as if the mountain is a living entity and I am doing my part to pump blood through the veins. The quad hasn’t been stopped for hours and I hear the phrase “best day of the season” more than once.
Then a hitch in the works – a man in a red ski-suit comes out of the single-rider line and speaks to me in a foreign language. I am usually pretty good at indentifying languages, but I have no idea what this man is speaking – let alone trying to say.
Holding my hands out, I shrug my shoulders in what I hope is the universal sign for “I don’t understand you.” This causes him to gesture wildly and talk even louder. I say “Sorry, I don’t know what you’re saying!”
The line is at a standstill since I haven’t waved anyone through to the lift yet. With everyone watching and waiting, the man unzips his ski-suit and begins urinating right next to the walkway.
The crowd of people in line starts groaning and yelling as my jaw drops. A woman screams to me, “Stop him! Do something!”
“What do you want me to do?” I yell back.
“I’LL do something!” screams a snowboarder in his late twenties. He leans over, makes a snowball, takes aim and fires at the peeing man.
Time stops. Everyone is silent as we watch the snowball arch toward the man. It connects and the powder grenade explodes all over the man. Snow covers his entire torso and down inside his ski-suit. The man erupts a flurry of gibberish while shaking his fist. The snowboarder responds, “That will teach you to pee in front of me!”
The man zips up, walks down the ramp and gets on the lift. I get people moving up the lift again and call ski-patrol who arrives shortly. They lecture me about calling in pranks and how their time is valuable. After reiterating that I am serious, they continue to not believe me. Having no other choice, I walk them over to Exhibit A : yellow snow.
I hear they found the man and ejected him from the park, but I am not sure how I feel about that. If anything, it’s proven to me that a well thrown snowball can break any language barrier.
Thursday, January 14, 2010
Historic California, Part 3 - Emeryville
Working in Emeryville, I used to take the opportunity to explore my surroundings. I found some pretty interesting things, but this post is specifically about the Bay Street Mall.
The Bay Street Mall in Emeryville is fancy. It’s got condos built into it so you can look out your balcony and watch people wander in and out of any number of the expensive big name stores. Perfumed air comes wafting out of each entrance you pass and security officers go whizzing by on Segways.
Then, one day I heard that Ohlone Indians were protesting the mall and declaring a "don't buy anything day". Thinking that was an odd place to protest, I looked it up and the reason they are upset is that the mall is built on one of their burial grounds.
One thing that movies teach is never build anything on top of an Indian burial ground. However, I never saw any pots flying through the windows of Williams-Sonoma. I never saw any books acting strangely in the Barnes & Noble. No furniture magically putting itself together and taken apart at IKEA. So, I come to the conclusion that maybe it’s the specific store or stores that sit right on top of the burial site that would be the one to avoid.
Bay Street Mall has 65 stores, 10 restaurants and a movie theater, but there is only one establishment that sits right on top of the burial site. One business that risks the vicious anger that movies say will come upon them for their disrespect. And that place is : Victoria’s Secret.
I find the thought of haunted lingerie hilarious. I imagined a storyline of a husband buying something special for his wife and it tormenting the family by showing up in odd places. “Honey, why is there a bra in the casserole?”
So, in conclusion, that is what I think about when the topic of California history comes up: hanging, cannibalism, and lingerie.
Seriously, though, I like where I am. I try to take advantage of being near a wonderful city like San Francisco, and even find great places and people even closer to home in less recognizable cities like Walnut Creek, Concord, Danville, and all the others.
I guess there’s “gold” everywhere you go, not just the mines in the California hills – in the people, the places, and the stories. Personally, I think there’s richer mines out in Europe, but I totally understand when people say they’d rather try their luck in my sunny backyard.
The Bay Street Mall in Emeryville is fancy. It’s got condos built into it so you can look out your balcony and watch people wander in and out of any number of the expensive big name stores. Perfumed air comes wafting out of each entrance you pass and security officers go whizzing by on Segways.
Then, one day I heard that Ohlone Indians were protesting the mall and declaring a "don't buy anything day". Thinking that was an odd place to protest, I looked it up and the reason they are upset is that the mall is built on one of their burial grounds.
One thing that movies teach is never build anything on top of an Indian burial ground. However, I never saw any pots flying through the windows of Williams-Sonoma. I never saw any books acting strangely in the Barnes & Noble. No furniture magically putting itself together and taken apart at IKEA. So, I come to the conclusion that maybe it’s the specific store or stores that sit right on top of the burial site that would be the one to avoid.
Bay Street Mall has 65 stores, 10 restaurants and a movie theater, but there is only one establishment that sits right on top of the burial site. One business that risks the vicious anger that movies say will come upon them for their disrespect. And that place is : Victoria’s Secret.
I find the thought of haunted lingerie hilarious. I imagined a storyline of a husband buying something special for his wife and it tormenting the family by showing up in odd places. “Honey, why is there a bra in the casserole?”
So, in conclusion, that is what I think about when the topic of California history comes up: hanging, cannibalism, and lingerie.
Seriously, though, I like where I am. I try to take advantage of being near a wonderful city like San Francisco, and even find great places and people even closer to home in less recognizable cities like Walnut Creek, Concord, Danville, and all the others.
I guess there’s “gold” everywhere you go, not just the mines in the California hills – in the people, the places, and the stories. Personally, I think there’s richer mines out in Europe, but I totally understand when people say they’d rather try their luck in my sunny backyard.
Wednesday, January 13, 2010
Historic California, Part 2 - Donner Pass
Warning: The following post is not for the weak of stomach, it involves topics such as cannibalism, murder and those hats that are made out of a raccoons.
This story also takes place in the mid-1800s with a caravan of people headed to California to take advantage of the boom after the discovery gold. I’ll summarize, but I highly recommend the book “Ordeal by Hunger” by George R Stewart. The story itself is fascinating and shows that there can be some true heroes in horrible situations. It's when life or death decisions are on the line that shows what type of person you really are.
I’ll summarize the important facts: A caravan leaves Illinois in April 1846, George Donner is the leader. A lot of these people are not prepared for hard travel (i.e. are pretty wealthy and bring things like a piano for their house in California. This sort of thing slows them down because the huge heavy wagons are slower and get stuck more often.) They try a “shortcut” which ends up costing them three weeks. Rather than turn back and wait the winter out in a fort, they decide to race the winter to the Sierras – and they almost make it.
It’s late October, a blizzard hits and they are trapped. They split up into three groups and either build cabins or try to head down the mountain on snowshoes. Historians’ best guess is that the snow got up to 22 feet (that’s almost 7 meters for those on the metric system.) This is where the meat of the tragedy begins. Some try to get down the mountain to form a rescue team for supplies, which results with some people dying and others not able to convince anyone to go back uphill in the monstrous weather. The ones that stay are completely out of food and with people dying from cold and sickness resort to cannibalism. It’s important to note here that during this time period murder is illegal, but cannibalism is not. A lot of the conjecture of what happens revolves around whether or not someone “helped” someone’s passing in order to sustain themselves.
In any case, when February rolls around, relief efforts come to get them. Battle hardened men are getting sick left and right. One camp in particular only has one survivor, fit and healthy, which is suspicious under the circumstances. It’s obvious he turned predator during the winter, but they can’t prove murder so he walks away a free man. He ends up moving down to San Jose and opening a successful restaurant, proving once again that truth is stranger than fiction.
I visited Donner State Park where one of the cabins was built. There is a big statue there with a description of what happened and a list of survivors. I can’t think of it as anything other than a monument to lack of planning, horrible decisions and the depths one can sink to in a crisis.
My friends in Europe always wonder why I start snickering when we go to a kebab restaurant. It’s because of this story and the item known as the “Doner Kebab”. It makes me want to start screaming “It’s made out of people!”
Next up – a Native American burial site!
This story also takes place in the mid-1800s with a caravan of people headed to California to take advantage of the boom after the discovery gold. I’ll summarize, but I highly recommend the book “Ordeal by Hunger” by George R Stewart. The story itself is fascinating and shows that there can be some true heroes in horrible situations. It's when life or death decisions are on the line that shows what type of person you really are.
I’ll summarize the important facts: A caravan leaves Illinois in April 1846, George Donner is the leader. A lot of these people are not prepared for hard travel (i.e. are pretty wealthy and bring things like a piano for their house in California. This sort of thing slows them down because the huge heavy wagons are slower and get stuck more often.) They try a “shortcut” which ends up costing them three weeks. Rather than turn back and wait the winter out in a fort, they decide to race the winter to the Sierras – and they almost make it.
It’s late October, a blizzard hits and they are trapped. They split up into three groups and either build cabins or try to head down the mountain on snowshoes. Historians’ best guess is that the snow got up to 22 feet (that’s almost 7 meters for those on the metric system.) This is where the meat of the tragedy begins. Some try to get down the mountain to form a rescue team for supplies, which results with some people dying and others not able to convince anyone to go back uphill in the monstrous weather. The ones that stay are completely out of food and with people dying from cold and sickness resort to cannibalism. It’s important to note here that during this time period murder is illegal, but cannibalism is not. A lot of the conjecture of what happens revolves around whether or not someone “helped” someone’s passing in order to sustain themselves.
In any case, when February rolls around, relief efforts come to get them. Battle hardened men are getting sick left and right. One camp in particular only has one survivor, fit and healthy, which is suspicious under the circumstances. It’s obvious he turned predator during the winter, but they can’t prove murder so he walks away a free man. He ends up moving down to San Jose and opening a successful restaurant, proving once again that truth is stranger than fiction.
I visited Donner State Park where one of the cabins was built. There is a big statue there with a description of what happened and a list of survivors. I can’t think of it as anything other than a monument to lack of planning, horrible decisions and the depths one can sink to in a crisis.My friends in Europe always wonder why I start snickering when we go to a kebab restaurant. It’s because of this story and the item known as the “Doner Kebab”. It makes me want to start screaming “It’s made out of people!”
Next up – a Native American burial site!
Monday, January 11, 2010
Historic California, Part 1 - Placerville
The back-and-forth in the comments of this excellent blog spurred me to write a few stories of when I tried to really dig into the historic monuments of my home state, California. I am going to split this into three parts: Placerville, Donner Pass, and a surprise outcome of a Native American burial ground.
There are definitely Native American sites, but they are hard to find, not promoted very well, and few in number. I suspect this is for two reasons: First, the people roamed around rather than build fortified cities meant to withstand attack and last for hundreds of years. Most of my experiences of the culture are paintings on caves and things like divots in a large flat rock used for grinding acorns a very long time ago.
Second, I think there’s a bit of subconscious guilt along the lines of “Um, yeah, there used to be a whole lot of people here.”, so most of the investment in historical preservation goes to “American” history. However, I haven’t really researched this, I may be wrong, but it’s a gut feeling.
I spent four years of my late teenage life in a city called Placerville. It’s also where I met my wife so I have a fond memory of it, but I am not inclined to live there ever again. I am too addicted to convenience and technology to call the wooded hills my home, but it has some historic significance.
Most of the California monuments begin in the mid-1800s when there was a huge influx of population to mine for gold that was discovered in the El Dorado Hills. Placerville is somewhat near where gold was discovered so its stories begin around that time period.
It has the nickname of “Old Hangtown.” The story goes that there were some thugs that were terrorizing the town, killing people that crossed them, hanging out at the saloon gambling and generally being a nuisance. The miners get together and give an ultimatum to the town saying all professional gamblers have 24 hours to get out (translation: Hey, you guys that hang out in the saloon and gamble all day? We are talking to you. Leave.)
One of the leaders of the miners gets mysteriously shot while walking near the saloon. The rest of the miners take this as the answer to their ultimatum, haul out the gamblers and hang them all from a tree outside. The saloon owner comes out and starts yelling that he is going to have them charged with murder for killing his customers with no proof. The mob doesn’t like hearing that, get another rope and hang him too. (Note: I find this an excellent example of a good time to keep one’s mouth shut.)
Now the saloon has a dummy hanging from a noose outside and a bright neon sign that it is a historic monument. I went in and it’s what is known as a “dive bar”. Nothing special. After that disappointment, I decide to up the ante on the California history front with one of the most infamous and tragic stories about a migration to the West.
Up next – Donner Pass!
There are definitely Native American sites, but they are hard to find, not promoted very well, and few in number. I suspect this is for two reasons: First, the people roamed around rather than build fortified cities meant to withstand attack and last for hundreds of years. Most of my experiences of the culture are paintings on caves and things like divots in a large flat rock used for grinding acorns a very long time ago.
Second, I think there’s a bit of subconscious guilt along the lines of “Um, yeah, there used to be a whole lot of people here.”, so most of the investment in historical preservation goes to “American” history. However, I haven’t really researched this, I may be wrong, but it’s a gut feeling.
I spent four years of my late teenage life in a city called Placerville. It’s also where I met my wife so I have a fond memory of it, but I am not inclined to live there ever again. I am too addicted to convenience and technology to call the wooded hills my home, but it has some historic significance.
Most of the California monuments begin in the mid-1800s when there was a huge influx of population to mine for gold that was discovered in the El Dorado Hills. Placerville is somewhat near where gold was discovered so its stories begin around that time period.
It has the nickname of “Old Hangtown.” The story goes that there were some thugs that were terrorizing the town, killing people that crossed them, hanging out at the saloon gambling and generally being a nuisance. The miners get together and give an ultimatum to the town saying all professional gamblers have 24 hours to get out (translation: Hey, you guys that hang out in the saloon and gamble all day? We are talking to you. Leave.)
One of the leaders of the miners gets mysteriously shot while walking near the saloon. The rest of the miners take this as the answer to their ultimatum, haul out the gamblers and hang them all from a tree outside. The saloon owner comes out and starts yelling that he is going to have them charged with murder for killing his customers with no proof. The mob doesn’t like hearing that, get another rope and hang him too. (Note: I find this an excellent example of a good time to keep one’s mouth shut.)
Now the saloon has a dummy hanging from a noose outside and a bright neon sign that it is a historic monument. I went in and it’s what is known as a “dive bar”. Nothing special. After that disappointment, I decide to up the ante on the California history front with one of the most infamous and tragic stories about a migration to the West.Up next – Donner Pass!
Thursday, January 7, 2010
Go west, young man
I am 22 and have made the decision to move back to California, leaving my roommate and friends in Colorado. I have worked as a ski lift operator to get a free season pass to the resorts and as a computer geek managing digital photos and property layout designs for a real estate appraiser. After a lot of soul searching I decide to hunt for a “real” job in the California tech industry, which will allow me to propose to my girlfriend with some small measure of confidence that I could actually provide for her.
I had formed a friendship with someone my age that was eager to go with me to California to be my roommate (I'll call him E). The day before we start the road trip heading west he tells me that he has changed his mind – he wants to go with me to check out California for a short time but is coming back to team up with the roommate that I am leaving. He also lets me know that they all think that going back to my home state and settling down with my teenage sweetheart is a backwards move in my life journey.
I’m feeling pretty betrayed and despondent.
I am parked in Glenwood Springs waiting for E to get off work so we can start the long drive. Planning on being confined with him for a huge chunk of time, and having a few hours to kill, I decide to walk off some of my frustration. Picking a direction at random, I start marching.
I pass a sign that says “Historical Monument” and without a better plan, adjust course to where it’s pointing. I trod on, following signs up a hill that gets red mud on my shoes, but I don’t care. When I get to the top of the hill, my haze of emotion fades and I realize I am looking at a graveyard. Obviously, someone famous must be buried here, but there is no one around and no obvious markings so I wander around reading the gravestones. Eventually, I find it.
Doc Holliday. I don’t know much about him besides what I know from the somewhat recent move Tombstone where he was played by Val Kilmer. I walk back into town and duck into a shop that caters to tourists and thumb through a book about Doc.
He died of tuber
culosis. He was in Glenwood Springs with the hope that the sulfur springs would help him heal. Modern medicine says that it probably made things worse. The thing I find most interesting about him are his last words. He was a noted gambler and gunslinger and most everyone, including himself, guessed he would go out with guns blazing. When he was on his deathbed, he looked down at his feet, realized he was going to die in bed with his boots off and said, “Well I'll be damned. This is funny.”, and expired.
During the quiet spots on the long drive, I think about how it used to be a measure of daring and courage to travel out west, and now I am being accused of taking the “easy way out” traveling out west to settle down.
Looking back, I think it did take a measure of courage to stand up to my peers and leave the “fun scene” to be a responsible adult. I wonder if I would have felt less like a loser if I had been riding a horse with a six-shooter strapped to my hip.
I had formed a friendship with someone my age that was eager to go with me to California to be my roommate (I'll call him E). The day before we start the road trip heading west he tells me that he has changed his mind – he wants to go with me to check out California for a short time but is coming back to team up with the roommate that I am leaving. He also lets me know that they all think that going back to my home state and settling down with my teenage sweetheart is a backwards move in my life journey.
I’m feeling pretty betrayed and despondent.
I am parked in Glenwood Springs waiting for E to get off work so we can start the long drive. Planning on being confined with him for a huge chunk of time, and having a few hours to kill, I decide to walk off some of my frustration. Picking a direction at random, I start marching.
I pass a sign that says “Historical Monument” and without a better plan, adjust course to where it’s pointing. I trod on, following signs up a hill that gets red mud on my shoes, but I don’t care. When I get to the top of the hill, my haze of emotion fades and I realize I am looking at a graveyard. Obviously, someone famous must be buried here, but there is no one around and no obvious markings so I wander around reading the gravestones. Eventually, I find it.
Doc Holliday. I don’t know much about him besides what I know from the somewhat recent move Tombstone where he was played by Val Kilmer. I walk back into town and duck into a shop that caters to tourists and thumb through a book about Doc.
He died of tuber
culosis. He was in Glenwood Springs with the hope that the sulfur springs would help him heal. Modern medicine says that it probably made things worse. The thing I find most interesting about him are his last words. He was a noted gambler and gunslinger and most everyone, including himself, guessed he would go out with guns blazing. When he was on his deathbed, he looked down at his feet, realized he was going to die in bed with his boots off and said, “Well I'll be damned. This is funny.”, and expired.During the quiet spots on the long drive, I think about how it used to be a measure of daring and courage to travel out west, and now I am being accused of taking the “easy way out” traveling out west to settle down.
Looking back, I think it did take a measure of courage to stand up to my peers and leave the “fun scene” to be a responsible adult. I wonder if I would have felt less like a loser if I had been riding a horse with a six-shooter strapped to my hip.
Thursday, December 24, 2009
I don't see this on the itinerary
(Edit: I'll have a new post after the New Year, I am leaving this one as the most recent as I go through contacting everyone that wanted more info on the accident.)
It’s been one week since we left home for Africa and I am feeling surly. I have realized that I am not used to traveling in a group, so I go to the bar to have a beer to get my psyche in a more amiable place. I let the group sort out the transportation options while I throw down some drinks to get over my control issues (i.e. I am used to being the planner/leader of a trip and have trouble acclimating to a scenario where someone else is calling the shots.)
Two beers later, my wife comes in to inform me that, rather than wait for a van that can take all seven of us to the restaurant, three went ahead in a cab that will turn around and come right back and pick up the remaining four.
Shortly after, we are in the cab that will take us the 15 or so blocks to the restaurant. I love talking to cab drivers because they always seem to really have their finger on the pulse of the city. I make small talk asking him how he likes it, what he thinks of the streets, and what his favorite neighborhoods are.
Then, something goes wrong. My brain recognizes that entering the intersection we are about to cross is a car that shouldn’t be there. My mouth makes a sound of confusion along the lines of ‘Ummmmmm….’ and there is a loud crunching sound as the vehicles collide. My muscle memory from years of skateboarding kicks in, my body instinctively thinks “Don’t try and stop yourself, go limp and roll.” My right shoulder hits the dash and I roll upwards until the right side of my head cracks the windshield. My left side from my shoulder down goes instantly numb.
I am lying in the fetal position in my seat assessing the damage. I wiggle my toes, wiggle my fingers, blink my eyes and turn my neck back and forth slightly. I hear my wife yell “Are you ok?! Say something!” and feel pins and needles as feeling comes back into my left arm. I say “I am ok.”, stand up, and get out of the cab. There is a hospital nearby and medics that happened to be exiting the building come sprinting over. They convince me to sit back down, one talks to me while the other holds my neck stationary with her hand. Soon, an ambulance arrives and they say they want to take me to the hospital. After disagreeing and saying I just want to go back to the hotel one of them says, “Look, you might have a compression fracture and, although you feel fine now, in a couple of hours you could just fall over and not be able to walk again. I’d feel a lot better if you would have an x-ray just to be sure.” I think back to the EMT blogs that I read and how he is manipulating me by phrasing it as ‘doing him a favor’ since I am not in the mood to do myself a favor. However, I know he’s right, so I agree.
They lower me to the ground onto a trauma board (a plank, basically.) put me on a gurney, immobilize me and roll me into the ambulance. The medic steps outside to explain to everyone what is going to happen next and I get claustrophobic as I realize I can’t look around or move at all. I breathe deep and think calm thoughts. Soon we are driving to the hospital and I start joking about how I am glad we had the crash since the trip is all about me now. The medic whips out his cell phone and starts taking a video of me talking all about it.
At the hospital, they admit me and give me something for the pain. Things get pretty fuzzy at that point. I remember telling the nurse that being forced to look at the ceiling for hours has caused me to see things in the stains – sort of like watching the clouds and identifying what they look like to you. He acknowledges that the pain medication has obviously kicked in. After being on the trauma board for over two hours I wrote a song about it, the lyrics were:
I just want to get off of this trauma board
I think I’m going to go out of my gourd
All I want is to go home and have a beer
Things sorted out pretty quickly after that. X-ray showed no fractures, they gave me some pills and a neck brace to wear for a day and sent me on my way.
All things considered, I was very fortunate. No seatbelts worked in the cab, so it’s very possible it could have been much worse. People ask if it ruined the rest of my holiday and I really don’t think so. It definitely changed it since I was walking through a haze of codeine and muscle relaxers.
One thing is for sure: My wife now has incontrovertible proof that I am hard-headed.
It’s been one week since we left home for Africa and I am feeling surly. I have realized that I am not used to traveling in a group, so I go to the bar to have a beer to get my psyche in a more amiable place. I let the group sort out the transportation options while I throw down some drinks to get over my control issues (i.e. I am used to being the planner/leader of a trip and have trouble acclimating to a scenario where someone else is calling the shots.)
Two beers later, my wife comes in to inform me that, rather than wait for a van that can take all seven of us to the restaurant, three went ahead in a cab that will turn around and come right back and pick up the remaining four.
Shortly after, we are in the cab that will take us the 15 or so blocks to the restaurant. I love talking to cab drivers because they always seem to really have their finger on the pulse of the city. I make small talk asking him how he likes it, what he thinks of the streets, and what his favorite neighborhoods are.
Then, something goes wrong. My brain recognizes that entering the intersection we are about to cross is a car that shouldn’t be there. My mouth makes a sound of confusion along the lines of ‘Ummmmmm….’ and there is a loud crunching sound as the vehicles collide. My muscle memory from years of skateboarding kicks in, my body instinctively thinks “Don’t try and stop yourself, go limp and roll.” My right shoulder hits the dash and I roll upwards until the right side of my head cracks the windshield. My left side from my shoulder down goes instantly numb.
I am lying in the fetal position in my seat assessing the damage. I wiggle my toes, wiggle my fingers, blink my eyes and turn my neck back and forth slightly. I hear my wife yell “Are you ok?! Say something!” and feel pins and needles as feeling comes back into my left arm. I say “I am ok.”, stand up, and get out of the cab. There is a hospital nearby and medics that happened to be exiting the building come sprinting over. They convince me to sit back down, one talks to me while the other holds my neck stationary with her hand. Soon, an ambulance arrives and they say they want to take me to the hospital. After disagreeing and saying I just want to go back to the hotel one of them says, “Look, you might have a compression fracture and, although you feel fine now, in a couple of hours you could just fall over and not be able to walk again. I’d feel a lot better if you would have an x-ray just to be sure.” I think back to the EMT blogs that I read and how he is manipulating me by phrasing it as ‘doing him a favor’ since I am not in the mood to do myself a favor. However, I know he’s right, so I agree.
They lower me to the ground onto a trauma board (a plank, basically.) put me on a gurney, immobilize me and roll me into the ambulance. The medic steps outside to explain to everyone what is going to happen next and I get claustrophobic as I realize I can’t look around or move at all. I breathe deep and think calm thoughts. Soon we are driving to the hospital and I start joking about how I am glad we had the crash since the trip is all about me now. The medic whips out his cell phone and starts taking a video of me talking all about it.
At the hospital, they admit me and give me something for the pain. Things get pretty fuzzy at that point. I remember telling the nurse that being forced to look at the ceiling for hours has caused me to see things in the stains – sort of like watching the clouds and identifying what they look like to you. He acknowledges that the pain medication has obviously kicked in. After being on the trauma board for over two hours I wrote a song about it, the lyrics were:
I just want to get off of this trauma board
I think I’m going to go out of my gourd
All I want is to go home and have a beer
Things sorted out pretty quickly after that. X-ray showed no fractures, they gave me some pills and a neck brace to wear for a day and sent me on my way.
All things considered, I was very fortunate. No seatbelts worked in the cab, so it’s very possible it could have been much worse. People ask if it ruined the rest of my holiday and I really don’t think so. It definitely changed it since I was walking through a haze of codeine and muscle relaxers.
One thing is for sure: My wife now has incontrovertible proof that I am hard-headed.
Tuesday, December 22, 2009
The wheels on the bus...part 2.
I am sitting on the cold concrete floor, back against a long brick wall waiting for the call to get on a bus that will take me to San Jose, my final destination. A guy in his mid-twenties sits down next to me. He has about a dozen visible tattoos and a pierced septum. We’re both staring off into space.
A man walks up and asks, “Can you watch my bag for a minute?”
I nod and wonder if I just look trustworthy or too tired to steal anything. Shortly after a second man asks the same thing, and I nod again. Then another and another.
The next thing I know, the two if us sitting against the wall are surrounded by a semi-circle of luggage that we have been recruited to watch. I turn to my wall-mate and ask, “Do you have any idea of whose bag belongs to who?”
“Nope.”, he says and chuckles. After a minute he says, “Man, I hope the next bus comes soon, I am exhausted.”
“Me too”, I say, “there was a dude on the bus that freaked me out that I couldn’t sleep.”
“Wait, did he have one really jacked up eye?”
“YES!”, I yell.
“Ok, that’s it. For the rest of this trip we are sitting across from each other. Deal?”, he puts out his hand which I grab and shake. Shortly after the bus pulls in and we all board. I sit across from my bus partner and Hobo-Man comes down the aisle and glares at us. We stare him down, he flinches first and walks back toward the front of the bus and finds a seat up there. We look at each other and grin and nod- together we have conquered our monster of the bus.
We sleep most of the ride back, but both wake up and chat the last 45 minutes of the trip. He makes jewelry out of chainmail and he’s out to visit the Renaissance Faires in California to sell his wares. When we finally arrive, the first person waiting by the bus is a girl with about a dozen tattoos. I turn around to see them in a minute-long embrace, when he opens his eyes I give him a short wave. Still entwined in his hug, he give a short wave back and then closes his eyes while lifting the girl off her feet and spinning her.
I’ve always felt that I would run into my ally again someday. If we traded names, it was lost and forgotten in the fog of sleep deprivation. In fact, some of the details may be a bit off since I was in a half-dream state. (However, I remember him telling me a story of someone that came into his martial arts school and challenged people even though he only got his training from watching cheesy kung-fu movies. How he would jump around like a monkey.)
Sir, if you read this, drop me a note, I’d love to hear the story of what happened after that fork in the road when we parted ways. I hope your time in California was successful and free of spooky hobos.
A man walks up and asks, “Can you watch my bag for a minute?”
I nod and wonder if I just look trustworthy or too tired to steal anything. Shortly after a second man asks the same thing, and I nod again. Then another and another.
The next thing I know, the two if us sitting against the wall are surrounded by a semi-circle of luggage that we have been recruited to watch. I turn to my wall-mate and ask, “Do you have any idea of whose bag belongs to who?”
“Nope.”, he says and chuckles. After a minute he says, “Man, I hope the next bus comes soon, I am exhausted.”
“Me too”, I say, “there was a dude on the bus that freaked me out that I couldn’t sleep.”
“Wait, did he have one really jacked up eye?”
“YES!”, I yell.
“Ok, that’s it. For the rest of this trip we are sitting across from each other. Deal?”, he puts out his hand which I grab and shake. Shortly after the bus pulls in and we all board. I sit across from my bus partner and Hobo-Man comes down the aisle and glares at us. We stare him down, he flinches first and walks back toward the front of the bus and finds a seat up there. We look at each other and grin and nod- together we have conquered our monster of the bus.
We sleep most of the ride back, but both wake up and chat the last 45 minutes of the trip. He makes jewelry out of chainmail and he’s out to visit the Renaissance Faires in California to sell his wares. When we finally arrive, the first person waiting by the bus is a girl with about a dozen tattoos. I turn around to see them in a minute-long embrace, when he opens his eyes I give him a short wave. Still entwined in his hug, he give a short wave back and then closes his eyes while lifting the girl off her feet and spinning her.
I’ve always felt that I would run into my ally again someday. If we traded names, it was lost and forgotten in the fog of sleep deprivation. In fact, some of the details may be a bit off since I was in a half-dream state. (However, I remember him telling me a story of someone that came into his martial arts school and challenged people even though he only got his training from watching cheesy kung-fu movies. How he would jump around like a monkey.)
Sir, if you read this, drop me a note, I’d love to hear the story of what happened after that fork in the road when we parted ways. I hope your time in California was successful and free of spooky hobos.
Sunday, December 20, 2009
The wheels on the bus...part 1.
(Note:I am back from Africa and boy do I have some stories. It also gave me a chance to reflect and jot down a bunch of ideas for stories I had forgotten about. While I type up the most memorable item of our visit, here's a two-part story of my first and only Greyhound ride.)
I am coming home for the first time since I have moved away from my family in California to set up camp in Colorado. Since funds are tight, I take the cheapest mode of travel I could find – the bus.
The plan is to leave after work on a Friday and arrive in San Jose sometime Saturday afternoon. I have several books to read, my Walkman for music and some accumulated fatigue that will ensure that I will sleep through most of the ride.
The first hours are uneventful. People get on, the bus stops, people get off, different people get on, rinse and repeat. At about Midnight we stop somewhere across the border of Nevada. I know it’s Nevada because I look out the window and see bright neon signs that let me know that they have plenty of slot machines. People pile out to use the restroom and grab a sandwich in one of those plastic triangle containers. I see one person put a few dollars into a slot machine and I wonder if he thinks he is going to win his fortune in the middle of the night while in the middle of nowhere.
I am one of the first ones back on the bus, I pull out my book, flip ahead and see that the chapter ends in about 5 pages. My plan is to finish the chapter and then nod off to sleep. I sink into my story as the haze of sleep presses heavier and heavier on my eyes.
Then I feel something odd. Something wrong, I tense up immediately. I freeze and listen. No strange noises from the bus, nothing around me. I slowly turn my head to the left toward the aisle.
He’s staring right at me from about 8 feet away sitting in the row across the aisle. A scrawny older man with a week’s beard growth and a knit cap is staring with a vicious intensity right into my eyes. My first thought was ‘Is this guy an extra hobo from the movie Journey of Natty Gann?’ I shake the cobwebs out of my head and ask, “Yes?”
“Somebody got into my bag.”, he snarls.
“Excuse me?”, I ask.
He leans a little closer and says “SOMEbody got into my bag. And when I find out who, I am going to kill him.” I see his face in better light and see that his right eye is injured, like someone beat on it with a pretty solid object. It’s swollen and colored with dark purple and red and yellow-ish green.
I have no idea how to react. On its own, my mouth says, “Well, it wasn’t me.” One thing is for sure. I am not falling asleep. I turn back to my book and can feel him glaring at me for another 15 minutes. After about an hour I look over and he has his eyes shut and appears to be sleeping, but I remained glued to my book.
At sunrise, we have to change busses. We all pile out of the bus taking all of our gear and wait in the cold empty bus station. I sit down on the concrete floor with my back against the wall and see Hobo-Man making his way toward the closest restaurant. I assume he actually was sleeping since he appears to be full of energy – moving erratically, talking to himself, eyes darting every which way occasionally looking into mine. I pray that he’s not on the same bus all the way to San Jose so I can have the chance to get a few hours sleep.
I am coming home for the first time since I have moved away from my family in California to set up camp in Colorado. Since funds are tight, I take the cheapest mode of travel I could find – the bus.
The plan is to leave after work on a Friday and arrive in San Jose sometime Saturday afternoon. I have several books to read, my Walkman for music and some accumulated fatigue that will ensure that I will sleep through most of the ride.
The first hours are uneventful. People get on, the bus stops, people get off, different people get on, rinse and repeat. At about Midnight we stop somewhere across the border of Nevada. I know it’s Nevada because I look out the window and see bright neon signs that let me know that they have plenty of slot machines. People pile out to use the restroom and grab a sandwich in one of those plastic triangle containers. I see one person put a few dollars into a slot machine and I wonder if he thinks he is going to win his fortune in the middle of the night while in the middle of nowhere.
I am one of the first ones back on the bus, I pull out my book, flip ahead and see that the chapter ends in about 5 pages. My plan is to finish the chapter and then nod off to sleep. I sink into my story as the haze of sleep presses heavier and heavier on my eyes.
Then I feel something odd. Something wrong, I tense up immediately. I freeze and listen. No strange noises from the bus, nothing around me. I slowly turn my head to the left toward the aisle.
He’s staring right at me from about 8 feet away sitting in the row across the aisle. A scrawny older man with a week’s beard growth and a knit cap is staring with a vicious intensity right into my eyes. My first thought was ‘Is this guy an extra hobo from the movie Journey of Natty Gann?’ I shake the cobwebs out of my head and ask, “Yes?”
“Somebody got into my bag.”, he snarls.
“Excuse me?”, I ask.
He leans a little closer and says “SOMEbody got into my bag. And when I find out who, I am going to kill him.” I see his face in better light and see that his right eye is injured, like someone beat on it with a pretty solid object. It’s swollen and colored with dark purple and red and yellow-ish green.
I have no idea how to react. On its own, my mouth says, “Well, it wasn’t me.” One thing is for sure. I am not falling asleep. I turn back to my book and can feel him glaring at me for another 15 minutes. After about an hour I look over and he has his eyes shut and appears to be sleeping, but I remained glued to my book.
At sunrise, we have to change busses. We all pile out of the bus taking all of our gear and wait in the cold empty bus station. I sit down on the concrete floor with my back against the wall and see Hobo-Man making his way toward the closest restaurant. I assume he actually was sleeping since he appears to be full of energy – moving erratically, talking to himself, eyes darting every which way occasionally looking into mine. I pray that he’s not on the same bus all the way to San Jose so I can have the chance to get a few hours sleep.
Wednesday, December 2, 2009
The King is dead. Long live the King!
(Quick note: I am about to go away for two weeks, but I WILL be updating this blog. I promise. To keep your interest, here is a short post about one of my favorite restaurants.)
We first found the King’s Head Pub as newlyweds. It’s a traditional British pub in Campbell that was as close to the “real thing” we could find. Bangers and mash with a side of mushy peas is one of my comfort foods and theirs warmed my heart at first bite. They even had the caber used by the Campbell Clan in the annual Scottish games hanging above the bar. (For those not familiar with the event known as the “caber toss”, picture someone picking up a telephone pole and chucking it as far as they can, trying to make it flip end over end when it lands. I am not making this up.)
Even though it was about a 20 minute drive from our home in Mountain View, it became a staple of my routine. I worked in a Network Operations Center at the time and it was extremely stressful. On Thursday nights, a group of workmates would meet up at King’s Head to essentially start Friday’s festivities a day early because we had reached maximum stress tolerance before the end of the week.
Thursday night was Celtic Jam night so there was a core group of fiddle and bagpipe players, but there were usually at least 5 other random people that would show up with penny-whistles, drums, more fiddles, or guitars. It was always high energy and made you feel like you were in another world rather than Silicon Valley chained to a desk all day.
Often we would play a game called Munchkin which you can click the link to read about, but rest assured it is very very nerdy.
Fast forward five years. We have returned from Amsterdam, my job is stressing me out, our housing situation is stressing us out, and other stresses are impatiently waiting outside ringing the doorbell. A light bulb goes off above my head and I tell Wife, “We’re going out for dinner, I’ve got an idea.”. We start driving up the highway and as we get close she asks, “Are we going to King’s Head?”. I smile and say “Maybe.”
We pull into the parking lot and something is not right. I see a wall painted bright red and pull the car closer. That’s when it hits me.
It’s a club. There is a sign out front announcing it as “The Spot.” I see a pack of twenty-something guys in muscle-tshirts trying way too hard to look cool. The King's Head is gone, replaced by something foul to me. I haven’t even parked and I can tell that it’s a scene I want no part of. We drive away to find solace somewhere else.
I spent the next few hours in shock. If I had a dog for years, that I had spent time with and loved, and suddenly that dog turned and bit me – I think I would have had a similar feeling. Am I sure that just happened? Why did this happen? What do I do now?
Their website is still up if you want to peruse the ghost of a place I once loved - if you click the "Celtic" link at the top they even have some pictures of what I am talking about (although they say it was on Wednesday, they must have changed it at some point).
I like to think that sometimes, on a real quiet Thursday night, off in the distance, you can still hear the bagpipes playing.
We first found the King’s Head Pub as newlyweds. It’s a traditional British pub in Campbell that was as close to the “real thing” we could find. Bangers and mash with a side of mushy peas is one of my comfort foods and theirs warmed my heart at first bite. They even had the caber used by the Campbell Clan in the annual Scottish games hanging above the bar. (For those not familiar with the event known as the “caber toss”, picture someone picking up a telephone pole and chucking it as far as they can, trying to make it flip end over end when it lands. I am not making this up.)
Even though it was about a 20 minute drive from our home in Mountain View, it became a staple of my routine. I worked in a Network Operations Center at the time and it was extremely stressful. On Thursday nights, a group of workmates would meet up at King’s Head to essentially start Friday’s festivities a day early because we had reached maximum stress tolerance before the end of the week.
Thursday night was Celtic Jam night so there was a core group of fiddle and bagpipe players, but there were usually at least 5 other random people that would show up with penny-whistles, drums, more fiddles, or guitars. It was always high energy and made you feel like you were in another world rather than Silicon Valley chained to a desk all day.
Often we would play a game called Munchkin which you can click the link to read about, but rest assured it is very very nerdy.
Fast forward five years. We have returned from Amsterdam, my job is stressing me out, our housing situation is stressing us out, and other stresses are impatiently waiting outside ringing the doorbell. A light bulb goes off above my head and I tell Wife, “We’re going out for dinner, I’ve got an idea.”. We start driving up the highway and as we get close she asks, “Are we going to King’s Head?”. I smile and say “Maybe.”
We pull into the parking lot and something is not right. I see a wall painted bright red and pull the car closer. That’s when it hits me.
It’s a club. There is a sign out front announcing it as “The Spot.” I see a pack of twenty-something guys in muscle-tshirts trying way too hard to look cool. The King's Head is gone, replaced by something foul to me. I haven’t even parked and I can tell that it’s a scene I want no part of. We drive away to find solace somewhere else.
I spent the next few hours in shock. If I had a dog for years, that I had spent time with and loved, and suddenly that dog turned and bit me – I think I would have had a similar feeling. Am I sure that just happened? Why did this happen? What do I do now?
Their website is still up if you want to peruse the ghost of a place I once loved - if you click the "Celtic" link at the top they even have some pictures of what I am talking about (although they say it was on Wednesday, they must have changed it at some point).
I like to think that sometimes, on a real quiet Thursday night, off in the distance, you can still hear the bagpipes playing.
Wednesday, November 25, 2009
What Americans call "soccer"
It’s early 2002 and it had been several months in our rented room a stone’s throw from Dublin, Ireland, days spent searching for work every morning by going to our favorite internet café named Right-Click. We were beginning to feel less like tourists and more like locals.
Not having watched much football, I didn’t have a clue as to the enormity of the fact that Ireland had qualified to be in the World Cup. However, since it felt like something I should be interested in, our plan was to go to a nearby pub and watch them play Germany in their second match. It’s happening late morning and there’s not much else that needs to be done.
We walk up the street and it’s barren. Not “light traffic” barren, more like “ghost town that is going to spew forth vampires as soon as the sun goes down” barren. Shops are closed, streets are empty, and barely any cars are on the main roads. It was eerie.
We open the door to the closest pub with a TV and freeze – we can’t even cross the threshold it is so packed with people. The thing about pubs in Dublin is there are a lot of them; it’s a well known puzzle to try and figure out how to cross the city without passing in front of a pub (I suspect it’s impossible, they are everywhere.) We shrug and go toward the next pub.
We walk up the block a bit and open the door – same thing. Wall-to-wall people. After a couple more tries we change our strategy: in the center of downtown Dublin there is a magnificent Westin hotel which has a pub downstairs called The Mint (it used to be a huge bank vault a long time ago.) The staff are great and since tourists want to walk outside and go to an “authentic” pub it’s usually empty.
We walk downstairs and it’s extremely crowded but we can at least walk in. We slap our hands down on the bar to hold a space large enough to set our drinks. We flag down Carl the bartender who brings us pints of Guinness and gives us status of the game: “We’re losing 1 to nill. We knew Germany was going to be tough, though, for as many times Ireland has qualified to be in the world cup, Germany has won it.”
The mood is energized but somber. I look around and think that it’s a good reflection of the Irish culture. No matter what comes at them, they’ll keep fighting through it by finding strength in their ancestors doing the same for generations. British rule, potato famine, you name it – they’ll write a poem or song that will break your heart and then drink and dance because that’s how it is done on that island and how it always will be done.
The official 90 minutes are over and a few minutes are tacked on to the end to account for time spent dealing with injuries. Suddenly, an Irish player breaks past a defender. A surge of energy goes through the crowd, and then he breaks past another defender and sprints toward the goal. Everything went silent, employees stopped working, everyone held their breath save for one man in the far corner that screams “Off you go, lad! OFF YOU GO!” The player (Roy Keane) fires and scores, tying up the game. Everything erupts, people scream for drinks, an old woman wearing a hand-knitted cap with the colors of Ireland’s flag starts crying, an old man grabs me and hugs me tight and I start to tear up as well.
One minute later, a German player breaks past a defender and there is a collective gasp. I hear a woman say “Oh, sweet Jesus.” Fortunately, the next Irish player knocked the ball back up field and the game ended in a tie. Drinks are raised, people start singing, and we head outside to look for lunch.
I did not expect the scene waiting for us outside – complete chaos and celebration. I counted about 30 people with their arms locked, dancing in a circle in the streets. We walk past a store that had televisions in the window and we saw an interview of random people in a pub near where Roy Keane was born. I heard the phrase “We always knew that boy would grow up to do something special.” My wife is snapping pictures as fast as she can take them to record the storm before it passes. She aims the camera at three young men leaning out a railing a few stories up. One of them yells, “Wait! Wait a second!” We assume he is going to grab a flag or cap or something, but instead reverses his now naked backside out the railing and yells, “Ok! Go ahead!” At that point, there’s not much you can do but take the picture, so she does.
I spend the next several days caught up in World Cup fever and, despite having an American accent, feel that I am starting to really be accepted as a Dublin Man from south of the river. I learn the life lesson that it’s not about winning, it’s about celebrating life win or lose. Sing your heart out, cry if you have to, but be sure to have a drink and make some friends, because that’s how it’s done on that island.
Not having watched much football, I didn’t have a clue as to the enormity of the fact that Ireland had qualified to be in the World Cup. However, since it felt like something I should be interested in, our plan was to go to a nearby pub and watch them play Germany in their second match. It’s happening late morning and there’s not much else that needs to be done.
We walk up the street and it’s barren. Not “light traffic” barren, more like “ghost town that is going to spew forth vampires as soon as the sun goes down” barren. Shops are closed, streets are empty, and barely any cars are on the main roads. It was eerie.
We open the door to the closest pub with a TV and freeze – we can’t even cross the threshold it is so packed with people. The thing about pubs in Dublin is there are a lot of them; it’s a well known puzzle to try and figure out how to cross the city without passing in front of a pub (I suspect it’s impossible, they are everywhere.) We shrug and go toward the next pub.
We walk up the block a bit and open the door – same thing. Wall-to-wall people. After a couple more tries we change our strategy: in the center of downtown Dublin there is a magnificent Westin hotel which has a pub downstairs called The Mint (it used to be a huge bank vault a long time ago.) The staff are great and since tourists want to walk outside and go to an “authentic” pub it’s usually empty.
We walk downstairs and it’s extremely crowded but we can at least walk in. We slap our hands down on the bar to hold a space large enough to set our drinks. We flag down Carl the bartender who brings us pints of Guinness and gives us status of the game: “We’re losing 1 to nill. We knew Germany was going to be tough, though, for as many times Ireland has qualified to be in the world cup, Germany has won it.”
The mood is energized but somber. I look around and think that it’s a good reflection of the Irish culture. No matter what comes at them, they’ll keep fighting through it by finding strength in their ancestors doing the same for generations. British rule, potato famine, you name it – they’ll write a poem or song that will break your heart and then drink and dance because that’s how it is done on that island and how it always will be done.
The official 90 minutes are over and a few minutes are tacked on to the end to account for time spent dealing with injuries. Suddenly, an Irish player breaks past a defender. A surge of energy goes through the crowd, and then he breaks past another defender and sprints toward the goal. Everything went silent, employees stopped working, everyone held their breath save for one man in the far corner that screams “Off you go, lad! OFF YOU GO!” The player (Roy Keane) fires and scores, tying up the game. Everything erupts, people scream for drinks, an old woman wearing a hand-knitted cap with the colors of Ireland’s flag starts crying, an old man grabs me and hugs me tight and I start to tear up as well.
One minute later, a German player breaks past a defender and there is a collective gasp. I hear a woman say “Oh, sweet Jesus.” Fortunately, the next Irish player knocked the ball back up field and the game ended in a tie. Drinks are raised, people start singing, and we head outside to look for lunch.
I did not expect the scene waiting for us outside – complete chaos and celebration. I counted about 30 people with their arms locked, dancing in a circle in the streets. We walk past a store that had televisions in the window and we saw an interview of random people in a pub near where Roy Keane was born. I heard the phrase “We always knew that boy would grow up to do something special.” My wife is snapping pictures as fast as she can take them to record the storm before it passes. She aims the camera at three young men leaning out a railing a few stories up. One of them yells, “Wait! Wait a second!” We assume he is going to grab a flag or cap or something, but instead reverses his now naked backside out the railing and yells, “Ok! Go ahead!” At that point, there’s not much you can do but take the picture, so she does.
I spend the next several days caught up in World Cup fever and, despite having an American accent, feel that I am starting to really be accepted as a Dublin Man from south of the river. I learn the life lesson that it’s not about winning, it’s about celebrating life win or lose. Sing your heart out, cry if you have to, but be sure to have a drink and make some friends, because that’s how it’s done on that island.
Wednesday, June 25, 2008
Not Constantinople?
I regret my decision to decline a hotel driver to pick me up at the airport. After the exhausting jump from San Francisco to Istanbul it seems to me very worth the extra cost to not have to find a cabbie that was free and try and communicate our destination. My heart leaps when, despite my instructions, there is a man standing there holding a card with my name on it. After confirming the price of the drive, we begin the winding path toward the Goldenhorn Hotel while I try to take in as much as possible of the place I had only ever dreamt of seeing.
I absorb the rapid-fire images of modern mixed with ancient – a billboard selling electronics, a tower on the edge of the water hundreds of years old, a Chinese food restaurant, silhouettes of minarets, Annie Lennox playing on the radio. I glance at Wife and see she is already frantically snapping pictures. As we turn up cobblestone street I see a street vendor selling food next to a sign reading misir. I ask him what it is and he repeats the word over and over as if that it’s self-explanatory, “Misir! You know! Misir! It’s misir! In English it would be, you know, um, misir!” We chuckle and get out when soon after he stops the cab in front of the unassuming hotel.
Our next destination was an authentic Turkish bath. I had a couple candidates that I had researched ahead of time, but the hotel had a relationship with one named Suleymaniye to which they would provide drop off/pick up service and once again, simplicity wins the day. After convincing him that it is ok to leave his techno music blasting we ask him to teach us some Turkish words. “Ok, repeat after me,” he says, “ Tea. Sugar. Dream. That’s ‘thank you’! Easy!”
I quickly lose my bearings in the thin twisting streets. Almost all the storefronts are closed with thick metal bars or an entire sliding metal door. We stop in front of a dimly lit wooden door set in an ancient stone building. My wife shoots me a nervous look and we go in with our guard up. In movies, when the adventurer enters a room with vast treasure he will have a blank overwhelmed expression while the lighting on his face grows brighter and brighter. I suspect that if I had been filmed at that moment that is exactly what would have happened.
The interior was modest but comfortable and much larger than the nondescript entry would have you believe. We each buy a massage as well as entry to the hammam (€35 per person) and they give us clothes and explain to us that this is the only co-ed hammam in Istanbul so we would be able to stay together through the experience.
We change into a red plaid outfits that consist of shorts for me and shorts and a top for her. We balance precariously on wooden sandals as we are led through a series of small rooms leading to a massive domed marble room with a gigantic marble circular slab in the middle. Alcoves in each corner house some sort of sink and platform built into the wall. There is another couple lying on the central slab but there is room enough for twenty so we plop down, close our eyes, and listen to the sound of dripping water echoing off the walls.
After we have broken into a sweat two men enter and proceed to splash water on themselves in one of the alcoves. We recognize them as employees and soon they call us over to lie on the platforms set into the wall. They alternate sloshing us with hot and cold water separated by a brisk scrubbing with what I can only associate with a rough inflated pillowcase filled with bubbles. Their singing in Turkish while they work adds to the ambiance and I am hesitant to ask what the song is about in case the topic is completely discordant with the feeling of ancient place and time.
Our driver is waiting for us after we cool off, sip on some fresh squeezed pomegranate juice and change back into our clothes. We feel exhausted, excited, refreshed, content and overwhelmed. We feel reborn.
I absorb the rapid-fire images of modern mixed with ancient – a billboard selling electronics, a tower on the edge of the water hundreds of years old, a Chinese food restaurant, silhouettes of minarets, Annie Lennox playing on the radio. I glance at Wife and see she is already frantically snapping pictures. As we turn up cobblestone street I see a street vendor selling food next to a sign reading misir. I ask him what it is and he repeats the word over and over as if that it’s self-explanatory, “Misir! You know! Misir! It’s misir! In English it would be, you know, um, misir!” We chuckle and get out when soon after he stops the cab in front of the unassuming hotel.
Our next destination was an authentic Turkish bath. I had a couple candidates that I had researched ahead of time, but the hotel had a relationship with one named Suleymaniye to which they would provide drop off/pick up service and once again, simplicity wins the day. After convincing him that it is ok to leave his techno music blasting we ask him to teach us some Turkish words. “Ok, repeat after me,” he says, “ Tea. Sugar. Dream. That’s ‘thank you’! Easy!”
I quickly lose my bearings in the thin twisting streets. Almost all the storefronts are closed with thick metal bars or an entire sliding metal door. We stop in front of a dimly lit wooden door set in an ancient stone building. My wife shoots me a nervous look and we go in with our guard up. In movies, when the adventurer enters a room with vast treasure he will have a blank overwhelmed expression while the lighting on his face grows brighter and brighter. I suspect that if I had been filmed at that moment that is exactly what would have happened.
The interior was modest but comfortable and much larger than the nondescript entry would have you believe. We each buy a massage as well as entry to the hammam (€35 per person) and they give us clothes and explain to us that this is the only co-ed hammam in Istanbul so we would be able to stay together through the experience.
We change into a red plaid outfits that consist of shorts for me and shorts and a top for her. We balance precariously on wooden sandals as we are led through a series of small rooms leading to a massive domed marble room with a gigantic marble circular slab in the middle. Alcoves in each corner house some sort of sink and platform built into the wall. There is another couple lying on the central slab but there is room enough for twenty so we plop down, close our eyes, and listen to the sound of dripping water echoing off the walls.
After we have broken into a sweat two men enter and proceed to splash water on themselves in one of the alcoves. We recognize them as employees and soon they call us over to lie on the platforms set into the wall. They alternate sloshing us with hot and cold water separated by a brisk scrubbing with what I can only associate with a rough inflated pillowcase filled with bubbles. Their singing in Turkish while they work adds to the ambiance and I am hesitant to ask what the song is about in case the topic is completely discordant with the feeling of ancient place and time.
Our driver is waiting for us after we cool off, sip on some fresh squeezed pomegranate juice and change back into our clothes. We feel exhausted, excited, refreshed, content and overwhelmed. We feel reborn.
Wednesday, June 18, 2008
Bourbon & Branch
It’s still bright as we emerge from the BART tunnel, but the tall Financial District buildings dispel any hope of any view of the sun setting. Moving up Powell we are pressed solidly by people carry bags saying Gap or Nordstrom’s or a chrome Apple logo.
Snippets of German, Chinese, Japanese, and Spanish swirl around us as the press of people flow in all directions. The two girls in my group follow me as I turn left on O’Farrell trying to put some distance between us and the main vein of tourist excitement.
Block after block the scene slowly changes to a grittier feel with people milling about in front of a corner liquor store or a closed nail salon. One of the girls asks me “You aren’t going to take us to a massage parlor, are you?”
I see the sign for our destination which reads “Anti-Saloon League. San Francisco Branch. Est 1920.” There is a single door with a speaker and buzzer next to it. There is a man speaking to a woman at the door in hushed tones in the doorway, she motions him to come in, and shuts the door as we approach. After it becomes apparent that she’s not coming back, I press the buzzer and a young man in a pin-stripe suit opens the door and asks “Password?” I give him the password and we walk inside.
The transition from daylight to the dim interior is drastic and we struggle to watch our steps. We can barely make out the booths of people eating dinner talking to each other in whisper tones. The doorman leads us up to a bookshelf which, after he presses a button, swings open to reveal a passage to another room. He motions us through and closes the bookcase behind us.
Our eyes adjust and can take in the rows of bookshelves filled with ancient looking books from the hardwood floor up to the high ceiling. There are a few couples filling the scattered tables but it is obvious we have beaten the evening rush and proceed to the bar.
There are two bartenders in 20s style clothing trimming garnish and preparing for the rush sure to come later. We ask for a minute to peruse the chalkboard behind them for ideas on cocktails. I’ve already informed my group of some of the House Rules, one of which is “Don’t even think of ordering a Cosmopolitan.” The girls take their time drink shopping knowing that their order is going to be a reflection on their personality. I take a moment to pick a book of the bookshelf to determine if all of these books are cheap filler from a local used bookstore. I am pleasantly surprised to be holding Milton’s “Paradise Lost”.
I look up at the bartender and ask for an Anchor Steam ($4). One of the girls orders an Aviation ($8). Our last party member starts talking to the bartender about her inability to choose and he notes that there’s only one thing you can do, “Grin and bear it.”
She says, “I’ll have one of those.”
He says, “A what?”
“A Grin and Bear It. Surprise me.”
They are known for being Mixologists here and he seems to relish in the idea of experimenting. A flurry of bottles pass over a chilled martini glass followed by a flash of light as he lights the concoction on fire. He slides an orange rind around the rim, drops a cherry into it and passes it across the bar. She sips and as her expression changes to one of concentration and surprise she hands it to me to taste. I sip and immediately identify a syrupy orange flavor to be followed by a distinct bite of smoke and lemon. The bartender asks “Well?” We both nod in amazement and watch as he types in the name of the drink manually into the register – Grin And Bare It.
The girls turn to me and ask “How did you find this place? How did you know the password?” I look at them straight faced and keep my lips sealed. Explaining that you can find anything on the Internet if you look long enough would destroy the mystery – and mystery and secrets are what embodies where we are at : an old-fashioned Speakeasy.
Snippets of German, Chinese, Japanese, and Spanish swirl around us as the press of people flow in all directions. The two girls in my group follow me as I turn left on O’Farrell trying to put some distance between us and the main vein of tourist excitement.
Block after block the scene slowly changes to a grittier feel with people milling about in front of a corner liquor store or a closed nail salon. One of the girls asks me “You aren’t going to take us to a massage parlor, are you?”
I see the sign for our destination which reads “Anti-Saloon League. San Francisco Branch. Est 1920.” There is a single door with a speaker and buzzer next to it. There is a man speaking to a woman at the door in hushed tones in the doorway, she motions him to come in, and shuts the door as we approach. After it becomes apparent that she’s not coming back, I press the buzzer and a young man in a pin-stripe suit opens the door and asks “Password?” I give him the password and we walk inside.
The transition from daylight to the dim interior is drastic and we struggle to watch our steps. We can barely make out the booths of people eating dinner talking to each other in whisper tones. The doorman leads us up to a bookshelf which, after he presses a button, swings open to reveal a passage to another room. He motions us through and closes the bookcase behind us.
Our eyes adjust and can take in the rows of bookshelves filled with ancient looking books from the hardwood floor up to the high ceiling. There are a few couples filling the scattered tables but it is obvious we have beaten the evening rush and proceed to the bar.
There are two bartenders in 20s style clothing trimming garnish and preparing for the rush sure to come later. We ask for a minute to peruse the chalkboard behind them for ideas on cocktails. I’ve already informed my group of some of the House Rules, one of which is “Don’t even think of ordering a Cosmopolitan.” The girls take their time drink shopping knowing that their order is going to be a reflection on their personality. I take a moment to pick a book of the bookshelf to determine if all of these books are cheap filler from a local used bookstore. I am pleasantly surprised to be holding Milton’s “Paradise Lost”.
I look up at the bartender and ask for an Anchor Steam ($4). One of the girls orders an Aviation ($8). Our last party member starts talking to the bartender about her inability to choose and he notes that there’s only one thing you can do, “Grin and bear it.”
She says, “I’ll have one of those.”
He says, “A what?”
“A Grin and Bear It. Surprise me.”
They are known for being Mixologists here and he seems to relish in the idea of experimenting. A flurry of bottles pass over a chilled martini glass followed by a flash of light as he lights the concoction on fire. He slides an orange rind around the rim, drops a cherry into it and passes it across the bar. She sips and as her expression changes to one of concentration and surprise she hands it to me to taste. I sip and immediately identify a syrupy orange flavor to be followed by a distinct bite of smoke and lemon. The bartender asks “Well?” We both nod in amazement and watch as he types in the name of the drink manually into the register – Grin And Bare It.
The girls turn to me and ask “How did you find this place? How did you know the password?” I look at them straight faced and keep my lips sealed. Explaining that you can find anything on the Internet if you look long enough would destroy the mystery – and mystery and secrets are what embodies where we are at : an old-fashioned Speakeasy.
Tuesday, April 24, 2007
It’s an overcast day in south Dublin, as per usual. Wife and I revel in the gloomy dramatic feel of it all. We have been living in Ireland for about a month and are familiar enough with the city now to feel like locals, but still new enough to feel like every corner hides an exciting adventure.
The plan is to take a bus to a part of town we have never visited, see another ancient landmark, drink pints from another historic pub and consume the daily ration of fried fatty food. Irish pub grub warms the body and soul to counteract the daily drizzle, but, looking back, the sausages and chips, fish and chips, eggs and chips, not to mention the lasagna and chips take their toll on the waistline.
We cart our ever-growing backsides up to the top deck of the bus and go to the back where we hope to have some space to ourselves. We have the back rows pretty much to ourselves until two young men climb the stairs holding cans hidden by brown paper bags. They begin to discuss their beer of choice very loudly and I grimace at Wife when I hear the more dominant of the pair state he ‘is a Budweiser man’. We are in Guinness country! We have flown thousands of miles to raise above the American swill they call beer and here these youngsters are touting their love of yellow water for all to hear! The submissive chuckles and calls the dominant one ‘stupid’.
The dominant hooligan mishears and launches into a tirade, “How dare you call me a scumbag. Scumbags are the lowest of the low and I’ll tell you right now, I’ve never stolen from my friends and I’ve never stolen from my family, so if you call me a scumbag I will fight you on this bus right now and steal from you and your friends every chance I get! You understand me?!” The submissive hooligan is complete shocked and in a high pitched voice says simply “Yeah! Alright! Alright!” I get the impression that the submissive hooligan had no idea what just happened.
There is a tense silence and I wonder at the audacity of admitting that you are a thief but not a ‘scumbag’ since you follow a personal code forbidding you to steal from relatives and from current allies.
The dominant hooligan asks, “Hey, you know what’s funny?”
The submissive hooligan asks, “What’s funny?”
The dominant hooligan says, “Elephants can’t jump.”
The submissive hooligan thinks for a second and says, “Hey, yeah, that is pretty funny.”
They then rose up and exited the bus on the next stop, chuckling all the way.
I spent the rest of the day wondering about youthful arrogance and leaping pachyderms. And, despite what I think of him, he may have a point. It is pretty funny.
The plan is to take a bus to a part of town we have never visited, see another ancient landmark, drink pints from another historic pub and consume the daily ration of fried fatty food. Irish pub grub warms the body and soul to counteract the daily drizzle, but, looking back, the sausages and chips, fish and chips, eggs and chips, not to mention the lasagna and chips take their toll on the waistline.
We cart our ever-growing backsides up to the top deck of the bus and go to the back where we hope to have some space to ourselves. We have the back rows pretty much to ourselves until two young men climb the stairs holding cans hidden by brown paper bags. They begin to discuss their beer of choice very loudly and I grimace at Wife when I hear the more dominant of the pair state he ‘is a Budweiser man’. We are in Guinness country! We have flown thousands of miles to raise above the American swill they call beer and here these youngsters are touting their love of yellow water for all to hear! The submissive chuckles and calls the dominant one ‘stupid’.
The dominant hooligan mishears and launches into a tirade, “How dare you call me a scumbag. Scumbags are the lowest of the low and I’ll tell you right now, I’ve never stolen from my friends and I’ve never stolen from my family, so if you call me a scumbag I will fight you on this bus right now and steal from you and your friends every chance I get! You understand me?!” The submissive hooligan is complete shocked and in a high pitched voice says simply “Yeah! Alright! Alright!” I get the impression that the submissive hooligan had no idea what just happened.
There is a tense silence and I wonder at the audacity of admitting that you are a thief but not a ‘scumbag’ since you follow a personal code forbidding you to steal from relatives and from current allies.
The dominant hooligan asks, “Hey, you know what’s funny?”
The submissive hooligan asks, “What’s funny?”
The dominant hooligan says, “Elephants can’t jump.”
The submissive hooligan thinks for a second and says, “Hey, yeah, that is pretty funny.”
They then rose up and exited the bus on the next stop, chuckling all the way.
I spent the rest of the day wondering about youthful arrogance and leaping pachyderms. And, despite what I think of him, he may have a point. It is pretty funny.
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