A Date with Dosa

South India is brutally hot. It is December, and we are wilted in the mid day scorch. Even the locals do nothing at this time of day- not in the North Indian sense of doing little for the whole day- but they intentionally do nothing at all. The great three millennia old temple Sri Meenakshi Amman is closed from noon until four pm because, frankly, nothing is going to happen during those hours anyway. The middle of the day brings the age-old ritual of finding shade and parking there until the temperature is bearable again. All this means that the working day is compressed into short hours of intense activity in the morning and evening. And dining is no exception.

Tom and I approach Shree Annapoorna, a restaurant that serves up all sorts of South Indian food at a rapid pace. One of the specialties is a dish called a dosa, which is a large flat crepe filled with spicy curried vegetables. The restaurant is simply buzzing with activity. Even in India, where crowds are the rule and everything and everyone is competing for breathing space, I am taken aback by the busyness of it all. Like the mass of pilgrims at the ancient shrine we visited earlier in the day, there was a torrent of Indians and westerners circulating through the two cramped dining rooms like a whirlpool. We gawk, not knowing what to do. For a moment, we hesitate and consider leaving for some place less hectic. But Shree Annapoorna has the best Masala Dosas by several orders of magnitude. The Dosa’s burrito-style rice paper is crisp and soft; the filling inside isn’t just cheap potato, as every other restaurant serves, but brimming with onion, carrot, even cashews. While in Madurai, I have eaten every meal at this restaurant and we are set to leave early the next morning.

I am not going to miss my last meal in Madurai.

A man, who I must assume is an employee, drags us to a table which is still occupied. Two Indian men have not yet finished their meals - they look up at me as they scoop the last of their food into their mouth and motion for me to take the table. In the flawlessly choreographed scene that followed, the two men rose from their seats, Tom and I slipped in as their dishes were cleared and another man appeared to squeegee clean the black granite table. If anyone had been off cue, the scene would have ended in a disaster.

Seated, we are given a brief respite while our waiter attends dozens of other clients in the sifting saree sea. Two South Indians are eating at the same table opposite us. They finish eating soon after we sit. They leave wordlessly, squeezing through the crowd with their check and payment in hand, headed for the cash register. Out come the plate clearers and squeegeemen again, and the surface is returned to virginal purity as two new diners sit in front of us.

I focus on my food in the midst of this madness and I don’t talk with the new guests opposite me. They order, eat, pay and leave.

I begin to feel like I am in a bizarre speed-dating-meets-south-India comedy show as our third set of diners join the table.

Tom and I have already ordered our second and final round of Masala Dosas. The food arrives just as this pair of guys from New Delhi join us and speak in Hindi for their order. The Southern Indians of Tamil Nadu have a proud history, but have historically been pushed around by successive waves of advancing conquers coming from the North. They do not, as a rule, care for Hindi.

One diner requests what I am having, which he incorrectly identifies as an Aloo (potato) Dosa. The waiter replies with what’s probably the only Hindi phrase he knows. “No. Finished.”

Before the befuddled diner can react or question, the waiter storms off to the kitchen without offering an alternative.

“Do you pay for this food, or is it free?” my new tablemate asks me.

Puzzled, I slowly tell him, “Well we pay of course.”

“Then why like this? We are paying customers - how is that it is not possible?,” he almost desperately implores to me.

I am amazed. I thought that I was the only one to question this sort of ‘not possible’ door-slam of a no. To see an Indian struggling with this is truly a turn for me. I don’t know what to say to him besides “Ke garne?” (“What to do?”), which is what Indians usually tell me when I ask such questions.

Somehow in the chaos, he manages to place an order.

A few minutes later, a server slaps down a banana leaf-covered plate, then shoots into the masses. Our new date’s food bears no similarity to what he ordered. Like a good Indian, he resigns himself to his destiny and digs in. He must hurry. There is already competition for his seat.

As the Dosas on our plates dwindle, a large bearded man and his wife hover above us. We know our welcome has worn thin.

We settle our bill and join the conga-line of dining evacuees as the bearded man and his wife, the next speed dating contestants, are hustled into our seats.

Holidays. Have some happy ones, ok?

Above: Will at the southernmost point of India

I am here with Tom and Paula on the southern tip of India, where the Bay of Bengal, The Arabian Sea, and the Indian Ocean meet in that theoretical sense that large bodies of water do! To me, it’s all the Pacific, but whatever. I guess it sounds more romantic if you imagine three goliaths of immense waters meeting, so we can go with that.

This town, Kaniyakumari, is incredibly popular with domestic Indian tourists as there is a big Hindu temple here. There is a loud festive market, reminiscent of an American flea market, that sells things like fluorescent dolphin keychains, mirrors in the shape of an ‘om’ made from seashells and, strangely, winter coats. I guess I understand the tacky shell items as souvenirs, but for the life of me, I can’t figure out why people are buying these heavy coats. It is hot here- we are only about 5 degrees north of the equator, so it isn’t like anyone is at risk of frostbite. It goes to show, just when you think you have India figured out, you see a guy in 90 degree weather wearing a winter coat and shorts and you sort of have to scratch your head for a minute.

Back home in Colorado, I hear that it is cold, and hope it’s a white Christmas. I am about the ‘whitest’ thing around here, so people frequently ask to have photos of me taken with them. Today after one of these little photosessions, I asked for ten rupees as a joke (many holy men in India ask for a small donation like this for a photo). The hapless South Indian vacationer started reaching for his wallet, but then I smiled and told him I was not being serious. I am not sure if Indians understand my humor.

I have been traveling for going on four months now, and I have a lot left. I miss everyone back home, especially now during the holidays.

From the bottom of India and my heart, Merry Christmas (or other holiday) and happy new year!

Hot, Flat and Friedman

Above: Tom takes careful notes on Friedman's new book, "Flat, Hot and Crowded"

I have just finished reading Thomas Friedman’s new book, "Hot, Flat and Crowded.”. In the book, Friedman basically argues that we are all doomed unless we make a serious movement into clean technologies due to global warming and increasing luxury demanded by an immense middle class in India and China (among others).

I agree with Friedman’s analysis and recommended actions steps, but my basic concern is this: Our leadership, like most humans, is short sighted and forgetful. On a macro level, my fear is that people will not invest in the clean tech that will make a difference until the situation has become painful for them. Meanwhile, our economy is being weakened by the inflationary effects of an increasingly erratic fossil fuel market, so I predict that society will see clean technologies as ‘too expensive,’ due to the high cost of fossil fuels and poor state of the economy tied to those dwindling fossil fuels!

Although I am not buying gasoline right now, I hear that the price has come down, probably due to a decrease in demand as a result of our depressed economy. The question I have is this: Can the incoming Obama administration can still make the case that something must be done and this is just a temporary easing of prices related solely to a slack economy, and not a return to the ‘good old days’ of endless cheap fossil fuels?

India: You are here, but why?

Why am I here? Is usually a sort of soul searching, meaning of life kind of question. A question reserved for people on acid trips, having had a near-death experience, or an encounter with god- all of which can be described as religious experiences. But no, I am writing from India, and here, the question is of much more a practical nature: Why am I here? Or in my case, “why did I come back here?”

It all started in 2006. I had laid the seeds for a new solar energy company called Sunflower Solar in the fall and winter of 2005. But by the spring of 2006, the market had not quite yet come due to a delay in subsidies for solar energy in Colorado, but they were promised soon. So, without too much careful consideration, I explained to my long term girlfriend that I needed to leave for a few months (let me tell you how excited she was about that) and met my brother, recently out of the Peace Corps, in Thailand.

After a month of enjoying ourselves in Southeast Asia, we made the decision to go to India for reasons that are now lost on me. All I can say is that I lived through the experience, and despite the numerous frustrations associated with being in India, it was a great learning experience in which I even found some joy.

However, learning experiences usually involve things that are not altogether fun, and can rarely be described as a vacation, so I can hardly explain my insistence on returning once again to the subcontinent.

It is still hard to be here. Though last time I was here, I believe I had mastered the serene acceptance of the unending hassles of India, I clearly had not put those into long term use because I have allowed it, once again, to scam me, annoy me, and generally get under my skin.

But India is a learning experience and it does make you tougher. It lays bare people’s motivations and makes things, through the chaos, more transparent. The beggars who simply say “money money money money,” while holding out their hands lack a certain refinement- but they get the point across. And the point, I am finding, is that most people who interact with you want something from you. And that is usually money. Sometimes people just want to practice their English or alleviate boredom, but usually it is just this: you have money, and they want it. As a result, many interactions I have here on a daily basis resemble someone at an ATM, with me being the ATM. Mind you, in true Indian style, I have made my ATM extremely difficult to operate and I refuse most bankcard pleas for cash. In India, seekers of divinity commonly use a mantra, which they repeat day in and day out. Mine is this: “I know you want my money, but I am not giving it to you, so please go away.” I would prefer it were “Om Mani Padme Hum” (I am one with the universe) but for now, it’s all about the money.

Staying in the ashram boom town of Puttarpathy, I had briefly lost my voice due to sickness, so I decided to just stop talking altogether. Now, 3 days into my experiment, I have told no to exactly zero people, though many have asked. Their requests, which used to hold sway over my western sensibilities governing politeness, are now declined through the power of my intention and my actions rather than the words of someone being held-up at guiltpoint.

I also realized I don’t hate the people who beg or try to otherwise get into my pocket. In fact, I am pretty much indifferent toward them, and my adjustment goes a long way in explaining why most Indians seem to have no particular attachment to what is going on around them- they simply stopped (or never learned to) caring about what anyone else around them wanted. Through this experiential lens, I find it totally understandable that Indians would be so obstinate, uncaring and unhelpful. If they weren’t, they would simply be drowned with requests, pleas and distractions anytime they left their house.

Nepal’s Knit-Wit Gang

On the bus ride from Pokhara to Kathmandu, we encountered one of those low dollar scams that I have now come to expect from the developing world. It is important to keep in mind that Kathmandu (which is huge) and Pokhara (relatively tiny) are the two largest cities in Nepal. Therefore, the road between them, in all of its almost-two-lane glory is the national highway. Now, about two hours into the trip, in one small town, we were greeted with a traffic jam that was disproportionate to the meager population and car ownership demographic. In other words, there was rush hour traffic in a two horse town. Strange. Buses were sprawled across the road here and there and motorcycles darted in and out of holes in the stagnant traffic.

At last we crept close enough to see that the source of the disturbance was a group of local morons who were holding a fundraiser for their soccer team by hanging a banner across the road. The rope was so pathetic I would barely classify it higher than a string in the hierarchy of twines. Men brandished pulp-paper carbon books covered in meaningless scrawl as receipts for each ‘donation’ received. That’s right- we were being help up at string-point. As an experience bus operator myself, I could hardly fathom why our driver, or really any driver of anything larger than a tricycle would be impaired by this absurd roadblock. I would have just driven through, but for some reason, it was working. I was dumbstruck. Imagine if a bunch of yokels from BF Kansas decided to halt all traffic on I-70 and extort $.35 from each of them. You can bet how long that would last. I don’t exactly know what charge would be levied against them, but it would no doubt be substantial. Tom had a great idea, and if Prachanda, prime minister of Nepal is reading this, please take note: You must not allow your main traffic arteries be impaired in the least by guys with string. It’s just not what real countries do. This is a case where swift police action is warranted, and the sentence for the offenders should involve lots of picking up trash from the national arterial. Unbelievable.

One man on the bus told us that this happens all the time, if you can believe that. In parting, I would like to leave you with this shot taken from the Nepali equivalent of a rest-stop for the bus. As could be expected, its food was overpriced and underquality. But they were trying to make up for it with this garden planting, which will no doubt make any westerner feel right at home.


Note that the Nazis directly borrowed the swastika from Hinduism. Hindus still associate its use with the original, benign religious significance they have had for thousands of years so no offense is meant. Still, I don’t think it translates like they think it does...

Trekking to Annapurna, Part Three

The costs, in case you were wondering!

Though the lodge-towns were frequent, we had brought most of our own food to avoid paying the extortionate prices levied against the tourists. Nepal is surprisingly organized, though it is usually the type of organization that works against you. In my experience, this means various mafia-style cartels for most things that tourists want including internet, food and lodging. Once you step outside of the tourist areas, of course, the price drops by a factor of three but there is no ‘outside of the tourist area’ in the remote mountain lodges, so you are pretty much stuck paying $3 for a bowl of cereal. Having brought our own food, we were able to save about $6 per day, thus making our total expenditure per day around $12 including all permits, fees, transportation, lodging and food. This is almost unheard of for this sort of trek- a testament to our craftiness.

Most people we talked to said you could squeak by on $20 a day.

Trekking to Annapurna, Part Two

I had my doubts about whether we would really reach the base of Annapurna. Ever since we talked with a Canadian at the Taj Mahal in India who related his tales of thefts and blizzards on the last stretch of the trail, combined with the sky-high altitude, I had become somewhat resigned to the idea that we may make it 90% of the way there, only to be turned back at the last moment.

Finally, the nighttime hours leading up to our pre-dawn push to Annapurna Sanctuary came. It was cold but the air and trail were clear of snow. Of the four of us, Tom left first to reach the area by sunrise. Laurel left with Pragya and me, but pushed ahead faster. The full moon hung like beacon above Annapurna to the west and guided us up the rapidly balding valley. For the four of us, the last bit of the trek became personal and private. For me, it was a meditative confrontation of the old dragon of high altitude that had haunted me since childhood.
My breath issued into the perfectly clear night air as steam. I was carrying almost nothing and though the progress was slow, I felt much better than I had imagined possible. Running uphill was obviously out of the question and the strenuousness of a humble pace felt like an aerobic workout, but it was working. An hour and a half later, as the dawn was breaking, we had all arrived. Pragya and I had taken our time, enjoying the subtle shifts in color as we moved up and the sun moved around the globe to meet us.

Small streams covered in crisp pappad-thin ice were the only moving things in the strange Martian rockscape leading to the mountains. The trail was thin but fair and as the sun finally touched the mountains looming thousands of feet high above our heads, the whole scene blazed with pink light. It’s easy to understand why people would call Annapurna a goddess. The elevation itself encourages silence- each spoken word comes at the expense of hard earned breath. The quiet is as pervasive as it is unbroken. For reasons that are part mystical and part circumstantial, the goddess of Annapurna is pure reverence and solitude.

During the course of the trek, we had been taking videos and I joked that I was still looking for ‘the prayer flag shot of my dreams.’ It would take nearly an hour for the sun to touch the valley where we stood but as it did, it illuminated a mass of prayer flags that garnished rocky monuments to dead climbers. The weather was perfect and for the first time I could see the potential attraction that would lead those climbers to try to ascend the snowy, beautiful and treacherous ranges.

Trekking to Annapurna, Part One

Above: A boy plays with a hammer on the steps leading into one of the numerous Himalyan Mountain lodge towns.

Our goal was simple- to walk for 10 days from Pokahara, Nepal, to the holy sanctuary base of the Annapurna. The mountain itself is believed by Hindus to be a goddess. By climbers, it is a challenge. And to some unfortunate climbers, it is an icy tomb above a prayer flag covered memorial site.

I am no mountaineer, nor do I aspire to be one. I just wanted to get to the base of this great mountain. To some, this may not sound like much, but then you realize that the valley-basin where we were destined is as tall as some of the highest mountain summits in Colorado. The elevation is above 13,500 and that’s just your hotel room toilet.

I had many thoughts while plodding up countless slate steps on the trail. It struck me that I was on a ten-day hike up to an elevation greater than I had ever experienced on foot. Like this entire yearlong trip itself, I had spent a lot of time preparing for the mechanics of the trek, but not at all for the implications or the effects of the trek on me. When I was preparing for the trip, people would ask if I was excited. I never was because it hadn’t started yet and I was mostly consumed with the details of preparation. My experience getting ready for this trek was similar. Anyway, how can you get ready for something that hasn’t happened yet? I usually feel that I am not truly ready to do something until just after I have done it! Until that point, of course, it is just speculation.

One of my main concerns was my ability to deal with high altitude well. Once, when I was young, I was with my parents on a trip to Breckenridge for some cable tv conference of my dad’s. I had a difficult time breathing and ended up going to a hospital. After that, I had developed a heart arrhythmia that left every eighth beat of my heart absent. The abnormality corrected itself spontaneously when I was a young teen, but I continued to be weak at elevation and easily suffered from altitude sickness.

Every step we took meant another foot of elevation gain. The clinking taps of our trekking poles on the stone steps were clicks of some Himalayan adding machine.
Tap… tap… tap…
For hours we ascended the mountainside, each step bringing us slightly closer to a warm meal and, if we were lucky, a warm shower as well.

Our days passed with the taps almost uninterrupted. We paused now and again for a snack, always reaching into our packs for some of the dried trekking food we had brought. At night, we ate full means of dhal bhat (lentils and rice with some curried vegetables). We slept early and long, our bodies struggling to cope with building muscle tissue and additional red blood cells to fight the ever-thinning air. We woke early at or before dawn, drinking tea and packing before our next ten-hour hike. We stopped for photos, water, snacks or just to enjoy a moment in the shade of a bamboo grove before moving on toward the great basin awaiting.

McVeg

I just ate a McVeggie Burger, followed by a McAloo. At McDonalds (New Delhi Edition), there is a box where extra condiments are collected for re-distribution. All vegetarian and nonveg items are clearly marked as such with color coordinated packaging and kept strictly separate (they even have different racks down which the freshly completed products slide)
Laurel and Pragya split the Chicken Maharaja Mac (an Indian take on the Big Mac)
And finally, there is a prominent sign that says “ This establishment does not sell Beef or Beef Products”
Trays are bussed for the customers, and a man knelt polishing a floor mounted door hinge to the outside.

UPDATE-
I believe the McFoods have made me fabulously ill. After eating there, we boarded a train to go, ultimately, to Rishikesh. I woke up sick and threw up on a passing motorcyclist while on the bus for the final leg of the journey from Haridwar. I felt a little bad, but what you going to do? Please don’t judge me! It was mostly water, anyways.
I am now recovering in a hotel room, where a sunny, hilly scene and refreshing Ganges River lay just beyond the reach from my bed. Sorry for the whining.

Relaxing, India Style

The long transition from Egypt to India began with everything going right- no missed trains, trams or flights- and even passing through customs in New Delhi was a breeze. When we got through to baggage claim, however, we were alerted that our bags had, in fact, not left with us from our stopover point in Abu Dhabi. However, the friendly agent who found us to deliver the news assured us it would be no problem and helped us fill out the appropriate bureaucratic forms. As these forms usually do, it reminded me of our ‘license bureau,’ a mock government office some friends and I set up at Burningman to confuse and entertain hapless passersby (“Property Irregularity Report- Missing/Damaged/Pilfered”).

As we did not yet know where we would stay in Paharganj, the Delhi Mecca for all things exportable to worldwide Indian shops, we told the agent that we would call them back and give the address once we had one.

We had an address starting at around 6 in the morning and called the number.

and called

and called

and called, altogether, around 150 times, with only one time getting through, only to be promptly dropped. I decided to give up for the day, but I hope no one thinks I am a quitter! Still, I decided that India just didn't want me to get through that day- the message was clear.

The next morning, I called. Lo and behold, on the first try, someone picked up, politely took down our hotel address and information and promised a speedy delivery.

At 10 PM, the bags showed up, just as I was calling (once again) to inquire about them. It was amazing.

So, bags in hand (or on back, as it were) we are off to Rishikesh for a couple of days before meeting Tom at the Taj Mahal. What better place to meet?

Lesson: kick back, relax, and, amazingly your bags will arrive!

Scams I know

“Americans verrrry honest. I’m not lying to you,” Mohammed said emphatically. Mohammed, who lived with my dad as a roommate and drove a taxi for him in the early 1990’s is now before me cautioning about travel in Egypt.

At this point, I am used to the scams, touts, liars, rip-offs and commissions that invariably seem to accompany me anywhere that I can afford to travel. Like the street food slopped up from woks and pots (developing) world-wide, these various scams all have their own local flavors. Yet for their differences, they all seem to have mostly the same basic ingredients. An earnest, albeit fraudulent smile are like the noodles. A redirection toward the scammer’s service and away from whatever you had initially wanted is the sauce. The lousy feeling after you had been had is indigestion from too much MSG.

Let’s just say that I have had plenty of street food in my life.

Still, Mohammed’s words of caution were well taken. Egypt did not disappoint in either the grandeur of it’s Pharonic sandstone antiquities nor in the utter completeness of nearly everyone a traveler would encounter trying to make a quick buck.

The more basic scams are simple overcharging. To me, these are the most insidious. When a sandwich should normally cost 1 LE but instead the vendor asks for 1.5 LE, you really need to pick your battles. Sure, you are probably getting overcharged by 50%, but who knows? Maybe the guy’s price is a little higher. Or not. It’s easy to rationalize and say ‘well, it’s only a difference of 15 cents’ but it adds up and also, it doesn’t change the basic unfairness of the situation. This rationalization also breeds a kind of complacency that the overchargers thrive on, wearing you down one by one like an eternal barrage of Saharan sand ebbing away even the most stolid stones. At the end of a long day, no one wants to be hassled over the equivalent of another half dollar, but I suspect that this is just what these guys count on.

I am reminded of the Komodo Dragon, a giant land dwelling reptile that lives on a few islands in the Indonesian Archipelago. One of their favorite treats are the feral goats on the island but the dragons’ feeding habits are quite strange. They kill their prey through what is essentially bad oral hygiene- infecting a passing goat with a bite that will almost certainly turn fatally gangrenous. Since it takes several days or weeks for the hapless goat to succumb, one would imagine that the dragon lurks behind until it can claim its festering reward. Not so! As it turns out, they simply wait around for any goat bitten by any other Komodo Dragon to die so they can feed on the carrion. It’s a strange communal but non-collaboratory hunting style.

I mention this because I have many times felt like the goat on the island, surrounded by reptiles trying to get a bite in, biding their time until one of them finally gets me and I fall victim to their persistent dishonesty.

An old favorite of touts (people looking to get a commission by directing you toward a given service) is to congregate anywhere travels may possibly frequent. Most of the time, they are satisfied to use broken English to try to move you from, say, a train station to the nearby budget hotel of their choice. I have checked into a hotel and upon deciding against it, had the hotel staff themselves try to accompany me to the neighboring hotel to get a commission! In the past, I didn’t know what to do in these sorts of situations. Now, my strategy is just to lay it out in the open. I also find that talking a little fast, then re-emphasizing my points multiple times is an effective style. What can I say, I learned it from the scammers! Sample lines:
‘No, no. This man is not with me. He is just following me around and I have asked him to leave. I know he just wants some money. Everyone here knows it, and I have told him to go away again and again and yet he still comes with me to this place? Why does he come here? I know he is greedy and wants my money, but don’t pay it to him. He didn’t bring me here.’ [Repeat as required]

If they can have a script for the occasion, why can’t I?



[Below: A scammer no doubt hides near the colossal and marvelous statues of Ramses II at Abu Simbel]

New Best of Photos

I know that this may be a little bit like a band with 2 albums out releasing a best of disc, but I have added a link to the best photos from Israel and Egypt so far. Now, we are in India, though it will be a bit before photos are forthcoming, as we have spent the last bit waiting for our bags. More on that later.

Here is another one I took and am quite fond of:

It is a mosque built in Luxor, Egypt whose columns are pillars from part of the temple of Luxor, from the Pharonic times. This may mean nothing to the readers, but the long and the short of it is that you have Islam pasted over the old religion in the most fabulous striking way. The work you see in the foreground is a renovation under way.

The Pyramids are as Sweet as You Have Heard

I have just returned from the oasis of Baharriya where much adventuring has been had. I know I keep saying this, but I promise to post pictures soon. Batteries on the camera are dead, I swear.

Now I am in Cairo, once again, my home away from home in Egypt. Since I have the option of going to Alexandria tomorrow at just about any time I feel like, I figured, 'why not go back to the pyramids again for a day?' As Paula put it: they enslaved and sacrificied thousands of people just so they could have sweet places to die in.
And since it is literally only 5 subway stops away, I think I will go back to these ultimately sweet places to die in. I mean, I don't want to get flippant about it, but maybe I will even ride a camel if I feel like it. Who knows?


UPDATE: Obligatory "Will in front of the Pyramid Shot" We made it!

Aswan

Today, in Aswan, I said this thing on the boat crossing the Nile. I hope you don't mind, but I am going to mis-quote myself now: "I understand why people come here- Aswan lets you keep believing that Egypt is how you imagined it."

What I mean of course is that very pretty, scenic and full of absurdly romantic boats, sand and old things. It also holds the top honor in the newly created Will Sisk Prize for Clean Devloping World Cities. There are people here who really seem to understand that tourists don't want to come to a trash strewn concrete filth den. (Right? It seems like the tourism schools in Egypt are teaching something afterall!)

The Western (Wailing) Wall

We visited this wall that you may have heard of- it's called either the Wailing Wall or the Western Wall. It is the last existing remnant of the famed second temple of Jerusalem, which was demolished in 70 AD by the Romans to end the Jewish revolt.

(Anti Defamation League Disclaimer) I mean absolutely no disrespect to the Jewish people when I say the following:

The civil engineer in me did really enjoy the notion that people pray and revere this fervently what is in fact a retaining wall. Engineers, be proud and do a good job. You never know when you will make something that, 2000 years later, inspires divine feelings galore.

Also, if you are also bemoaning the fate of the wall, don't despair! A group of orthodox Jews and whackjob Christians (many of them American) are hell bent on bringing a third incarnation of the temple back. While this has all kinds of prophetic ramifications which I will not go into here, it would definitely have the redult of detroying the Mosque where Muhammed dreamed of his ascent to heaven. This would, to say the least cause problems.

I love (eating in) Egypt

OK, back in Cairo for a few hours on my way to Aswan, Luxor and the rest of upper (Southern) Egypt. It is the centerpiece of the typical 'Egypt Experience' and I have left it for last. I have liked or loved all of the places I have been in Egypt and I think I am unlikely to let down next.

But back to food. That is the reason for the post. We left Israel, and had it not been for our wonderful friends on the Kibbutz we visited, it would have been an extremely hungry affair. Prices on the falafel index are quite high:
Average Isaeli falafel- 10 NIS or ~$2.76
Average Egyptian Falafel- 1.5 LE or ~$.27

Now, to be fair to the Israeli falafel industry, theirs are about 2 times larger and 1 grade higher in quality. But even so, ruling this out, we still can see a falafel to falafel ratio of 5:1.

Seriously, for $3 you can literally buy enough to make yourself quite ill, and that is not taking into account the effects of untreated water!

Speaking of water, my engineer friends may like to know that I drank (in Israel) my first ever artificially desalinated water. It was at least as exciting as it sounds. ;)
Above: Higher quality, but much more expensive Israeli Hummus. Tasty, but pricey.

Exodus

Today, or in the very near future, I will be leaving Israel for the Sinai, the promised land. Back to the land of pharoahs and the pyramids. What can I say, I don't follow directions very well, you know?

Resource Wars

Just a quick thought- I noticed here in Israel, like basically everywhere else I have ever visited outside the US that everything is smaller. Refrigerators, cars, apartments, hotwater heaters, everything is smaller. Along with this comes less resource intensive use of everything. Smaller cars = less fuel. Small fridges = less electricity and less food spoilage. Etc...

America is the only country with this kind of largese and it is really out of step with everywhere else. Also, as a quick aside, every house here in Israel has solar thermal on it. 2 panels and a tank right there on the roof... I'll get pictures tomorrow.

One Hundred Sunsets

Since I will be gone for such a long time, I decided to exercise my creative side a bit. I am making a project where at sunset (100 of them!) I take a photo of something. This is a limited edition piece- only 100 will be created and displayed so be sure to save the address and check back often!

My ongoing photoproject.

Recipe- Tahina

If you are like me (god forbid), you probably at some point have found yourself with a large jar of tahina paste in the refrdgerator, having been told at some point that it was a needed ingredient for hummus. Then, you tried making the hummus and decided that it was not all that good and so the tahina just sat there! Well, I have news for you. That tahina- it's a gold mine of tastiness as long as you know how to tap that ore.

Tahina is a tasty treat in it's own right. Why not give that sad bottle in the back of your fridge a second look?

Tahina*
Tahina paste (ground sesame)
lemons
garlic
olive oil
water
salt

Anyone who has cooked with me knows that I am a little thin on exact measurements. please bear with me.

Put about a half cup or so of tahina paste into a mixing bowl. It will be pretty thick. Squeeze at least 1 lemon into the paste. Don't skimp on this! It needs to be tangy. When in doubt, use more to taste. dice a clove of garlic and throw it on top as well. Add 1 tablespoon of olive oil and a pinch of salt (kosher or sea salt is tastiest).

You will now have an unmixable pile of goop. That's ok because it's the time to add some warm water. Add it slowly and mix it in until you have created a smooth almost sauce consistency. Add more of the above ingredients to taste- it's really up to you. If you are making an arrangement in the hopes of getting laid or something, try sprinkling a bit of paprika on top to make it look extra good. If you use a sprig of cilantro, you are garanteed to get at least to third base!


*my Cairo recipe

Thou shalt

We climbed Mt. Sinai the other day in Egypt. They charged us $3 to get into the area which is supposed to pay for cleaning the area, keeping up the roads, etc.

Climbing Mt. Sinai was cool. We did it at 2 in the morning as the mountain becomes an infero by about 10 am. I suspect the burning bush was a case of spontaneous combustion. I also question the judgement of the Israelites in hanging out in this area. I mean seriously, it is about as nice to be in as the black rock desert for the other 51 weeks of the year.

On the way back in the light, I noticed that the path was strewn with trash. This is nothing new for Egypt, which has the environmental protection of a 19th century lasissez-faire factory. what was curious is that I have not been to somewhere yet in Egypt where a fee was collected to clean and it was not at all done. The pyramids are kept up well even, in spite of the fantastic number of visitors.

Egypt: Thou shalt not steal (the money to clean with!)

Quick note of proof of aliveness

I know that title is bad grammar, but damn it, I can poorly title if I want.

Quick status update- everything is fine, Pyramids are sweet, camel treks still not that fun and Israel=expensive.

Seriously, we just arrived in Israel and are en route to Tel Aviv. It is not a biblical city, so I hear, but it is where many people we know are based, so it's where we are going to stay. Fortunately, Israel is approximately the size of a large ashtray, so day trips to most places should be possible.

On the way through security, Israeli security correctly identified Paula as brown and as such detained us for an interminable period of time. Now we are at a bus station, hence the "en route" description. I am hoping things pick up soon, but so far, I actually miss Egypt a little.

Steam

I just returned from Burning Man, and one of the most wonderful things there is a steam bath run by a guy named John. It may seem crazy at first, going to a hot dry dusty desert, then going inside an even hotter steam bath. However, it feels just perfect. So perfect, in fact, that I really want to build one of my own some day. Steaming is one of those age old traditions that should be brought back in a big way.

While at the bath, I met a professor of South Asian religions who had built his own steam bath. Here are the links to it on Flickr.

Murals

This mural in San Francisco was done by Paula's sister and her boyfriend. Pretty sweet!

Mirrors

Be prepared for the possibility that people around you are mirrors, and that observations you make about them are actually observations about yourself.

Anger in San Francisco

Let me begin by saying this: I do not mind if people wish to be voluntarily homeless, traveling from one liberal center to the next, living in parks and smoking and drinking. I view that as a human right to do so, and we would not have many of the great spiritual traditions in the world that we do today if this were not the case.

Yesterday, I was walking along the famed Haight Street in San Francisco toward Golden Gate park. There were three young copies of the disaffected youth type ahead of, then next to, then behind, then next to me as I walked. I kept being near them, seemingly randomly. As we progressed down the street, I noticed them generally causing ruckus with middle aged tourists and so forth.
As one set of visitors moved away form them:

Hey look, she acts like I am gonna ask her for change!

Like that isn't exactly what he was going to do, being that he had a hand full of change.
And that he asked me for some not half a block later.
because he was short $.25 for a hit of acid.
And when I didn't respond, he said

Thanks for the compassion

And I thought, I would really like to pound on this kid.

Of course I didn't. He would have wanted that. Something to make his day interesting. Someone to bite at the bait. Not me, though.


I do not like is being hassled by people who choose this lifestyle. They are no modern day Jesus or Buddha, spurning society for free choice and authentic living. They are just three selfish assholes against the world, mad because of this or that. Maybe they were abused as small children. Maybe they were unloved. Maybe they ______ insert excuse; I don't really care. I have a saying that I think applies here well:

The circumstances of your life may not be your fault, but they are your responsiblity.

The sweetest place ever- Panama

On a bit of a lark, we decided to come down to Panama for the end of this little Costa Rica adventure. Upon arrival, Megan, Liz and I all had the "why didn't we just come here" moment. We are on an island in the Bocas del Toro archipelago that has no roads and wonderful hang out cabanas built out over the ocean. You can walk over the island and go to the beach through the forest, with streaming trails of leaf cutter ants all along the path. The ants are carrying the leaves to their nest where they will cultivate fungus on them, which they eat. Pretty awesome.
There is surfing, diving, sea turtles, whatever you want, and it is crazy cheap. Everything is in dollars (Panama uses dollars, gallons and feet), and the people here speak a weird Bislama-style creole of english and who knows what. Actually, I feel a lot like I am in the peace corps right now and I frequently wonder if Naked Ben would recognize this place as being a little piece of Vanuatu.
My one, ok, fine, two complaints are that I got bitten by something nasty and now my leg is swollen and that a previously friendly crackhead tried to break into our room last night. The guy had actually been the one who brought us to the island and we figured he was just a tout. However, there was really not a commission paid and the dude kept hanging around us. He isn't scary, or at least wasn't until he came to our room at 1 am with his crackhead friend and tried to get money from us. Fortunately, the bars on the window are good and our door was locked, but the girls were shaken up so I became very firm with the guy and sent him away while preparing to use more force should it have come to it (which I doubted). In the morning, the Argentinian who runs the place, Manu, went to tell the police to be on the lookout for him, but I think there is not really any danger.
That said, Panama is sweet. I hope it is not just a matter of time until it gets overrun with tourists such as myself.

The Carribean Cost

We arrived yesterday on the Carribean Cost of Costa Rica. It has been a nice reprieve from the Catholic dominated Latin culture of the Pacific side. In general, things here in Puerto Viejo are much more laid back and there are certainly more dreadlocks and reggae. Also, these are for the locals as much for the tourists, so it is mas authentico. It rains, we eat ice cream and hang out in hammocks then go to the beach and do capoeira or stretch or just hang out.

I guess I don't have any real revelations for this post. I like hanging out and kicking back a little, learning my Nepali alphabet and living a little of the much promised good life. Some people come here from America or other countries with a lot of money. Most decide to spend their couple of weeks here and go home. They think: I like this very well, but I need to get back home to do all these important things. I wonder what would happen if we took the vacation mentalitly home with us? Certainly we would be less "productive" but would that really be so bad?

Bob Marley, "No dreadlock no cry"

I am taking a brief 2 week vacation with my friend Megan in Costa Rica. I just got here, which, it turns out, might have been contentious.
Frontier Airlines has direct service from Denver to San Jose, CR. It´s pretty darned convenient, dumping you here at 5:30 in the morning with a whole day to get the hell out of the concrete capital. However, when I was checking in to the flight, the young agent asked me if I had been there before. I told her yes, I had a few years ago. "Because you might not be granted entry into the country," she said, "because of the dreadlocks. I´m sorry- I am not trying to offend you, it´s just that Costa Rica has issued us this warning that people displaying Hippie-style clothing, hairstyles and paraphenalia will be denied access."
"Excuse me?"
"Yeah, we laughed when we read that a year and a half ago. But it says here (looking at the computer screen) that things like tie dye shirts and dreadlocks are grounds for refusal of entry into the country. Do you have a hair tie or something? You can have mine if you need it so you can put your hair back." A sweet offer, indeed!

Still, I was a bit confounded about the whole deal. I breezed through immigration (with my locks hidden under a straw hat) and have seen no fewer than 6 other dreadies in the 4 hours that I have been doing anything here. So I guess their screening process is a little less than perfect? WTF, Costa Rica, you overpriced bigotfest of a country- I can see that all those hippies are really doing way more damage to the place than the fat ass geezer americans who are destroying the shores building gated communities where the only Ticos allowed are the servants. Maybe you might reasses your priorities...

(Please note that the above post was written by a person with dreadlocks. Do not believe anything that this hippie is saying!)

Dating, Nepali American Style

My girlfriend, Paula's parents are in town this week to do some visiting and also to meet me. Normally, meeting someone's parents who you are dating (at least for me) isn't a big deal. However, in this case, my girlfriend is a Nepali American Hindu and there are, well, let's say cultural differences. First off, she had already established long ago with her parents that she would not be engaging in an arranged marriage. The alternative, in Hindu culture, is the relatively recently popularizing (i don't think it's popular yet) 'love marriage.' However, with a cultural background of being in an arranged marriage themselves when they were 13, her parents conceive of a love marriage as one where 'you arrange it yourself,' but is otherwise like a traditional arranged marriage. Normally, an arranged marriage would go a little something like this:

1. A matchmaker identifies a young person who is in the age of marriage. Nowadays, this can be as old as early 20s, but can often be in the teens still. I am sure that out in the country in Nepal there are very young weddings. (as young as 10 or so. I guess it means something different than in America!) Well, I am 28 and Paula is 24, so relatively speaking, we are both well over the hill. To my credit, I did meet her when she was 18. That has to count for something, right? The matchmaker is time, fate and Burning Man, though.
   
2. The matchmaker identifies another young person of the appropriate gender, caste, upbringing, etc. ...Let's see how we would stack up on the matchmaker list. Brahman vs. N/A, Gender is correct, Hindu and, um, generally spiritual, she grew up in Ohio and I was born in Idaho- sometimes people confuse the two states, I guess. So, we have 1 out of 4. Not bad, I would say.
   
3. The matchmaker then contacts the families and attempts to arrange a meeting of the parents. In the internet age, this can happen by an email which may describe the suitor, but mostly describes the suitor's family, caste, etc. Much attention is paid to the lineage. In our case, Paula's dad asked Paula to ask me to provide one to him. I did with as much detail as I could because I wanted them to feel like they had good data coming into us meeting- the expectation for an arranged meeting! I also sent along a picture which is really advanced, but again, it helped them conceptualize me more in their minds.
   
4. If the mothers agree to meet and like each other, it's time for the papas to meet. This is going to happen, but it will be a dinner with both of her parents, my mom and my sister and the two of us.
   
5. Finally, if all goes well, by this stage, the couple might get to meet over a quick lunch or something like that. It is supervised. We have had many lunches, most of them unsupervised, though. And usually they last longer than 30 minutes.
   
6. Wedding! Ok, hold up! I'm only 28! We aren't ready to tie the not yet as individuals or as a couple. Still, at least the way seems to be paved for us to openly be together.
   

Obviously, these steps aren't happening like this in our case. For one thing, there is no matchmaker (I guess this depends on how you look at it.) For another, the steps are all out of order. In fact, it's almost totally reversed compared with the traditional way.

Fortunately, Paula's parents are cool people and open to new things. This is very good for us.

I have been hanging out with them and the atmosphere feels casual. I was actually quite nervous when I met them as compared with other girlfriend parent encounters. Really, there was no need to be, as it always turns out, but I started thinking that maybe they felt similarly. This is a big deal for them because, in their conception of the situation, we are essentially arranging a marriage right now, except that no one knows what the rules are for it!

At first, I thought that Paula and I were bending to the old tradition. However, when I consider it further, I guess it is the other way around, or maybe a little of both. For instance, certain things aren't openly discussed yet, such as the very notion that we are dating. This much is obvious to everyone- they are staying at my dad's house after all- yet it is an unspoken thing.

The unspoken things are the undefined ones. It's funny because we all relate well as people and have a surprisingly number of things and ideas in common. It is just the artificially created distinctions like 'normal courtship procedure' where it feel strange. It's an interesting experience so far, and I am glad to be having it.

This is important to Paula because she obviously wants to share her life with her family, and that includes me. I am happy for her coming out of the closet as a dater.

On Drugs

I am getting lasers shot into my eyes tomorrow. It should be fun. The ultimate goal is to have nearly perfect, or even better than perfect vision afterward. If not, life as a blind beggar doesn't seem all that bad.

Anyway, I was picking up a prescription at the drugstore for some standard antibiotics to go in my eyes during the recovery phase. Ahead of me in line was a woman who was extremely frustrated because she was trying to get medicine of some sort on her insurance. Apparently, she has been randomly denied coverage on the insurance for a certain prescription that she uses regularly. I guess one of the tricks the insurance companies use is changing their coverage plans on a frequent basis. Presumably, they hedge their need to pay for something by just driving people to confusion and discouragement, hoping they will just give up after trying to navigate their way through the mess of regulation, paperwork and red tape called the claims department. This woman ahead of me had certainly done her due diligence- she had called and gotten pre-approval from the company only to be told by the pharmacist that it wasn't covered after all. Eventually, through some 24 hour support phone calls, she got her way, but I could just tell that is an ongoing struggle that just is wearing her down.

We talked for a little while about it and I empathised with her struggles to get what was agreed to. Why do people have such a hard time keeping agreements now? And why has it become common and even accepted to just renege on what you promise someone, even after they have upheld their end of the bargain. Shame on you, insurance industry! You will be your own ruin. All of your red tape will come back to choke you to death, and as you gasp for your last pathetic breath, know that you were the one that drove prices up so high that you couldn't afford the payments that you promised.

As she left, victorious but somehow drained, the woman smiled for the first time that I had seen and thanked me for talking with her.

In the Valley

In the valley, every heel clacking pavement has purpose
stop signs direct and design
cars flowing by
and the course of our lives
and for all that infinite potential
at some point you must choose
up the alley, or down the hill
as if it really was a choice
as though you could ever know the difference

In the valley, life drones at a sixty hertz buzz
the coffee machine metronome
counts down to restless leg weekends
and empty glass cocktail events

Standing high on the hills,
wind clutches your shirt like an Indian beggar
and you can see all of this
and it scares me like hell
In the valley, nobody asks
what is it all for

The Inverse Square Law

Here is a really good example of the 'inverse square law.' Really more of a principle, this rule states that the intensity of wave from a point source diminishes exponentially with the distance.

Also, to a certain degree, plants will photosynthesize at a more or less proportional rate to the light intensity. That said, here is a cool picture illustrating this in a series of basil seedlings on Zeke's desk.

Why?

If you ever want to really get someone pissed at you, ask them the question of why.

Who, what, when, where and even how are pretty nominally safe questions to ask.

But why is a different situation. It is, in a sense the ultimate question to ask, especially of someone else. It questions their assumptions about what they are doing, and often, their worldview as a result. Many people have a definite plan of what they think is going to happen. An interjection of 'why' can be a jarring inclusion of reality into their story they have crafted in their heads.

And they usually don't appreciate that.

Most people strongly identify with their crafted stories, confusing it with themselves. Questioning the story can be very painful for them- indeed many have built it up over a lifetime. Questioning it essentially forces a miniature existential crisis- question the story and your are questioning the facade, which is fragile and must be protected.

ok, it is really late right now. Goodnight.

I can't believe I saw this happen

Today, Ben and I went to a state park outside of New Orleans. It's in the bayou, which is like a big wetland that serves to buffer the area between land, sea and river. Being a sort of triple frontier, it hosts tons of wildlife. We walked around on a boardwalk through the life there, eating blackberries that have just come into season and spying the occasional frog or anole lizard. Eventually we came to a bridge above a 1890s era canal that had been dredged through the area in hopes of draining lands upstream to grow sugar. We had seen a number of small alligators in the area, most no more than 1-2 feet long.

As we stood on the timbered bridge overlooking the waters 15 feet below us, we noticed a snake, probably a cottonmouth or water moccasin struggling with a catfish that it had snagged. The snake dragged the catfish up onto a little floating patch of water plants and the two writhed around until the fish was mostly still. The snake then began positioning its mouth over the head of the fish and unhooking its jaw to begin swallowing the prey. To our left, 20 feet away, we saw a large alligator trolling around. The occasional movement caught the alligator's ancient eye and it began paying attention. In rapt silence, we looked on as the snake struggled with the fish, wondering if the alligator saw the scene unfolding. Another splash, and the alligator moved totally silently to the edge of the vegetation flotilla. Now the alligator was within 6 feet of the struggling pair. In a motion that was almost too quick agile and perfect to describe, the alligator snatched up the fish and snake in one gulp before returning to a stony, perfectly calm state. We realized that our jaws had dropped and our mouths hung open during the drama that had just unfolded below. If I had seen the very same event happen on TV I would have thought for sure the event was staged, but it was superbly real.

I must be Indian

Readers of the blog may have noticed that I have a small om symbol on the title block. It is a physical manifestation of my union with the infinite.

That, and I think it looks cool.

Anyway, Blogger, having now determined that I am not a spammer (finally!) has determined that I am Kashmiri, which is not a great improvement.

California

I am a tourist visiting the homeland
watts, thousand oaks, sepulveda
stories of my grandmother playing in orange grove irrigation ditches
laid out before me
in grinding, choking boulevards
Bombay with BMWs

these are the streets built with stolen water
infrastructure made possible by Mulholland
roads my mother rode horses on
a fantasy out of step
with six lanes of tinted glass

regrets and promises blend seamlessly
on the ramp, glancing over my left shoulder into the future

into the enormity of the 405 laid out beyond
and when I think it is all concrete and tarmac
unrealistically pink azalea blossoms

explode to cream stucco backdrop and Spanish clay
shattering the stories of nineteen forties monochrome

The Prophet

I was at the bus stop in Broomfield a couple days ago with four large grocery bags filled with supplies for Thai Tuesday night at chaos. At the shelter, there was a shortish black man with graying hair and a little cart. The cart was expertly packed, but it was impossible for me to discern its contents or function. It reminded me of the kind of thing one would make over time for a specific function, like a custom-built noodle bike cart in Vietnam that has been expertly re-crafted over years of experience, made from discarded remains of society.

At first, I thought he might have been homeless, but I detected a sense of awareness in him that most people who don’t live anywhere are usually lacking.

Being in a curious mood, I asked him what is rig was for and he replied that it was a window washing set. He further explained that he is a professional window washer- however, the washing was only to support his ministry. “yes sir, I am the Prophet Elijah,” he said in a manner so lacking of overstatement that I could do nothing but accepted his assertion, “and I am pleased to meet you- I don’t believe there are accidents or coincidences when you meet someone. Do you consider yourself a Christian?”

I told him no.

We had a brief discussion in which I revealed that I was spiritual but not dogmatic or religious and I did follow some of the eastern traditions of Hinduism and Buddhism.

He extended his hand to me and I took it. With excitement in his eyes and voice, he exclaimed,

on behalf of our good lord Jesus Christ, I claim you for him and welcome you into his eternal kingdom!

Thanks, I said.

“Let me tell you how much Jesus cares about you. Now, I don’t know how many hairs I have on my head,” gesturing to the graying curls beneath his baseball cap. “But Jesus, he knows how many hairs are on my head- and yours too.”

He looked at me with a smile, as if he was about to really drive a point home. Sure enough, “well, imagine for a minute that if he knows that about you, what else he knows about you.” I did imagine Jesus thinking about counting my hair, but for me, the effect seemed more like he was a cosmic voyeur looking through my sock drawer. “He knows a lot of things about us that we don’t even know about ourselves,” clearly pleased with himself for making this straw man argument.

At this point, the reader may be thinking that the prophet Elijah is a typical whack job. Indeed, I will not discount this possibility. Nonetheless, I must say that I admire the Prophet Elijah, and not just for his ability to declare himself a prophet while holding a hodgepodge window cleaning cart with a straight face. No, in this age of yogis with entourages, ministers with private jets and politicians with private ministers with private jets, here is a guy who is just going around by bus washing windows and presumably living a simple life in the face of all the pointlessness around him.

In India, he could be a Sadhu with long dreadlocks, prayer beads and only an orange kurta longhi to his name. Here, he is a guy with a bucket full of cleaning supplies and squeegees stacked and strapped to a discarded baggage cart. So while I don’t feel any closer to Jesus as my personal savior (I still don’t think I require that) I do feel closer to the world in general.

Here’s to you, Prophet Elijah.

Daily Challenge

I was talking with my friend Jon the other day, and he told me he had been undertaking an effort to smile at as many people as possible, just to see what happens. I thought this was a good idea, and so, I have decided to have periodic challenges of my own.

Today's daily challenge is to tell people what I think or feel and not what I think they want to hear. I am hoping that this will lead to more honesty and perhaps even some surprising revelations that I didn't know before. We'll see how it goes.

A day of No

Today, I found myself getting told ‘no’ by way more people than normally. Usually, I find that if someone tells you no, you might be on the track to something good. Today, however, it was mostly a track to getting security on my case.

I was working at the Denver Convention Center, representing green power at an orthodontist’s convention. Don’t ask me why that is a logical choice; I am still trying to figure it out myself. But what I did figure out is that security doesn’t like bikes being there, even if you are an exhibitor promoting green and sustainability. They also don’t want you using internet terminals there, even though literally no one has used them all day. It is worth their time, apparently, to employ someone to stand around waiting for a non-conference goer to try to use one and kick them off.

Finally, Denver made the rather unfortunate plan of not having bike lanes pretty much anywhere. Simultaneously, the city doesn't actually let you use bikes on the non-car portion of the 16th Street Mall. The exception to this rule is on Sundays of course, when bikes are allowed and there isn’t any traffic anyway. I know all of this because a semi-employed man with the title of 'greeter' stopped me and told me so. He was nice enough about it, though he did emphasize that "there are signs on every block about this."

Like I read signs.

Maybe I should try telling people no more to see what it is like. Then, I might know better what to do when I get another day of 'no'.

I'm soooo famous now

Today I found out that I got appointed to the board of directors for TREIA, the Texas Renewable Energy Industry Association.

I was the last to hear that I was getting nominated for the position, I had no campaigning to do, and I was elected in absentia.

All in all, it was a pretty effective campaign that I didn't know I was running.

It's pretty random, but a good resume stuffer, not that I need one....

This Blog is Spam! Humans vs. Robots

Funny story about me selling viagra... oh wait, I never did that... but apparently google didn't agree!

Blogger thought that this page is spam, and as a result, I have not been able to add anything for several days.

Cute.

Ironically, they sent me a spam-like message informing me to jump through a bunch of hoops, the culmination of which was nothing. At least at the time. They purportedly had a human look my page over to determine I wasn't a robot.

It does beg the question, I suppose, what pray tell was it they thought I was spamming? Like trying to get people into a cult that emphasizes less resource consumption?

According to Blogger's help site, possible reasons for spam flagging include:

Blogs engaged in this behavior are called spam blogs, and can be recognized by their irrelevant, repetitive, or nonsensical text, along with a large number of links, usually all pointing to a single site.

I know my writing is bad, but I didn't know it was that bad.

Maybe I can take it as a compliment. My ideas are so fresh and new, that at first glance, they may seem unconnected! Or, Google just thinks I'm a huckster...

grabbing the brass ring

If you are like me, you may have wondered where this term comes from. (I spend a perhaps unhealthy amount of time wondering about things like this!)

Turns out, there is an interesting parable hiding here. Like so many sayings, the original meaning seemed to have been lost in its essence, at least as I interpret it.

from Michael Quinion's Wold Wide Words:
(note that the bold emphasis at the bottom is mine)

[Q] From Liam: "When people go for the brass ring, what exactly are they going for? Why is a brass ring a symbol of success? Wouldn't a platinum ring be even better?"

[A] This one stumped me, as my cultural background doesn't include grabbing a brass ring as a measure of success. But even a cursory glance at American newspaper archives shows that the expression is common; a recent example is in Ebony for 1 April 2004: "If you're like the millions of women who are on the go — grabbing for the brass ring, focusing on the family or trying to shatter that glass ceiling — it's past time for you to take a step back and concentrate on finding the real you." In response to a plea for help, John Baker of the American Dialect Society made the key connection and from then on it was plain sailing.

We are in the fairground, specifically on a carousel or merry-go-round. At one time, the riders on the outside row of horses were often given a little challenge. Once the ride started moving, a metal arm was swung out — on some rides this held a single brass ring, which riders could try to grab as they passed. Anyone who managed to retrieve it could redeem it for a free ride. Another system had a dispenser of rings, most of which were steel and had no value, but one per ride was the brass one that won the prize.

Brass ring came to have the figurative sense of a prize, in particular one that was hard to gain. Grabbing the brass ring, going for the brass ring or reaching for the brass ring were all used to refer to the opportunity to compete for a grand prize.

Quite when it started to be used in this way isn't clear. The earliest example of the expression I can find, and that already an elliptical one that shows the writer expected everybody to know what was meant, appeared in the Daily Northwestern of Oshkosh, Wisconsin, on 3 August 1931: "The current anonymous volume 'The Merry-Go-Round' ... pokes fun — not nice gentle fun — at our supposed mad round of reaching-for-the-brass-ring-existence."

But references to a literal brass ring go back into the 1890s, as in this from the Brooklyn Daily Eagle of 24 September 1899 about the famous Coney Island amusement park: "This big place has been the rendezvous for thousands of children who have spent their nickels and have enjoyed a ride on the ponies, besides trying their best to capture the brass ring, which the boy drops in the big iron arm that is swung out at the side of the merry-go-round."

Several fairground history sites online suggest that the game fell out of favour in this more careful and litigious age because of the number of young people who hurt themselves reaching for the rings. Though the expression is still common, as time passes the knowledge of where it comes from is falling out of public memory.

The edge of the petri dish

Today, I was having a little snack with my friend Jon after scamming a $25 gift card for a new organic market. He is a biologist doctorate candidate who spends a lot of time in the lab, watching and experimenting with exponential growth. He mentioned that most of what he does is trying to beat his particular biological culture to the edge of the petri dish. When that occurs, growth stops of course, but more importantly, decline begins. He needs to get the recklessly growing culture to a new home to repeat the process.

I hope we can be smarter than the algae or bacteria. We have no watchful scientist to give us a new petri dish.

The simple act of eating a simple food and watching all the world go by put me into a state of nostalgia for a time where there is less to do. When you get right down to it, there isn't all that much that is important anyway.

At least not the things most people will tell you are important.

I trained as a civil engineer, so I think a lot about the niceties of our society. Things like paved roads, clean drinking water, access to education and information, and so forth. I appreciate these a lot and don't take them for granted. But, let's face it: There is a whole lot of shit that is a huge distraction and does nothing but take away from the things you will cherish most.

There are things that have been commented upon at length by others about our consumer culture- I will not repeat them here and you probably know them anyway. But every once in a while, look around you, and ask yourself: 'What here would I just be unhappy without, and what would I not miss at all?' Do with the results of that as you wish.