#142 – Wasn’t Cool @ School

You could say many things about me, but no one, self included, would have classified me as cool when I was in school. I wasn’t good at sport; my parents weren’t Israel- born or among the founding families of Pardes Hana; we lived in a duplex while the cool ones all lived in a single family homes; and the fact that both my older brother and I skipped a class in the same year didn’t help. It was much more important to skip rope.
There was a time in which I was trying to fit in, to be like everyone else. It failed. Miserably too. Maybe this is when I realized that I wasn’t made for the herd. Years later, I do recognize though that while I wasn’t part of the herd, I was still heard. Enough students voted me to the chair of the school’s paper, I was performing w/the drama class . . . I wasn’t ignored; I was odd, with too many evenings lonelier than I’d liked them to be.
If I learned anything, painful though the learning had been, it was that the cost and effort of fitting in isn’t really worth it in the end. Fitting in does not bring happiness, joy or pride. All it means that instead of being loyal to self, one is loyal to the slimy, jelly like consensus that is brainless yet extremely judgmental. And the herd in one’s head can be such a rigid dictator. I quitted.
“It’s not easy being green” sings Kermit. “It seems you blend in with so many other ordinary things, and people tend to pass you over ’cause you’re not standing out like flashy sparkles in the water or stars in the sky”… [Source: http://lyricsplayground.com/alpha/songs/i/itsnoteasybeinggreen.shtml]
Why this walk down memory lane, you may wonder. Thing is, being home, recuperating, grounded and restricted, with my mind free to wonder does funny things to you. It’s all because of you! The support, visits, calls, SMS’s, emails, Skypes. . . the love and care I was surrounded with, plus my mom’s spoiling nursing made getting better such a good experience – it felt and feels good getting better with all this support. ‘Cause one can take pain killers, but I am not aware of “be my friend” pills.
Thank you guys, each and everyone who supported.

Clipart source:
http://majorcare.org/Cool%20School%20Kids.gif
http://ayyyy.com/wordpress/wp-content/uploads/2008/06/panda8.jpg

#141 – You Say “Tomato”, I say “Oh. . . “

I am not bothering with apologies about not writing for sooooo long.   I missed it too.

And no, guess I’m not finishing the final cut story.  Gallbladder is gone.  Maybe one day I’ll get around finishing the story.  Not today though.

Today it’s about tomato; tomato juice to be exact.

It all started very well.  Mobile 2.0 was over; the Finish Mobile association treated us to a fun dinner the previous night, and though I slept in after making it to the hotel sometime early that morning, I had a couple of hours before my flight to visit my favorite gallery in Barcelona; had time to take a shower thanks to the hotel flexibility, and was on board the first flight out of two on my way home for a week vacation.

Location: Lufthansa flight, bulkhead seat, 2 Russian guys to my left, the aisle to my right.  Minutes past takeoff I’m in flight mode: headset, MP3 player and a book.  When the Lufthansa sandwich shows up, I adjust.  I hate the “pretend to be a table”, so it stays stored in the armrest.  My solution, book in one hand, sandwich in the other MP Player on lap.

And then the drinks cart arrives.  Tired of hearing “sorry, we run out of lemon, I ask for my 2^nd preferred choice; tomato juice.  Now, with a glass in my hand it’s a real balancing act.  Glass of tomato juice in one hand, book in the other, sandwich on my lap, next to the MP3 player.  I even manage to bite the sandwich ever so often.  All is well and the book is good, until it’s time to flip a page.  I totally forget that there’s a glass full of liquid in my hand, and I turn it to flip the page.  Basic physics tells us the liquids, when given the option, obey gravity.  So it should have come as no surprise that turning a page with a glass in hand allowed the tomato juice to exercise its very own gravity.  Most of it though, didn’t exercise it far.  It landed on my lap.

My seatmates maintain frozen silence.  Not even one giggle or laugh.

Picture this: a very wet red right leg and full hands.  The shock lasts few seconds.  Then, like a preprogrammed robot, damage control process kicks in.  With one dripping hand holding the remains of the tomato juice, I manage to put the book behind my back, MP3 player follows.  Headset is off my head and joins the group session behind my back.  Last to join the reunion is the sandwich.  By whatever miracle, my socks are still white and dry.  A short struggle later I have shoes on.  The way to the lavatory never seemed longer.

Once I close the door behind me, I have time to take another sip.  Yes, tomato juice is still with me.  Then I try to think.  This is the first flight out of two, it’s early afternoon, and it’ll be 5 AM the following morning before I hit the ground in Israel.  No way I can survive the tomato smell or the looks for that long.

Done drinking the tomato juice, it’s laundry time.  Yes, in the airplane lavatory, I took off my pants and started washing them.   

The sink, miniature as it is, became my wash basin.  Clean and wet, it’s drying time.  I wring the pants, one leg at the time.  Instead of ironing, I “shake” them as hard as I can.  That’s how I avoid ironing.  In the process I get my glasses all covered with water drops.  I try very hard not to think what the people outside think hearing the noises coming out of the bathroom.

It’s time to put pants on.  One leg completely wet, the other not so much.  Last I’ve checked the only wet competitions were for white T-shirts.  I hold my breath and pull one leg, and then the other.  It’s cold, but not too cold.  I can do it.

And now, with nose high up, and maintaining eye contact with the ceiling only, I walk back to my seat.  I sit down, and start to reassemble my flying kit.  Headphones are back on, MP3 plays, book, and sandwich.  Surprisingly, all I have to wipe is the armrest and I am happy to realize that the seat’s upholstery is not fabric but rather leather-like.

As I try to balance all items the Russian guy in the seat next to me offers “you can put things here” as he points to his table.  I politely decline, but a minute later accept.  Now we are talking.  The two guys are returning from a chemistry convention.  Apparently Russia is the WW #1 manufacturer of food preservative 211 or whatever JSR-like number it has.  Unlike the Mobile 2.0 crowd, the chemists didn’t taste too much of Barcelona.  They were reading their Barcelona travel guide on their way back home.

I guess that there are different level of geekiness and nerdiness.

By the time we landed in Frankfurt, the only person who could tell that my pants were wet was I.  No stains left to tell the story.

6 months? you got to be kidding!!!

6 months and not one blog? Shame, shame on me.
a week before JavaOne is as bad as bad timing goes, but i shall make the time and create the blog.
no blogitto, no ergo sum.

#140 – From Goth to Gown

This one is to Martin, Eran and Simon.

A thought

Who could imagine that one Saturday I’ll be shopping for a new Goth pants, wear it on Wednesday, and change to a hospital gown on Thursday???  Not me.  The Goth blog will wait though.

Packing list

I know what to pack for a biz trip, but what do you take to a hospital?  Once it was decided that I’ll be spending the night[s] at the hospital, the Dr. suggested that I’ll first check-in and than go out to get my stuff.  “That way”, he said, “you won’t have to come back here again after you’ve been to the hotel”.  Well spoken.  40 minutes later, with my hospital bracelet, Martin and I were still waiting.  I decided I could use the special bonding, and hunted down the Dr. @ his office.  “I’m sorry, can you please tell us how long it’s going to take?”

“What?!! You are still here?!! Come on, I’ll take you”.  And so I was delivered to the ward by the nice doctor himself, who explained, to the nurses’ surprise, that I’m checking in, but will be leaving shortly.

I was relieved to be in the cab.  Can’t say that I wasn’t tempted to “fall asleep” in my hotel room and wake up in the morning all innocent.  Who cares where I sleep if it’s only sleeping.  But the IV thingy was hurting me and I was finally, getting hungry after 23 hours with no food and the only food/drink I was allowed comes in clear plastic bags.  Martin verified, IN PERSON, that I got in the cab to go back to the hospital.

What did I pack?  A laptop, one charger for phone, MP3 player, USB cable.  The electronics took much more room and were heavier than the necessities like tooth brush & paste, change of cloth…  Geek!

Karolinska University Hospital

11:30 PM

Of course, not using one, I didn’t pack a PJ.  The hospital took care of it.   Too white.  With my mouth dry, after 24 hours with no food, but couple of cups of water, IV was my feeder.

Laptop connected, Wi-Fi is free, Rhapsody is the soundtrack of my night.

First night at the hospital, and I did use the alarm button to call for pain killers.  It was time to give in.

Of course, once the pain killers started working, FaceBook, Twitter and their likes came to life.

05:00 AM

A polite knock at the door woke me up.  A nurse is coming for my blood.  With my eyes closed I stretch my hand, remember to tell her that my veins are narrow, and falls back to sleep.

At 7:40, I’m up again, learning that one cannot undress with IV attached.  A nurse is coming to help, and is sent back to get me towels, and of course, a clean PJ.  I opt for my own cloth.

At 9:30, I get the day’s doctor visit.  No one notes that since my shower, the IV had not been reattached.  I figure they will eventually.  “Turn off the music” is her first sentence.  And than, like they all do, she introduces herself by first name, shakes my hand and tells me how, even with my blood test results, they are still not sure what I have on top of gallstones.  How reassuring.

At 10:30, when my chaperon is coming to take me for my ultra sound, I stop him from moving the bad and demonstrate my ability to walk.  He is not sure what to do, so I start walking out of the room.

An hour later I’m done, and now I know better than to wait for a chaperon.  I walk back to the ward alone.  Still with no water or food, I’m thinking Yom Kippur.

Nu?

Between twitters, I dose off, get another pain killer and blood pressure is measured for the 2^nd or 3^rd time.

@ 14:00 or so, I’m waked up to be told that I am allowed to have my first meal.  39 hours since my last supper.  No one bothers to comment on the music anymore – guess they got used to it.    It’s a hospital; I have low expectations regarding my first meal.  Wrong.  3 crepes stuffed with mushroom and dill with nice mustardy sauce arrive.  And water.  And a horrible coffee that once left alone, I set free down the sink.

Gallbladder however, is inflamed, flight is highly discouraged, and another night of observation is prescribed.  I am down.  The pain is down, but it doesn’t matter, since I can’t find even one doctor [consulted with London and Israel] that will tell me that I should just walk away.

Around 17:00, my new babysitter is in, and everything looks better.  As much as I try to keep work out of here, how can I not feel lucky to work with people I really like?  How can I not smile when Eran, rerouting his ticket, is my new chaperon/body guard?

With some hope offered by the doctor, I get all energized to buy my ticket home for the following day.  Simon is rushing it though the system, while I head to the hotel to pack my stuff and check out.

Given that the hospital declared me fit to eat, we go for a GOOD dinner.  Not only I’m not eating hospital food, I’m eating good, rich [read: fat] meat.  The reasoning?  This is what empirical testing is all about: If my body can handle this, I’m 100% fit to fly.

Grill, Drottninggatan 89 113 60 Stockholm

Let’s just say that the night provided enough evidence to suggest that while I may be OK to fly, I’m not entitled to a clear bill of health.

After unhealthy dinner and desert, back to my “dorm”.  If only the door wasn’t locked.  It takes three Swedes to figure out how to open the hospital doors, and another 15 minutes before I find my ward.  The nurses node.

“We’ll wake you @ 4:20 for your blood” they remind me.  Yes, since I told them I have a 13:35 flight, they asked the lab, the nurse and the doctor to do their things earlier, so I’ll make my flight.  Nice cannot describe it.

More yet to come. . .

#139 – Not Yet Dead

Not Yet Dead [1-see comment at end]

This one is to Martin, Eran and Simon. And to the amazing, caring staff of the Karolinska University Hospital.

Denial

It wasn’t until Saturday noon, sitting at the airport with Eran, knowing I’m going home, that I allowed myself to break down and admit weakness and fear. The tears came as a total surprise though. Until that moment, others did all the worrying, while I was too busy being cool and tough.

2 AM – I am in Pain

Never thought of myself as a wimp, hence, when the first pain wave hit me around 2 am, I figured that it was nature’s response to a very rich dinner. As the hours moved on, nature was having fun. I was not! All I knew was that no matter how I lay, sat, rolled, hugged the pillow or bent, each wave of pain left me exhausted, with the naïve hope that soon enough it’ll stop. A hot bath didn’t help either. I started thinking of the HOUSE episode in which he breaks his finger to distract his mind from a bigger distress.

Around 7 AM I SMS-ed Simon and Martin, informing them that I won’t be able to join the day’s meeting. The idea of sitting, listening, responding and being patient [dah] was beyond me.

Reading the SMS, the two guys immediately shifted into “fix problem” mode. From that moment on, not an hour went by without at least one of them insisting I’d take action.

Phone consultation with a Doctor brought up terms like obstruction, stones and other terms I associate with people other than myself.

By 11 AM or so, I was ready to cry. 9 hours of pain, no sleep at all, in a hotel bed, tangled with the duvet, hugging a pillow, was not my idea of having a good time.

I obeyed Simon and called our dear AMEX support[2]. “We could get you a list of local doctors” she said. I said “yes, please”. A pathetic list of 3 items arrived more than 4-5 hours later.

Luckily, Martin and Simon were not about to let me stall. “Call the SOS line, NOW!!!” they ordered via SMS, Skype and phone.

And so I did.

There’s a light

A case manager, a medical case manager . . . suddenly I had a professional support team all working for me and my comfort. Within 10-15 minutes, I had an address and someone who’s sole task was to make sure that I’m being taken care of the best possible way. There was a bit of a competition there, between these guys and Martin & Simon, and later Eran, who could care more.

Checking in

For the first time in my life, I checked myself in, and not to a hotel or a flight. Once I paid SEK2000[3], things started moving fast. Blood, urine and descriptions were collected carefully, followed by a CT.

Having to remove everything containing metal turned out to be a challenge – I already had the instrument for liquid injection in my arm, and movement was limited. I had to swallow my “no thank you I can manage” rejection of help, and ask for it. Only to find myself thinking it’s the first time in my life I am helped removing my bra. “BY A WOMAN” was the bold angry message sent from my protesting brain and pleasure center. Yes, by a woman.

Martin, giving up an opportunity to enjoy the beauty of Stockholm, was with me, providing the support I was too blind and stubborn to admit I needed. Further, he recognized that talking work would be a good distraction. Can’t believe it, but it worked, almost as good as a pain killer.

It’s late afternoon and while the pain waves are not longer slicing me that often, not a single thought of food crosses my mind, and I don’t even notice.

While I’m offered a bed a couple of times, I keep going out to the waiting room to enjoy Martin’s company. Denial I call it now for what it was. Sick people need beds, not me.

Verdict, Little Kid and a Big Airplane

The Muslim doctor that was handling my case/me all afternoon is sitting me down for a serious talk. I can forget about getting on a plane tomorrow, I have gallstones and a couple other symptoms they are still investigating; my liver which may be infected, is inflamed, and flying with swollen organs, considering what air pressure does to balloons, is not recommended by the hospital. The SOS Dr. talks to Dr. Mahmud, and wanting a 3^rd opinion I call Ruti, my very own family doctor and friend in Israel. They all agree that flying is a great way to add adventure and pain to my life, along with, most likely, an emergency landing.

• — “You’d rather get it removed at home, right?” says the nice Doctor.
• — “Well, I rather get it done HOME-HOME”, I say.
• — “What do you mean, aren’t you an American?”
• — “Don’t you have an ear for accents?”
• I get a confused look in response.
• — “You are an Arab, aren’t you?” I ask/state.
• — “No, I’m a Kurd” is the immediate response, and I sense some offense in his tone.
• — “Oh, I’m really sorry” I quickly say, “And I’m an Israeli”
• — “You know, when I was a kid, and the Iraqi army was chasing us, and ended up in a camp near Turkey. . . me and all my family”
• — “Yes and the Turks didn’t welcome you either, I remember” I’m proud to show off my knowledge of middle-east conflict history and erase the Arab thing. “How old were you?”
• — “And I will never forget” he says, all emotional, “the first airplane that drooped us food was from Israel.”

I now have a friend at the hospital.

Next – checking in.

Comments:

[1] SPAMALOT – lyrics @ http://www.stlyrics.com/lyrics/spamalot/heisnotdeadyet.htm or general @ http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Spamalot

[2] Amex called hours later to ask if i needed anything else. By that time, I already canceled my flight, which the caller wasn’t even aware of. Not sure i was polite. They didn’t deserve it anyway.

[3] Exchange rate was retrieved using WorldMate Live which I’ve been enjoying for the past few months, tracking my biz trips and now my gallbladder-related events.

138 – Chick flick, Chick lit, Chicken Sh-t!

[Definitions for above terms are @ the bottom of this chapter.]

Getting tagged as “Chick”-something is bad for business. Its value for men evaporates, thus 49% of the population may view it as an “uncool”, “not-for-me” thing. Man’s manhood is challenged, once man admits going to chick flick, reading chick lit. Enjoying it is top secret, “I can tell you, but I’ll have to kill you” kind of thing

In Human Resources, the term “going pink” is used to describe professions that are moving from being predominantly performed by men to female territory. “Going pink” implies status and compensation are going down. Sadly, this happened to the Human Resources management profession itself. And we all suffer. Statistically [not to say genetically], Women are better caregivers. This is not antifeminism chauvinism, this is an observation. Last night @ the wedding, it was Melanie who called home to ask her man if everything is OK with charming daughter. I have yet to see A man, calling his wife while having a good time, not to say good night to the kids, but to ask “is everything alright with our precious off-spring/s?”

Do you find this observation irrelevant? Who then, in your office, organizes the gatherings? Remembers B-days? Or notices that you are not yourself today? Congrats to all men who are in touch with their caring side; hate to tell you that you are still a minority among men.

In the Manly Men’s Movie Reviews website, they describe themselves as “rampaging bundles of male hormones. We love movies with big, phallic guns and curvaceous chicks with clothing that falls away for no plot driven reason”. Keep on mind however, that they rated Borat A⁺. Who classifies a movie as a chick flick anyway? Couple of gals who want to see a bloodless movie? Avoid an evening with an action hero? Or is it the guys, unable to figure out emotional nuances beyond good, bad and ugly?

Why do I care? Last Tuesday, I saw The Secret Life of Bees. The night before, and all the way to the box office, Pam and I tried to decide between W. and the Bees. Discussion went like this:

“So which movie shall we see?”

“If we choose W., we could discuss it over dinner”

– Company to include 3 women, 2 men.

“On the other hand, The Secrets of Bees will provide us with a good healthy cry.”

“Yes, I know W.is serious, political, good subject for small talk.”

Upon arrival to the box office, we asked the attendant, who sort of repeated the lines above. I chose the bees. Pam provided the Kleenex in the appropriate time.

As we left the theater, I was developing that annoyed itch about the chick thing. The Secret Life of Bees is a great movie, well done, with great performance delivered by Dakota Fanning, Queen Latifah, Jennifer Hudson, Alicia Keys and Sophie Okonedo. The kind of performances that get nominated. Still wonder why tagging it as chick flick is so bad? . . . I hope not.

Good movie, good book, good stuff!

Secret Life?

And now to the definitions:

“Chick lit”, Wikipedia is a term used to denote genre fiction written for and marketed to young women, especially single, working women in their twenties and thirties. … The style can also be seen to be somewhat influenced by female teen angst movies like Sixteen Candles and Clueless. Later with the appearance of Helen Fielding’s Bridget Jones’s Diary and similar works; the genre continued to sell well in the 2000s, with chick lit titles topping bestseller lists and the creation of imprints devoted entirely to chick lit.

“Chick Flick”, Wikipedia is slang for a film designed to appeal to a female target audience. The term was first used in the 1980s, a decade during which such chick flicks as Beaches were released. … “Chick flick” is typically used only in reference to films that are heavy with emotion or contain themes that are relationship-based (though not necessarily romantic and may not involve men). It is typically not used for high art, feminist subject matter, or romantic comedies intended for a wider audience (such as the 2005 film Wedding Crashers and Fever Pitch^[1]).

Clipart:

http://www.lintrezza.com/uploaded_images/bee_birth5-748834.jpg

http://otter.covblogs.com/archives/images/chick_flick.jpg

#137 – Armrest[less]

Sitting uncomfortably in an airplane, ready to write about sitting in airplanes. Is it like writing about life instead of living it? Never mind.

So while I know you are waiting to read about Burning Man, Puerto Rico, home and what have you, this is what I feel like writing about and it’ll have to do.

Months ago, I went to Puerto Rico. That chapter has yet to be written. On the first flight [out of 2] back, I got a window seat. Preoccupied with my book , I caught from the corner of my eye a couple standing close to my row, talking in Spanish. They were discussing who’ll sit where, since their seats were aisle apart. The man decided he preferred the seat next to me and set down.

Being first, and reading, I already claimed the armrest. Or at least so I thought. The macho had a very different idea. As his arm met mine, in total violation of the unwritten rules of armrest sharing, instead of pulling back his arm ASAP, Mr. Macho opted for offense. The offensive arm started pushing, and pushing. . .

As I type this I can’t help laughing. This sounds so fictional, so taken from a Christopher Moore or John Welter book. I still find it hard to believe it really happened.

Restless Armrest / Delta Air Lines / AP

Back in Puerto Rico, we are still on the ground, but it’s a conflict zone. Not about to give up my tenure of the armrest, I’m pushing back. Uncomfortable by the proximity of the offensive arm, I take my blanket and place it as a barricade between us. I’m building a wall.

A split of a second later, I am shocked by the 2^nd attack. Now the guy is spreading his legs open, and aligns his right leg with mine as he opens a 2^nd front. Does he want the armrest, or is he looking for human contact, I wonder. Doesn’t matter. My pocketbook becomes part of the wall. When this is not enough, the case of my dear Bose headsets placed between our knees. The jerk’s pressure is such the the case in holding in the air.

it’s not the Berlin wall, it’s not the Western Wall, but it’s a wall in a conflict zone nonetheless. Meanwhile we took off, safety belt sign is off and the crew is passing around with drink and stale snacks. I cease the opportunity to get the UN on my side.

When asked “what would you like to drink”, my answer is “thank you, but before drinking, can you please tell this man to stop pushing himself all over me?”.

Given that I’m not known to be the whispering kind, the mushroom of silence is spreading around me. “Since the second he set down, this man kept pushing himself on me. I find this unacceptable.”

The [Latino male] attendant asks me to calm down. “I’ll calm down when you stop this. I expect you to protect me from such behavior on your flights.” The guy starts chatting with Mr. Macho in Spanish. “He says he did no such thing” is the conclusion of the discussion. “Look at all this”, I point out to the blanket, headset case, and bag. “Do you think I put it here for nothing?”

Mr. Macho opens his mouse. “I understand what you are saying” , he says in a very slow measured diction.

“I don’t care what you understand”, i dismiss the BS.

“What do you want me to do?” asks the attendant.

“I don’t want this guy sitting next to me.”

“Este… “ starts the attendant mouth to form yet another “what do you want me to do” response.

“Make him move and switch seats with his wife” I demand, as I point to the poor woman. Another quick exchange in Spanish and a no-man’s-land territory is established. The Mrs., I’m sad to say, did her best to be invisible, to occupy at little space as possible, and religiously worked on her Sudoku charts, one after another, never looking at me.

Now it was time for a drink.

As we arrived to Atlanta, knowing I have couple of hours before I make my connection, I followed the couple. Mr. Macho put a possessive hand around his wife shoulders, she had a frozen look on her face, looking forward, never turning her head left or right.

Not a word was spoken.

I went looking for a cup of good cappuccino.

Another person’s view can be found Here. And here’s an aggressive-possessive view of the subject.

The Wired, in the how to section couple of years ago, taught its readers how to capture the armrest. the crash course can be found HERE.

Bon Voyage.

#133 – Through the Fire and Flames

RockBand

Flame, Fire and Rock [from http://www.gamespot.com/ps3/puzzle/rockband/images.html]

And the fun continues.

Every time I post a “chapter” that gets significantly more comments than usual, I gain an insight. Sometimes about myself; sometimes about us all. #131 was all about us, the hidden and not so hidden singers, the real players, the couch players, the armchair masters of guitars, the RockBand players, the GuitarHeroes and those waiting to come out of the, I guess, living room? The ways we find to express ourselves, openly or behind closed doors and with headsets.

And all the new songs I listen to and learn. Yesterday, over Skype, once we were done with work this and work that, and started talking music, I got this: “TtF&tF is the hardest thing on Guitar Hero 3, so I’m told…” to which I typed “Ha? Raising eyebrows”. So I got the TtF&tF for dummies version: “Through the fire and the flames”. Almost correct. It’s “Through the Fire and Flames” Wikipedia says. MTV, in a compilation they did, added to the song’s name an extra “the”.

That was yesterday.

Since then, I Rhapsody-ed the song, which I’ve never heard of. I’ll praise Rhapsody another time. Right now I’m pressing the [volume up] button and am happy that my apartment is a corner apt. and that the speakers are not next to any wall shared with the neighbors. I let it blast the whole 7:21 min. and then again. and again. and again.

Must see:

Israel, I was told, restricted access to the one above, so this one with subtitles should work with you, as it had been tested earlier today: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DilAASI69Sc

The video, unlike the recorded song, is only 5 minutes long. Not that it should bother you. It’s overwhelming as it is. The things these hands can do. . .

YES / Tormato (1978)

I recall my excitement and joy in high school, when I got my first “Made in the UK” album. It was Tormato, by YES. As far as my dad was concerned, it was “No, No” and then again “NO!!!” When the sounds of Rejoice, the 1st song in the album, started filling the house, joy was not part of the parental behavior demonstrated.

I recall my excitement and joy in high school, when I got my first “Made in the UK” album. It was Tormato, by YES. As far as my dad was concerned, it was “No, No” and then again “NO!!!” When the sounds of Rejoice, the 1st song in the album, started filling the house, joy was not part of the parental behavior demonstrated.

Unfortunately, having the largest of the kids bedrooms in the house, had its price. it was also the bedroom sharing a wall with our dinning room/ open kitchen area. As time went by, my dad learned to recognize the sounds of the album. For someone who insisted that it’s not music, I think he did very well.

Not even “The WALL“, which i played much more often, got so much negative attention. So in our house Tormato was a success. It generated the right teenager-parent conflict of noise. Sadly, Yes didn’t share the same view. They never thought of the album in terms of success.

The only song with some success was “Don’t Kill the Whale”. If they’d only asked me. In a 2nd thought however, I’m kind of happy they didn’t. Almost 30 years later, in a music conversation, I was told that the album that I insisted to call TOMATO, is called, as a matter of fact, Tormato. Another great moment of ignorance.

My apologies, YES.

And how’s the RockBand doing? It’s all about practice. I still suck with the drums. In vocals however, I ventured today into Medium difficulty level. Did I mention it takes practice? But the Drums… dear damn drums…

As I sign off, going for my “witchcraft” book (see #131), here’s a drummer I won’t compete with:

#132- I vacation Part III [and last]

I Vacation, part III Originally uploaded by yaelol

Going on vacation as i did, means no camera, means i relay on friends and the web to provide the atmosphere. and these pictures indeed were taken by friends.

Friends however, cannot write my experiences for me. they can and do contribute to them; can be part of them, and therefore part of me.

So, with many months old perspective, here i am, ready to complete this amazing trip to Virgin Islands, only to clear the cue for Budapest and Paris, Puerto Rico and Israel, St. Petersburg, Russia and the many little things that collectively are called my life.

Virgin Island.

The islands, are anything but virgin. many races have been here and gone, many left some genetic cells behind. some left more. Food, music, cloths… Then the tourists came and took away the virginity.

I can’t help but recall the crazy book I recently read, that takes place on an island not far from St. John VIUS. “Crazy” doesn’t even come close to describing the wild rich imagination of the writer. Island of the Sequined Love Nun by Christopher Moore. What can bring cannibals, a talking bat and a drunk pilot together to one small island?

Guess you’ll have to read the book. However, as islands go, some things are true for both the fictional and the one I’ve been visiting.

Where it’s never cold, mostly too humid, and, as islands go, there’s water all around. I managed to avoid the water. Mostly. Months after the latest and last Harry Potter came out, Harry and I were finally together. Harry was with me by the pool, everyday, for hours at the time. Until almost the very end, at least Harry was virgin. and now they are making a movie.

Good as Potter is for a vacation companion, I had friends to meet. What are the chances that Rich and Pat, close friends from NJ, will end up here, at the same as me? I wonder which butterfly flapped its wings to make this happened. And then again, who cares. The best day of this first-in-a-long-time vacation was spent with them.

As it turned out, not all resorts were born equal. Ruti and I were staying @ the Westin Resort, and thought the place was almost OK, other than a bit too many honeymooners and kids. Until we joined Rich and Pat at Caneel Bay. No kids under 16, private beaches all around. . . Mr. Laurance Rockefeller, the original owner, loved the environment, loved to enjoy it too. However, being a Rockefeller, he had to make money too. So he developed few environmentally oriented resort hotels in Puerto Rico, the Virgin Islands, Hawaii and Vermont, serving as chairman of Rockresorts, Inc., a resort management company which he founded and chaired. [http://www.hotel-online.com/News/PR2004_3rd/Jul04_LRockefeller.html]

In addition, L. Rockefeller was key in the creation and development of several national parks including Grand Teton National Park in Wyoming, Virgin Islands National Park on the island of St. John (I’m here) and Marsh, Billings, Rockefeller National Historical Park in Vermont. Judging by the one visited – Caneel Bay, St. John – the guy knew what he was doing. Look at the photos from their website.

After the hugs and the laughs, we head to Breakfast. And it feels like I’m a guest in a plantation. The waiter who delivers great coffee has white gloves on. The Breakfast buffet is big on the eggs and meat side, and the cushioned rattan furniture all fit the image in my mind.

Breakfast done, it’s time for the beach. The 6 of us have a private beach all to ourselves. In comparison, the Westin suddenly is nothing but the public pool of the hood. Even the water looks better, and i can’t help but go in for a swim. More than once. In between our conversations cover world politics, recent development in the medical field – unavoidable when two of your friends are doctors-, getting me to rave about the wonders of Blackberry, and all of us have our books or magazines to fall back to.

I Vacation: Beach, Blackberry, friends

Hiking with Pat along the isolated trails, I’m impressed with the artful way of creating a resort which is well manicured yet are natural and a little wild, and offers the privacy level only a Rockefeller could afford.

Blue clear water, sun, short hike, what else is missing? A 4 O’Clock tea. The tea is wet, the scones are fresh and warm; i can’t remember if there were cucumber sandwiches or not. but if there were, they were fresh and perfect, like everything else. To remind me of reality, a laptop walk in a joins us. Stock and investments take wi-fi with their tea. Not sure is this was part of Laurance Rockefeller’s vision. Regardless, I love the place.

After our goodbyes, we head back to the Westin resort, and it feels so less cool than before. Ruti gets her book and I go back to Harry.

I take a day trip to Saint Tomas with Larry and Linda, only to find myself in a shopping hell. Everyone is nice, and polite and has something to sell. You name it, it’s there. I end up buying couple of magnets and this is it. The food is good, the company is great, and I’m happy.

We take the ferry back to St. John and Ruti who’d been studying all day. In a funny way, it makes the vacation even feel more like a vacation. Sorry Ruti.  I just a whole day off-line. This is a vacation.

This is our last night. Ruti is taking the morning ferry, and I take the afternoon one. She’ll fly east, and I’ll fly West.  Hugs, kisses, walking Ruti to the water. 3 hours later, Larry and Linda are walking me, and i hugs this amazing couple that from invading my boat seat became such good friends. who’s imagine that a month later we’d meet again in Puerto Rico?

And this was it. I did vacation. And Loved it.

Planning my next vacation, it’ll be all around packing, cleaning, unpacking, goodwilling a lot of extra stuff i could well do without. and a new address. yes, my next vacation is a moving vacation.

#131- To Geek or to Gape?

Guitar Hero, Rock Band, Sing Star. . . for the longest time I took pride in my ignorance. “Guitar Hero?” I asked. “Never heard of it. What is it anyway?” PS2 meant nothing to me. Correction: I thought PS/2 had something to do with fiber optics or my computer. Embarrassed to ask, it took a while before I learned that PS = Play Station. Waking up early and line up in front of a store that offers the new PS3? Not in my lifetime. I can’t quote any Star Trec or Star Wars famous line without a computer or a geek near me. I never heard of Gary Gygax, nor found out that he recently passed away.

Too often I gaped watching colleagues and friends talk for hours about characters and universes I didn’t even know existed. D. playing a plastic, stringless guitar? Inconceivable! Staff meeting turning into “PlayStation history 101”? unbelievable. And yet I’ve attended the class. Took no notes though.

Adults getting excited over anything PS3? My inner self couldn’t comprehend. Tetris was more than enough for all my gaming needs. “I love Pictionary”, I stated proudly again and again. A game in which you hold a pen and impose your thoughts and ideas on paper, this is what a good game is all about. Interaction with people, sharing hilarious and challenging moments for the sake of pure fun. Computer games? No Way. Games on my phone? Not a chance. At least not until. . .

Couple of weeks ago, I was invited to sing with Sing Star.The songs were too British, and the shop selection was even more British. Fun, but nothing more. A week went by, and I was invited to join a Rock Band. I miserably failed the drumming test. Instead, I was hired as the lead singer. 4 hours later, with one call to Bill for help, and 6 or 8 gigs, I was hooked.

Welcome to Geek world. You can checkout any time you like, But you can never leave!

To be honest, there were some warning signs. “find me a game I’d like”, I asked my favorite geeks. I was sent to http://www.gamesforwork.com/games/; I was put in front of a PS3, completely helpless with the controls, trying one game after another. And then, just like that, over a Sunday lunch, I was handed a Nintendo (DS Lite) with Professor Layton and the Curious Village loaded. And I couldn’t wait to get a chance to help the professor and his annoying apprentice. A week later I was given the white box, and unable to wait until a lost charger was found, rushed to buy a 2^nd one @ Fry’s.

This however, is nothing compared to joining a Rock Band. Plus, of course, i wasn’t having much success with Prof. Layton’s puzzles.

So is it a matter of finding the right hook? Is it a matter of passing a certain level of exposure to geeks followed by an incubation period?

Dunno. All I can tell you is that Mississippi Queen is really hard to sing, and not a favorite… unlike “I think I’m Paranoid” which quickly grows on me.

Care to join a rock band?

#129 – Israeli Sunset

Sunset on the Mediterranean

Originally uploaded by dindrigo

Having a first-timer with me posted a challenge. what is the first thing you want him to see 90 minutes after landing?

I chose Tel Baruch beach.

With Beer – Maccabi [for him], Wine [for me] and fries.

Four months passed, and this chapter is still missing its essence, its soul. how can i bring someone to Israel, on his first visit, and sum it up with beer and fries @ Tel Baruch? Shame, shame, shame.

On the other hand, how can I neglect writing about any of the things, destinations and mishaps that i went through in the past months? Shame, shame, shame.

Started the week (June 15) in Paris, where Christopher ended each teasing, challenge or drink with “you will blog about this, right?’

And my answer is; “yes Christopher, i will blog about this, and this and about that too”.

Not everyday, possibly, not every week, but a lot. and with photos, that for a change may include some of my own.

get it?

… ” What it is,
When you get it,
If you get it…

TODD: HAH!
LOVETT:
Good, you got it!”

from http://www.soundtracklyrics.net/song-lyrics/sweeney-todd/a-little-priest.htm

#132 – I Vacation Part III [and last]

I Vacation, part III Originally uploaded by yaelol

Going on vacation as i did means no camera, means i relay on friends and the web to provide the atmosphere. and these pictures indeed were taken by friends.

Friends however, cannot write my experiences for me. they can contribute to them, can be part of them, and therefore my of me.

So with many months old perspective, and here i am, ready to complete this amazing trip to Virgin Islands, only to clear the cue for Budapest and Paris, Puerto Rico and Israel, St. Petersburg, Russia and the many little things that collectively are called my life.

Virgin Island.

The islands, are anything but virgin. many races have been here and gone, many left some genetic cells behind. some left more. some, like the

Where it’s never cold, mostly too humid, and, as islands go, there’s water all around. I managed to avoid the water. Mostly. First it was the pool. Months after the latest and last Harry Potter came out, Harry and I were finally together. Harry was with me at the pool, everyday, for hours at the time. Until almost the very end, at least Harry was virgin. and now they are making a movie.

Good as he is for a vacation companion, I had friends to meet. What are the chances that Rich and Pat, close friends from NJ, will end up here, at the same as me? I wonder which butterfly flapped its wings to make this happened. on a 2nd thought, who cares. The best day of this first in a long time vacation was spent with them.

As it turns out, not all resorts are born equal. Ruti and I were staying @ the Westin Resort, and thought the place was almost OK, other than a bit too many honeymooners and kids. Until we joined Rich and Pat at Caneel Bay. No kids under 16, private beaches all around. . . Mr. Laurance Rockefeller, the original owner, loved the environment. However, being a Rockfeller, he too had to make money. He developed few environmentally oriented resort hotels in Puerto Rico, the Virgin Islands, Hawaii and Vermont, serving as chairman of Rockresorts, Inc., a resort management company which he founded and chaired. [http://www.hotel-online.com/News/PR2004_3rd/Jul04_LRockefeller.html]

In addition, he was key in the creation and development of several national parks including Grand Teton National Park in Wyoming, Virgin Islands National Park on the island of St. John and Marsh, Billings, Rockefeller National Historical Park in Vermont. And we are now in Caneel Bay, St. John. Look at the photos from their website.

After the hugs and the laughs we head to Breakfast. And if feels like I’m a guest in a plantation. the waiter who delivers great coffee has white gloves on. the Breakfast buffet is big on the eggs and meat side, and the cushioned rattan furniture all fit to the image in my mind.

After breakfast, it’s time for the beach. The 6 of us have a private beach all to ourselves. In comparison, the Westin suddenly is nothing but the public pool of a hood. Even the water look better, and i can’t help but go in for a swim. and later another one. In between our conversations cover world politics, recent development in the medical field – unavoidable when two of your friends are doctors, getting me to rave about the wonders of Blackberry, and all of us have our books or magazines to fall back to.

I Vacation: Beach, Blackberry and friends

Afternoon Tea @ Caneel Bay

Hiking with Pat along the isolated trails, I’m impressed with the artful way of creating a resort which is well manicured yet are natural and a little wild, and offers the privacy level only a Rockefeller could afford.

Blue clear water, sun, short hike, what else is missing? A 4 O’Clock tea. The tea is wet, the scones are fresh and warm; i can’t remember if there were cucumber sandwiches or not. but if there were, they were fresh and perfect, like everything else. To remind me of reality, a laptop walk in a joins us. Stock and investments take wi-fi with their tea. not sure is this was part of Laurance Rockefeller’s vision. Regardless, i love the place.

After our goodbye we head back to the Westin resort, and if feels so less cool than before. Ruti gets her book and I go back to Harry.

I take a day trip to Saint Tomas with Larry and Linda, only to find myself in a shopping hell. everyone is nice, and polite and has something to sell. you name it, it’s there. i end up buying couple of magnets and this is it. the food is good, the company is great, and I’m happy.

We take the ferry back to St. john and Ruti who’d been studying all day. in a funny way, it makes the vacation even feel more like a vacation. A whole day off-line. This is a vacation.

This is my our last night. Ruti is taking the morning ferry, and i take the afternoon one. hugs, kisses, walking Ruti to the water. 3 hours later, Larry and Linda are walking me, and i hugs this amazing couple that from invading my boat seat became such good friends. who’s imagine that a month later we’d meet again in Peurto Rico?

And this was it. I did vacation. And Loved it.

Planning my next vacation, it’ll be all around packing, cleaning, unpacking, goodwilling a lot of extra stuff i could well do without. and a new address. yes, my next vacation is a moving vacation.

#128 – Year of the Ring

If you haven’t read it yet, please jump to #87 – Weddings Beware. It will put this blog in the right context.

I hate weddings. Have a low opinion of the whole thing. Too much energy, effort and $$ spent on the wrong thing.

Finding the right one is among one’s biggest life challenges. Finding the one for which the compromises required for a solid, happy, long-term partnership are done without a 2^nd thought is, for some, on a scale of a miracle. It’s something that one feels deep inside, at the core of one’s essence, identity and being – if all goes well. Too often, the couples shift from Breaking the Glass to breaking the reunion.

It’s personal. It’s between you and your partner.
And you are so happy. You want to shout it, you want to share it… you want everyone to know.
Great, understood.
But why does it have to be shared and communicated with such extravaganza? The louder the noise, the bigger the venue, the greater your happiness? I don’t think so. The richer the buffet, the richer the future? Not at all. If anything, the richer the buffet, the greater the bills to pay.

And yet, so many do it; often more than once.

Having long experience in finding the wrong ones, I never got as far as doing it myself, and after going through too many as an observer, I realized that I simply don’t like weddings, don’t enjoy wedding; don’t care about weddings. Happy to share your joy, from afar. Don’t send me an invitation; send me the URL to your gift listing, or an account #. I’m happy for you, deeply, and would be happier if you won’t ask me to go through the motions of wow, this is amazing, of course I’d love to have a picture with you… and the food is so unique… your mom looks amazing tonight… And yourself – WOW.

To be honest, I don’t limit my aversion to weddings. Bar Mitzvahs are just as bad. Coming to think about it, since my youngest brother’s Bar mitzvah, I’ve been exactly to one, and there were mitigating reasons.

Sorry, I’m kind of repeating myself, 2.5 years after I wrote #87. Why?

Because for me, this year, the Year of the Rat, is The Year of the Ring.

Not one, not two, THREE weddings I cannot escape. People are creative. The better they know you, the better they know how to manipulate guilt or just make it impossible for you to say NO!!!

Israel, Germany and N YC, all in one year, all requiring my presence, all know me well enough to get me where they want, i.e. in their WEDDINGS.

The Israelis used multi-method “attacks”, spamming all my email addresses, phone numbers and when we met in CA, in person. It’s hard to say “NO” to the people you love, it’s not so fair to use it against me. And it worked.

The Germans had a plan. They nominated me to be the bridesmaid. Yes, that’s right. Call me when you collect yourself from the floor after you are done laughing.

How did they do it? Smartly. I’m the only one, chosen and appealed to by both, and as long as it’s not jeans, there’s no dress code. Out of all the things I could say, “no” didn’t seem like a real option.

That’s two, one more to go. And I will go. To Manhattan in November. Why? Because of my sheer stupidity, and… love for these great friends.

I have these two great friends, sexual orientation does not matter, that when they moved-in together, happy as I were for them, I promised, scout’s honor, that should they ever chose to get married, I’ll make an exception and attend their wedding.

How on earth was I supposed to know that they’ll pick the same year? Didn’t I tell you? It’s my Year of the Ring.

Though my phone have been awfully quiet.

 

ClipArt Credits:

• http://www.webweaver.nu/clipart/img/holidays/weddings/greek-wedding.gif
• http://www.davechidley.ca/assets/images/autogen/a_04Chidley.jpg
• http://www.safetygearhq.com/images/handcuffs-hinged-orange.jpg
• http://www.tickle-me-elmo.co.uk/elmo-images/elmo-laughing.gif
• http://blogs.guardian.co.uk/news/archives/images/brides.jpg
• http://www.tparents.org/Library/Unification/Photos/Bless-Ph/brides&grooms.jpg – the photographer is Kris Cleponis/ Reuter
• http://www.ckmark.com/UserFiles/ProductImage/1148285854tb_m40.jpg

The Links that don’t work [in PDF version]– WHY???

• http://www.chabad.org/library/article_cdo/aid/313726/jewish/The-Breaking-of-the-Glass.htm
• http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rat_(zodiac)

#127 – I Killed Kimberly

It all started seven or eight weeks ago. Phone buzzes. I pick up. “Hello?”

“Can I speak to Kimberly please?”

“There’s no Kimberly here, you got the wrong number.”

An hour or so the phone buzzes.

I pick up. “Hello?”

“Can I speak to Kimberly please?”

“There’s no Kimberly here, you got the wrong number.”

The following day we go through this 3 times. A different girl every time, all want to speak to Kimberly.

After a week or so, I’m not so nice any more.

“”Put your supervisor on”, I demand. By now, I figured that it’s not that Kimberly has an infinite number of girlfriends; all she has is one annoying calling center.

“There’s no supervisor available at this time” was the annoying answer. “I’ll hold.”

By the end of week 2 I agreed to be recorded saying “Do not call this number, there’s no Kimberly here, remove this number from your damn database”.

“Sure, thank you” was the response. On the following day, no surprises; the daily harassment goes on as usual.

Now I’m in Canada, and each call is airtime + roaming. Damn Kimberly. “Who are you?” I demand. “We are Beneficiary”.

“And what do you sell?”

“We sell nothing, it’s a service”

“Well, I don’t want your damn service, and don’t call. Can you please get it into your head and database?”

I’m recorded again.

And surely enough the calls continue.

By now, I’m in Barcelona and pissed.

“Can I speak to Kimberly please?”

“Can you hang yourself with the phone cord please?”

A second later, I already feel sorry. Not that poor girl’s fault. Working in a call center is pretty close to living hell in my mind. As always, the better response springs to mind AFTER the call. I should have killed Kimberly; that’s what I had to do. Veronique and Dan share the idea.

Luckily, I didn’t have to feel sorry for too long. The following day, as we walk to the Sun’s party, the phone rings and surely, it’s the same maddening number from area code 909.

“Can I speak to Kimberly please?”

Now I’m ready. In a sober, serious voice I say, “I’m sorry, Kimberly was killed in a car accident yesterday, and we’d really appreciate if you’d refrain from calling. It’s really hard on us.”

A pause… “I’m so sorry”.

I hang up.

Jumping in a Barcelona street screaming “I did it; I killed Kimberly” felt great.

Needless to say, they had to call once more. And that was it.

RIP Kimberly.

Clipart credits:

http://www.telephonemagic.com/images/chameleon/call-center-diagram-1-400.gif

http://inrepose.typepad.com/in_repose_blog/images/2007/09/04/istock_000002707902xsmallcellphon_2.jpg

#122 – Back in China (November 2007)

I sit, looking at the browser window as it tries to find its way to this very page – the one you are viewing right now, unless you are in China, which means you have to read the attachment. Thoughts of freedom and free flow of information run through my mind. Like shoes which come in different sizes, freedom comes in different doses. There are places however, where one size fits all is enforced. Walking in too small a shoe can be painful. Binding your feet, as was the tradition for hundreds of years, may break and twist your bones. What does it do to one’s spirit, I wonder. My stomach turns at the thought.

How far can you walk?

I’m trying hard to push out of my mind the images I created after reading numerous stories and visualizing them.

And what if it’s not your foot that is bound, but rather your spirit? how far can your imagination take you if it has been bound tight all your life?

In my first visits to China, I was amazed by the number of students who crowded every bookstore, every shop who sold foreign magazines, art books, anything not Chinese. I looked at them sitting on the floor, on bookshelves for hours, copying paintings from art books, those that you can find in every Borders, B&N or Chapters in the bargains section for $4.99 and up. The books and the magazines looked as if a bulldozer run over them. The people looked hungry for unbinding their mind, imagination, spirit…

Not even a year later, some of my classmates were Chinese. My curiosity to learn and understand more about this fascinating country and culture has no limits. The answers however, do.

One of my closest Chinese friends, intelligent, analytical and with unlimited desire for knowledge has a blind spot. His blind spot is China. Long hours and longer nights I struggled to understand. I no longer try. In no other context I would have suspected that his mind is bound, but when it comes to homeland China, nothing it does can be wrong, a mistake or plain stupid.

I can’t pretend I don’t see some reason behind the actions, decisions, choices made by the leadership and the people. All one had to so is to compare Russia’s route to democracy and

freedom to the one China is taking and think of the good of the people; the majority of the people that is. So as I condemn the despicable, I recognize, at least at times, the inevitability of some of these actions.

So I returned to China after not being here for 2 years or so. Tian-An-Men looked smaller than I remembered, and I couldn’t recognize much.

It wasn’t until we landed in Shanghai that I started to realize how much everything changed. Mostly for the better. XinTianDi was crowded as ever. The restaurant across from Portman is busy as ever. The Brazilian chuseria is still there, and on a Friday night the majority of the patrons is Western. But so many of the Chinese-styles stores are gone; replaced by Western-style ones. it’s cleaner, harder to see jaywalkers, the ticket automates in the subway are much better and there’s the button to shift to an English menu. It seems that many people developed such a button. We are not followed by 5-6 “can I practice my English” students, one here, one there. And instead of the massive “looka, looka, want-a-bag, want-a-watch” intense attacks I grew to hate, it’s one every 50 meters or so.

The knockoff market is gone, banned by Shanghai’s government; but the DVD, CDs are still available in street corners. We never made it to to the land of “reproduced” SW. I’m told it’s still there and busy as ever.

And Face is out. Very much out. How many evening we played pool, only to be beaten by the English who were so much better than us. And there’s room @ the bar.

Cleaner, nicer, and still Shanghai.

On our way to Yu Yuan, we finally find ourselves squeezed in the middle of a tight crowd, mostly Chinese. Fiona, who never lets one down is our tour guide and we follow in step. We push, walk sideways and enter the garden. It didn’t change. And I wish we had the time to sit down and just be. But we have places to see, souvenirs to buy, Shanghai to see. But as I learned long ago, I can count on Fiona to add a special treat or a twist. Our first stop after the garden is not a Chinese souvenir store, but a jewelry heaven, for the silver lovers that is. I leave with a bracelet and two pairs of earrings. Fiona is not far behind, and even Dan found something he could not resist. And with Fiona one never pays the list price. How Israeli I want to say and no better than that. there’s a lot to say about the Chinese art of negotiation so I say nothing, only smile happily with my new purchases.

And now we are entering the mother of “made in China”. Christmas decorations of any shape, size or color take over about 2 aisles. Chinese souvenirs are all over, and so are ribbons, buttons, hair pins, mobile accessories, gift wrapping items, whatever. I go silly, as you may see once I’ll be done unpacking.

And then there’s nature call. Some things don’t change. The public bathroom, hidden in the basement level [0.20 RMB], smells like something I don’t want to name. the biggest challenge, once one gets over the smell and the line, is how to keep one’s cloth and belonging from touching the floor or any other surface. Hooks may be bought upstairs, but none of them made it down.

And still I love it. I love the city, I love the spirit, can’t have enough of it. And our time here was so short we had no time to get lost in the small streets. I’ll be back; just give me some time.

Photo Credits:

Bound fit in shoes – http://a6.vox.com/6a00d4142efb7f685e00d414357e463c7f-200pi

XinTianDi – http://www.spectrumresearchasia.com/image/proj_xintiandi.jpg

All other photos – Daniel Indrigo, http://www.flickr.com/photos/dindrigo/

#121 – I vacation (Part II)

As I get out of the cab, I apologize to the driver, “I’m sorry for lashing so at you. I‘ve been using your company for almost two years, and never before a driver lost me in the street. And… I really don’t want to miss my flight.”

I enter the terminal 42 minutes prior to taking off. As I hand my boarding pass to the attendant, he avoids eye contact, picks up the phone and asks the superior being on the other side to open the flight for a bag of a passenger who already checked in on-line. “I’m sorry” I soundlessly mouth. “you need to do a multiple-flights luggage tag”, I add. “i have two more flights before I reach my destination.”

All is taken care of and I’m ready for the security check. there’s one older Asian couple ahead of me. “You need to take off your jacket” the tired TSA guy tells the older man. “the jacket?” the man repeats. “Yes.”

“and the shoes too”. “the shoes?” “yes.”

The TSA guy makes eye contact w/me and fakes yawns as he keeps repeating his instructions. “And the belt” I add. “what?”. “You need to take off your belt” I tell the gentleman. He doesn’t understand. Mr. TSA is smiling, I mouth “belt”. He doesn’t get it. can’t lip read. “The belt”, I say for the 5^th time. “tell him to remove his belt”. “oh”. “Sir, please remove your belt” he addresses the gentleman, who is struggling with his shoe laces. As I move forward and lay my stuff on the belt, TSA tells me, “we are hiring, you know”. I thank him, laugh and move to pick up my shoes, computer and all.

I made it, and I have about 10 minutes to spare. As I reach the gate, I see familiar face. I can’t help laughing. In all my in-out Israel trips, maybe once or twice I met familiar faces. And here in San Jose I do?! Brisa is watching my bag as I go to get water and a bagel – the first course of my dinner, to be served in installments, over the next 5 hours or so, served in two additional airports.

As I take my seat, I realize that I am, how banal, going on a vacation. 17.5 hours of 3 flights, Chapter #119 completed and one truck ride later, I’m waiting for my ferry ride in a rustic, bad service hangout. Quietly I scan the people around me, most are destined to spend the next few days with me @ the same resort. I am not too excited with the prospects. Few retirees, few families with overbearing moms and over-spoiled branded kids, few young can’t-take-my-hands-of-you couples… no one that seems to be really interesting. A horrible latte later we board the ferry.

I put knapsack, pocketbook and feet on the front bench, claiming territory, put my best “don’t get near me” look, and hope for a fast quiet ride. Time to start vacationing, right?!

As we are getting ready to leave, another couple climbs in, and my look does not deter them. “excuse me, can we sit here please?” I take an extra second to make my point, before I move the knapsack without a sound.

As the man’s rear end is pushing against my pocketbook inch by inch, the intruding couple is having a quiet conversation. Minutes go by. I reevaluate. Actually they are really likable. I think to myself that I don’t really have to maintain the “I’m a bitch” attitude, and put the pocketbook on the floor. Within seconds we are engaged in a conversation, and I’m reassured; they are indeed very nice and fun to be with. Conversation is flourishing, and by the time we arrive, we already make plans for the week.

 

Just step off the ferry. One little step.

 

TBC

Photos Credits: http://ecx.images-amazon.com/images/I/51JRS3PPA3L._AA240_.jpg

Island photos: Larry K. Stutz

#120 – I vacation? (Part I)

The 6 stages of I Vacation:

Stage 1- denial

Stage 2 – freaking out

Stage 3 – can’t let go of computer

Stage 4 – Potter by the pool

Stage 5 – I vacation

Stage 6 – I want more

It’s all Eli’s fault. He couldn’t make it. So I got his place. And honestly, how can one refuse an invitation to a Caribbean vacation? Even in workaholic land this is unheard of.

So I accepted Ruti’s invitation and got the plane ticket. Completing a two-week biz trip 48 hours earlier wasn’t about to affect my plans.

And so, I had dinner out on Thursday, upon my return, I had dinner out on Friday. Back from dinner, do you think I started unpacking/packing? That would have been so rational, so “the right thing to do”, so not me. So I didn’t.

I clicked on the DVR’s remote and started scanning the shows recorded while I was gone. By Saturday 4 AM, I was done with the essentials, up-to-date with Grey’s Anatomy, Private Practice, Samantha Who (embarrassing, I know), and Brothers and Sisters. And with enough room to support a week recording.

Time to go to bed.

By noon I was up. 7.5 hours to flight’s departure, and I act as if it’s you who’s going on vacation. A shower got some sense and minor signs of hysteria into me. Bathing suits, where the hell are they? How humid is it? Too humid. Do I need a sweater? No! And where are my fluorescent flip-flops? don’t know. Where’s my collection of sunblocks? don’t know. Which suitcase is not in the process of getting unpacked? S- – - , I didn’t even water the plants that waited for my loving care for the past two weeks. Other than the one that couldn’t wait any longer…

And why am I still doing emails? Skype?

Frantically I type: “I’m freaking out. I can’t remember when was the last time I took a vacation, and trips to Israel don’t count. Do I still remember how to vacation? doesn’t look that way. HELP!!!”

Now I blindly throw stuff into the suitcase. Useless, needed, impractical… who cares. And these flip-flops, where are they?! Looking for them, ignoring two other pairs who can do the job just fine, I waste more time and add to the house mess.

This is most definitely the time to discuss Action Items via Skype, so I do that too.

Solarcaine, where are you? White skin, Caribbean sun and nowhere-to-be-found sunblock is a guarantee to sunburns. I know!

Still doing emails, still Skype-ing, less in denial, more freakish.

Updating out-of-office auto reply, and it’s 5:47. so I call for a cab to show up @ 18:10-18:15. Printing out the boarding pass leads me to believe that the airport and airline will welcome me less than an hour prior to departure.

Considering that I have 3 flights ahead of me, I decide that a 2^nd shower is the best way to use the time left before the taxi’s arrival. It is with physical pain that I turn off computer and router.

10 minutes to cab’s arrival, how many T-shirts do I need? Oh, and a sleep shirt too. Friendship may go a long way, all the way to Virgin Islands, but having to share a room… last time I had to pack a sleep shirt was… WHEN? JavaOne, I remember!

Driver calls. Will be there in couple of minutes, running a bit late.

18:17 I’m outside the building. Cab is nowhere to be seen. “where the F – - – are you?” I almost scream. “here” is the brilliant answer. “I’m here, and you are not, so I ask again, where are you?!”

“near Togos”. Acid is running OTA. “and do I sound to you as if l live in Togos” I ask. “blink your lights”. The guy is 50 meter north of me. “roll forward, keep going, keep going..” speechless I watch the cab passing me and crossing the lights, in a ONE WAY street. Redial and now I sound lethal “maybe you should get glasses, you just passed me”. “i already have glasses” is the stoic answer I get. “turn right, turn right and wait for me @ the corner” I command. The Einstein of cab drivers makes an extra right turn, just for the hack of it.

All fumes I enter. “Go to the airport, San Jose airport, and don’t bother with prolonging the trip via I-280” I command, as I sit down, open the windows to let the wind cool off the frustration surrounding me. I close my eyes. “United to LA” I remember to say.

 

TBC

Photos Credits:

http://linshaolin.files.wordpress.com/2007/03/cropped-show81.jpg

http://images5.squidoo.com/resize.php?filename=lens1530113_suitcase.jpg

http://images.jupiterimages.com/common/detail/72/97/22849772.jpg

http://yellowdogknitting.com/blog_photos/flip%20flops%20002.jpg

http://www.baptistcourier.com/1736.taxi.jpg.image

 

#119 – FOAM on the Water

I do have the ability to find trouble, problem, or stupid embarrassments wherever I am. You may call it chaos theory, but I doubt one needs to take it so far. Call it my special talent. Sounds so much better, right?

That’s the way at home, where I throw the house keys in the garbage only to return hours later, realize they are not in the car, replay the day in my mind and dig in the garbage can into which I throw them in along with the garbage. A month or two later it was a hard drive “case” I was about to return to Frye’s that ended up in the very same can. It wasn’t until Eran asked for it that I was faced with the “oops, I did it again”. A month or so later, this time at work, my dear Amex card joined my lunch leftovers… yes, in the garbage. I didn’t dive in. I just called Amex for a replacement card…. to the replacement card I got from them a week earlier, after its predecessor was left in a very good Brazilian restaurant in Budapest. You think you heard enough? Not yet.

Hard to admit, but business trips have their moments too. Arriving to a customer meeting under-dressed after the airline lost your luggage is the least of my worries. After all, I’ve been there, done that. . .

And then there are REALLY slippery moments, so slippery one may break a leg if not too careful. These are my moments. In the last trip, I managed to flood the bathrooms in all hotels but one. Four out of five if you really need to know. that’s why they put extra towels in the bathroom, right?

So keeping this in mind, let’s go back in time… to an earlier biz trip.

 

You see, there’s that hotel in Paris – the personality-rich Hotel Kleber, the hotel that in all my biz trips I stay in. It’s close to our office, to the Metro, to the Arc de Triumph… and has rooms with real personality, lots of reds, bordos and purples on the walls, the beds… the curtains. I love this hotel, with all its quirkiness…

in September I introduced Dan and Jerry to it, and…. lost my calling card there. In a previous visit however, I did much better.

It was more slippery than I would ever imagine.

Put together hotel staff that already knows me from previous visits, landing exhausted and with a major backache and the pleasant surprise of getting the room with the Jacuzzi.

Hmmm, backache, jacuzzi… couple of hours before I have to get on a call. Soon enough water is running, and bath foam is being added. And added again for a good measure. And again for aching back and neck.

Enter the hot foamy heaven, sink in the water/foam, close the eyes, lean back and feel how peace of mind, neck and back is being restored.

At first it’s fun, I can build towers of foam, castles, abstract sculptures… the jets are great. Soon however the fun is over. I’m being buried alive under a mountain of foam. there’s no escape, I have to do something. And fast. By now turning off the jets is not enough. I have created a monster.

Soon I learned that you can flash foam, that cold water is a better killer of foam than the hot ones, and that there’s a reason why the foam bottles are small.

The battle was long but very clean. Very white too.

 

#117 – I want to ride my bicycle

First you get out of shape

You drive everywhere. Parking is easy and free. You concentrate on the new job, settling down, making friends. You eat out, you drink out, and you take out. And if you are like me, the first thing you stop making time for is physical activity. Never a big fan, there’s no surprise here.

You gain weight.

Now you are much less motivated to move, and it’s harder.

So you park even closer, you take the elevator, you move less. You go out meeting new colleagues. You work hard, not out. You don’t cook.

Food is good, drinks are even better… but the pounds you collect and accumulate are not.

And then you decide to take action. Literally.

Hiking is great

Endorphins or not, my body feels the difference. Out and about, huffing and puffing climbing up a hill, whining all the way up.

And looking forward for the next opportunity.

It was a hike to Pacifica – thank you K. and N. – that reminded me how much I love, enjoy, live better with fresh air.

Then it was a month with Lizzi (#110- A dog in one hand, a doggie bag in the other) and more hiking.

Hiking destinations are all around me. It’s finding the partner/s to hike with that is hard… which is in fact one of the drivers to the CL effort.

And I’m ashamed to say that I have no hiking planned for this weekend. Yet, there’s biking… first thing tomorrow morning.

I want to ride by bicycle

More than two years ago, while working on my MBA, Melanie gave me her unused bicycle. Embarrassingly, the bicycle was stolen before I even got to ride them once. Parked in front of my Cambridge apartment, I saw it disappear, piece by piece. First the rear wheel was gone, than the seat… within a week or so, while I was working on this paper or another PowerPoint assignment the only piece left was the frame. And the guilt.

This time it’s different. I keep the bike in the car. The legal owner of the bike can see how well protected it is. And I use it. Figured that I already rode it about 40 Miles. Laugh at me, feel free to tease. But I ride. A little, yet I do.

Collector’s Item

Hard to believe, yet I am learning that my bike is a collector’s item.

Since I got it, I keep collecting additional items. From one week to another, the list grows.

First, it was the helmet, than the gloves. After suffering pain in the body part that one uses for sitting, I added a woman’s seat to my growing collection of biking items . As a kid, I rode bike everywhere, and never heard of a man seat vs. a woman’s. Now I have one.

Bottle holder came next. And then it was time for a tune up. “On-the-house” said the nice guy at the bike shop.

Coming back from today’s (Sunday, 9/16) ride, my car is now decorated wit the latest addition – bike carrier. [Thank you Govind and Itamar!!!] According to the drawing, I can fit up to 3 bikes. I’m not sure. Tested it with 2 bikes, and all went well… until I dropped off the bikes safely and went for my grocery shopping. Forgetting that the rear door now has a “growth”, I closed the door, smashing the “carrier”, frame and all, on my head. The carrier is well and still attached. As for me? I think that after a shower, my head would appreciate cold towel and some rest.

“What’s next” you ask? Chain protector. Got tired of the grease stains on my riding pants…

Photo Credits:

http://www.cartoonstock.com/newscartoons/cartoonists/mfl/lowres/mfln615l.jpg

http://www.cbil.upenn.edu/~ggchen/photo/hiking_west/hiking.JPG

http://www.eduplace.com/kids/mw/bt/6/graphics/bt06_06p.gif http://img.products.howstuffworks.com/cctool/PrdImg/images/pr/177X150/00/01/d7/42/b9/30884537.JPG

#116 – Welcome to NJ (II)

The first to greet you upon your arrival to NJ

Upon landing, each of us has to face reality. K is going to talk to the TSA guys, hunting down her laptop, while I, knowing my luggage is not waiting for me, have to file a missing luggage report.

No luggage, no laptop in NJ. Luggage is in Denver, Laptop held by TSA in San Jose. Now all we have to do is pick up the rental car and hit the road.

Key in switch and off we go. Looking for shortcuts, I let Telenav guide us. Big mistake. Why on earth would a “smart” navigation program (read: Telenav) tell us to get off the highway, make a U-turn, and get back on?! Bits me… The U-turn did not turn out all that well, and the thump I’ve heard left me with some concerns.

Surely, when I let the stirring wheel loose, it was pulling the car to the right. Inspecting the car from the outside showed a flat front right tire.

Great.

On an Island between two streets

I pulled over to an “island” between two streets, and we started calling; Budget on one mobile, AAA on the other. Both companies are SLOOOOOOOOOW to respond. First w ned to agree on our current location. Once we do, both companies inform us that we are in a “bad area”. True, we can’t see any “Ashkenazim”, but who cares. 20 minutes of negotiations later, we are embarrassed when the Budget rep asks “did you call AAA for help too?” Apparently, both Budget and AAA use the same towing company, of which their dispatch caught on to us. “90 minutes maximum wait” we are told.

The island we are parked @ is the parking lot of the BBQ

Chicken Queen. Having airport/airplane food for 11 hours, we are ready for some serious junk food. Observing the busy movement to the joint the whole time we were negotiating was good enough reason to check it out. Now it’s our turn. Fat time. Forget the yogurt and veggies I ate on the flight. This is high cholesterol, high fat and heart-attack generating food. K. and I walk in looking out [of place]. I envy all the guys who walk in knowing exactly what they want, without a glimpse @ the menu posted about the counter. We, to the contrary, have lots of questions. We end up ordering fried chicken, fries and coleslaw. And in case that wasn’t enough, K. adds a sugar-trap pie to our lunch. “Drinks?” asks the guy behind the counter. “Water” is my answer. K however, is asking “do you have anything diet?” Confusion is written all over the guy’s face. “You know, with less sugar, or with sugar substitute; a diet drink.”

“No, we don’t have any” is the amused answer. I can’t help laughing. “It’s not for diet” K is saying defensively, “I like the taste”. Shortly thereafter we added biscuits to the calories list. Fresh from the oven, melting in the mouth, materializing on the waist.

To cut a long lunch short, by the time we food is gone, and fingers are licked, tire is replaced. K even negotiated, with no extra charge, a replacement car to be delivered to the hotel in the following morning. Good!

@ The hotel, sans luggage (mine), sans laptop (K’s), drinks seem in place. First, we vent, bitch and complain, than we drink. TK, who’d taken a direct flight, got to the hotel hustle-free and well-rested, is treating us. I fight with the airline to deliver my luggage before bedtime; K had given up on getting her computer in Jersey, and DG, who finally joined us, packed 2 laptops, a whole set of cables, but no change of cloth… Did I hear anyone saying geek?

Dinner was good- Thank you T. We feel ready for tomorrow’s work challenges, and as I drift to sleep, sans toothbrush/paste, I say a little pray for my luggage to arrive before I leave.

Lights out.

 

 

Photos credits:

http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/b/bc/Flat_tire.jpg

http://www.eatfoo.com/files/images/20060703_-_fried_chicken/IMG_6221.jpg

http://www.kfc.com/menu/images/sides_biscuits.jpg

http://edibletulip.typepad.com/edible_tulip/images/spicy_coleslaw.jpg

http://www.travelwithachallenge.com/Images/Travel_Article_Library/Lost_Luggage/Winged_Suitcase.gif