Three sets of three
I just spent a week in Europe. It turned out to be three sets of three, plus some other adventures. I posted them all at once, rather than blow-by-blow. Read on....
Sunday, September 25, 2005
Three planes in one day
Off to Europe today. But I couldn’t get a direct flight to London, so I stopped over in Chicago. Interestingly, that plane was going on to Sao Paulo, Brazil. I was tempted to stay on board.
I was sitting across from a woman traveling with her cat (they were moving to Ohio). Clifford the cat slept much of the time; he had taken a sedative before embarking on this voyage. So it was his owner who underwent the most trauma. Apparently live animals are a security nightmare, with multiple forms to fill out, inspections to undergo, and fees to pay. She had to take him out of his travel bag for the TSA, and was terrified that Clifford would bolt. He didn’t because he was sedated, but imagine losing your cat in San Francisco Airport! I would think they would at least let you do the inspection in a closed room so the animal couldn’t run away. It also seems odd that an animal gets more inspection than a human—I mean, who is really the security threat?
One amusing thing is that this woman also has a dog (who was driving to Ohio with her husband)—a big, red dog. There are some kids’ books about a big, red dog named Clifford! She says people often comment that her animals were misnamed.
After 4 hours to Chicago, I did 8 hours to London. It was the usual deal with movies, a couple of meals, time to read, a bit of a nap. Somehow the time passes. I watched a teen chick flick called “The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants.” It was actually OK, taken on its own level.
But I wasn’t done upon arrival at Heathrow. I still had to take British Midland Air up to Edinburgh—another 90 minutes. Sigh. Three planes in a day is really too many. What surprised me most was that there were no free beverages on the flight! I mean, not even water! I opted to arrive thirsty rather than pay 1-and-a-half pounds for a bottle.
I took the City Centre bus into Edinburgh (only 3 pounds! Way better than a taxi). My hotel was right next to one of the stops. It was a charming old building with high ceilings and an internal architecture that somehow reminds me of the Waldorf Astoria in New York. And the heater was a nice radiator that really works!
Tired as I was, I set out immediately to have a look at Edinburgh Castle. I’m only going to be here for a day, and it was already late afternoon. I walked a mile to the park that’s at the base of the cliffs where the castle sits. What a fabulous sight! The park has green grass, trees, a floral clock, and nice wooden benches. And from the rolling fields rise these sheer, black-rock escarpments hundreds of feet high. Atop sits a huge stone castle. It would look like Dracula if it used the Eastern European architecture like Prague Castle, but instead, it’s a traditional UK-style castle, which looks less sinister to my eye.
I didn’t have the strength to walk all the way up there. It would have taken an hour, and I wasn’t sure the castle would still be open, as it was already 5 pm. So I admired it from the ground, along with the surrounding pretty stone buildings—a couple of churches, some government buildings, a museum. Then I strolled back, poking my head into traditional Scottish kilt shops that were jammed in between cell phone stores, hip clothing joints, and billboards advertising the new iPod Nano.
Ah, Scotland. Land of my forebears! Half my ancestors come from here. I wonder how I ended up so responsive to sunshine, given that Scotland is cloudy and chill nearly all the time. For instance, here it is mid-September and the temperature was around 55 degrees with a brisk breeze (OK, a serious wind) blowing. Shouldn’t I be genetically used to this and find it “bracing” rather than unpleasant? Maybe my body sucks up heat and photons so readily because they are a rarity here.
I was interested to notice the types of restaurants I saw on the street. Of course there was the usual compliment of pubs, but the main other type of casual restaurant is Indian, Pakistani, or Nepalese. I know these are common in England proper, but hadn’t realized it was the same up in Scotland.
I got a good night’s sleep, although I had to carefully select the side of the bed with less U-shape. It seems some heavy folks have spent time in that bed. The jet lag doesn’t seem too bad this time; I slept most of the night, and was able to get up at 6 am. The breakfast included cereal, yogurt, and fruit (and even skim milk!), so I was pleased. I skipped over the “traditional Scottish” dishes, which seemed to include everything greasy—hash browns, sausage, bacon, fried eggs, fried mushrooms, and something fried that was disk-shaped and nearly black. No, thanks. I want to feel buoyed up in the morning, not weighed down.
[My colleague told me later that this mysterious dark disk is called “black pudding,” and contains much of the same ingredients as haggis—stomach contents, other entrails, maybe blood. He also says it’s pretty good. I know from experience that the idea of eating something unusual is often grosser than the actual taste, so he may be right. I tend to believe that if humans can eat something, so can I, given that I’m human. So perhaps I’ll give it a try someday].
The curious thing about Edinburgh is that it smells like hops all the time, from the local breweries. I had noticed an interesting (and quite pleasant) smell that reminded me of fresh toast, but didn’t realize it was hops until my British colleague commented on it. Too bad I didn’t get to try any local beer this trip!
We attended a conference during the day, which was OK. For dinner, we tried a Nepalese place. The décor featured fabulous pictures of the Himalayas with tiny villages and human figures dwarfed by snow-capped peaks. When you see stuff like that, you understand why Tibetan and Nepalese culture includes such colorful crafts and clothing. The landscape is quite bare, and the human presence is symbolized by these rich colors, which also seem to indicate warmth and shelter amid the cold, dangerous surroundings.
We ordered Nepalese beer, which comes in very tall, slim bottles. My colleague immediately commented, “Everything’s tall in Tibet.” The food was wonderful—kind of like Indian, but different in ways that are hard to describe exactly. I had vegetable curry, and he had chicken cooked in a sauce made with dried fruit, so it was sort of sweet-and-sour. Good stuff.
I was sitting across from a woman traveling with her cat (they were moving to Ohio). Clifford the cat slept much of the time; he had taken a sedative before embarking on this voyage. So it was his owner who underwent the most trauma. Apparently live animals are a security nightmare, with multiple forms to fill out, inspections to undergo, and fees to pay. She had to take him out of his travel bag for the TSA, and was terrified that Clifford would bolt. He didn’t because he was sedated, but imagine losing your cat in San Francisco Airport! I would think they would at least let you do the inspection in a closed room so the animal couldn’t run away. It also seems odd that an animal gets more inspection than a human—I mean, who is really the security threat?
One amusing thing is that this woman also has a dog (who was driving to Ohio with her husband)—a big, red dog. There are some kids’ books about a big, red dog named Clifford! She says people often comment that her animals were misnamed.
After 4 hours to Chicago, I did 8 hours to London. It was the usual deal with movies, a couple of meals, time to read, a bit of a nap. Somehow the time passes. I watched a teen chick flick called “The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants.” It was actually OK, taken on its own level.
But I wasn’t done upon arrival at Heathrow. I still had to take British Midland Air up to Edinburgh—another 90 minutes. Sigh. Three planes in a day is really too many. What surprised me most was that there were no free beverages on the flight! I mean, not even water! I opted to arrive thirsty rather than pay 1-and-a-half pounds for a bottle.
I took the City Centre bus into Edinburgh (only 3 pounds! Way better than a taxi). My hotel was right next to one of the stops. It was a charming old building with high ceilings and an internal architecture that somehow reminds me of the Waldorf Astoria in New York. And the heater was a nice radiator that really works!
Tired as I was, I set out immediately to have a look at Edinburgh Castle. I’m only going to be here for a day, and it was already late afternoon. I walked a mile to the park that’s at the base of the cliffs where the castle sits. What a fabulous sight! The park has green grass, trees, a floral clock, and nice wooden benches. And from the rolling fields rise these sheer, black-rock escarpments hundreds of feet high. Atop sits a huge stone castle. It would look like Dracula if it used the Eastern European architecture like Prague Castle, but instead, it’s a traditional UK-style castle, which looks less sinister to my eye.
I didn’t have the strength to walk all the way up there. It would have taken an hour, and I wasn’t sure the castle would still be open, as it was already 5 pm. So I admired it from the ground, along with the surrounding pretty stone buildings—a couple of churches, some government buildings, a museum. Then I strolled back, poking my head into traditional Scottish kilt shops that were jammed in between cell phone stores, hip clothing joints, and billboards advertising the new iPod Nano.
Ah, Scotland. Land of my forebears! Half my ancestors come from here. I wonder how I ended up so responsive to sunshine, given that Scotland is cloudy and chill nearly all the time. For instance, here it is mid-September and the temperature was around 55 degrees with a brisk breeze (OK, a serious wind) blowing. Shouldn’t I be genetically used to this and find it “bracing” rather than unpleasant? Maybe my body sucks up heat and photons so readily because they are a rarity here.
I was interested to notice the types of restaurants I saw on the street. Of course there was the usual compliment of pubs, but the main other type of casual restaurant is Indian, Pakistani, or Nepalese. I know these are common in England proper, but hadn’t realized it was the same up in Scotland.
I got a good night’s sleep, although I had to carefully select the side of the bed with less U-shape. It seems some heavy folks have spent time in that bed. The jet lag doesn’t seem too bad this time; I slept most of the night, and was able to get up at 6 am. The breakfast included cereal, yogurt, and fruit (and even skim milk!), so I was pleased. I skipped over the “traditional Scottish” dishes, which seemed to include everything greasy—hash browns, sausage, bacon, fried eggs, fried mushrooms, and something fried that was disk-shaped and nearly black. No, thanks. I want to feel buoyed up in the morning, not weighed down.
[My colleague told me later that this mysterious dark disk is called “black pudding,” and contains much of the same ingredients as haggis—stomach contents, other entrails, maybe blood. He also says it’s pretty good. I know from experience that the idea of eating something unusual is often grosser than the actual taste, so he may be right. I tend to believe that if humans can eat something, so can I, given that I’m human. So perhaps I’ll give it a try someday].
The curious thing about Edinburgh is that it smells like hops all the time, from the local breweries. I had noticed an interesting (and quite pleasant) smell that reminded me of fresh toast, but didn’t realize it was hops until my British colleague commented on it. Too bad I didn’t get to try any local beer this trip!
We attended a conference during the day, which was OK. For dinner, we tried a Nepalese place. The décor featured fabulous pictures of the Himalayas with tiny villages and human figures dwarfed by snow-capped peaks. When you see stuff like that, you understand why Tibetan and Nepalese culture includes such colorful crafts and clothing. The landscape is quite bare, and the human presence is symbolized by these rich colors, which also seem to indicate warmth and shelter amid the cold, dangerous surroundings.
We ordered Nepalese beer, which comes in very tall, slim bottles. My colleague immediately commented, “Everything’s tall in Tibet.” The food was wonderful—kind of like Indian, but different in ways that are hard to describe exactly. I had vegetable curry, and he had chicken cooked in a sauce made with dried fruit, so it was sort of sweet-and-sour. Good stuff.
Three countries in one day
I got up in Scotland, then proceeded to a meeting in France, and finally fell asleep in Holland. We took a 6:45 am flight to Charles de Gaulle Airport (yawn). It turned out to be one of those little prop planes.
Upon arrival in France, I was disappointed not to get a stamp in my passport. Apparently they don’t do that within Europe anymore. Then I tried to get some euros. I went an exchange booth that said it was operated by American Express. But they wouldn’t take my AmEx card! When I offered a Visa card, the woman said the fee was 7.50 euros, and I might do better at the adjacent cash machine. So much for service. I tried the cash machine, and found that it was difficult to enter my PIN because I know it by the letters, but he keypad only had numbers. I got it on the second try. After all that, the receipt I got didn’t even indicate how much commission I was charged, so I don’t know if I got a better deal than the 7.50 euros.
Then it turned out we had to cool our heels for a couple hours waiting for our French sales guy to pick us up. My British colleague had a cup of coffee and commented that it was actually quite good. Even in the French airport they have good coffee!
By the time we got picked up and driven to the other side of Paris, we only had time for a 30-minute lunch at a little bistro. Ironically, our meeting was very close to Orly Airport (which is on the other side of Paris from Charles de Gaulle), but flights from northern Europe don’t land at Orly.
The security procedure was strange. We ran our bags through an X-ray machine and had to turn in our passports during the meeting, so it seems like tight security (they do this at the more paranoid Asian factories also). And yet, the whole air of the place was not one of concern for intellectual property or corporate espionage. It was basically bureaucratic. This was security theater at its best—just look like you are doing something, go through the motions, and it’s OK. Europe is like that (and increasingly, the US too).
It was a grueling, 3.5-hour meeting in a stuffy room. They did not serve us any liquid—no coffee, no water, no tea, nothing. Weird. It was actually my first business meeting in France; I wonder if they’re all kind of like this.
For complicated reasons, I had to fly to Amsterdam and stay overnight there, rather than going straight to my actual destination in Holland—Eindhoven. The next morning, I took the train to Eindhoven.
I love Dutch, by the way. It is tantalizingly close to German, but with some clear influences from English and Scandinavian languages. The net effect is that I can pick my way through reading it, but cannot pronounce it at all—the letters have different sounds in Dutch—and can’t understand it very well either.
For example, take the name of the main international airport in Amsterdam: Schiphol. In German, this would be pronounced approximately “sheep-hole.” But in Dutch, it sounds more like “skipple.” Or the name of the city where I transferred trains: Duivendrecht. The “ui” consonant cluster is not allowed in German, but would be pronounced something like “oo-ey” (rhymes with “gooey”). In Dutch, Duivendrecht sounds like “Dowvendrecht,” where the first syllable rhymes with “cow” and the “ch” is a soft sound made with the tongue against the back of the mouth. (This means, by the way, that the German, Dutch, and English words Haus, huis, and house are all pronounced the same way. Note that Dutch does not capitalize nouns like German does.)
The airport hotel in Amsterdam turned out to be a challenge. First I had to take a shuttle bus from Schiphol to get there. There was a schedule posted; the bus was supposed to come every 20 minutes. It looked like I had some time, so I went inside to get some water (still thirsty after that weird French meeting). But when I came back, the bus arrival time came and went. Finally a bus came after another 20 minutes or so. But then it still took 30 minutes to drive to the nearby hotel because the driver had to stop and have a cigarette, and then stop again at another hotel. Sigh.
I finally dragged into my hotel at about 10 pm. When I got to my room, the key didn’t work. The light turned green, but I couldn’t turn the handle. I went back to the desk and told them this, and they sent a skeptical-looking desk clerk up with me to try it again. Indeed, it malfunctioned for her too, and she did some maneuver with the master key that seemed to fix it. She said brightly, “Now it’s working!” and I was the one to feel skeptical. Sigh.
But who cares—I just wanted to get to bed. Then I discovered that there was a vent in the bathroom making a continuous hissing sound. It wasn’t the fan, and it didn’t matter if the light was on or off. Even with the door closed, it was clearly audible in the room. I went to sleep anyway, but certainly heard it first thing in the morning. It had left a mild buzzing sound in my ears from listening to it all night. Sigh.
I was ready for this series of travel challenges to be over.
Upon arrival in France, I was disappointed not to get a stamp in my passport. Apparently they don’t do that within Europe anymore. Then I tried to get some euros. I went an exchange booth that said it was operated by American Express. But they wouldn’t take my AmEx card! When I offered a Visa card, the woman said the fee was 7.50 euros, and I might do better at the adjacent cash machine. So much for service. I tried the cash machine, and found that it was difficult to enter my PIN because I know it by the letters, but he keypad only had numbers. I got it on the second try. After all that, the receipt I got didn’t even indicate how much commission I was charged, so I don’t know if I got a better deal than the 7.50 euros.
Then it turned out we had to cool our heels for a couple hours waiting for our French sales guy to pick us up. My British colleague had a cup of coffee and commented that it was actually quite good. Even in the French airport they have good coffee!
By the time we got picked up and driven to the other side of Paris, we only had time for a 30-minute lunch at a little bistro. Ironically, our meeting was very close to Orly Airport (which is on the other side of Paris from Charles de Gaulle), but flights from northern Europe don’t land at Orly.
The security procedure was strange. We ran our bags through an X-ray machine and had to turn in our passports during the meeting, so it seems like tight security (they do this at the more paranoid Asian factories also). And yet, the whole air of the place was not one of concern for intellectual property or corporate espionage. It was basically bureaucratic. This was security theater at its best—just look like you are doing something, go through the motions, and it’s OK. Europe is like that (and increasingly, the US too).
It was a grueling, 3.5-hour meeting in a stuffy room. They did not serve us any liquid—no coffee, no water, no tea, nothing. Weird. It was actually my first business meeting in France; I wonder if they’re all kind of like this.
For complicated reasons, I had to fly to Amsterdam and stay overnight there, rather than going straight to my actual destination in Holland—Eindhoven. The next morning, I took the train to Eindhoven.
I love Dutch, by the way. It is tantalizingly close to German, but with some clear influences from English and Scandinavian languages. The net effect is that I can pick my way through reading it, but cannot pronounce it at all—the letters have different sounds in Dutch—and can’t understand it very well either.
For example, take the name of the main international airport in Amsterdam: Schiphol. In German, this would be pronounced approximately “sheep-hole.” But in Dutch, it sounds more like “skipple.” Or the name of the city where I transferred trains: Duivendrecht. The “ui” consonant cluster is not allowed in German, but would be pronounced something like “oo-ey” (rhymes with “gooey”). In Dutch, Duivendrecht sounds like “Dowvendrecht,” where the first syllable rhymes with “cow” and the “ch” is a soft sound made with the tongue against the back of the mouth. (This means, by the way, that the German, Dutch, and English words Haus, huis, and house are all pronounced the same way. Note that Dutch does not capitalize nouns like German does.)
The airport hotel in Amsterdam turned out to be a challenge. First I had to take a shuttle bus from Schiphol to get there. There was a schedule posted; the bus was supposed to come every 20 minutes. It looked like I had some time, so I went inside to get some water (still thirsty after that weird French meeting). But when I came back, the bus arrival time came and went. Finally a bus came after another 20 minutes or so. But then it still took 30 minutes to drive to the nearby hotel because the driver had to stop and have a cigarette, and then stop again at another hotel. Sigh.
I finally dragged into my hotel at about 10 pm. When I got to my room, the key didn’t work. The light turned green, but I couldn’t turn the handle. I went back to the desk and told them this, and they sent a skeptical-looking desk clerk up with me to try it again. Indeed, it malfunctioned for her too, and she did some maneuver with the master key that seemed to fix it. She said brightly, “Now it’s working!” and I was the one to feel skeptical. Sigh.
But who cares—I just wanted to get to bed. Then I discovered that there was a vent in the bathroom making a continuous hissing sound. It wasn’t the fan, and it didn’t matter if the light was on or off. Even with the door closed, it was clearly audible in the room. I went to sleep anyway, but certainly heard it first thing in the morning. It had left a mild buzzing sound in my ears from listening to it all night. Sigh.
I was ready for this series of travel challenges to be over.
Three meetings in one day
I had to get to Eindhoven for a busy schedule of three meetings in one day. I was planning to just zip onto the train—after all, the times and fares are nicely posted on the Internet, so I had gotten all the information while I was back in the US. But the travel challenges were to continue a bit longer.
First, the bus back to Schiphol didn’t come when it was supposed to. I should have realized this given what had happened the night before. So I was about 10 minutes later than I wanted to be upon arrival at the airport, which is also the train station.
Then I couldn’t use the ticket machines. The ones that took credit cards wouldn’t accept any of the cards I had. Apparently they only take MasterCard. But the cash machines don’t take bills! Who has 17.40 euros in coins? After going through all of this, it was too late to look for the actual ticket counter, whose location was not immediately apparent. I just went to the track and got on the train, which left right after I boarded.
The conductor didn’t come between Amsterdam and Duivendrecht, so I got that part free (sorry! I wasn’t meaning to cheat!). But it was made up for on the leg to Eindhoven. Buying the ticket on the train cost me 21 euros rather than the 17.40 I would have paid for the whole journey. I was lucky, too—as of Oct 1, they are going to start charging a penalty of 35 euros for anyone who buys a ticket on the train. I guess a lot of people are getting away with riding for free.
The Dutch countryside was fabulous in the early fall weather. It was shrouded in delicate mist that hovered over the bright green fields. I even saw a small windmill, completing the picture of Holland. When the day warmed up, it was perfect and mild. Everyone told me this was the best weather they’d had since the summer, and I was very lucky to see it. Apparently summers are quite humid and cloudy, while winters are chilly.
The Eindhoven cab drivers are something else. They drive Mercedes and dress in 3-piece suits. They take 15 to 30 minutes to show up when called, and you ride in the front seat with them. Every journey seems to take about 20 minutes and cost about 20 euros. It’s some kind of different business from driving a cab in the US!
As I gave a tip, I commented that I had to remember to do that, since tipping is not done in Asia, where I usually travel. Two of the cab drivers I had were surprised by that, and had noticed that Asians tend not to tip them. At least they know why now, so maybe I’ve done a small favor for international diplomacy.
One driver was especially nice. She gave me a recommendation for a good Egyptian restaurant near my hotel (alas, I didn’t get to go). And she pointed out a new supermarket that had the convenient feature of being open until 10 pm. The other stores close at 8 pm, and 6 pm on weekends! Eindhoven is indeed a smallish town (about 200,000 people, but basically smallish).
Actually, for one leg of my journey between all these meetings (which were in three widely-separated locations), the cab just wasn’t showing up. I was a little late already, and didn’t have the 15-30-minute interval required. It happened that a secretary from the company I was just leaving was finished for the day, and she was kind enough to drive me. It saved 20 euros, and it was fun to chat with a regular person. She told me about her two kids, and how it was nice to be able to work half days.
Three meetings in one day is too many, by the way. I was exhausted. And to my embarrassment, I nearly fell asleep in a mid-afternoon meeting where it was just me and the guy I was meeting!!
So I was especially amused that my hotel in Eindhoven offered a “pillow menu.” No kidding. They offered 5 thicknesses with various kinds of stuffing, and if you didn’t like the standard one on your bed, you could call up and order one from the menu! I didn’t do it, but it’s a creative touch.
My company’s CEO and head European sales guy were at the same hotel that night, after doing different meetings from me. So we had dinner there (alas, no chance for the Egyptian place). It was decent. I especially liked the appetizer of a fried snowcrab claw. Strangely, the menu didn’t offer a salad, but we all ordered one anyway, and somehow the chef managed to serve it to us. I also noticed that the dessert menu didn’t have anything with chocolate in it. That made me realize that such a thing would be sacrilege in the US.
First, the bus back to Schiphol didn’t come when it was supposed to. I should have realized this given what had happened the night before. So I was about 10 minutes later than I wanted to be upon arrival at the airport, which is also the train station.
Then I couldn’t use the ticket machines. The ones that took credit cards wouldn’t accept any of the cards I had. Apparently they only take MasterCard. But the cash machines don’t take bills! Who has 17.40 euros in coins? After going through all of this, it was too late to look for the actual ticket counter, whose location was not immediately apparent. I just went to the track and got on the train, which left right after I boarded.
The conductor didn’t come between Amsterdam and Duivendrecht, so I got that part free (sorry! I wasn’t meaning to cheat!). But it was made up for on the leg to Eindhoven. Buying the ticket on the train cost me 21 euros rather than the 17.40 I would have paid for the whole journey. I was lucky, too—as of Oct 1, they are going to start charging a penalty of 35 euros for anyone who buys a ticket on the train. I guess a lot of people are getting away with riding for free.
The Dutch countryside was fabulous in the early fall weather. It was shrouded in delicate mist that hovered over the bright green fields. I even saw a small windmill, completing the picture of Holland. When the day warmed up, it was perfect and mild. Everyone told me this was the best weather they’d had since the summer, and I was very lucky to see it. Apparently summers are quite humid and cloudy, while winters are chilly.
The Eindhoven cab drivers are something else. They drive Mercedes and dress in 3-piece suits. They take 15 to 30 minutes to show up when called, and you ride in the front seat with them. Every journey seems to take about 20 minutes and cost about 20 euros. It’s some kind of different business from driving a cab in the US!
As I gave a tip, I commented that I had to remember to do that, since tipping is not done in Asia, where I usually travel. Two of the cab drivers I had were surprised by that, and had noticed that Asians tend not to tip them. At least they know why now, so maybe I’ve done a small favor for international diplomacy.
One driver was especially nice. She gave me a recommendation for a good Egyptian restaurant near my hotel (alas, I didn’t get to go). And she pointed out a new supermarket that had the convenient feature of being open until 10 pm. The other stores close at 8 pm, and 6 pm on weekends! Eindhoven is indeed a smallish town (about 200,000 people, but basically smallish).
Actually, for one leg of my journey between all these meetings (which were in three widely-separated locations), the cab just wasn’t showing up. I was a little late already, and didn’t have the 15-30-minute interval required. It happened that a secretary from the company I was just leaving was finished for the day, and she was kind enough to drive me. It saved 20 euros, and it was fun to chat with a regular person. She told me about her two kids, and how it was nice to be able to work half days.
Three meetings in one day is too many, by the way. I was exhausted. And to my embarrassment, I nearly fell asleep in a mid-afternoon meeting where it was just me and the guy I was meeting!!
So I was especially amused that my hotel in Eindhoven offered a “pillow menu.” No kidding. They offered 5 thicknesses with various kinds of stuffing, and if you didn’t like the standard one on your bed, you could call up and order one from the menu! I didn’t do it, but it’s a creative touch.
My company’s CEO and head European sales guy were at the same hotel that night, after doing different meetings from me. So we had dinner there (alas, no chance for the Egyptian place). It was decent. I especially liked the appetizer of a fried snowcrab claw. Strangely, the menu didn’t offer a salad, but we all ordered one anyway, and somehow the chef managed to serve it to us. I also noticed that the dessert menu didn’t have anything with chocolate in it. That made me realize that such a thing would be sacrilege in the US.
Coming full circle
The last two days were back in the UK.
In the morning, I was off to Cambridge. I got a smile in the shower, when I noticed that the adjustable-height spout was set to the absolute maximum up near the ceiling. I imagined that perhaps the previous room occupant was one of those classically tall Dutch men. (What do they put in the water here? Why are so many men about 6’4”? Perhaps because the country is below sea level and they have to make up for it).
Amusingly, I had one of the same cab drivers as yesterday!
I flew RyanAir, the Southwest of Europe. The ticket cost, literally, 1 cent. But the airport taxes came to 29 euros. Heck of a cheap ticket! I’m not sure how they can stay in business, given that they have to buy the same expensive jet fuel as everyone else. But they do the same trick as Southwest, flying into smaller airports. I hear also that they have accepted some restrictions on flight times, such as not offering evening flights out of Eindhoven. This forces people to stay overnight rather than fly in in the morning and out in the evening. The hotels and restaurants are happy, and perhaps pay RyanAir some thank-you for this.
My British colleague picked me up, and we did a couple of meetings. Between them, we had lunch at a cute, traditional English pub near Cambridge. It had wooden tables, a large hearth, a dartboard, trophies on the mantle, and plenty of ale on tap. Too bad it was lunch or I would have ordered one. He told me that as many as two or three pubs per week are closing around Britain, due to lack of clientele. At least we helped work against that trend, munching on sandwiches and crisps. Driving around, we passed through very British-sounding places like “Biggleswade.” Don’t you love that name?
One company we visited was setting up a cleanroom. They wouldn’t let us inside, but did show us all the equipment they have by letting us watch as they flipped through the views from the numerous security cameras all over the lab. There were about 20 cameras! It’s a fine British tradition to set up cameras everywhere and keep an eye on people. Don’t get caught wasting time in the cleanroom! Or scratching your behind, or grinning too much.
My colleague then drove me to a hotel near Heathrow Airport so it would be easy for me to depart. In fact, it was very near the airport—my room overlooked the runway! Luckily, the planes don’t fly between about 11 pm and 6 am, so it’s not too loud for sleeping.
I finally got to have a Boddington’s on tap. That’s a fine beer, and it was served a bit warmer than beer in America, as is the way in Britain. It’s probably best for getting the full flavor. Dinner was a decent buffet at the hotel restaurant. Like many places in the UK, it included several Indian selections. That seems to be pretty much standard now. British food is improving—I enjoyed the Thai fish cakes, okra Provencal, and couscous with blueberries and spices.
I slept 10 hours. After all that running around, I really needed it. One annoyance I’ve really noticed on this trip is the staggering price of hotel breakfasts. The typical breakfast buffet now costs more than $20, and this place was about $30. Come on. All I want is some cereal, fruit, and yogurt. Luckily, I noticed that my hotel offers a small “breakfast on the go” for a mere $14 that includes cereal and juice. Sheesh.
In the morning, I was off to Cambridge. I got a smile in the shower, when I noticed that the adjustable-height spout was set to the absolute maximum up near the ceiling. I imagined that perhaps the previous room occupant was one of those classically tall Dutch men. (What do they put in the water here? Why are so many men about 6’4”? Perhaps because the country is below sea level and they have to make up for it).
Amusingly, I had one of the same cab drivers as yesterday!
I flew RyanAir, the Southwest of Europe. The ticket cost, literally, 1 cent. But the airport taxes came to 29 euros. Heck of a cheap ticket! I’m not sure how they can stay in business, given that they have to buy the same expensive jet fuel as everyone else. But they do the same trick as Southwest, flying into smaller airports. I hear also that they have accepted some restrictions on flight times, such as not offering evening flights out of Eindhoven. This forces people to stay overnight rather than fly in in the morning and out in the evening. The hotels and restaurants are happy, and perhaps pay RyanAir some thank-you for this.
My British colleague picked me up, and we did a couple of meetings. Between them, we had lunch at a cute, traditional English pub near Cambridge. It had wooden tables, a large hearth, a dartboard, trophies on the mantle, and plenty of ale on tap. Too bad it was lunch or I would have ordered one. He told me that as many as two or three pubs per week are closing around Britain, due to lack of clientele. At least we helped work against that trend, munching on sandwiches and crisps. Driving around, we passed through very British-sounding places like “Biggleswade.” Don’t you love that name?
One company we visited was setting up a cleanroom. They wouldn’t let us inside, but did show us all the equipment they have by letting us watch as they flipped through the views from the numerous security cameras all over the lab. There were about 20 cameras! It’s a fine British tradition to set up cameras everywhere and keep an eye on people. Don’t get caught wasting time in the cleanroom! Or scratching your behind, or grinning too much.
My colleague then drove me to a hotel near Heathrow Airport so it would be easy for me to depart. In fact, it was very near the airport—my room overlooked the runway! Luckily, the planes don’t fly between about 11 pm and 6 am, so it’s not too loud for sleeping.
I finally got to have a Boddington’s on tap. That’s a fine beer, and it was served a bit warmer than beer in America, as is the way in Britain. It’s probably best for getting the full flavor. Dinner was a decent buffet at the hotel restaurant. Like many places in the UK, it included several Indian selections. That seems to be pretty much standard now. British food is improving—I enjoyed the Thai fish cakes, okra Provencal, and couscous with blueberries and spices.
I slept 10 hours. After all that running around, I really needed it. One annoyance I’ve really noticed on this trip is the staggering price of hotel breakfasts. The typical breakfast buffet now costs more than $20, and this place was about $30. Come on. All I want is some cereal, fruit, and yogurt. Luckily, I noticed that my hotel offers a small “breakfast on the go” for a mere $14 that includes cereal and juice. Sheesh.
Seeing through the Eye
My last day, I had some free time, so I went into London. I found out there is a free local bus from my hotel to the Central Bus Terminal at Heathrow, saving me 3 pounds on the “Hotel Hoppa” bus they try to get all the visitors to take. Hah.
I bought a 6-pound all-day transit card so I could ride the Underground wherever I needed. I’m not sure I fully availed myself of the savings, actually, but that’s OK. I rode to Piccadilly Circus with the intention of riding the London Eye. This is an enormous ferris wheel built by British Airways around 2000. It sits on the banks of the Thames across from the Houses of Parliament. I started walking toward Trafalgar Square, but wasn’t quite sure which way to go. When I asked at the National Museum how to get there, they pointed up over the building tops where, sure enough, I could see the wheel.
I still had to maneuver around a bunch of side streets before finding one that went down to the river (try Northumberland Drive if you’re wondering), during which I passed the mounted guards at Downing Street, a WWII memorial to women in combat, and numerous statues of old, dead military men.
The Eye is across the river along a boardwalk that also contains the museum and a strip of street performers. I gave money to the guy playing four parts on a xylophone by holding two mallets in each hand. He was playing “If I Were a Rich Man,” so it seemed especially appropriate.
I was shocked that the Eye costs 12.50 pounds—around $25!! And there was a long, snaking line to buy tickets, almost like the lines to ride roller coasters in the US. I decided to go for it. 30 minutes in line for the ticket, and then another 15 minutes in line to get to the boarding dock.
The ferris wheel consists of “capsules,” which are enclosed, (American) football-shaped pods with Plexiglas walls. Only the floor is not see-through, and it is narrower than the point of maximum width around the belly, so you really can see a lot. The Eye moves slowly and continuously. Occasionally it stops if they have to load or unload an elderly or disabled passenger. The round trip takes about 30 minutes.
It’s pretty neat, actually. I started out watching the activity on the river, with boats going up and down, and people walking across the multiple foot bridges spanning the river. As the height increased, I picked out landmarks—there’s Westminster Abbey, and the Houses of Parliament. Oh, and Buckingham Palace, and St. James Park. Farther up the river I spotted St. Paul’s Cathedral, which I know is right across from the Tate Modern (where I went last time I visited London), but I couldn’t see the museum. I guess it’s too short.
Up near the summit—130 meters high—it became possible to notice the overall layout of London, and to view some of the surrounding hills and highways. Descending the other side allowed me to see the southern features better, while the northern ones were visible on the upswing.
Then came an interesting surprise. There was an announcement on the capsule PA that “our picture would soon be taken,” and could we please move to the ends of the capsule and face north if we wanted to participate. Nominally, it was a “commemorative” picture, and of course our pictures were on sale by the time we had landed and walked down the gangway. But there are other reasons to have cameras set up at the Eye. You can get pictures of people who might have been doing things they shouldn’t have while up in a private capsule for 30 minutes.
I chose to stand a bit away from the camera and doubt I was captured. Don’t know quite why, but I just suddenly felt like I didn’t want my picture snapped. As noted above, it’s a fine London tradition to have cameras everywhere and record people’s actions on tape, but I’m not quite as used to that as the locals. (Now that I think about it, what did I expect from a ride called the Eye?)
I bought a 6-pound all-day transit card so I could ride the Underground wherever I needed. I’m not sure I fully availed myself of the savings, actually, but that’s OK. I rode to Piccadilly Circus with the intention of riding the London Eye. This is an enormous ferris wheel built by British Airways around 2000. It sits on the banks of the Thames across from the Houses of Parliament. I started walking toward Trafalgar Square, but wasn’t quite sure which way to go. When I asked at the National Museum how to get there, they pointed up over the building tops where, sure enough, I could see the wheel.
I still had to maneuver around a bunch of side streets before finding one that went down to the river (try Northumberland Drive if you’re wondering), during which I passed the mounted guards at Downing Street, a WWII memorial to women in combat, and numerous statues of old, dead military men.
The Eye is across the river along a boardwalk that also contains the museum and a strip of street performers. I gave money to the guy playing four parts on a xylophone by holding two mallets in each hand. He was playing “If I Were a Rich Man,” so it seemed especially appropriate.
I was shocked that the Eye costs 12.50 pounds—around $25!! And there was a long, snaking line to buy tickets, almost like the lines to ride roller coasters in the US. I decided to go for it. 30 minutes in line for the ticket, and then another 15 minutes in line to get to the boarding dock.
The ferris wheel consists of “capsules,” which are enclosed, (American) football-shaped pods with Plexiglas walls. Only the floor is not see-through, and it is narrower than the point of maximum width around the belly, so you really can see a lot. The Eye moves slowly and continuously. Occasionally it stops if they have to load or unload an elderly or disabled passenger. The round trip takes about 30 minutes.
It’s pretty neat, actually. I started out watching the activity on the river, with boats going up and down, and people walking across the multiple foot bridges spanning the river. As the height increased, I picked out landmarks—there’s Westminster Abbey, and the Houses of Parliament. Oh, and Buckingham Palace, and St. James Park. Farther up the river I spotted St. Paul’s Cathedral, which I know is right across from the Tate Modern (where I went last time I visited London), but I couldn’t see the museum. I guess it’s too short.
Up near the summit—130 meters high—it became possible to notice the overall layout of London, and to view some of the surrounding hills and highways. Descending the other side allowed me to see the southern features better, while the northern ones were visible on the upswing.
Then came an interesting surprise. There was an announcement on the capsule PA that “our picture would soon be taken,” and could we please move to the ends of the capsule and face north if we wanted to participate. Nominally, it was a “commemorative” picture, and of course our pictures were on sale by the time we had landed and walked down the gangway. But there are other reasons to have cameras set up at the Eye. You can get pictures of people who might have been doing things they shouldn’t have while up in a private capsule for 30 minutes.
I chose to stand a bit away from the camera and doubt I was captured. Don’t know quite why, but I just suddenly felt like I didn’t want my picture snapped. As noted above, it’s a fine London tradition to have cameras everywhere and record people’s actions on tape, but I’m not quite as used to that as the locals. (Now that I think about it, what did I expect from a ride called the Eye?)
But is it Art?
Then it started to rain pretty hard, so I went to the National Gallery. It’s a huge collection, and I just scratched the surface, mostly viewing the paintings. I enjoyed some of it, but I do find the long European period of dark religious art to get a bit tedious. That, and the innumerable portraits of vapid-looking nobility. Still, the masters of painting had a certain sense of light, texture, and color that I can admire when I look past the content. What else could they paint but what was around them? So I looked for elements that I could connect with.
One special section was entitled “The Stuff of Life.” It was about the depiction of ordinary objects in painting. Of course the still life was a major focus, but there were also exhibits pointing out the significance of certain objects in relation the people or actions in the rest of the painting. It was interesting.
The most fascinating thing I saw was a video displayed in a continuous loop on a plasma screen. It was time-lapse photography at its best, having been taken over a span of nine weeks, condensed into about 5 minutes. It was a “still life,” with a dead rabbit lying on a table, one rear leg pinned up on the wall above it, and a peach sitting next to it. Then the film runs.
Over time, the rabbit decays and is infested by a swarm of maggots and other buggies that come to feed on the corpse. The fur falls off the drying skin. The gut, which is apparently attacked first by the critters, splits open. The rear leg not pinned up slowly sinks, and the body collapses in on itself. The skull pokes through the diminishing skin on the head. For a while, the wall becomes wet with the fluids being evolved from the carcass, and then it dries up again near the end. By nine weeks, only a parched, blackened, stripped corpse remains.
Astonishingly, the peach remains intact! The caption says that this was a complete surprise to the artist. It was an underripe peach, picked very early, and it happened not to change noticeably in the nine weeks spent sitting on the table. Green fruit lasts well, apparently.
Of course the point is to depict decay, which is actually often what still lifes are showing—fruit and meat and other items poised at the peak of edibility, but also teetering on the edge of going bad. And yet, ironically, the rabbit is a tribute to the continuance of life in some sense. Think of all the happy maggots that benefited from its death. Or something. (One is reminded of the very British phase, “But is it art?” I think so).
Tired, I picked up some food in a modular restaurant called EAT (I guess my appetite was still intact!). They have sandwiches, salads, cake, fruit, sushi, juice, yogurt, etc in self-serve refrigerators on the side, as well as pizza and a Starbucks-like coffee selection behind the front counter. The food is a cut above basic, with sandwich choices like hummus, carrot, and ginger; and feta, tomato, and mint. I had some sushi and Thai chicken noodle salad. I like it because people with varying degrees of hunger can all go, and no one feels like they’re getting too little or too much. Those items plus a bottle of water only cost 4.50 quid.
On the way back, the Underground was held up at a station because “we have reports of an alarm at the station ahead.” I sat there wondering if I was about to be involved in a major disruption of the Underground as happened a couple months ago. After all, it was rush hour on Friday, a prime time to strike. But it was only a routine difficulty of some kind, and we were on our way shortly.
Then next day, it was home again, home again. I caught the free bus to Heathrow, smiling at the row of folks waiting for the Hotel Hoppa with their 3-pound tickets. And I was pleased that upon buying a bottle of water, an apple, and a trinket for a friend, I had exactly 1 pence left in coins. How’s that for perfect? I still had one 20-pound note, however, which is an annoyance. It’s too little to exchange, but it’s a significant amount of money. Ah well, I'll just have to go back!
One special section was entitled “The Stuff of Life.” It was about the depiction of ordinary objects in painting. Of course the still life was a major focus, but there were also exhibits pointing out the significance of certain objects in relation the people or actions in the rest of the painting. It was interesting.
The most fascinating thing I saw was a video displayed in a continuous loop on a plasma screen. It was time-lapse photography at its best, having been taken over a span of nine weeks, condensed into about 5 minutes. It was a “still life,” with a dead rabbit lying on a table, one rear leg pinned up on the wall above it, and a peach sitting next to it. Then the film runs.
Over time, the rabbit decays and is infested by a swarm of maggots and other buggies that come to feed on the corpse. The fur falls off the drying skin. The gut, which is apparently attacked first by the critters, splits open. The rear leg not pinned up slowly sinks, and the body collapses in on itself. The skull pokes through the diminishing skin on the head. For a while, the wall becomes wet with the fluids being evolved from the carcass, and then it dries up again near the end. By nine weeks, only a parched, blackened, stripped corpse remains.
Astonishingly, the peach remains intact! The caption says that this was a complete surprise to the artist. It was an underripe peach, picked very early, and it happened not to change noticeably in the nine weeks spent sitting on the table. Green fruit lasts well, apparently.
Of course the point is to depict decay, which is actually often what still lifes are showing—fruit and meat and other items poised at the peak of edibility, but also teetering on the edge of going bad. And yet, ironically, the rabbit is a tribute to the continuance of life in some sense. Think of all the happy maggots that benefited from its death. Or something. (One is reminded of the very British phase, “But is it art?” I think so).
Tired, I picked up some food in a modular restaurant called EAT (I guess my appetite was still intact!). They have sandwiches, salads, cake, fruit, sushi, juice, yogurt, etc in self-serve refrigerators on the side, as well as pizza and a Starbucks-like coffee selection behind the front counter. The food is a cut above basic, with sandwich choices like hummus, carrot, and ginger; and feta, tomato, and mint. I had some sushi and Thai chicken noodle salad. I like it because people with varying degrees of hunger can all go, and no one feels like they’re getting too little or too much. Those items plus a bottle of water only cost 4.50 quid.
On the way back, the Underground was held up at a station because “we have reports of an alarm at the station ahead.” I sat there wondering if I was about to be involved in a major disruption of the Underground as happened a couple months ago. After all, it was rush hour on Friday, a prime time to strike. But it was only a routine difficulty of some kind, and we were on our way shortly.
Then next day, it was home again, home again. I caught the free bus to Heathrow, smiling at the row of folks waiting for the Hotel Hoppa with their 3-pound tickets. And I was pleased that upon buying a bottle of water, an apple, and a trinket for a friend, I had exactly 1 pence left in coins. How’s that for perfect? I still had one 20-pound note, however, which is an annoyance. It’s too little to exchange, but it’s a significant amount of money. Ah well, I'll just have to go back!
Saturday, September 17, 2005
Floods: Familiarity helps
A colleague at work told me about a flood she had been in as a 5-year-old child. Her tale really highlights the value of familiarity and having reasonable infrastructure in place.
For her, the flood was actually fun. She has no memory of trauma surrounding it, even though it lasted 35 days. (Yep, over a month).
You see, she is from India, and for a while her civil-servant father was stationed in a city near the banks of the Ganges. Floods aren't that uncommon, and sure enough, one time the river overflowed and inundated the town. But no one evacuated (in her words, where would we go?). Houses there are built of concrete, so there was little structural damage. People went upstairs and lived on the second floor, or the roof. They used their couple of hours of warning time to move precious items onto the upper floor, and to set up a kitchen and get the pantry items in order.
Everyone keeps a supply of potatoes, rice, and daal. You can live on that for a long time.
I asked if they had access to water, to any other food, or to medical items. She said a helicopter came every couple of days, organized by the local government, and brought them what they needed. People hung out, traveled around by boat, and generally took a vacation until the waters receded. In her case, it was the four people in her family, their dog, and two servants living on the second floor of their house.
And they had a huge guava tree in the front yard that apparently just loved all the extra water. It began to flourish, and my friend was able to reach over from the roof and pick the guavas from the top branches of the tree during the flood. What a treat!
Now, we shouldn't be naive about the people who didn't have 2-story houses or adequate access to shelter. There was certainly some suffering. Natural disasters in places like India can potentially kill many thousands of people, just like happened in New Orleans. And often the aftereffects of disease and displaced people are just as severe, if not more so.
But note also the enormous difference in attitude. They actually just dealt with the flood as it was. No panic, no sense of wrongness from God, no huge psychological trauma about losing some of their physical possessions or not being able to go to work for a month. And the local government responded to their needs because it was familiar with these circumstances.
People talk about how increasingly heavy weather and other natural phenomena from global warming are going to lead to chaos and disrupted civilization. I don't buy it. I think when people get used to things, they adapt, and no longer panic.
For her, the flood was actually fun. She has no memory of trauma surrounding it, even though it lasted 35 days. (Yep, over a month).
You see, she is from India, and for a while her civil-servant father was stationed in a city near the banks of the Ganges. Floods aren't that uncommon, and sure enough, one time the river overflowed and inundated the town. But no one evacuated (in her words, where would we go?). Houses there are built of concrete, so there was little structural damage. People went upstairs and lived on the second floor, or the roof. They used their couple of hours of warning time to move precious items onto the upper floor, and to set up a kitchen and get the pantry items in order.
Everyone keeps a supply of potatoes, rice, and daal. You can live on that for a long time.
I asked if they had access to water, to any other food, or to medical items. She said a helicopter came every couple of days, organized by the local government, and brought them what they needed. People hung out, traveled around by boat, and generally took a vacation until the waters receded. In her case, it was the four people in her family, their dog, and two servants living on the second floor of their house.
And they had a huge guava tree in the front yard that apparently just loved all the extra water. It began to flourish, and my friend was able to reach over from the roof and pick the guavas from the top branches of the tree during the flood. What a treat!
Now, we shouldn't be naive about the people who didn't have 2-story houses or adequate access to shelter. There was certainly some suffering. Natural disasters in places like India can potentially kill many thousands of people, just like happened in New Orleans. And often the aftereffects of disease and displaced people are just as severe, if not more so.
But note also the enormous difference in attitude. They actually just dealt with the flood as it was. No panic, no sense of wrongness from God, no huge psychological trauma about losing some of their physical possessions or not being able to go to work for a month. And the local government responded to their needs because it was familiar with these circumstances.
People talk about how increasingly heavy weather and other natural phenomena from global warming are going to lead to chaos and disrupted civilization. I don't buy it. I think when people get used to things, they adapt, and no longer panic.
Tuesday, September 13, 2005
Be right here
You are here.
Not there. Not in Iraq (probably), not on a distant planet, and certainly not in cyberspace.
But here. In your hometown, or some town you have traveled to on Earth.
How much do you know about it, really? Kevin Kelly asks this in an intriguing quiz called The Big Here Quiz (via WorldChanging).
Sample questions include:
You may not know, but that's OK-- the point of the quiz is to get inspired to go find out. And to post resources that will help others find out about where they live.
Not there. Not in Iraq (probably), not on a distant planet, and certainly not in cyberspace.
But here. In your hometown, or some town you have traveled to on Earth.
How much do you know about it, really? Kevin Kelly asks this in an intriguing quiz called The Big Here Quiz (via WorldChanging).
Sample questions include:
- What time is sunset today?
- Trace the water you drink from rainfall to your tap.
- What spring wildflower is consistently among the first to bloom here?
- Is the soil under your feet, more clay, sand, rock, or silt?
- Where does your garbage go?
You may not know, but that's OK-- the point of the quiz is to get inspired to go find out. And to post resources that will help others find out about where they live.
Monday, September 12, 2005
Memory surprises
Check out this story: Girl awarded for saving people with geography knowledge.
This points out that what we teach kids in school really is important. Maybe Tilly looked like she was spacing out that day, and maybe she doesn't even like geography class that much if you ask her, but something in that video stuck with her. It mattered that her teacher showed the video and talked about what was going on. (It also mattered that she stuck with her convictions and didn't let other people tell her to stop being "hysterical").
You never know what's going to lodge in people's brains or what will pop up out of their memory later. That means everything we say is important. Everything is worth doing carefully, not casually or mindlessly.
Tilly Smith, 11, from Oxshott, Surrey, spotted key signs in the sea in Phuket, Thailand, that she remembered from a geography lesson two weeks earlier.
She persuaded her parents, seven-year-old sister and other tourists to flee their beach and hotel.
When the tsunami struck, no-one was killed on that beach. Tilly received an award from the Marine Society.
This points out that what we teach kids in school really is important. Maybe Tilly looked like she was spacing out that day, and maybe she doesn't even like geography class that much if you ask her, but something in that video stuck with her. It mattered that her teacher showed the video and talked about what was going on. (It also mattered that she stuck with her convictions and didn't let other people tell her to stop being "hysterical").
You never know what's going to lodge in people's brains or what will pop up out of their memory later. That means everything we say is important. Everything is worth doing carefully, not casually or mindlessly.
Tuesday, September 06, 2005
BugMeNot
Like useful tools? BugMeNot is a way to read content on all those sites that require "free" registration (which, of course, is not free if they sell your email to a spam propagator).
Monday, September 05, 2005
The Universe Within
Today I went to an exhibition at the San Francisco Masonic Center called The Universe Within. It showed actual human cadavers that had been preserved by an interesting process of plasticization that leaves them looking pretty realistic but without the smell. Maybe a bit dry, but pretty realistic.
The bodies and organs were autopsied at Peking National University, where the plasticization process was developed. I'm not sure how they came to be on a tour of America, but I'm glad they are.
About 10 were whole-body specimens where various portions had been removed to emphasize certain systems, such as muscles or spine or digestive system. Many were put in whimsical poses-- riding a bike, throwing a baseball, sitting at a computer. One was split perfectly in two down the left-right axis and positioned so the two halves were reaching toward each other, left hand to right hand. And then there were many smaller exhibits of specific parts: the brain, lungs, knee joints, skeleton, arteries, face, reproductive systems, urinary systems, etc. All preserved in pretty close to natural form.
It. Was. Fascinating.
And it was packed. This was the last day of the exhibit, which they had already extended for an extra week, and people of all ages were there gawking. There were children (although no one under 13 was allowed in without an adult), college students, couples holding hands, and elderly people. Some were clearly doctors or surgeons bringing their families to get a look at what they see every day. Others were massage therapists, physical therapists, medical interns, and biology students, apparently doing a little studying. And many were simply interested.
I have heard that this exhibit provoked some protests in some places, but in the Bay Area, it was wildly popular. And why not? We've all got a body. And they all look pretty much the same inside. The meat portion of people just isn't all that different. Kinda gives you a perspective on all the people who you think are so radically different from you...
Since my frame of mind these days seems to be pondering impermanence, I took the opportunity to imagine my own body as I gazed as the cadavers stripped of flesh, with sinews twisted over bones, bulging livers jutting from below ribcages, and exposed brains sitting passively behind naked eye sockets. Me, too. Someday, me, too. That's all I am in the physical form.
It was fun to observe the responses of others, too. Some people, particularly the teenagers, commented on it being "gross" or "disgusting," while the older adults tended to be more sober. Many people commented on the parts of their bodies that were injured or malfunctioning-- the knee exhibit was a popular one for people to point out, "Look-- that's the part that's messed up!" or "My mom got that whole area replaced." Also the spine exhibit, the heart, and the lungs. People like to see the stuff that's hurting them, sort of like putting a face to a voice we've heard for a long time.
A very common response was to intellectualize the experience. Many doctors and students were there with significant others, pointing out the names of everything. "Oh, look there-- it's the posterior aspect of the gastrocnemius muscle. See how it has two compartments, one on the surface and one that's deeper? In the living body, there would be fascia separating them, but they've done a classic dissection here, where the fascia are removed so you can see the different compartments."
In some cases, these people were being clinically detached. They've been trained in the Western tradition of treating the physical body as a machine, and perhaps that is appropriate for a cadaver. But in some cases, I felt like asking them how they really felt when seeing the body stripped open like that. Did they feel any connection to their own body?
But this wasn't always the case with the intellectualizers. One man was explaining things to his mother, and I turned and asked him if he was a doctor or surgeon. He said no, he was a physical therapist, and was also training in something called Rolfing. This is apparently similar in spirit to the Feldenkrais method that I do, but is much more active. The goal is to position the body properly in relation to itself and to the field of gravity. Feldenkrais is about individual exploration using small movements, while Rolfing is apparently more about almost massage-like interaction with a Rolfing therapist.
When I mentioned Feldenkrais, the mother said she had eaten dinner with Moshe Feldenkrais! How cool. She also told me about her diagnosis-- some kind of nerve compression in her neck that was causing tremendous pain in her arms. The doctors told her she could have risky surgery, or she could wear a collar and take pain pills for the rest of her life. She did that for a month, then decided to take action herself.
She started on Rolfing and Pilates, and now she has greater range of movement in her neck than most people her age (around mid-60s). She still has to be conscious of how she moves, and if she forgets she might slip into bad posture and have some pain. But she knows how to move her body such that she has essentially recovered from this nerve compression. No surgery. No drugs and collar for life.
Take a lesson, Western medicine. The body should not be regarded as a mere machine until it is DEAD. I cheer every time I hear about someone who decided their doctor was wrong when he/she told them they had no more options except drugs or surgery.
I also enjoyed looking at people's facial expressions, and being aware of my own. It was generally one of fascination, but tinged with a bit a fear. We feel compelled to look at dead bodies, eviscerated bodies, exposed organs. But right there in that moment, we also face our own fear of death. Each of those cadavers we saw once was an alive human, with dreams, fears, a favorite color, a favorite dessert, and an opinion about politics. Where did all of that go when they were carved up, plasticized, and posed on a bicycle?
It is said that people who see exhibits like this often come away with a new dedication to eating healthy and exercising. It's just meat, and you want to take care of it.
I hope also that people will come away with a new dedication to kindness and tolerance and peace. We are all so fragile, and we are not so different. Is all that hatred and judgment really necessary?
The bodies and organs were autopsied at Peking National University, where the plasticization process was developed. I'm not sure how they came to be on a tour of America, but I'm glad they are.
About 10 were whole-body specimens where various portions had been removed to emphasize certain systems, such as muscles or spine or digestive system. Many were put in whimsical poses-- riding a bike, throwing a baseball, sitting at a computer. One was split perfectly in two down the left-right axis and positioned so the two halves were reaching toward each other, left hand to right hand. And then there were many smaller exhibits of specific parts: the brain, lungs, knee joints, skeleton, arteries, face, reproductive systems, urinary systems, etc. All preserved in pretty close to natural form.
It. Was. Fascinating.
And it was packed. This was the last day of the exhibit, which they had already extended for an extra week, and people of all ages were there gawking. There were children (although no one under 13 was allowed in without an adult), college students, couples holding hands, and elderly people. Some were clearly doctors or surgeons bringing their families to get a look at what they see every day. Others were massage therapists, physical therapists, medical interns, and biology students, apparently doing a little studying. And many were simply interested.
I have heard that this exhibit provoked some protests in some places, but in the Bay Area, it was wildly popular. And why not? We've all got a body. And they all look pretty much the same inside. The meat portion of people just isn't all that different. Kinda gives you a perspective on all the people who you think are so radically different from you...
Since my frame of mind these days seems to be pondering impermanence, I took the opportunity to imagine my own body as I gazed as the cadavers stripped of flesh, with sinews twisted over bones, bulging livers jutting from below ribcages, and exposed brains sitting passively behind naked eye sockets. Me, too. Someday, me, too. That's all I am in the physical form.
It was fun to observe the responses of others, too. Some people, particularly the teenagers, commented on it being "gross" or "disgusting," while the older adults tended to be more sober. Many people commented on the parts of their bodies that were injured or malfunctioning-- the knee exhibit was a popular one for people to point out, "Look-- that's the part that's messed up!" or "My mom got that whole area replaced." Also the spine exhibit, the heart, and the lungs. People like to see the stuff that's hurting them, sort of like putting a face to a voice we've heard for a long time.
A very common response was to intellectualize the experience. Many doctors and students were there with significant others, pointing out the names of everything. "Oh, look there-- it's the posterior aspect of the gastrocnemius muscle. See how it has two compartments, one on the surface and one that's deeper? In the living body, there would be fascia separating them, but they've done a classic dissection here, where the fascia are removed so you can see the different compartments."
In some cases, these people were being clinically detached. They've been trained in the Western tradition of treating the physical body as a machine, and perhaps that is appropriate for a cadaver. But in some cases, I felt like asking them how they really felt when seeing the body stripped open like that. Did they feel any connection to their own body?
But this wasn't always the case with the intellectualizers. One man was explaining things to his mother, and I turned and asked him if he was a doctor or surgeon. He said no, he was a physical therapist, and was also training in something called Rolfing. This is apparently similar in spirit to the Feldenkrais method that I do, but is much more active. The goal is to position the body properly in relation to itself and to the field of gravity. Feldenkrais is about individual exploration using small movements, while Rolfing is apparently more about almost massage-like interaction with a Rolfing therapist.
When I mentioned Feldenkrais, the mother said she had eaten dinner with Moshe Feldenkrais! How cool. She also told me about her diagnosis-- some kind of nerve compression in her neck that was causing tremendous pain in her arms. The doctors told her she could have risky surgery, or she could wear a collar and take pain pills for the rest of her life. She did that for a month, then decided to take action herself.
She started on Rolfing and Pilates, and now she has greater range of movement in her neck than most people her age (around mid-60s). She still has to be conscious of how she moves, and if she forgets she might slip into bad posture and have some pain. But she knows how to move her body such that she has essentially recovered from this nerve compression. No surgery. No drugs and collar for life.
Take a lesson, Western medicine. The body should not be regarded as a mere machine until it is DEAD. I cheer every time I hear about someone who decided their doctor was wrong when he/she told them they had no more options except drugs or surgery.
I also enjoyed looking at people's facial expressions, and being aware of my own. It was generally one of fascination, but tinged with a bit a fear. We feel compelled to look at dead bodies, eviscerated bodies, exposed organs. But right there in that moment, we also face our own fear of death. Each of those cadavers we saw once was an alive human, with dreams, fears, a favorite color, a favorite dessert, and an opinion about politics. Where did all of that go when they were carved up, plasticized, and posed on a bicycle?
It is said that people who see exhibits like this often come away with a new dedication to eating healthy and exercising. It's just meat, and you want to take care of it.
I hope also that people will come away with a new dedication to kindness and tolerance and peace. We are all so fragile, and we are not so different. Is all that hatred and judgment really necessary?
Friday, September 02, 2005
KO'ed by Katrina
Please help those who need it in whatever way you feel moved to: Wiki on Katrina help
The boldest and most interesting discussions I've seen about this disaster have been the considerations by reasonable people about whether it even makes sense to try to rebuild New Orleans in the same place in the same way.
It is, after all, situated on a flood plain. What if we considered the amazing opportunity we have before us: the potential to create an entire American city how we want to. Not since the catastrophic fires and earthquakes of previous centuries have we been offered this chance.
Rather than trying to restore things "how they were" (does anyone really, truly want that?), what if we imagined new possibilities? [These were drawn from several sources, most notably an essay by Alan AtKisson]
It is currently a time of grief. But as that wanes over the coming months, let's direct our energy to a fresh start. I'll say it bluntly: So many cities could use a full makeover, but they can't do it while city life bustles on with its own momentum. Here the clock has temporarily stopped. We have lots of choices about how to start it up again.
The boldest and most interesting discussions I've seen about this disaster have been the considerations by reasonable people about whether it even makes sense to try to rebuild New Orleans in the same place in the same way.
It is, after all, situated on a flood plain. What if we considered the amazing opportunity we have before us: the potential to create an entire American city how we want to. Not since the catastrophic fires and earthquakes of previous centuries have we been offered this chance.
Rather than trying to restore things "how they were" (does anyone really, truly want that?), what if we imagined new possibilities? [These were drawn from several sources, most notably an essay by Alan AtKisson]
- Let's build somewhere more solid.
- Let's let the Mississippi River change course, which we have been desperately preventing for decades with kludged solutions by the Army Corps of Engineers. Everyone agreed in hushed tones that these expensive efforts were really only delaying the inevitable.
- Let's put the poor on higher ground so they won't meet with as much pain and trouble as they are right now, should some other disaster come in the future
- Let's build a new city that more explicitly celebrates the arts, music, and food that made New Orleans' name, linking these assets to local universities, businesses, and education.
- Let's clean up the chemical plants and other industrial dinosaurs that were slowly poisoning the city from the inside out.
It is currently a time of grief. But as that wanes over the coming months, let's direct our energy to a fresh start. I'll say it bluntly: So many cities could use a full makeover, but they can't do it while city life bustles on with its own momentum. Here the clock has temporarily stopped. We have lots of choices about how to start it up again.
