Mom is back from her stay in the hospital (trying to get rid of the blood clot in her recently-operated-on leg). She came back late Saturday night, and needs to stay on medication for three to six months. I'm so glad she's all right; but it's a bit suspicious that they let her leave without dissolving the clot. I guess if it takes that long to get rid of, you have to let her go.
We visited her nearly every day, and so did miriad friends and family, and she received gifts and phone calls every day.
Tuesday, 21 September 2004
Thursday, 16 September 2004
Unprofessionalism + Sexism = I don't think so.
Series of e-mails from a one-man tech operation employed by two of our clients is posted below.
Me:
"(Name of tech guy),
Our password is not working for Generic Dial-In Software for Company X. Please fix.
(My name)"
Him:
"(IP Address)
Password = (password)"
Nothing else, that was his whole e-mail. No hello, no goodbye, which is fine, we're all busy people. Turns out we had the wrong IP address. So, next round of e-mails:
Me:
"Good to know."
Him:
"We need to talk re this
I AM NOT GOING to BE SASSED BY SOME 25ISH rude woman
Please let talk"
End series. Hmmm... I guess I should have written good to know thanks, or explained that we had the wrong IP address, but I forgot that he's very sensitive, and I honestly didn't think I had offended him in any way, I didn't see how he could misconstrue a 3-word sentence.
We've had some problems with him before, where we changed something on our client's server desktop...our own software, which we've been doing for years, and he freaked out and changed our password and log-in information for our client's computer. And sent angry e-mails saying we needed to talk, and had to go through him when we made any "major changes." So, we graciously complied, even though changing someone's access codes and sending angry e-mails is unprofessional, and immaturely spiteful.
From then on, we sent him e-mails notifying him every time we updated Company X's version of our software. After the first of this type of e-mail, he became angry and sent a more polite but still mispelled e-mail asking us to warn him before we made any "major changes." His terminology, not ours. This one I understand, since he was having problems with their server. But, really, then the client should check with him before calling us and asking us to make changes. We were playing by his rules, while still serving our client.
The most recent e-mails happened today and yesterday, and I honestly don't know where he gets off implying that a young woman should not dare to reply to him with anything but abject terror of his prowess. I treated him with the same, if not more, respect that he has shown me, and have always been polite to him on the phone, in person, or in e-mails (I thought).
I don't need this. My mom is in the hospital (again), working through a blood clot two months after her leg surgery, which I haven't told my boss or coworkers, and I have other things to do at work besides kowtow to someone who seems to be coming unhinged. The spelling errors, the implication that young women are beneath him mentally or socially, and the odd half-capital, half-lowercase text suggests he wrote this e-mail without thinking of the ramifications, without censuring his keyboard, and without thought to how it would make him seem.
I have been instructed by my boss not to reply to him. I will be perfectly civil to him should he call, and will explain my reason for writing "Good to know", which I believe set him off. As a businesswoman and employee, I am taking it in stride. As a woman and a person, I am angry as hell.
Oh, and, by the way, I'm 23.
Me:
"(Name of tech guy),
Our password is not working for Generic Dial-In Software for Company X. Please fix.
(My name)"
Him:
"(IP Address)
Password = (password)"
Nothing else, that was his whole e-mail. No hello, no goodbye, which is fine, we're all busy people. Turns out we had the wrong IP address. So, next round of e-mails:
Me:
"Good to know."
Him:
"We need to talk re this
I AM NOT GOING to BE SASSED BY SOME 25ISH rude woman
Please let talk"
End series. Hmmm... I guess I should have written good to know thanks, or explained that we had the wrong IP address, but I forgot that he's very sensitive, and I honestly didn't think I had offended him in any way, I didn't see how he could misconstrue a 3-word sentence.
We've had some problems with him before, where we changed something on our client's server desktop...our own software, which we've been doing for years, and he freaked out and changed our password and log-in information for our client's computer. And sent angry e-mails saying we needed to talk, and had to go through him when we made any "major changes." So, we graciously complied, even though changing someone's access codes and sending angry e-mails is unprofessional, and immaturely spiteful.
From then on, we sent him e-mails notifying him every time we updated Company X's version of our software. After the first of this type of e-mail, he became angry and sent a more polite but still mispelled e-mail asking us to warn him before we made any "major changes." His terminology, not ours. This one I understand, since he was having problems with their server. But, really, then the client should check with him before calling us and asking us to make changes. We were playing by his rules, while still serving our client.
The most recent e-mails happened today and yesterday, and I honestly don't know where he gets off implying that a young woman should not dare to reply to him with anything but abject terror of his prowess. I treated him with the same, if not more, respect that he has shown me, and have always been polite to him on the phone, in person, or in e-mails (I thought).
I don't need this. My mom is in the hospital (again), working through a blood clot two months after her leg surgery, which I haven't told my boss or coworkers, and I have other things to do at work besides kowtow to someone who seems to be coming unhinged. The spelling errors, the implication that young women are beneath him mentally or socially, and the odd half-capital, half-lowercase text suggests he wrote this e-mail without thinking of the ramifications, without censuring his keyboard, and without thought to how it would make him seem.
I have been instructed by my boss not to reply to him. I will be perfectly civil to him should he call, and will explain my reason for writing "Good to know", which I believe set him off. As a businesswoman and employee, I am taking it in stride. As a woman and a person, I am angry as hell.
Oh, and, by the way, I'm 23.
Tuesday, 14 September 2004
I Reluctantly Admit...
1. I have an obsession with clothes. I have way too many already, but I still dream about that one perfect thing, be it sweater, sandal, hoodie, or pair of pants. I give more away as I get more, things that don't fit, but I'm still running out of things to give away, since childhood t-shirts that still fit and overlarge souvenir shirts can't be parted with. I dream about not having the right clothes, or trying to cover up, or not having a costume, or searching for just the write article of clothing.
2. I have an obsession with decorating. My bed - pillows, throws, bedding, sheets; my windows - just another scarf for yet another color; my walls - can I squeeze one more drawing in there?; everything. I decorate and redecorate and shift and move things around all the time. I wonder how that shelf would look with books on it...
3. I don't write thank you notes, or postcards, or letters, or, frequently, e-mails that I promise to write. It's not that I don't want to contact people, I am just that forgetful. Yes, I really am. I lose touch with people all the bloody time, and I hate it, but I just can't seem to remember a simple note. I don't remember to pay my bills all the time, either, but I try.
4. I love buying gifts for people, but I usually forget cards. Like today! Pucha! I forget to get anything for someone's post-birthday celebration tonight. Anyway, I like giving silly gifts, or thoughtful gifts, or books, or even gift certificates. I love seeing someone's face, or seeing them use something I've given them.
5. Nowadays, I can sleep in any kind of clothing, even in shoes; just not completely disrobed...it makes me uncomfortable. I never could sleep as a youngster, unless the pillow was proplerly cool, my pajamas weren't twisted, my socks weren't hanging off, a million little things. I had to line both sides of my body with stuffed animals, because I couldn't sleep without anything against my back. And the ones at the front protected me. As large a number as possible of stuffed animals would be shoved under the covers with me. If one fell out, I might wake up and pull it back in. I still sleep with them. They're there more for warmth, though, and to keep me from touching the evil, cold wall my bed is up against.
2. I have an obsession with decorating. My bed - pillows, throws, bedding, sheets; my windows - just another scarf for yet another color; my walls - can I squeeze one more drawing in there?; everything. I decorate and redecorate and shift and move things around all the time. I wonder how that shelf would look with books on it...
3. I don't write thank you notes, or postcards, or letters, or, frequently, e-mails that I promise to write. It's not that I don't want to contact people, I am just that forgetful. Yes, I really am. I lose touch with people all the bloody time, and I hate it, but I just can't seem to remember a simple note. I don't remember to pay my bills all the time, either, but I try.
4. I love buying gifts for people, but I usually forget cards. Like today! Pucha! I forget to get anything for someone's post-birthday celebration tonight. Anyway, I like giving silly gifts, or thoughtful gifts, or books, or even gift certificates. I love seeing someone's face, or seeing them use something I've given them.
5. Nowadays, I can sleep in any kind of clothing, even in shoes; just not completely disrobed...it makes me uncomfortable. I never could sleep as a youngster, unless the pillow was proplerly cool, my pajamas weren't twisted, my socks weren't hanging off, a million little things. I had to line both sides of my body with stuffed animals, because I couldn't sleep without anything against my back. And the ones at the front protected me. As large a number as possible of stuffed animals would be shoved under the covers with me. If one fell out, I might wake up and pull it back in. I still sleep with them. They're there more for warmth, though, and to keep me from touching the evil, cold wall my bed is up against.
Thursday, 9 September 2004
Back in Business!
So, I eventually had to recreate my template, from scratch, using another, completely different template as a model. Now, I can get the archives correctly only by using the "Previous Posts" option. So, that's all she wrote.
Tuesday, 31 August 2004
Reward Offered
If someone can please tell me why my freakin' archive pages don't work, that would be awesome. Please? (wide-eyed, sad, whimpery face) please?
*Sigh.* I've noticed this before, and I've been trying to solve the mystery for two months now. Somehow, when Blogger changed stuff around, or perhaps before, I lost my archives. Or, rather, public access to them. I know very well what they say and how to get at them. Oh well. I tried listing them by title, which my template just refuses.
Oh, yeah. The reward? Well, I'll tell you my camping rat story.
*Sigh.* I've noticed this before, and I've been trying to solve the mystery for two months now. Somehow, when Blogger changed stuff around, or perhaps before, I lost my archives. Or, rather, public access to them. I know very well what they say and how to get at them. Oh well. I tried listing them by title, which my template just refuses.
Oh, yeah. The reward? Well, I'll tell you my camping rat story.
Monday, 30 August 2004
Back From Kaua'i, Hawai'i
Kaua'i was heaven...with really expensive supplies. No billboards, hardly any streetlights, clear skies, uncharted mountains and valleys, beaches filled with fish or just empty, warm, blue-green water. Soft sand and palm trees with real coconuts, ruffling their feathered leaves. Humid air and hot sun, red dirt and surfers. And a forest, a jungle of greenery. Waterfalls, rivers, and the ever-present ocean.
I'm not a huge fan of saltwater; I prefer freshwater streams or lakes, but I couldn't get enough of the ocean. I also discovered that I like snorkeling. A lot. Funny how I amlost drowned in trying that one out back in secondary. And Emblem discovered that she does not like to snorkel. A lot. However, she enjoyed the ATV tour (which we took in a Mud Buggy, and she drove while I watched the bone-jarring ruts and blind curves).
I admired the way Hawaiians speak: long vowels like Canadians or Native Americans; strong, pronounced L's and a slow cadence. You can tell who was born on in Hawai'i and who transplanted from California.
My favorite tour, the chartered sailing catamaran, with snorkeling off the Napali coast, was exciting, comfortable, and the perfect introduction to the vacation Kaua'i lifestyle. The helicopter tour was amazing; all those movies shot on the same little island, with the Waimea Canyon keeping its secrets and its dominant position on Kaua'i. We stayed in Poipu/Lawai, with an ocean-view one bedroom condo on the upper floor. We overlooked the beach and the pool, and just had an amazing view from our lanai.
The ATV tour took us through the now-dormant sugar plantation currently owned by Steve Case of AOL, who supposedly wants to keep the area just the way it is...a haven for rare, indigenous plants and incredible flora.
The rest of our time was spent enjoying the scenery, finding the perfect beach, and the perfect souvenirs, and observing the difference between the culture presented to tourists and the true roots of Hawai'i.
I'm not a huge fan of saltwater; I prefer freshwater streams or lakes, but I couldn't get enough of the ocean. I also discovered that I like snorkeling. A lot. Funny how I amlost drowned in trying that one out back in secondary. And Emblem discovered that she does not like to snorkel. A lot. However, she enjoyed the ATV tour (which we took in a Mud Buggy, and she drove while I watched the bone-jarring ruts and blind curves).
I admired the way Hawaiians speak: long vowels like Canadians or Native Americans; strong, pronounced L's and a slow cadence. You can tell who was born on in Hawai'i and who transplanted from California.
My favorite tour, the chartered sailing catamaran, with snorkeling off the Napali coast, was exciting, comfortable, and the perfect introduction to the vacation Kaua'i lifestyle. The helicopter tour was amazing; all those movies shot on the same little island, with the Waimea Canyon keeping its secrets and its dominant position on Kaua'i. We stayed in Poipu/Lawai, with an ocean-view one bedroom condo on the upper floor. We overlooked the beach and the pool, and just had an amazing view from our lanai.
The ATV tour took us through the now-dormant sugar plantation currently owned by Steve Case of AOL, who supposedly wants to keep the area just the way it is...a haven for rare, indigenous plants and incredible flora.
The rest of our time was spent enjoying the scenery, finding the perfect beach, and the perfect souvenirs, and observing the difference between the culture presented to tourists and the true roots of Hawai'i.
Monday, 2 August 2004
Sympathy for the Water Bottle
One of the hottest days that I've witnessed this year, and we are in a field full of people - up to 100,000, or so the security guard claims. Screaming, drunken, high teenagers and college kids all around us, who decide to hurl water bottles during Dispatch playin "Water Beneath". First, empty water bottles, then not empty, uncapped, then not empty, capped, such as the one that pegged me in the hip. Then coolers, sodas, and an aborted attempt at throwing a large glass rum bottle. Chuck in a too-quiet sound system (for those of us at the back, at any rate) and a solid wall of people surrounding the field, a few brave tree-climbers, and a sick friend, and you've got our Saturday down. I appreciate the band, just not the liquored-up fans. I guess I'll have to cherish my memories of over-21 concerts past. These kids were 11 or 12 when Dispatch started, but who's counting? Lots there, about half for the right or quasi-right reasons.
Life is stressful, but I was mostly stressed for my friends. My stress also resulted from a fairly short and flippy red skirt turning traitor in the heavy breeze that did not penetrate the crowd, but made walking around Charles St. a two-handed job - one hand on each side of my skirt. Taking a picture was an amusing three-person experience. I wouldn't have minded staying longer, but it was mostly a bust, and we had fun in Boston anyway. That same night we enjoyed the breezes, and I changed to jeans, and the next day A. & I got to shop and explore.
So, chau, Dispatch. Un brindo para los músicos:
"Amor, Salud, y Dispatch!"
Life is stressful, but I was mostly stressed for my friends. My stress also resulted from a fairly short and flippy red skirt turning traitor in the heavy breeze that did not penetrate the crowd, but made walking around Charles St. a two-handed job - one hand on each side of my skirt. Taking a picture was an amusing three-person experience. I wouldn't have minded staying longer, but it was mostly a bust, and we had fun in Boston anyway. That same night we enjoyed the breezes, and I changed to jeans, and the next day A. & I got to shop and explore.
So, chau, Dispatch. Un brindo para los músicos:
"Amor, Salud, y Dispatch!"
Friday, 30 July 2004
Move Over DNC!
You've had your fun, now it's time for...DISPATCH!!! Who's excited? Oh, you know we are! Can't wait for the road trippin', slide-groovin' beat of this weekend! Not looking forward to the traffic, and hoping that it won't rain tomorrow. But, I am excited beyond belief!
Tuesday, 27 July 2004
And one more for the road.
I think what makes this article so funny is not the story, but the response of the staff member at the Conservation agency..."Bugger that, I'm going home." Classic.
27 July 2004 - News Posts
This gives me mixed feelings...
They claim the idea is not to make fun, but to challenge the media's persistent adulation of stick-thin women. However, Yahoo has placed this news item in the "Oddly Enough" section of its site, and the fact that they weigh the women while they're onstage is reminiscent of a sideshow atmosphere. Why not just have this competition without emphasizing the weight of the contestants?
...but this gives me hope...
Who would have the moral fiber to do such a thing? Someone already well off, perhaps, or comfortable financially. Not even to take the money and donate it, but just to send it along, with a note...wow. I mean, raised-eyebrows, vacant-stare wow.
...and this just makes me hungry for croissants.
Finally, a quick alternative to greasy fast food...and all you carb dieters beware!
They claim the idea is not to make fun, but to challenge the media's persistent adulation of stick-thin women. However, Yahoo has placed this news item in the "Oddly Enough" section of its site, and the fact that they weigh the women while they're onstage is reminiscent of a sideshow atmosphere. Why not just have this competition without emphasizing the weight of the contestants?
...but this gives me hope...
Who would have the moral fiber to do such a thing? Someone already well off, perhaps, or comfortable financially. Not even to take the money and donate it, but just to send it along, with a note...wow. I mean, raised-eyebrows, vacant-stare wow.
...and this just makes me hungry for croissants.
Finally, a quick alternative to greasy fast food...and all you carb dieters beware!
Monday, 26 July 2004
0106 Hours
1:06
Red skirt white shirt blue-black bra
smooth legs make my sleep easier
the skirt helps me dream in beauty
or maybe just feel soft blankets
for someone who covers up so much
I uncover my skin
Dig until I infect
worry until I convince myself
fake and walk a line I
Did you think I couldn't spy
confess I wouldn't protest it's just
I talk to much for you
myself to listen to cut & dry
1:11
I rewrite the worlds I
didn't help to create. So easy,
I have it; my lies are hidden.
Books will burn before my trials
see the light of day.
The shutters are always up.
Dance for the audience of
night owls and perversity.
~~~~~~~~AEW~~~~~~~~
Quatorzains never seem to realize they have nothing on quintains. <-- More Poems
I Lie With My Hands
Electrical girl, energy jumps...
fuck you
...between us, can't you feel it?
It's never been like this
with anyone else.
Fuck you
Must be the love.
"He said you had this way...
fuck you
...of moving your hips"
He fell in love and "you were
out of this world..."
He had it so bad...
Fuck you
...that you cue this song.
I had to invite you to my...
fuck you
...bed; marathon convections and I
skinned my knee, first blood.
Fuck you
Would you believe he loved
so strong, so scared to say...
Fuck you
Pinned you down, grabbed your...
fuck you
...hand, guided it lower
not so drunk, cold with power
Lips pressed too hard...
Fuck you
I lie with my hands.
Love you, love you.
Chemistry flows
from me out to the wide...
fuck you
...world of people who fall
Such an ugly word
so very many wicked phrases
the faces that we make
when we
Fuck
you
when we say
Love you
~~~~~~~~AEW~~~~~~~~
You prefer Erato to Polymnia? You are dead to me!
fuck you
...between us, can't you feel it?
It's never been like this
with anyone else.
Fuck you
Must be the love.
"He said you had this way...
fuck you
...of moving your hips"
He fell in love and "you were
out of this world..."
He had it so bad...
Fuck you
...that you cue this song.
I had to invite you to my...
fuck you
...bed; marathon convections and I
skinned my knee, first blood.
Fuck you
Would you believe he loved
so strong, so scared to say...
Fuck you
Pinned you down, grabbed your...
fuck you
...hand, guided it lower
not so drunk, cold with power
Lips pressed too hard...
Fuck you
I lie with my hands.
Love you, love you.
Chemistry flows
from me out to the wide...
fuck you
...world of people who fall
Such an ugly word
so very many wicked phrases
the faces that we make
when we
Fuck
you
when we say
Love you
~~~~~~~~AEW~~~~~~~~
You prefer Erato to Polymnia? You are dead to me!
Friday, 23 July 2004
Grrr!
I had this whole post ready to go, and I tried to publish it, and the site crashed or something, and I lost it. And now I'm not in the mood to rewrite it. That makes me so annoyed! Oh well, what can you do?
Friday, 16 July 2004
Photos Standing Proud!
Woohoo!! The hummingbird goes bucknutty supplement is up and running! See if you can find the not-at-all hidden link on this page, which will lead to another page, which explains ('cuz I know you always wanted to know) the title of this blog. So, go wild!
Too Right
From the What Animal Are You? Quiz
Meerkat
You’re cute, you’re furry, and you hang out underground. You look like a cross between a kitten and a monkey. And um…you’re weird. It’s not your fault or anything, and it’s not actually a bad thing – you just march to the beat of a different drummer. You’re a creative critter -- you don’t act like the rest of the mongoose family with the noctural hunting and all that. Just like you don’t necessarily do whatever your friends may do. If they all jumped off the Brooklyn Bridge, you probably wouldn’t jump, but probably because you’d be too busy freestyling or making origami swans out of magazine covers. Keep doin’ your own thing, Meerkat!
Meerkat
You’re cute, you’re furry, and you hang out underground. You look like a cross between a kitten and a monkey. And um…you’re weird. It’s not your fault or anything, and it’s not actually a bad thing – you just march to the beat of a different drummer. You’re a creative critter -- you don’t act like the rest of the mongoose family with the noctural hunting and all that. Just like you don’t necessarily do whatever your friends may do. If they all jumped off the Brooklyn Bridge, you probably wouldn’t jump, but probably because you’d be too busy freestyling or making origami swans out of magazine covers. Keep doin’ your own thing, Meerkat!
Thursday, 15 July 2004
Photographie
the photo
has her trapped
in a trance
its subjects
mummified
in wedding attire
their grins
their eyes
half-wild;
faces frozen;
embalmed with makeup
and so much hairspray
this image is not even
the core
of human-onions;
the layers have
covered
past imperfections
interactions that
made them decide
to grow together,
thinly meshed,
with the smell
of home
~~~~~~~~AEW~~~~~~~~
Feel that tingle creep up your spine... <-- More Poetry
has her trapped
in a trance
its subjects
mummified
in wedding attire
their grins
their eyes
half-wild;
faces frozen;
embalmed with makeup
and so much hairspray
this image is not even
the core
of human-onions;
the layers have
covered
past imperfections
interactions that
made them decide
to grow together,
thinly meshed,
with the smell
of home
~~~~~~~~AEW~~~~~~~~
Feel that tingle creep up your spine... <-- More Poetry
I can make you smile...
This is unbelievably amusing. I am proud to say that I remember all of my nights, and that my first instinct upon locking myself out of some car, is not to steal another car.
Tuesday, 13 July 2004
Thoughts From Pinhale (Espirito Santo do Pinhale, BRAZIL)
30 Mai 2004
Fireworks from the church down the road from my hotel (I think) that has been broadcasting their evening service. Whistles, explosions, and smoke have everyone running to the myriad balconies that line this street. Yesterday, at the Opcao restaurant kiddy-corner from our hotel, we were accepted into this multicultural, blended family. The Japanese-born, Portuguese-speaking four-generational Taguchis, and their various spouses; the Italian Paco and the Brazilian Chico. Daniela and Chico's children, Fernanda and Carlao, are beautiful, with Asian features, perfect moon faces, and an inimitable medium skin-tone. We watched videos of the two sisters' weddings, and it made me think. They seem so happy, even now, years later. D. & C. have an enormous house, with a gorgeous porch built by Chico and helpers. A pink, wooden playhouse with a yellow roof shares space with a large in-ground pool, gardens all around with exotic-looking flowers. Red, half-moon tiles for the roof. A view of the town from 5 meters up. Built on a gentle hill like Vina, only smoother, with less twisting and jerking. It is my ideal house - or at least ideal porch. A full barbecue and sink with counter and cabinets; a bathroom and sauna, couches, table, chairs, and two linkable TVs. The Japanese-style rock and bush garden, the climbing icy, the green-tiled pool shower; these people live life in beauty and solidity. The dark-skinned babysitter (nanny) takes care of the kids, and I almost get disgusted with the parents until she leaves and it becomes apparent that she is not a surrogate, but a supplement. The three Taguchi siblings and two children crowd onto the plush sofa-combo, making such a calm, inspiring picture that I long to whip out my camera and capture their smiles, their ease, on film. Paco and his telephoto lens beat me to it, so I refrain. These people, this life, is beautiful. It makes me reaffirm these new sentiments. At times I don't know which will win: my restless soul or my love of people and desire for comfort.
I like this country: its weather, its friendly people, its mixed races and peoples, its music, its casual work and play. I'd like to live here. But I say that about most places I visit.
Fireworks from the church down the road from my hotel (I think) that has been broadcasting their evening service. Whistles, explosions, and smoke have everyone running to the myriad balconies that line this street. Yesterday, at the Opcao restaurant kiddy-corner from our hotel, we were accepted into this multicultural, blended family. The Japanese-born, Portuguese-speaking four-generational Taguchis, and their various spouses; the Italian Paco and the Brazilian Chico. Daniela and Chico's children, Fernanda and Carlao, are beautiful, with Asian features, perfect moon faces, and an inimitable medium skin-tone. We watched videos of the two sisters' weddings, and it made me think. They seem so happy, even now, years later. D. & C. have an enormous house, with a gorgeous porch built by Chico and helpers. A pink, wooden playhouse with a yellow roof shares space with a large in-ground pool, gardens all around with exotic-looking flowers. Red, half-moon tiles for the roof. A view of the town from 5 meters up. Built on a gentle hill like Vina, only smoother, with less twisting and jerking. It is my ideal house - or at least ideal porch. A full barbecue and sink with counter and cabinets; a bathroom and sauna, couches, table, chairs, and two linkable TVs. The Japanese-style rock and bush garden, the climbing icy, the green-tiled pool shower; these people live life in beauty and solidity. The dark-skinned babysitter (nanny) takes care of the kids, and I almost get disgusted with the parents until she leaves and it becomes apparent that she is not a surrogate, but a supplement. The three Taguchi siblings and two children crowd onto the plush sofa-combo, making such a calm, inspiring picture that I long to whip out my camera and capture their smiles, their ease, on film. Paco and his telephoto lens beat me to it, so I refrain. These people, this life, is beautiful. It makes me reaffirm these new sentiments. At times I don't know which will win: my restless soul or my love of people and desire for comfort.
I like this country: its weather, its friendly people, its mixed races and peoples, its music, its casual work and play. I'd like to live here. But I say that about most places I visit.
Monday, 12 July 2004
Seis Horas...Cont.
English attracts my immediate attention, though I try for a languid look rather than a sharp, ears-alert jerk of the head.
Taca takes off. I envy them. Five hours to go.
Lines make for strange bedfellows. Excited-looking middle-aged women, and some beyond middle age, dressed (as most women in Latin America so often are) in clothes designed for twenty-year-olds. A young mother in tight jeans (and the requisite stilettos) with a toddler in a lime-green playsuit, on a line harness. A business man mopping his flushed brow, jacket over arm. A man in light-gray and white. A succession of young women, of men in bomber jackets. I have switched sides and now face a nursing mother and a thirty-something man in basketball jersey and jeans. The ubiquitous mumbling voice mutters something terribly vital over the loud speaker. Of course, no one understands, or hears over the Asian gentleman on his cell phone. Couples of mixed heritage - most frequently latinas with Englishmen of Australian natives, remind me of ages-old interracial couplings of European men with indigenous women.
Sometimes, style is what demonstrates cultural heritage. Impossibly high heels, worn as if they were sneakers, tight, embroidered or be-ribboned jeans, fashion-forward shirts, the latest jackets, all belong to the latinas, who take their style from Europe, and are used to traveling in full makeup and mini skirts. Sneakers, comfortable leggings, jeans with wear-and-tear, denote less style-driven travelers. Men wear suits (business travelers), slacks and loafers (students or family men), or sports clothes. The hierarchy of luggage is prevalent among men. Backpack, over-the-shoulder bag, small rolling suitcase, and the coveted briefcase, all intimate traveler status.
Children make the world go round, but not today.
A young girl (around five) grows strong carrying her not-much-younger sister. Until she gives up and baby is transferred to Mom's arms. A three-year-old exclaims ay, caramba! in such a perfect imitation of her adult counterparts that they ignore her and keep on chattering.
I should be walking, but the curious eyes have me cowed - for now. Suspicious eyes, too: the security guards almost outnumber the passengers. Ever-present cleaning women polish already-shining floors, unearthing the tidbits of airport life. The walls in some parts (e.g., the restroom) are made up of thousands of rectangular cuts of rough stone. Some have gone AWOL from their sentinel duty, taken as souvenirs.
Colombia will not have given me anything physical, ticket stub aside. Not even a stamp in the passport. I had debated changing money, just to have some pesos, but I will save that for the return trip. I am fighting the urge to check for my gate, so I can escape this eavesdropping, spying existence. Or, more basely, for something to do. I curse my pencil's rapidly deteriorating lead. I will NOT check for a gate until 5:45. Perhaps I should have eaten outside the gate area, but who knew there would be only one small, mobile refreshment stand in here?
Moving sends pains along my tailbone...too much sitting. A change of seating and I can now be stared at by the nose of a plane. Having left my warm seat, I am struck with sudden chills. I figure all the people will think I am slightly off kilter, with my shoddy-looking bag, my shudders, my vague stare, my bizarre meanderings back and across the Great Hall. So much the better to be left unharmed. The plane emits gaseous brown clouds, abruptly and briefly, like puffs from an old steam train. Only one, though; an aborted journey.
----------------------------------------------------------------------
I am fighting against sleep and for sanity. Not sleep so much as an apathetic coma. So it's true. Boredom is a killer. I wonder what will happen when I arrive, how customs will be, where whoever it is will meet me, sign in hand, Japanese or no in tow. I wonder if the myriad suit colors of the employees represent a coherent job structure, as marked as that contained in the spectrum of skin color in Latin America. The person behind the desk, guarding the boarding door, wears red. The walkie-talkies wear navy.
Can I check the gate yet? 5:40. Not yet. Still four hours to go. This must be what hell is like endless waiting, unable to eat or drink. Can't sleep safely, can't detach your damn carry-on from your arm. The kids are cute, loud, and energetic. I envy their energy. Of course, they haven't been here for four hours.
I'm hoping for a miracle; for an unsolicited, undeserved, very fortuitous act of fate. Better luck playing the lottery. I'm about ready to create a campfire using my Brazil Travel Guide book, hunt some wild birds, and go cavewoman in this airport. I'm just hoping my luggage won't be playing in the carousel for hours before I arrive in Sao Paulo. No, I'm not loopy at all.
We're well past the half-way mark now; three hours until I can board the plane. I realize I have finally lost it.
...
Took a break to draw something incredibly inane. I wonder if I can call with my credit card. I'd call home, tell them that Colombia is just one big airport where people ask me where Gate 4 is over and over again. Perhaps I'd call Mars. I am losing it. Still no gate posted. I debate crossing security lines to call, get money, restore my contact with humanity. Now I know what to do on my return layover: get some plata colombiana for show, buy a book and food, and hole up somewhere else. Sitting next to the plant does not make me breathe any easier. Let me stop. Please.
7:00. 19:00. Two-and-a-half hours to go. Sala 6. Puerta seis. Gate Six. I am hungry and so tired I am imagining moving spots. The entertainment on the airport's TV network was "Animals of the 21st Century", which included a monopod, hopping mollusk over 40 centimeters tall; carnivorous, sandpit-trap laying plants; gigantic (massive, dinosaur-sized) squid with hard shells that live in forests; and their enemies: smart, flexible cephalopods that - ready for it? - swing from trees like packs of howler monkeys. This is assuming 200 million years of evolutions. Oh, and these guys will live where London used to be. Well, it beats the vaguely pleading Latino band on right now. Yay AIR TV, right...
I'm still hungry. Before, I could have sworn that this black-and-white photo was moving.
How does this, or why does this, announcer sound excited about everything, such as arrests, announcements of who ordered the torture of Iraqi prisoners, etc., as if these were all games of fútbol?
Finally, 8:05, 20:05. snot-nosed kids are whining, mothers are snapping, and English-speakers have come to the gate - and gone. Anti-mule adds are everywhere on TV, in the bathroom, on signs in the Great Hall. Not anti-equines, but anti-drug trafficking.
Under an hour to go. I made it.
Fin Parte I / End Part I
Taca takes off. I envy them. Five hours to go.
Lines make for strange bedfellows. Excited-looking middle-aged women, and some beyond middle age, dressed (as most women in Latin America so often are) in clothes designed for twenty-year-olds. A young mother in tight jeans (and the requisite stilettos) with a toddler in a lime-green playsuit, on a line harness. A business man mopping his flushed brow, jacket over arm. A man in light-gray and white. A succession of young women, of men in bomber jackets. I have switched sides and now face a nursing mother and a thirty-something man in basketball jersey and jeans. The ubiquitous mumbling voice mutters something terribly vital over the loud speaker. Of course, no one understands, or hears over the Asian gentleman on his cell phone. Couples of mixed heritage - most frequently latinas with Englishmen of Australian natives, remind me of ages-old interracial couplings of European men with indigenous women.
Sometimes, style is what demonstrates cultural heritage. Impossibly high heels, worn as if they were sneakers, tight, embroidered or be-ribboned jeans, fashion-forward shirts, the latest jackets, all belong to the latinas, who take their style from Europe, and are used to traveling in full makeup and mini skirts. Sneakers, comfortable leggings, jeans with wear-and-tear, denote less style-driven travelers. Men wear suits (business travelers), slacks and loafers (students or family men), or sports clothes. The hierarchy of luggage is prevalent among men. Backpack, over-the-shoulder bag, small rolling suitcase, and the coveted briefcase, all intimate traveler status.
Children make the world go round, but not today.
A young girl (around five) grows strong carrying her not-much-younger sister. Until she gives up and baby is transferred to Mom's arms. A three-year-old exclaims ay, caramba! in such a perfect imitation of her adult counterparts that they ignore her and keep on chattering.
I should be walking, but the curious eyes have me cowed - for now. Suspicious eyes, too: the security guards almost outnumber the passengers. Ever-present cleaning women polish already-shining floors, unearthing the tidbits of airport life. The walls in some parts (e.g., the restroom) are made up of thousands of rectangular cuts of rough stone. Some have gone AWOL from their sentinel duty, taken as souvenirs.
Colombia will not have given me anything physical, ticket stub aside. Not even a stamp in the passport. I had debated changing money, just to have some pesos, but I will save that for the return trip. I am fighting the urge to check for my gate, so I can escape this eavesdropping, spying existence. Or, more basely, for something to do. I curse my pencil's rapidly deteriorating lead. I will NOT check for a gate until 5:45. Perhaps I should have eaten outside the gate area, but who knew there would be only one small, mobile refreshment stand in here?
Moving sends pains along my tailbone...too much sitting. A change of seating and I can now be stared at by the nose of a plane. Having left my warm seat, I am struck with sudden chills. I figure all the people will think I am slightly off kilter, with my shoddy-looking bag, my shudders, my vague stare, my bizarre meanderings back and across the Great Hall. So much the better to be left unharmed. The plane emits gaseous brown clouds, abruptly and briefly, like puffs from an old steam train. Only one, though; an aborted journey.
----------------------------------------------------------------------
I am fighting against sleep and for sanity. Not sleep so much as an apathetic coma. So it's true. Boredom is a killer. I wonder what will happen when I arrive, how customs will be, where whoever it is will meet me, sign in hand, Japanese or no in tow. I wonder if the myriad suit colors of the employees represent a coherent job structure, as marked as that contained in the spectrum of skin color in Latin America. The person behind the desk, guarding the boarding door, wears red. The walkie-talkies wear navy.
Can I check the gate yet? 5:40. Not yet. Still four hours to go. This must be what hell is like endless waiting, unable to eat or drink. Can't sleep safely, can't detach your damn carry-on from your arm. The kids are cute, loud, and energetic. I envy their energy. Of course, they haven't been here for four hours.
I'm hoping for a miracle; for an unsolicited, undeserved, very fortuitous act of fate. Better luck playing the lottery. I'm about ready to create a campfire using my Brazil Travel Guide book, hunt some wild birds, and go cavewoman in this airport. I'm just hoping my luggage won't be playing in the carousel for hours before I arrive in Sao Paulo. No, I'm not loopy at all.
We're well past the half-way mark now; three hours until I can board the plane. I realize I have finally lost it.
...
Took a break to draw something incredibly inane. I wonder if I can call with my credit card. I'd call home, tell them that Colombia is just one big airport where people ask me where Gate 4 is over and over again. Perhaps I'd call Mars. I am losing it. Still no gate posted. I debate crossing security lines to call, get money, restore my contact with humanity. Now I know what to do on my return layover: get some plata colombiana for show, buy a book and food, and hole up somewhere else. Sitting next to the plant does not make me breathe any easier. Let me stop. Please.
7:00. 19:00. Two-and-a-half hours to go. Sala 6. Puerta seis. Gate Six. I am hungry and so tired I am imagining moving spots. The entertainment on the airport's TV network was "Animals of the 21st Century", which included a monopod, hopping mollusk over 40 centimeters tall; carnivorous, sandpit-trap laying plants; gigantic (massive, dinosaur-sized) squid with hard shells that live in forests; and their enemies: smart, flexible cephalopods that - ready for it? - swing from trees like packs of howler monkeys. This is assuming 200 million years of evolutions. Oh, and these guys will live where London used to be. Well, it beats the vaguely pleading Latino band on right now. Yay AIR TV, right...
I'm still hungry. Before, I could have sworn that this black-and-white photo was moving.
How does this, or why does this, announcer sound excited about everything, such as arrests, announcements of who ordered the torture of Iraqi prisoners, etc., as if these were all games of fútbol?
Finally, 8:05, 20:05. snot-nosed kids are whining, mothers are snapping, and English-speakers have come to the gate - and gone. Anti-mule adds are everywhere on TV, in the bathroom, on signs in the Great Hall. Not anti-equines, but anti-drug trafficking.
Under an hour to go. I made it.
Fin Parte I / End Part I
Saturday, 19 June 2004
Seis Horas en Colombia
And now, straight from my notebook to the web, the most boring blog post ever written...also known as:
Seis Horas en Colombia
Bogotá's security is fierce yet oddly permissive. I went through a routine checkpoint only to be patted down twice - once with the metal-detecting wand, and once by a female 'agente'. Sometimes, playing along has its disadvantages. I assumed that the lounging, green-clad official I was told to approach would search my bags. Instead she motioned my hands up and abruptly pressed my breastbone and swiftly felt for hidden weapons up and down both calves. Then, satisfied, she waved me away, returning to her pressing task of leaning against a small counter, chatting up her male counterparts. It is here, in Colombia's capital, that I am made aware of the truly strange evolutionary products of airport culture.
But it's not only the strangers who sit next to you, strike up conversations, or share your magazines, matches, food, and space that make airports unique. Something about the equalization of peoples - though not truly equal, at least on the surface - makes it acceptable for spent-my-last-pesos to walk with five-star-all-the-ways. And, above them all, the airport staff holds sway. The appropriately dark-blue or black suiT, a badge, or even better, a walkie-talkie, commands instant authority.
Almost as much as the forest green, militaristic uniforms of the officials do. Not enough - or would it be? - for me to submit to pushes and pokes through my deliberately cheap clothes that are sudden, too fast and impersonal to insult, yet still slightly alarming. Enough, however, for me to surrender (in the past at any rate) my bag and unload my carefully-packed belongings.
Out would go the camera, the four rolls of film, the battered brush, the hastily shoved-in lint roller, the Lonely Planet guide to Brazil, this very notebook. The yellow notepad, the business cards, the gum, CD player, headphones (useless, since they sport a chilean-style plug), music, granola bar, wallet, assorted papers, mini pads (how embarassing), pens, pencils, and passport, complete with one visa for Brazil, with boarding pass in tow. Or would it be a cursory shift & move inspection, politely done and almost allowing an apologetic glance to show through the mask of boredom customs and airport officials always wear.
Thankfully, it is neither, and I pass one more checkpoint, looking impatient for no other reason than habit. Ready to wait some six-and-a-half hours in a sterile hallway, facing strangers backlit by airport windows (you know the type), obsessively and accidentally reading the cheesy glowing signs that are scattered along my new home.
What would happen if I never left? How long would it take for the forest-greens, or the navy suits, or even the reflective jackets to notice me? What would happen when I didn't produce a valid ticket? A polite session of ignoring, followed by suspicion, ending in jail or a mental hospital? Perhaps. Today is not my day to find out.
Here, surrounded by 'interesting' backgrounds (planes, TVs, a befogged Bogotá), it is hard to tell who is staring at what. Accidental eye contact is rampant, with amusing results. Walking down the center aisle makes anyone an object of intense, often unintentional scrutiny. Some that run this guantlet can find solace in a companion; others choose a variety of distractions. Some stare straight ahead, as if at some point always far on the horizon. Other study the goround. Some dare to gaze around, haphazardly meeting and dodging eye contact. Still others whistle, make odd noises, and play with whatever is handy as they pace up and down the Great Hall; the same tactics used by those who try to convince themselves that this room is not haunted, that eerie howl was not a creature of the night's war cry.
Seis Horas en Colombia
Bogotá's security is fierce yet oddly permissive. I went through a routine checkpoint only to be patted down twice - once with the metal-detecting wand, and once by a female 'agente'. Sometimes, playing along has its disadvantages. I assumed that the lounging, green-clad official I was told to approach would search my bags. Instead she motioned my hands up and abruptly pressed my breastbone and swiftly felt for hidden weapons up and down both calves. Then, satisfied, she waved me away, returning to her pressing task of leaning against a small counter, chatting up her male counterparts. It is here, in Colombia's capital, that I am made aware of the truly strange evolutionary products of airport culture.
But it's not only the strangers who sit next to you, strike up conversations, or share your magazines, matches, food, and space that make airports unique. Something about the equalization of peoples - though not truly equal, at least on the surface - makes it acceptable for spent-my-last-pesos to walk with five-star-all-the-ways. And, above them all, the airport staff holds sway. The appropriately dark-blue or black suiT, a badge, or even better, a walkie-talkie, commands instant authority.
Almost as much as the forest green, militaristic uniforms of the officials do. Not enough - or would it be? - for me to submit to pushes and pokes through my deliberately cheap clothes that are sudden, too fast and impersonal to insult, yet still slightly alarming. Enough, however, for me to surrender (in the past at any rate) my bag and unload my carefully-packed belongings.
Out would go the camera, the four rolls of film, the battered brush, the hastily shoved-in lint roller, the Lonely Planet guide to Brazil, this very notebook. The yellow notepad, the business cards, the gum, CD player, headphones (useless, since they sport a chilean-style plug), music, granola bar, wallet, assorted papers, mini pads (how embarassing), pens, pencils, and passport, complete with one visa for Brazil, with boarding pass in tow. Or would it be a cursory shift & move inspection, politely done and almost allowing an apologetic glance to show through the mask of boredom customs and airport officials always wear.
Thankfully, it is neither, and I pass one more checkpoint, looking impatient for no other reason than habit. Ready to wait some six-and-a-half hours in a sterile hallway, facing strangers backlit by airport windows (you know the type), obsessively and accidentally reading the cheesy glowing signs that are scattered along my new home.
What would happen if I never left? How long would it take for the forest-greens, or the navy suits, or even the reflective jackets to notice me? What would happen when I didn't produce a valid ticket? A polite session of ignoring, followed by suspicion, ending in jail or a mental hospital? Perhaps. Today is not my day to find out.
Here, surrounded by 'interesting' backgrounds (planes, TVs, a befogged Bogotá), it is hard to tell who is staring at what. Accidental eye contact is rampant, with amusing results. Walking down the center aisle makes anyone an object of intense, often unintentional scrutiny. Some that run this guantlet can find solace in a companion; others choose a variety of distractions. Some stare straight ahead, as if at some point always far on the horizon. Other study the goround. Some dare to gaze around, haphazardly meeting and dodging eye contact. Still others whistle, make odd noises, and play with whatever is handy as they pace up and down the Great Hall; the same tactics used by those who try to convince themselves that this room is not haunted, that eerie howl was not a creature of the night's war cry.
Thursday, 10 June 2004
Friday, 4 June 2004
Color My World?
Back from Brazil, but more on that later...at home, I have some incredibly boring things written from the Bogota, Colombia airport during my two 8-hour layovers there, a description of the professional skateboarder from Lima I met, whom I talked to for 4 of those 8 hours, and random thoughts from Santos and Pinhal, Brazil.
Right now, here's a quiz answer that I will take to heart...shallow as I am.
From the "What Hue Are You?" quiz on ivillage.com: Look to the left and pick "What Hue Are You?"
Answer:
Color My World:
You've never met a color you didn't like… from hot-mama reds to cool-as-a-cucumber celadon, every shade holds some appeal for you. Chances are, this broad-spectrum taste in colors reflects a personality and life that are equally eclectic. To keep things colorful without looking confused, choose a variety of colors with the same intensity: A rainbow's worth of pastels, for example, or primary reds, blues, greens, and yellows, or rich jewel tones of bottle green, oxblood, and luggage-tan.
…With a Cool Breeze
You also gravitate to the cooler tones of green, blue, and violet, known to reflect - and induce - calm and serenity. Luckily, these colors can compliment a hotter palate beautifully. Cobalt blue or lime green adds a special zing to bright yellow, red, and orange, and French blue is the perfect accent color for a room done up in pale yellows and golds. You can also add cool colors by bringing nature indoors: live plants are a great way to add green hues, and, if you're renovating or building from scratch, a skylight is an ideal way to let in a cloud-dotted swath of blue.
Now that's a quiz answer I can relate to.
Right now, here's a quiz answer that I will take to heart...shallow as I am.
From the "What Hue Are You?" quiz on ivillage.com: Look to the left and pick "What Hue Are You?"
Answer:
Color My World:
You've never met a color you didn't like… from hot-mama reds to cool-as-a-cucumber celadon, every shade holds some appeal for you. Chances are, this broad-spectrum taste in colors reflects a personality and life that are equally eclectic. To keep things colorful without looking confused, choose a variety of colors with the same intensity: A rainbow's worth of pastels, for example, or primary reds, blues, greens, and yellows, or rich jewel tones of bottle green, oxblood, and luggage-tan.
…With a Cool Breeze
You also gravitate to the cooler tones of green, blue, and violet, known to reflect - and induce - calm and serenity. Luckily, these colors can compliment a hotter palate beautifully. Cobalt blue or lime green adds a special zing to bright yellow, red, and orange, and French blue is the perfect accent color for a room done up in pale yellows and golds. You can also add cool colors by bringing nature indoors: live plants are a great way to add green hues, and, if you're renovating or building from scratch, a skylight is an ideal way to let in a cloud-dotted swath of blue.
Now that's a quiz answer I can relate to.
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