I read an article today that really emphasized something I've been thinking about a lot lately. The article was about mathematics, specifically the K-12 math curriculum and it's complete and total butchery of real mathematics. It was about the soul-crushing system we have in place that does no justice to real math, problem solving, or the arts of teaching and learning.
While I haven't been thinking about math, or our education system, I have been thinking a lot about creativity and problem solving, what fosters these traits, and what stifles them. The math article had a fair bit to say about all of these, and I highly recommend it: http://www.maa.org/devlin/LockhartsLament.pdf
What tied this particular article on the math curriculum and my own thoughts on creativity together was one quotation in particular: "We have millions of adults wandering around with “negative b plus or minus the square root of b squared minus 4ac all over 2a” in their heads, and absolutely no idea whatsoever what it means. And the reason is that they were never given the chance to discover or invent such things for themselves. They never had an engaging problem to think about, to be frustrated by, and to create in them the desire for technique or method. They were never told the history of mankind’s relationship with numbers— no ancient Babylonian problem tablets, no Rhind Papyrus, no Liber Abaci, no Ars Magna. More importantly, no chance for them to even get curious about a question; it was answered before they could ask it" (italics mine).
This is what I've been thinking about lately: the lack of engaging problems presented not only in school, but in our entire culture. The culture I speak of is one of instant gratification, of impatience, of too much information and too little knowledge, of fast-paced lives, of technology we don't understand, of going nowhere quickly, of rushing, of transience. The world we live in, that we have created, seems to me to foster not dedication and a desire to learn, but impatience and a desire to know right now.
To me this is most obvious in the advances in technology. You already know I'm a Luddite, and that I may be biased here, but no one can deny that technology has dramatically increased the pace of our lives. We no longer have to wait days or weeks to receive a letter in the mail to hear from someone, or spend weeks or months traveling to get across the globe. We don't even have to go to the library, or to a university, to learn facts. Information, and information sharing, is now nearly instantaneous.
As young as I am, I can still recall a time when the in-between times were yours alone, the times walking and driving were sacred times to think by yourself. If you wanted to find out something, or something piqued your curiosity, you had to think about it until you at least got home, or to a library, or somewhere else with internet. You had precious moments to wonder, to dream, and to imagine.
I remember when I was little, when I didn't know something, I would ask my parents. If they didn't know the answer, my mom would take me to the library and we would look it up. Alternatively, we would just think about it for a while. Sometimes, my parents let me figure things out. Like when I wanted to know how a watch worked, and my dad gave me his old broken watch for me to take apart. I didn't learn exactly how watches worked, but I did learn how to take a watch apart and put it back together again, and what kinds of parts are in a watch. And while I might have been only eight or nine years old, I distinctly recall that experience. I can't say that for most of my eight and nine year old experiences.
I'm worried this kind of thing doesn't happen as much anymore. I'm worried that people today don't stop to think about the questions they ask and the things they wonder about, and instead immediately jump to google, to their iphone or android. I'm worried that the more this happens, the less people will exercise curiosity, and develop skills in problem solving, and the less people will be comfortable trusting themselves and their own thought processes.
Today, with the near omnipresence of smartphones, information is but a click away, much to my chagrin.
Before I go on, I want to leave a disclaimer. I'm not saying instantaneous information is all bad, or useless. I borrow Brian's smartphone all the time to look up directions (although more often for Angry Birds). And I'm sure most of you have other examples of times when a smartphone was absolutely essential or at least beneficial, handy, preferable, etc... I'm not here to dis all technological advancements.
Okay, now that I've said that, I do believe in many cases instantaneous information isn't all it's cracked up to be. Yes, we can "learn" any "facts" right away. But knowing tons of facts is the opposite of curiosity. Curiosity is not knowing. Curiosity is wondering about what you don't know. Curiosity is what feeds imagination, what feeds possibilities, what feeds the skills necessary for problem solving.
The only way to get good at problem solving is to try solving problems. The reason they're problems is that you don't know the solution, that there are millions of possible solutions. Giving someone the "answers" right away is almost never beneficial; in my mind it stifles creative thinking, and it basically says to someone, "you wouldn't have been able to figure that out on your own," and "this is the RIGHT way to do it." And then, once you "know" how to do something, you generally stop thinking about it. We've lost the habit of questioning whether it's really the best way, or even if there are any other ways.
There's a related problem to all of this, which Brian and I have been discussing a lot the past few months. I'll sketch the context first.
This semester, Brian took a class on Android Development. As a semester-long project, he and three other people had to create a working Android application for smartphones. Brian took this as an opportunity to implement an idea he's had for a long time.
Since it wasn't on the list of "approved" applications the professor provided for the class, Brian went to talk to him about it. The prof's first response was "That's impossible." So Brian spent several weeks doing research, speaking to other professors (one of whom thought this was a brilliant idea), and testing things out. He then went back to his professor and said, "Actually, it is possible, and here is why." The professor said fine.
Next step, teammates. Of the three teammates, one said this was impossible outright, and the other two immediately brought up reasons why it wouldn't work. Brian persisted, and finally convinced them to work on this with him (albeit begrudgingly).
Last week, Teammate 1 interviewed for DARPA. When asked about a particular kind of problem, s/he used this semester-long Android project as an example. Interviewers were very impressed, asked to see the work, and teammate 1 got the job offer. This from the person who originally said it was impossible. This same person is making this project into a research thesis next year.
The project is due Thursday, and nearly completed. Since Brian started this project, half of everyone he talked to (or more) about it told him it was impossible, useless, or worse. Several others, many more knowledgeable, have commended this idea as ground-breaking and with great monetary and research potential.
I'm really glad this project is almost done, and successful, but most of all that so many people have had turnarounds, realizing the benefits and possibilities of this app. Most of me and Brian's conversations had to do with the naysayers, specifically why some people, without any investment at all in a project, would say it's impossible, would immediately dismiss it's benefits, it's possibilities, without thinking about them. (I too am victim to this thinking sometimes). In my opinion, these intelligent people lacked creativity. They lacked imagination, and they lacked curiosity (at least at the point when Brian asked them). They did not ask, "How can I make this work?" or "How is this useful?" but instead spoke of "Why this won't work."
Meanwhile, I wonder, why is this kind of thinking prevalent? Not that it isn't beneficial to question things, but when your questions come in the form of impossibility instead of possibility, you force your thinking into a box. It's not about facing and overcoming the challenges to something, it's naming challenges as a reason NOT to do something. To me this is an example of the culture we live in, one where real problem solving is dismissed, and people instinctively turn to what's already known, in this case the pre-selected projects, not a new unproven idea. And what's the excuse? "I'm getting graded on this."
I guess we really have been talking about education all along. Because when your education system purposeful stifles creative thinking and forces students into choosing only the paths that are guaranteed successes, then you are guaranteed a population of many impatient citizens with little curiosity and problem-solving ability, who doubt their own abilities to think of solutions. The fact that these traits and skills remain at all is a testament not to our education system but to human nature itself, our strong innate desire to learn and to wonder. I hope we never lose those traits, and find a way to foster and encourage them instead.
December 6, 2011
November 3, 2011
Right Now
When you're young, people always ask what you want to be when you grow up. And if you say you don't know, then they tell you to imagine having all the money you possibly could need, and asking what you would do then.
As if that made it any easier.
I never really knew what to answer when I was little. When I was young enough to still believe in magic, but old enough to know that adults didn't, I would shrug and say nothing, meanwhile dreaming of exploring different worlds, shape-shifting, flying, meeting bizarre creatures both evil and benign. When I was old enough to no longer believe in magic, but still wish I did, I dreamed of writing stories, the only place magic could exist, and I could explore and create any world I wanted. In my brief moments of realism, I thought of a farm in the country I could one day own, with horses and dogs and chickens and freedom and peace and quiet. That could even fit in with the writing. When I was old enough to realize there's no such thing as freedom and peace, and recognized the sadnesses of world, I thought about making them better, about fixing them. Often times, that seemed as far-fetched as the fairytale worlds I dreamed of years before.
As for many people, I believe, my dreams were always far from reality, which is what made them interesting, and desirable. But it also made life hard. Accepting that I would never discover another world, or fly, or disappear into a book, was devastating to my elementary-school self. Losing my ideals of peace and freedom was another loss, one I'm still not sure I've completely accepted. And accepting that I can't fix all the sadnesses of the world still breaks my heart.
Having only ever dreamed of things impossible, and lost them, I rebelled, and decided not to dream anything else. I went through much of high school and college living almost entirely in the present, or the past. I did what I liked, and imagined that later, things would sort themselves out, and I would discover new dreams. After all, dreams aren't things you can seek and then find; you can only keep your wits about you and hope that you come along them sooner or later, and that when they find you, you will be prepared to accept them. (Not that I was quick to accept that. I, along with most everyone I knew, joined the collective panic of what-will-I-do-with-my-life during the latter half of my college career. I just chose the path of things I liked learning at the time, and more or less postponing any decision-making).
Which is why, when I finally came upon a dream, I was both startled and amazed. I was elated, because living without dreams is only a shadow of life, which you can only realize when you've gone without, and then found them.
I don't mean to say here that for the past six or eight years I've lived without wanting to do anything. Quite the contrary in fact. For the most part I've lived with more things I wanted to do than there was time in a lifetime. I've thought about improving my dancing, writing stories, reading books, learning new dance forms, traveling, gardening, learning to cook, starting a family, biking, sailing, hiking, climbing, skiing, drawing, taking a photography class, watching movies, spending time with family and friends, playing games, exploring, and more.
As wonderful as all those things are, and as much as I love them, if I spent my life doing nothing but those things, I would still feel like something was missing. I would still wonder what I had accomplished, and search for that feeling I'd had as a child, the feeling that not only could I do anything I wanted, but there was something that needed to be done, and I was the one to do it. Something compelling. Something important.
And now, for the first time, I feel like I could answer that question. The one about what I would do if everything were taken care of for me.
I was going to share, but it's not really important, except to me. The most important thing isn't what the dream is, it's just that I have one. I feel passionate and excited about not just next weekend, or next summer, but about the rest of my life. Perhaps there are people who can live without that feeling, and for whom happiness in their daily life is a matter of doing little things with quality, without the need for any greater intention or purpose in their work and their life. I am not one of those people, although I still try to find as much happiness as possible in the present moment, and try to do everything with quality.
I believe that there is nothing more important than right now, but if there were it would be right now meaning something tomorrow.
As if that made it any easier.
I never really knew what to answer when I was little. When I was young enough to still believe in magic, but old enough to know that adults didn't, I would shrug and say nothing, meanwhile dreaming of exploring different worlds, shape-shifting, flying, meeting bizarre creatures both evil and benign. When I was old enough to no longer believe in magic, but still wish I did, I dreamed of writing stories, the only place magic could exist, and I could explore and create any world I wanted. In my brief moments of realism, I thought of a farm in the country I could one day own, with horses and dogs and chickens and freedom and peace and quiet. That could even fit in with the writing. When I was old enough to realize there's no such thing as freedom and peace, and recognized the sadnesses of world, I thought about making them better, about fixing them. Often times, that seemed as far-fetched as the fairytale worlds I dreamed of years before.
As for many people, I believe, my dreams were always far from reality, which is what made them interesting, and desirable. But it also made life hard. Accepting that I would never discover another world, or fly, or disappear into a book, was devastating to my elementary-school self. Losing my ideals of peace and freedom was another loss, one I'm still not sure I've completely accepted. And accepting that I can't fix all the sadnesses of the world still breaks my heart.
Having only ever dreamed of things impossible, and lost them, I rebelled, and decided not to dream anything else. I went through much of high school and college living almost entirely in the present, or the past. I did what I liked, and imagined that later, things would sort themselves out, and I would discover new dreams. After all, dreams aren't things you can seek and then find; you can only keep your wits about you and hope that you come along them sooner or later, and that when they find you, you will be prepared to accept them. (Not that I was quick to accept that. I, along with most everyone I knew, joined the collective panic of what-will-I-do-with-my-life during the latter half of my college career. I just chose the path of things I liked learning at the time, and more or less postponing any decision-making).
Which is why, when I finally came upon a dream, I was both startled and amazed. I was elated, because living without dreams is only a shadow of life, which you can only realize when you've gone without, and then found them.
I don't mean to say here that for the past six or eight years I've lived without wanting to do anything. Quite the contrary in fact. For the most part I've lived with more things I wanted to do than there was time in a lifetime. I've thought about improving my dancing, writing stories, reading books, learning new dance forms, traveling, gardening, learning to cook, starting a family, biking, sailing, hiking, climbing, skiing, drawing, taking a photography class, watching movies, spending time with family and friends, playing games, exploring, and more.
As wonderful as all those things are, and as much as I love them, if I spent my life doing nothing but those things, I would still feel like something was missing. I would still wonder what I had accomplished, and search for that feeling I'd had as a child, the feeling that not only could I do anything I wanted, but there was something that needed to be done, and I was the one to do it. Something compelling. Something important.
And now, for the first time, I feel like I could answer that question. The one about what I would do if everything were taken care of for me.
I was going to share, but it's not really important, except to me. The most important thing isn't what the dream is, it's just that I have one. I feel passionate and excited about not just next weekend, or next summer, but about the rest of my life. Perhaps there are people who can live without that feeling, and for whom happiness in their daily life is a matter of doing little things with quality, without the need for any greater intention or purpose in their work and their life. I am not one of those people, although I still try to find as much happiness as possible in the present moment, and try to do everything with quality.
I believe that there is nothing more important than right now, but if there were it would be right now meaning something tomorrow.
October 11, 2011
Some Views on Music
My musical education started at a young age. I took general music and piano lessons in elementary school, then started viola by age 10, then clarinet by age 12. I continued playing clarinet through college. I also took some music theory, and was in a number of bands from middle school onward, including jazz band, county honors band, marching band, symphonic orchestra, pit orchestra, etc... I took private lessons during the entirety of my musical career (thanks to overwhelmingly encouraging parents who valued the arts in my life).
Also thanks to my parents, I learned early on to appreciate a variety of musics; classical from my mom, and some hippie favorites like Dylan and Bob Marley from my dad. My parents took me to many concerts and even a few musicals and operas, where my tastes expanded further (okay, not always). Sometime in high school I decided I wanted in on the whole rock band thing, so I started playing bass guitar. I never got even remotely good at it, but I did play in some pit orchestras and learned a few bass lines from my favorite songs. I also managed to pick up at some point every kind of saxophone (baritone being my favorite, shortly followed by tenor), and continued learning the occasional piano piece.
In college my musical interests took another turn after I started swing dancing. I quickly became aware of the vast history and repertoire of jazz music (primarily 1910s to 1960s). I took Jazz History and have since accumulated a modest collection.
Anyway, all that is to say that I have been heavily involved in various types of music for a while. One might think that due to my fairly extensive (though by no means complete) musical education, upbringing, and exposure, I would have some sense of good music. That perhaps I have "taste."
But no. Anyone who really knows me realizes that this is in fact quite laughable. I have no more music "taste" than the average person out there. Actually, I'm willing to admit that I have far less.
I listen indiscriminately to nineties rock, jazz from the 1910s to the 1950s, anything on the radio, Enya, classical, alternative, musicals, and more. Some of my traditionally favorite groups include Smash Mouth, Everclear, Rage Against the Machine, Linkin Park, Red Hot Chili Peppers, and Barenaked Ladies. However I've listened just as much to Lady Gaga, Colbie Caillat, Rihanna, Jack Johnson, Ingrid Michaelson, Kesha, and Brittany as any of those (sometimes a great deal more). And that's not to mention my particular fondness for not just a few rap artists whose names I don't even know. I haven't even started to scratch the surface of the classical pieces, musicals, a capella and jazz I listen to on a regular basis as well, and all the artists whose names just didn't occur to me right now. Basically what I'm saying is I like a whole lot of just about everything.
I remember back in highschool, "So what music do you like?" being the first or second question you would ask someone you'd just met, as if that allowed you to know them better, as if you could decide that yes, I want to be friends with someone who likes grunge, or no, I couldn't possibly stand in the same room as someone whose favorite song is Breakfast at Tiffany's. I also distinctly remember tailoring my answer to whoever was asking me, and what impression I wanted to give. "Oh yeah, I totally dig Metallica and Nine Inch Nails" to the punk rock kids, and "I love Bowling for Soup!" to the preppy kids, and so on. When I wanted to give the "I'm definitely a rebel" impression, RATM was my favorite, and of course I played bass guitar.
Needless to say, I got funny looks every time. Which is actually a bit bizarre, because I was never really lying. I just wasn't telling the whole truth. The whole point was trying to find some common ground, something to talk about with people, but that wasn't all it was. There was a judgment there, a quick and hasty classification of "yeah, you're cool" or "I hate the things you like and you have no social value."
I kind of thought that mentality might end after high school, but not so much. Now that I have entered the swing dance scene, music snob-ery has entered a whole new level.
As I mentioned, I swing dance a lot, and the kind of music you like dancing to can get you easily ousted by a particular group of dancers who might think that anything non-traditional can't possibly be qualified as Lindy Hop, or that anything traditional is old and stuffy and so out of style. In my opinion, there is nothing wrong with appreciating the traditional Lindy Hop music, the jazz from the twenties and thirties that first spawned our dance and inspired an entire generation. There's also nothing wrong with people having fun dancing to other things, and possibly even still calling that dance Lindy Hop.
That, however, often times feels like a rare occurrence, and it seems like nearly everyone on the dance scene has some strong opinion of what Lindy Hop should be, and what music it should be danced to, not unlike the high school "liking this music makes you cool, liking that music makes you a dweeb."
Anyway, now that I've bashed music snob-ery, I feel like I need to explain.
I fully understand that there are some artists out there who push the boundaries of their genre, who employ new techniques and try different things successfully, who are incredibly talented at what they do, and there are just as many musicians out there who don't really do any of those things, and are equally or more successful. There is nothing wrong with admiring people for their talents and accomplishments, and learning all about music history and theory, but there is something wrong with refusing to acknowledge certain talents over others. Like say, the talent for making millions love your music when you can't, to any musician's standard, sing or play an instrument.
It's wonderful for people to study lots of music history, and to appreciate and understand all the subtleties of musicians' decisions that escape the majority. I'm glad there are lots of people out there who do this, and I'm glad they have a passion. It's important to have passions.
I just wish they wouldn't keep telling me that the things I like suck.
For serious, shut up. All you music snobs out there who scoff at my fondness for defunct bands, who think liking musicals means no one loves me, who scream that Lady Gaga is the devil incarnate, and that The Beatles were terrible musicians, and that any jazz music not from September, 1929 isn't worth dancing to. What, really, do you know? Shut up, and keep all your hating to yourself, and let me listen to Smash Mouth and Coldplay and Foo Fighters and Kanye West and Lil Wayne and Eminem and Kesha and Black Eyed Peas and Katie Perry and Christina Perri and The Band and BNL if I want to! I will dance to Sydney Bechet and Lady Gaga and Brian Setzer and Louis Armstrong and Artie Shaw and Louis Prima and Ella Fitzgerald and lots else besides! So keep your hating, sneering faces and condescending tone to your own damn self!
Phew, my bad. I may have lost it for a moment there. What I meant to say was that music, like many art forms, is often times subjective. Which means that one person's cat wailing is another person's jam. You can say you don't like something, but calling someone else's music tastes shit is in bad form, and judging someone's character on liking The Killers is equally bad form. Okay? Can we all just get along now?
Also thanks to my parents, I learned early on to appreciate a variety of musics; classical from my mom, and some hippie favorites like Dylan and Bob Marley from my dad. My parents took me to many concerts and even a few musicals and operas, where my tastes expanded further (okay, not always). Sometime in high school I decided I wanted in on the whole rock band thing, so I started playing bass guitar. I never got even remotely good at it, but I did play in some pit orchestras and learned a few bass lines from my favorite songs. I also managed to pick up at some point every kind of saxophone (baritone being my favorite, shortly followed by tenor), and continued learning the occasional piano piece.
In college my musical interests took another turn after I started swing dancing. I quickly became aware of the vast history and repertoire of jazz music (primarily 1910s to 1960s). I took Jazz History and have since accumulated a modest collection.
Anyway, all that is to say that I have been heavily involved in various types of music for a while. One might think that due to my fairly extensive (though by no means complete) musical education, upbringing, and exposure, I would have some sense of good music. That perhaps I have "taste."
But no. Anyone who really knows me realizes that this is in fact quite laughable. I have no more music "taste" than the average person out there. Actually, I'm willing to admit that I have far less.
I listen indiscriminately to nineties rock, jazz from the 1910s to the 1950s, anything on the radio, Enya, classical, alternative, musicals, and more. Some of my traditionally favorite groups include Smash Mouth, Everclear, Rage Against the Machine, Linkin Park, Red Hot Chili Peppers, and Barenaked Ladies. However I've listened just as much to Lady Gaga, Colbie Caillat, Rihanna, Jack Johnson, Ingrid Michaelson, Kesha, and Brittany as any of those (sometimes a great deal more). And that's not to mention my particular fondness for not just a few rap artists whose names I don't even know. I haven't even started to scratch the surface of the classical pieces, musicals, a capella and jazz I listen to on a regular basis as well, and all the artists whose names just didn't occur to me right now. Basically what I'm saying is I like a whole lot of just about everything.
I remember back in highschool, "So what music do you like?" being the first or second question you would ask someone you'd just met, as if that allowed you to know them better, as if you could decide that yes, I want to be friends with someone who likes grunge, or no, I couldn't possibly stand in the same room as someone whose favorite song is Breakfast at Tiffany's. I also distinctly remember tailoring my answer to whoever was asking me, and what impression I wanted to give. "Oh yeah, I totally dig Metallica and Nine Inch Nails" to the punk rock kids, and "I love Bowling for Soup!" to the preppy kids, and so on. When I wanted to give the "I'm definitely a rebel" impression, RATM was my favorite, and of course I played bass guitar.
Needless to say, I got funny looks every time. Which is actually a bit bizarre, because I was never really lying. I just wasn't telling the whole truth. The whole point was trying to find some common ground, something to talk about with people, but that wasn't all it was. There was a judgment there, a quick and hasty classification of "yeah, you're cool" or "I hate the things you like and you have no social value."
I kind of thought that mentality might end after high school, but not so much. Now that I have entered the swing dance scene, music snob-ery has entered a whole new level.
As I mentioned, I swing dance a lot, and the kind of music you like dancing to can get you easily ousted by a particular group of dancers who might think that anything non-traditional can't possibly be qualified as Lindy Hop, or that anything traditional is old and stuffy and so out of style. In my opinion, there is nothing wrong with appreciating the traditional Lindy Hop music, the jazz from the twenties and thirties that first spawned our dance and inspired an entire generation. There's also nothing wrong with people having fun dancing to other things, and possibly even still calling that dance Lindy Hop.
That, however, often times feels like a rare occurrence, and it seems like nearly everyone on the dance scene has some strong opinion of what Lindy Hop should be, and what music it should be danced to, not unlike the high school "liking this music makes you cool, liking that music makes you a dweeb."
Anyway, now that I've bashed music snob-ery, I feel like I need to explain.
I fully understand that there are some artists out there who push the boundaries of their genre, who employ new techniques and try different things successfully, who are incredibly talented at what they do, and there are just as many musicians out there who don't really do any of those things, and are equally or more successful. There is nothing wrong with admiring people for their talents and accomplishments, and learning all about music history and theory, but there is something wrong with refusing to acknowledge certain talents over others. Like say, the talent for making millions love your music when you can't, to any musician's standard, sing or play an instrument.
It's wonderful for people to study lots of music history, and to appreciate and understand all the subtleties of musicians' decisions that escape the majority. I'm glad there are lots of people out there who do this, and I'm glad they have a passion. It's important to have passions.
I just wish they wouldn't keep telling me that the things I like suck.
For serious, shut up. All you music snobs out there who scoff at my fondness for defunct bands, who think liking musicals means no one loves me, who scream that Lady Gaga is the devil incarnate, and that The Beatles were terrible musicians, and that any jazz music not from September, 1929 isn't worth dancing to. What, really, do you know? Shut up, and keep all your hating to yourself, and let me listen to Smash Mouth and Coldplay and Foo Fighters and Kanye West and Lil Wayne and Eminem and Kesha and Black Eyed Peas and Katie Perry and Christina Perri and The Band and BNL if I want to! I will dance to Sydney Bechet and Lady Gaga and Brian Setzer and Louis Armstrong and Artie Shaw and Louis Prima and Ella Fitzgerald and lots else besides! So keep your hating, sneering faces and condescending tone to your own damn self!
Phew, my bad. I may have lost it for a moment there. What I meant to say was that music, like many art forms, is often times subjective. Which means that one person's cat wailing is another person's jam. You can say you don't like something, but calling someone else's music tastes shit is in bad form, and judging someone's character on liking The Killers is equally bad form. Okay? Can we all just get along now?
September 25, 2011
Smoke and Mirrors
Over the course of the past year, and more so recently, a particular thought has lodged itself in my mind. At first I didn't think much of it. It seemed nothing new, but it kept nagging at a corner of my mind until I paid attention, until I flushed it out and reached some conclusions. I haven't finished wondering about all the ramifications of this particular thought, and I'm still not quite sure what makes it so stunning, but as I keep coming across examples, and I keep finding it hard to hold onto, I believe it may be the root of something important.
The thought it this: Everything is run by people.
It seems mundane at first glance, which is why I didn't pay it much attention. Of course everything is run by people. But as I think about it more, I realize there are a lot of assumptions and trust and illusions wrapped up in this idea. I will try to explain.
As a child, I had very little idea how the world worked. I was aware that there were governments, and corporations, and companies, and organizations, and they all did important and complicated things to make things work (like schools and roads and libraries and houses and all kinds of other things). There were also immutable things, like taxes and insurance and laws, and these things simply existed and that's how things were. Not that things couldn't be changed, but the powers that changed them were other immutable things like executive offices and boards and councils. I of course knew that people were behind all of these things, but firstly they were important people and experts, and secondly there was also a sense that these things were really far outside the realm of everyday things like eating lunch and reading books and doing chores and playing and learning and working, and were thus not done by regular people like me.
I was told a lot as a child that I could do anything when I grew up, and that individuals could change how things were done, although the examples never seemed to follow this. Governments decided things, and so did corporations, and they decided things because they knew. There are experts in everything and they say what's best to do and then everyone else follows along. And I accepted this because governments and corporations and organizations are all big complicated things that function in complicated ways with lots of rules and regulations that must be there for a reason and it's all more than I could possibly understand, and they must know what they're doing.
I thought that when I grew up, I wouldn't possibly affect any of those things, I would just find my own little cog in the giant wheel and help make stuff work and hopefully enjoy my regular day to day things that had nothing at all to do with how big real things worked. After all there were plenty of things that seemed to make perfect sense but never got done, or things that were set up so ass-backwards that I figured there must be a reason, and I was too young/ignorant to understand such big complicated things. There were other forces at play. The experts could handle those things, with the committees and boards and councils.
Anyway I grew up and went to college and there I continued to think about things more or less the same. My only concern with How Things Worked had to do with cells and DNA and chemicals and organic compounds (and eventually dance), and the world of my interests was fairly small. This is not to say I was ignorant of Big Important Things happening in the world, or that I didn't care about wars and politics and news and the people involved. But I didn't have anything to do with those things, and I didn't see how anything I did would have much influence. After all those things are decided by Experts and Governments and the best I could do was vote, and have some fundraisers, and donate blood, and whatnot, so I did those things.
This past year I started to get an inkling that there was perhaps a little more to all this, or in reality, a lot less.
I guess the heart of it is that most people (including myself) imagine things getting done (or not) as a vague or complicated process and trust that what's going on is reliable, in some sense. We trust that there are laws and rules and they will be enforced, that there is a (mostly) stable government full of people who are experts and know what they're doing and will make the best possible decisions so that we can live out our lives. And obviously we don't believe there is no corruption, and we know there is more going on than we see, and information we don't have. And we believe that the information we don't have is what makes everyone who does know the expert, and that's why they're the people who decide things. We think that there are Powers at play that control things and tomorrow things will mostly be like they are today.
But the truth is that every decision comes from some individual who is as influenced by their life experiences as anyone else. That individual might have facts others don't, but that doesn't mean he is more likely than anyone else to make the best decision. And there are things getting done every day that have never been done before, for which there is no precedence, and there is an individual out there who has to make a decision about that thing, without any prior knowledge to help them out or "qualify" them.
When I state it that way, it seems obvious. I haven't told you anything new really. But it took me a long time to think of things this way, and to realize what this means in terms of living my life and making decisions. I'll try to give some more examples, since that's the only way I can think to demonstrate the idea I'm talking about.
When I first started my job, I gave a huge amount of deference to everyone else there. After all, I was a lowly intern with only a petty BS degree, and nearly everyone else I worked with was a mighty PhD with years of experience. I wasn't embarrassed or bashful asking for help or advice and I learned a ton. I assumed that everyone else was more equipped to make decisions than I was.
It only took me about two or three group meetings to realize how wrong I was. Our collaborators, regardless of years of experience and a dozen degrees, didn't know all about what we do, considerably less than I knew even after only a few months of experience. Which means that sometimes very smart people wanted to make very stupid decisions that would have meant days or weeks of extra work with little or no results to show for it. Luckily we could talk them out of it most times.
The other thing I noticed was that individual personality had way more sway in the workplace than I would have guessed. People don't leave their prejudices, quirks, stubbornness, ADD, hastiness, etc. at the door when they come to work. I guess I shouldn't have been too surprised about that one, but I work in science. I thought people in science were supposed to be impartial, curious, and smart. I am laughing now, as is anyone else who has ever worked with scientists. Being able to communicate effectively and make friends and have people trust you is way more important than actually knowing things a lot of the time. You don't really need to know more to convince people you're right, you just need the ability to convince people you're right.
I also quickly noticed that what counts as "fact" isn't necessarily fact. Part of my job involves reading dozens upon dozens of papers. Some of them are great. Some of them are incredibly obscure. Some of them make no sense whatsoever, and the conclusions drawn don't match up with the data provided. At first I thought I was missing something, or that I didn't know enough, or that I wasn't used to reading papers. Eventually I realized that sometimes things that are published are just pure bullshit. As good as peer review can be, it isn't infallible, and there are papers out there that are shoddy at best, and downright full of crap other times. (I am not the only one who thinks this: http://www.nature.com/nrd/journal/v10/n9/full/nrd3439-c1.html. They state, "There is...a bias towards publishing positive results, as it is easier to get positive results accepted in good journals. It remains to be studied further whether there are indeed hurdles to publishing results that contradict data from high-impact journals or the currently established scientific opinion in a given field, which could lead to the literature supporting a certain hypothesis even if there are many (unpublished) data arguing against it.").
Anyway all of this is to say that people who decide things aren't any smarter (necessarily), or more well-informed, or unbiased, or less likely to make mistakes or be lazy than you are, or I am.
For example, a few months ago I renewed my contract for my job to work another year. Unfortunately, this information didn't reach the right people somehow, and my account was shut down. I had no access to my e-mail, nor could I log in to any computers at work, and my badge didn't work. For some reason, the process of reinstating my account took a few weeks, during which time I was marginally more than useless. It made me wonder: Who is in charge of reinstating accounts? Hasn't this happened before hundreds of times for the hundreds or more likely thousands of NIH employees whose contracts get renewed every year? Isn't there a better way to get this done? It seemed like some big mystery, like there were papers that needed to be shuffled and signed and sent places and people who needed to confirm this and that and then some computer things needed to happen to get me back online. Wrong. What needed to happen was the one person in my division in charge of this to push one button to inform the person who did renew accounts to click the "active" button under my name. A process that should take about fifteen minutes, if you're giving bathroom breaks. In this case, what held me up was one person not knowing their job.
Recently I encountered another semi-example of this. I was at a meeting for some postbacs at NIH and met a woman whose name was familiar to me. I realized that her e-mail account had popped up dozens of times in my inbox, and she was actually the individual behind organizing a bunch of events, communicating dozens of opportunities for volunteering, working, networking, learning, etc... Most of the time, I ignored or deleted those emails without much thought (generally they take place on campus and I don't work on campus). However it was a bit of a shock to think about the individual who actually set all those things up. I just thought they were things that happened, and sure, someone organized them, but I had no idea who or how. Except that I did know. It was just one person getting stuff done.
There's another thought that goes along pretty closely with this idea I'm trying to get at.
It seems to me that often times people eschew responsibility. No one wants to be held accountable for anything; they don't want to be blamed if something goes wrong, and they don't want to take risks. This is as true for me as anyone else. For my first year of work I more or less did just what my boss asked, and it took me a while to learn that I could in fact try something new on my own, or take some initiative and start something. I'm still not comfortable with that all the time, and overall it seems like a rare trait. I think most people are like that, and they only do (more or less) what they're told. People want leaders, and they don't want to make decisions. There's often this huge assumption that there is someone else out there better qualified to decide what should be done, or what's best for everyone. There's a trust that there are indeed experts who know enough to make very informed decisions, and that there are plenty of people who are fine making those big important decisions. But that's not really the case.
Most people eschew the responsibility and make the safe choices, and meanwhile things remain undecided, or the decision isn't the best possible decision, but the safest, and buried as deeply as possible in vague terminology so that no one can even understand what has been decided at all. And there are few people willing to step up and risk looking like idiots and risk pissing someone off and risk losing some social standing and just decide something and make it happen. And yet we all assume that these people, these decision-makers, are everywhere, and they don't have our foibles, and they don't make our mistakes, and they will get things done as they need to be done.
There are some very qualified, very competent, and very confident people around, and many of them do run things. But I believe they run things because they are the kind of people who take the risks (one of the reasons they've been successful) not because they are necessarily any better qualified to decide things.
Maybe it is the ability to take risks and the confidence to appear unshaken and believe what you decide is best and right that makes someone competent, but I don't think so.
So what does all this mean? What does this have to do with how I live my life?
To me it's a reminder to have some more confidence in the things I do, and learn to at once believe wholeheartedly in the decisions I make but retain the ability to select another option if it is proven or appears even better. It means I won't necessarily trust what I read, or see on TV, regardless of who writes it or who says it. It's also a good reminder that the people we interact with, people on the other line of the phone, or e-mail list, or behind a counter at a grocery store, a DMV, an embassy, a CEOs office, or a toll both, are as fallible as I am, as real as I am, with no more or fewer qualifications to decide what is right.
I would love to know what you all think.
The thought it this: Everything is run by people.
It seems mundane at first glance, which is why I didn't pay it much attention. Of course everything is run by people. But as I think about it more, I realize there are a lot of assumptions and trust and illusions wrapped up in this idea. I will try to explain.
As a child, I had very little idea how the world worked. I was aware that there were governments, and corporations, and companies, and organizations, and they all did important and complicated things to make things work (like schools and roads and libraries and houses and all kinds of other things). There were also immutable things, like taxes and insurance and laws, and these things simply existed and that's how things were. Not that things couldn't be changed, but the powers that changed them were other immutable things like executive offices and boards and councils. I of course knew that people were behind all of these things, but firstly they were important people and experts, and secondly there was also a sense that these things were really far outside the realm of everyday things like eating lunch and reading books and doing chores and playing and learning and working, and were thus not done by regular people like me.
I was told a lot as a child that I could do anything when I grew up, and that individuals could change how things were done, although the examples never seemed to follow this. Governments decided things, and so did corporations, and they decided things because they knew. There are experts in everything and they say what's best to do and then everyone else follows along. And I accepted this because governments and corporations and organizations are all big complicated things that function in complicated ways with lots of rules and regulations that must be there for a reason and it's all more than I could possibly understand, and they must know what they're doing.
I thought that when I grew up, I wouldn't possibly affect any of those things, I would just find my own little cog in the giant wheel and help make stuff work and hopefully enjoy my regular day to day things that had nothing at all to do with how big real things worked. After all there were plenty of things that seemed to make perfect sense but never got done, or things that were set up so ass-backwards that I figured there must be a reason, and I was too young/ignorant to understand such big complicated things. There were other forces at play. The experts could handle those things, with the committees and boards and councils.
Anyway I grew up and went to college and there I continued to think about things more or less the same. My only concern with How Things Worked had to do with cells and DNA and chemicals and organic compounds (and eventually dance), and the world of my interests was fairly small. This is not to say I was ignorant of Big Important Things happening in the world, or that I didn't care about wars and politics and news and the people involved. But I didn't have anything to do with those things, and I didn't see how anything I did would have much influence. After all those things are decided by Experts and Governments and the best I could do was vote, and have some fundraisers, and donate blood, and whatnot, so I did those things.
This past year I started to get an inkling that there was perhaps a little more to all this, or in reality, a lot less.
I guess the heart of it is that most people (including myself) imagine things getting done (or not) as a vague or complicated process and trust that what's going on is reliable, in some sense. We trust that there are laws and rules and they will be enforced, that there is a (mostly) stable government full of people who are experts and know what they're doing and will make the best possible decisions so that we can live out our lives. And obviously we don't believe there is no corruption, and we know there is more going on than we see, and information we don't have. And we believe that the information we don't have is what makes everyone who does know the expert, and that's why they're the people who decide things. We think that there are Powers at play that control things and tomorrow things will mostly be like they are today.
But the truth is that every decision comes from some individual who is as influenced by their life experiences as anyone else. That individual might have facts others don't, but that doesn't mean he is more likely than anyone else to make the best decision. And there are things getting done every day that have never been done before, for which there is no precedence, and there is an individual out there who has to make a decision about that thing, without any prior knowledge to help them out or "qualify" them.
When I state it that way, it seems obvious. I haven't told you anything new really. But it took me a long time to think of things this way, and to realize what this means in terms of living my life and making decisions. I'll try to give some more examples, since that's the only way I can think to demonstrate the idea I'm talking about.
When I first started my job, I gave a huge amount of deference to everyone else there. After all, I was a lowly intern with only a petty BS degree, and nearly everyone else I worked with was a mighty PhD with years of experience. I wasn't embarrassed or bashful asking for help or advice and I learned a ton. I assumed that everyone else was more equipped to make decisions than I was.
It only took me about two or three group meetings to realize how wrong I was. Our collaborators, regardless of years of experience and a dozen degrees, didn't know all about what we do, considerably less than I knew even after only a few months of experience. Which means that sometimes very smart people wanted to make very stupid decisions that would have meant days or weeks of extra work with little or no results to show for it. Luckily we could talk them out of it most times.
The other thing I noticed was that individual personality had way more sway in the workplace than I would have guessed. People don't leave their prejudices, quirks, stubbornness, ADD, hastiness, etc. at the door when they come to work. I guess I shouldn't have been too surprised about that one, but I work in science. I thought people in science were supposed to be impartial, curious, and smart. I am laughing now, as is anyone else who has ever worked with scientists. Being able to communicate effectively and make friends and have people trust you is way more important than actually knowing things a lot of the time. You don't really need to know more to convince people you're right, you just need the ability to convince people you're right.
I also quickly noticed that what counts as "fact" isn't necessarily fact. Part of my job involves reading dozens upon dozens of papers. Some of them are great. Some of them are incredibly obscure. Some of them make no sense whatsoever, and the conclusions drawn don't match up with the data provided. At first I thought I was missing something, or that I didn't know enough, or that I wasn't used to reading papers. Eventually I realized that sometimes things that are published are just pure bullshit. As good as peer review can be, it isn't infallible, and there are papers out there that are shoddy at best, and downright full of crap other times. (I am not the only one who thinks this: http://www.nature.com/nrd/journal/v10/n9/full/nrd3439-c1.html. They state, "There is...a bias towards publishing positive results, as it is easier to get positive results accepted in good journals. It remains to be studied further whether there are indeed hurdles to publishing results that contradict data from high-impact journals or the currently established scientific opinion in a given field, which could lead to the literature supporting a certain hypothesis even if there are many (unpublished) data arguing against it.").
Anyway all of this is to say that people who decide things aren't any smarter (necessarily), or more well-informed, or unbiased, or less likely to make mistakes or be lazy than you are, or I am.
For example, a few months ago I renewed my contract for my job to work another year. Unfortunately, this information didn't reach the right people somehow, and my account was shut down. I had no access to my e-mail, nor could I log in to any computers at work, and my badge didn't work. For some reason, the process of reinstating my account took a few weeks, during which time I was marginally more than useless. It made me wonder: Who is in charge of reinstating accounts? Hasn't this happened before hundreds of times for the hundreds or more likely thousands of NIH employees whose contracts get renewed every year? Isn't there a better way to get this done? It seemed like some big mystery, like there were papers that needed to be shuffled and signed and sent places and people who needed to confirm this and that and then some computer things needed to happen to get me back online. Wrong. What needed to happen was the one person in my division in charge of this to push one button to inform the person who did renew accounts to click the "active" button under my name. A process that should take about fifteen minutes, if you're giving bathroom breaks. In this case, what held me up was one person not knowing their job.
Recently I encountered another semi-example of this. I was at a meeting for some postbacs at NIH and met a woman whose name was familiar to me. I realized that her e-mail account had popped up dozens of times in my inbox, and she was actually the individual behind organizing a bunch of events, communicating dozens of opportunities for volunteering, working, networking, learning, etc... Most of the time, I ignored or deleted those emails without much thought (generally they take place on campus and I don't work on campus). However it was a bit of a shock to think about the individual who actually set all those things up. I just thought they were things that happened, and sure, someone organized them, but I had no idea who or how. Except that I did know. It was just one person getting stuff done.
There's another thought that goes along pretty closely with this idea I'm trying to get at.
It seems to me that often times people eschew responsibility. No one wants to be held accountable for anything; they don't want to be blamed if something goes wrong, and they don't want to take risks. This is as true for me as anyone else. For my first year of work I more or less did just what my boss asked, and it took me a while to learn that I could in fact try something new on my own, or take some initiative and start something. I'm still not comfortable with that all the time, and overall it seems like a rare trait. I think most people are like that, and they only do (more or less) what they're told. People want leaders, and they don't want to make decisions. There's often this huge assumption that there is someone else out there better qualified to decide what should be done, or what's best for everyone. There's a trust that there are indeed experts who know enough to make very informed decisions, and that there are plenty of people who are fine making those big important decisions. But that's not really the case.
Most people eschew the responsibility and make the safe choices, and meanwhile things remain undecided, or the decision isn't the best possible decision, but the safest, and buried as deeply as possible in vague terminology so that no one can even understand what has been decided at all. And there are few people willing to step up and risk looking like idiots and risk pissing someone off and risk losing some social standing and just decide something and make it happen. And yet we all assume that these people, these decision-makers, are everywhere, and they don't have our foibles, and they don't make our mistakes, and they will get things done as they need to be done.
There are some very qualified, very competent, and very confident people around, and many of them do run things. But I believe they run things because they are the kind of people who take the risks (one of the reasons they've been successful) not because they are necessarily any better qualified to decide things.
Maybe it is the ability to take risks and the confidence to appear unshaken and believe what you decide is best and right that makes someone competent, but I don't think so.
So what does all this mean? What does this have to do with how I live my life?
To me it's a reminder to have some more confidence in the things I do, and learn to at once believe wholeheartedly in the decisions I make but retain the ability to select another option if it is proven or appears even better. It means I won't necessarily trust what I read, or see on TV, regardless of who writes it or who says it. It's also a good reminder that the people we interact with, people on the other line of the phone, or e-mail list, or behind a counter at a grocery store, a DMV, an embassy, a CEOs office, or a toll both, are as fallible as I am, as real as I am, with no more or fewer qualifications to decide what is right.
I would love to know what you all think.
August 25, 2011
Adventures in Argentina Part III: POS Continued
Continued from Adventures in Argentina Part II: POS
Around 2PM on the day Anna and I are going to leave Cafyate, we get our car back. (There is some anger and confusion about payment for the nice tow-truck man, but eventually we agree to pay half the cost now, and Christian will pay the rest and then reimburse us when we drop the car off. Compared to car repair in the US, it's fairly cheap, and we can tell when we start the car that it is indeed fixed).
We are thrilled to be on our way and able to accelerate, so we drive all the way up to 100km per hour on the nice paved roads heading out of Cafayate. We are on our way to Cachi, where we plan to stop for a couple of hours, then head north to Tilcara. Little do we know that our appreciation for acceleration will be very short lived.
As it turns out, highway 40 is actually a pothole-ridden dirt and gravel road for the majority of it's several hundred kilometer lifespan. Thus Anna and I alternate driving on the bumpy "road" around 40km/hr at best, and finally get to Cachi sometime around 6PM. Despite the slow drive, the scenery is absolutely gorgeous: desert wastelands and harsh mountain ridges surround us, speckled with massive cacti, the occasional low stone dwelling, and even more rarely a thread of water flowing in the valley below. (When she gets back, I am sure Anna will be more than thrilled to show anyone who wants to see the 300+ pictures she took just during the course of this drive).
Realizing that the sun is setting and we are only two thirds of the way back to Salta, plus half again that distance to Tilcara, we decide not to stop and instead push on. For a while we are on a wonderful paved road weaving through the mountains, going steadily but slightly up. At one point we see a sign indicating that we are over 3300 meters above sea level, the highest I've ever been.
It was only moments after that when we turned a corner and see:
Yes, those are clouds, and not an ocean. And yes, that windy road down the mountain along the cliffs and into the clouds is our road, and we are about to drive it.
Later, we agreed that the gorgeous views made this drive worth it, but at the time Anna and I are too busy panicking to think much about it. Descending into a cloud is a magical and exciting experience, for about thirty seconds. Then, it is pretty much like driving in the thickest fog you can imagine, on a cliff-side, in the dark (because the sun has now set), and just when you think it can't get any worse, the paved road comes to an end and you are again on a dirt and gravel road just barely wider than your car (it seems), and there is no guardrail. We can't see but ten feet in front of us, and to make matters worse still, the windshield wipers don't work all that great and the windshield is smeared and foggy. I am very close to tears and just as close to bringing Anna to tears (as she's driving, and I'm alternating between cowering and whimpering and screaming GO SLOWER in her ear while we're crawling along at about 3 miles per hour) and I am half convinced we should just walk down the mountain or sleep in the car, but then we might get eaten by pumas or hit by another car or freeze to death at this insane elevation, so we keep going.
Two or three hours later, we are at the "bottom" of the mountain, and we reach some paved road, and I just want to leap out of the car and kiss the ground, so thankful am I that I am still alive.
Anyway, Anna and I make it to Tilcara around 1AM, 11 hours and many years after we left Cafayate. Our supposed 6 hour trip was finally over, and we crawl into bed in the nicest hotel beds imaginable.
We have an awesome day in Tilcara, hiking up a canyon, taking lots of pictures of cacti, visiting some ruins, eating, shopping, etc... We avoid POS (our Piece of Shit car, as we not-so-fondly dubbed it) and instead try to forget the day before while in the brilliantly colored mountains of the north. Sadly, we only have one full day in Tilcara, and have to get going the next morning, and a brief 36 hours after our last journey, start on our way back to Salta.
While we had driven from Salta two nights earlier, we realized, gazing at a map, that we hadn't taken the most direct route, and we should take a different road back, since we have to get to the airport to meet Christian and catch our flight. The drive is going well and the sunrise is gorgeous over the mountains and everything is pretty for the first hour or so. Then, we find ourselves rising. We are going up more mountains. Our road slowly dwindles to the width of one regular lane, only it's supposedly two lanes, and suddenly we are once again on a cliff edge. This time, luckily, there are trees, and sunlight, and paving, so it's not as bad as it could be. However to make it worse, I have to go pee and there is nowhere to stop on the side of the road because it's cliffs on either side, and there are tons of cars coming by, and the road is never-ending.
And if you thought that was enough, we are also running on empty, and have no idea where the next gas station is. We are out of compressed gas and are down to the last flickering light on our gas tank, and we need to catch a flight in a few hours and I am about to explode.
Finally, what feels like hours later, but it's more like an hour or so, we make it out of the mountains, and there is a little town, and we are thrilled. We find a little tourist booth and get directed to a public restroom (thank goodness), and then find out that there is no gas station in town. What. The. Fuck. A whole town without a gas station? What is this place?
Luckily, they say they sell gasoline at a convenience store down the way. We go inquire, and the woman behind the desk says she'll sell us five liters (at an exorbitant rate, but we don't care). We hang out, and a moment later we direct the woman, now carrying a giant clear gas can filled with pink fluid, to our car. We take about fifteen minutes and three people's help to get the tank open, since we need to use the key in some special manner. The woman primes the hose somehow and we hang out, this by far being our most outrageous gas-getting experience to date.
Finally, we are on the road again with enough gas to get us to Salta, and we make it to the airport only an hour later than we planned. Christian, who is supposed to meet us there, is nowhere to be found. You might be saying, "Well, it's an airport. That might be challenging." But no, there is one terminal, one road to the airport, one little street in front where we park, and there is no one around. This is the tiniest airport ever (until we get to Iguazu falls later that day).
We call Christian, and he is still in Salta. "We're at the airport. You coming? We have a flight to catch."
"Yes yes! I am coming! I will be there in ten minutes!"
Fifteen minutes go by, and we call him, and there is no answer. We manage to get a hold of him eventually, and he says, "I am in crash accident!" and some other things we don't quite understand. "I try to find taxi!"
We hang out outside the airport, wondering what the deal is. Over an hour later, we need to check in or we'll miss our flight to Iguazu, so we decide to leave the car. We aren't so cruel as to take the keys, despite the couple hundred bucks Christian owes us. Rather, we take the registration and certifications and leave a note with Anna's address in Argentina. I don't think we will ever see our money again, but there's a slim chance, and I'm waiting for a call from Anna saying she received a wad of cash in the mail. I'm not holding my breath.
And thus concludes our journey with POS, our car that was likely more trouble than it was worth. On the plus side, we did get to descend into some sweet clouds, learn some new Spanish phrases, and visit some amazing places more or less on the schedule we wanted. Also, adventure times!
Around 2PM on the day Anna and I are going to leave Cafyate, we get our car back. (There is some anger and confusion about payment for the nice tow-truck man, but eventually we agree to pay half the cost now, and Christian will pay the rest and then reimburse us when we drop the car off. Compared to car repair in the US, it's fairly cheap, and we can tell when we start the car that it is indeed fixed).
We are thrilled to be on our way and able to accelerate, so we drive all the way up to 100km per hour on the nice paved roads heading out of Cafayate. We are on our way to Cachi, where we plan to stop for a couple of hours, then head north to Tilcara. Little do we know that our appreciation for acceleration will be very short lived.
As it turns out, highway 40 is actually a pothole-ridden dirt and gravel road for the majority of it's several hundred kilometer lifespan. Thus Anna and I alternate driving on the bumpy "road" around 40km/hr at best, and finally get to Cachi sometime around 6PM. Despite the slow drive, the scenery is absolutely gorgeous: desert wastelands and harsh mountain ridges surround us, speckled with massive cacti, the occasional low stone dwelling, and even more rarely a thread of water flowing in the valley below. (When she gets back, I am sure Anna will be more than thrilled to show anyone who wants to see the 300+ pictures she took just during the course of this drive).
Realizing that the sun is setting and we are only two thirds of the way back to Salta, plus half again that distance to Tilcara, we decide not to stop and instead push on. For a while we are on a wonderful paved road weaving through the mountains, going steadily but slightly up. At one point we see a sign indicating that we are over 3300 meters above sea level, the highest I've ever been.
It was only moments after that when we turned a corner and see:
Yes, those are clouds, and not an ocean. And yes, that windy road down the mountain along the cliffs and into the clouds is our road, and we are about to drive it.
Later, we agreed that the gorgeous views made this drive worth it, but at the time Anna and I are too busy panicking to think much about it. Descending into a cloud is a magical and exciting experience, for about thirty seconds. Then, it is pretty much like driving in the thickest fog you can imagine, on a cliff-side, in the dark (because the sun has now set), and just when you think it can't get any worse, the paved road comes to an end and you are again on a dirt and gravel road just barely wider than your car (it seems), and there is no guardrail. We can't see but ten feet in front of us, and to make matters worse still, the windshield wipers don't work all that great and the windshield is smeared and foggy. I am very close to tears and just as close to bringing Anna to tears (as she's driving, and I'm alternating between cowering and whimpering and screaming GO SLOWER in her ear while we're crawling along at about 3 miles per hour) and I am half convinced we should just walk down the mountain or sleep in the car, but then we might get eaten by pumas or hit by another car or freeze to death at this insane elevation, so we keep going.
Two or three hours later, we are at the "bottom" of the mountain, and we reach some paved road, and I just want to leap out of the car and kiss the ground, so thankful am I that I am still alive.
Anyway, Anna and I make it to Tilcara around 1AM, 11 hours and many years after we left Cafayate. Our supposed 6 hour trip was finally over, and we crawl into bed in the nicest hotel beds imaginable.
We have an awesome day in Tilcara, hiking up a canyon, taking lots of pictures of cacti, visiting some ruins, eating, shopping, etc... We avoid POS (our Piece of Shit car, as we not-so-fondly dubbed it) and instead try to forget the day before while in the brilliantly colored mountains of the north. Sadly, we only have one full day in Tilcara, and have to get going the next morning, and a brief 36 hours after our last journey, start on our way back to Salta.
While we had driven from Salta two nights earlier, we realized, gazing at a map, that we hadn't taken the most direct route, and we should take a different road back, since we have to get to the airport to meet Christian and catch our flight. The drive is going well and the sunrise is gorgeous over the mountains and everything is pretty for the first hour or so. Then, we find ourselves rising. We are going up more mountains. Our road slowly dwindles to the width of one regular lane, only it's supposedly two lanes, and suddenly we are once again on a cliff edge. This time, luckily, there are trees, and sunlight, and paving, so it's not as bad as it could be. However to make it worse, I have to go pee and there is nowhere to stop on the side of the road because it's cliffs on either side, and there are tons of cars coming by, and the road is never-ending.
And if you thought that was enough, we are also running on empty, and have no idea where the next gas station is. We are out of compressed gas and are down to the last flickering light on our gas tank, and we need to catch a flight in a few hours and I am about to explode.
Finally, what feels like hours later, but it's more like an hour or so, we make it out of the mountains, and there is a little town, and we are thrilled. We find a little tourist booth and get directed to a public restroom (thank goodness), and then find out that there is no gas station in town. What. The. Fuck. A whole town without a gas station? What is this place?
Luckily, they say they sell gasoline at a convenience store down the way. We go inquire, and the woman behind the desk says she'll sell us five liters (at an exorbitant rate, but we don't care). We hang out, and a moment later we direct the woman, now carrying a giant clear gas can filled with pink fluid, to our car. We take about fifteen minutes and three people's help to get the tank open, since we need to use the key in some special manner. The woman primes the hose somehow and we hang out, this by far being our most outrageous gas-getting experience to date.
Finally, we are on the road again with enough gas to get us to Salta, and we make it to the airport only an hour later than we planned. Christian, who is supposed to meet us there, is nowhere to be found. You might be saying, "Well, it's an airport. That might be challenging." But no, there is one terminal, one road to the airport, one little street in front where we park, and there is no one around. This is the tiniest airport ever (until we get to Iguazu falls later that day).
We call Christian, and he is still in Salta. "We're at the airport. You coming? We have a flight to catch."
"Yes yes! I am coming! I will be there in ten minutes!"
Fifteen minutes go by, and we call him, and there is no answer. We manage to get a hold of him eventually, and he says, "I am in crash accident!" and some other things we don't quite understand. "I try to find taxi!"
We hang out outside the airport, wondering what the deal is. Over an hour later, we need to check in or we'll miss our flight to Iguazu, so we decide to leave the car. We aren't so cruel as to take the keys, despite the couple hundred bucks Christian owes us. Rather, we take the registration and certifications and leave a note with Anna's address in Argentina. I don't think we will ever see our money again, but there's a slim chance, and I'm waiting for a call from Anna saying she received a wad of cash in the mail. I'm not holding my breath.
And thus concludes our journey with POS, our car that was likely more trouble than it was worth. On the plus side, we did get to descend into some sweet clouds, learn some new Spanish phrases, and visit some amazing places more or less on the schedule we wanted. Also, adventure times!
Adventures in Argentina Part II: POS
In Argentina, Anna and I thought it would be a good idea to rent a car. We had an entire week to kill in the northern province of Salta, so we planned to get the car for four days to travel south to wine country, and north to high mountains.
We were staying in a hostel in Salta and had seen at least a dozen rent-a-car places around in our day there, so we decided to ask at the hostel where they recommended. So far they had done a pretty stellar job recommending things to do, places to eat, etc... This left us fairly confident that they could point us in the right direction for renting a car, which is pretty much their job, right?
In fact, they did one step better. They said, wait here, and we will call a car rental company and have them send someone over to talk about car rental with you. Sweet, right?
Skip ahead a half hour, and meet Christian. He is about 5'8'', and half his teeth are missing, supposedly from chewing too much coca (not the cola variety). Anna and I are only a little sketched out, because while Christian looks sketchy by American standards, he looks very normal for Argentinian standards, such as I know of them. Christian tells us all about what car he has, and adds that he will drop it off at the hostel and meet us at the airport in four days to pick up the car. He quotes us a rate very comparable to what we'd found online. Then he says he will return in the morning with the car, the contract, etc... So far, so good.
The next day, Christian returns and we fill out the paperwork, and part with our money, and gain access to a key and a car. It looks like a pretty normal car. It is a Ford Fiesta, black, with a handful of little scratches:
The only confusing thing is the presence of a massive tank in the trunk, which Christian explains is for the gas, by which he means compressed gas, not liquid gasoline. The gas has a tank for liquid gasoline too, in the normal place. Unfortunately, the car is empty of both gas and gasoline, so we need to fill it up at the station down the street.
The clutch is a little heavy and the brake's a little light, and the lack of stop signs or traffic lights makes intersections exciting (if possible death is exciting), but we make it to the gas station okay. Phew.
In Argentina, we discover, most gas stations are full service. So when I got out of the car, the gas station attendant standing nearby looked at me, somewhat confused, while I looked at him, also confused. I finally realized he wanted my key (which he needed to open the gas tank), which I handed to him, and I proceeded to stand around awkwardly half stretching.
It probably took me about thirty seconds to notice the liquid gushing out from underneath the car. And I mean gushing. I gaped for a second, trying to recall the correct translation in Spanish for "WHAT THE FUCK GAS IS LEAKING ALL OVER THE PLACE" and also alternately rushing forward to get the gas station attendant's attention and rushing back to avoid the giant hazard that was liters of fuel all over the ground.
Finally my frantic arm movements and concerned expression attracted the interest of the gas station attendant, who promptly stopped pumping gas into the car/onto the ground. He looked puzzled at me, and at the ground, and I'm fairly certain my concerned expression worsened. Finally I managed the only Spanish phrase I could think of that was remotely appropriate to the situation: "Que paso?"
Unfortunately "What happened?" didn't have quite the frantic/distressed/angry connotation I was going for. Which might explain the gas station attendant's reply of, "No worries, this happens all the time when you overfill the tank."
Really? All the time? You spill gas all over the ground all the time? And you're okay with that? And customers are okay with that? That's like10$! Ten very flammable dollars!
All of which I would have said if I spoke better Spanish. Instead I settled for wild arm motions, concerned expressions, the occasional angry glance, and looking around for Anna. She eventually came back from getting some coffee, and we managed to get the car started, and I was only somewhat terrified that the whole thing was going to explode.
Next stop: the other side of the gas station, where they sell gas, not gasoline. We drive around, and this time I am all prepared to wait in the car. I'm chilling and the gas attendant is looking at my like I'm crazy, and saying some words in Spanish very quickly, and I am just smiling and nodding, which works a lot back home. Moments later Anna convinces me that we actually have to get out of the car, and stand 40 feet away while the car is being filled with compressed gas.
This makes me nervous, on top of the nervous I was already feeling from our gasoline leak moments earlier. I am busy envisioning our Ford Fiesta exploding like in a James Bond flick with us burning to a crisp inside, our blackened and melting fingers smearing against the glass windows.
I try to push these thoughts away as I get back in the car and start to drive. Finally, we are on our way, and I'm driving, and I'm trying not to think of the pressurized gas in the trunk and the gasoline that could still be leaking for all I know and the possibility of the entire vehicle exploding in a giant fireball.
But it is super exciting because we are on the road and we're in Argentina and we're going to see vineyards and pretty mountains and other unknown things! This is the mood that carries us for the next 100km or so.
Unfortunately, I notice that the longer we drive, the more trouble the car has going faster. It's not slowing down exactly, but not really accelerating either. 60km/hour is the new max speed and changing gears doesn't seem to affect the RPM at all and stepping on the gas is having little effect.
At first I think that the car just has a small engine and I was too concerned earlier with the possibilities of exploding to realize it, but then I think that there really might be a problem with the car. We pull over and discuss our situation. We finally decide to keep going, since we're about halfway to where we're going anyway, and the car is still running, albeit a little weirdly. We'll just be gentle, right?
Fifty kilometers on, and another forty until we reach the next town, and we are on the side of the road, in the middle of the desert, surrounded by mountains, a few scraggly bushes and not much else, without cell phone reception.
The first thing I do is go pee behind a big rock, because I've been holding it in for the past two hours, and I can't wait any longer. Then I watch Anna climb an even bigger rock to try and find cell phone reception. Later, some nice people in their car stop and speak a lot of Spanish, and I get the impression that they are going to call a tow truck when they get service again, and it'll only be an hour or so. More people stop, and I take pictures of our car, stranded, and more people stop, and we push the car a bit, and some people try to drive it, and someone diagnoses the problem for us (it's the clutch, or embrago, as I learn), and I throw rocks for a while, and we tell stories, and eventually a tow truck comes.
There is a fair bit of haggling since we are not at all inclined to pay for the tow truck, since this isn't our car, and it's the responsibility of the car rental company. Thankfully the nice Argentinian tow truck man accepts that and gives us a ride anyway. It's around this time that I realize my camera is missing. This is totally unrelated to the car story, except that now I have no pictures to show you of the car stranded on the side of the road.
Luis (the tow-truck man) drops us off at the hostel, which is coincidentally around the corner from the car repair place where he works. I guess it's not really that coincidental because the entire town consists of about three streets and five corners.
Anyway we spend the evening trying to relax and also trying to get in touch with Christian, who is even harder to get in touch with by phone than Brian (those of you who know him get this). We finally manage to reach him and explain the situation, and the bargaining begins.
Initially we were going to simply leave the car and catch a bus back up to Salta later on and try to get our money back. However, Luis tells us he can fix the car and it will be ready in a day and a half, so we agree to take the car and finish the second half of our trip, and just get our money back for the two days we couldn't use the car when we get back to Salta.
In the meantime Anna and I spend an awesome day and a half in Cafayate, biking to vineyards, doing wine tastings (free), eating, shopping, sleeping, and looking at pretty mountains. Overall we decide that much worse things could have happened.
To be continued in Adventures in Argentina Part III: POS Continued.
We were staying in a hostel in Salta and had seen at least a dozen rent-a-car places around in our day there, so we decided to ask at the hostel where they recommended. So far they had done a pretty stellar job recommending things to do, places to eat, etc... This left us fairly confident that they could point us in the right direction for renting a car, which is pretty much their job, right?
In fact, they did one step better. They said, wait here, and we will call a car rental company and have them send someone over to talk about car rental with you. Sweet, right?
Skip ahead a half hour, and meet Christian. He is about 5'8'', and half his teeth are missing, supposedly from chewing too much coca (not the cola variety). Anna and I are only a little sketched out, because while Christian looks sketchy by American standards, he looks very normal for Argentinian standards, such as I know of them. Christian tells us all about what car he has, and adds that he will drop it off at the hostel and meet us at the airport in four days to pick up the car. He quotes us a rate very comparable to what we'd found online. Then he says he will return in the morning with the car, the contract, etc... So far, so good.
The next day, Christian returns and we fill out the paperwork, and part with our money, and gain access to a key and a car. It looks like a pretty normal car. It is a Ford Fiesta, black, with a handful of little scratches:
The only confusing thing is the presence of a massive tank in the trunk, which Christian explains is for the gas, by which he means compressed gas, not liquid gasoline. The gas has a tank for liquid gasoline too, in the normal place. Unfortunately, the car is empty of both gas and gasoline, so we need to fill it up at the station down the street.
The clutch is a little heavy and the brake's a little light, and the lack of stop signs or traffic lights makes intersections exciting (if possible death is exciting), but we make it to the gas station okay. Phew.
In Argentina, we discover, most gas stations are full service. So when I got out of the car, the gas station attendant standing nearby looked at me, somewhat confused, while I looked at him, also confused. I finally realized he wanted my key (which he needed to open the gas tank), which I handed to him, and I proceeded to stand around awkwardly half stretching.
It probably took me about thirty seconds to notice the liquid gushing out from underneath the car. And I mean gushing. I gaped for a second, trying to recall the correct translation in Spanish for "WHAT THE FUCK GAS IS LEAKING ALL OVER THE PLACE" and also alternately rushing forward to get the gas station attendant's attention and rushing back to avoid the giant hazard that was liters of fuel all over the ground.
Finally my frantic arm movements and concerned expression attracted the interest of the gas station attendant, who promptly stopped pumping gas into the car/onto the ground. He looked puzzled at me, and at the ground, and I'm fairly certain my concerned expression worsened. Finally I managed the only Spanish phrase I could think of that was remotely appropriate to the situation: "Que paso?"
Unfortunately "What happened?" didn't have quite the frantic/distressed/angry connotation I was going for. Which might explain the gas station attendant's reply of, "No worries, this happens all the time when you overfill the tank."
Really? All the time? You spill gas all over the ground all the time? And you're okay with that? And customers are okay with that? That's like10$! Ten very flammable dollars!
All of which I would have said if I spoke better Spanish. Instead I settled for wild arm motions, concerned expressions, the occasional angry glance, and looking around for Anna. She eventually came back from getting some coffee, and we managed to get the car started, and I was only somewhat terrified that the whole thing was going to explode.
Next stop: the other side of the gas station, where they sell gas, not gasoline. We drive around, and this time I am all prepared to wait in the car. I'm chilling and the gas attendant is looking at my like I'm crazy, and saying some words in Spanish very quickly, and I am just smiling and nodding, which works a lot back home. Moments later Anna convinces me that we actually have to get out of the car, and stand 40 feet away while the car is being filled with compressed gas.
This makes me nervous, on top of the nervous I was already feeling from our gasoline leak moments earlier. I am busy envisioning our Ford Fiesta exploding like in a James Bond flick with us burning to a crisp inside, our blackened and melting fingers smearing against the glass windows.
I try to push these thoughts away as I get back in the car and start to drive. Finally, we are on our way, and I'm driving, and I'm trying not to think of the pressurized gas in the trunk and the gasoline that could still be leaking for all I know and the possibility of the entire vehicle exploding in a giant fireball.
But it is super exciting because we are on the road and we're in Argentina and we're going to see vineyards and pretty mountains and other unknown things! This is the mood that carries us for the next 100km or so.
Unfortunately, I notice that the longer we drive, the more trouble the car has going faster. It's not slowing down exactly, but not really accelerating either. 60km/hour is the new max speed and changing gears doesn't seem to affect the RPM at all and stepping on the gas is having little effect.
At first I think that the car just has a small engine and I was too concerned earlier with the possibilities of exploding to realize it, but then I think that there really might be a problem with the car. We pull over and discuss our situation. We finally decide to keep going, since we're about halfway to where we're going anyway, and the car is still running, albeit a little weirdly. We'll just be gentle, right?
Fifty kilometers on, and another forty until we reach the next town, and we are on the side of the road, in the middle of the desert, surrounded by mountains, a few scraggly bushes and not much else, without cell phone reception.
The first thing I do is go pee behind a big rock, because I've been holding it in for the past two hours, and I can't wait any longer. Then I watch Anna climb an even bigger rock to try and find cell phone reception. Later, some nice people in their car stop and speak a lot of Spanish, and I get the impression that they are going to call a tow truck when they get service again, and it'll only be an hour or so. More people stop, and I take pictures of our car, stranded, and more people stop, and we push the car a bit, and some people try to drive it, and someone diagnoses the problem for us (it's the clutch, or embrago, as I learn), and I throw rocks for a while, and we tell stories, and eventually a tow truck comes.
There is a fair bit of haggling since we are not at all inclined to pay for the tow truck, since this isn't our car, and it's the responsibility of the car rental company. Thankfully the nice Argentinian tow truck man accepts that and gives us a ride anyway. It's around this time that I realize my camera is missing. This is totally unrelated to the car story, except that now I have no pictures to show you of the car stranded on the side of the road.
Luis (the tow-truck man) drops us off at the hostel, which is coincidentally around the corner from the car repair place where he works. I guess it's not really that coincidental because the entire town consists of about three streets and five corners.
Anyway we spend the evening trying to relax and also trying to get in touch with Christian, who is even harder to get in touch with by phone than Brian (those of you who know him get this). We finally manage to reach him and explain the situation, and the bargaining begins.
Initially we were going to simply leave the car and catch a bus back up to Salta later on and try to get our money back. However, Luis tells us he can fix the car and it will be ready in a day and a half, so we agree to take the car and finish the second half of our trip, and just get our money back for the two days we couldn't use the car when we get back to Salta.
In the meantime Anna and I spend an awesome day and a half in Cafayate, biking to vineyards, doing wine tastings (free), eating, shopping, sleeping, and looking at pretty mountains. Overall we decide that much worse things could have happened.
To be continued in Adventures in Argentina Part III: POS Continued.
July 28, 2011
Argentina Part 1: Impressions
As many of you know, I recently spent a couple of weeks down in the wonderful, interesting, and exciting country of Argentina. For those of you who may not have heard of this place, it is in South America, below Brazil, Paraguay, Uruguay, and just about everything really. It is thus, sadly, very far away.
Rather than giving you all a play-by-play of my two weeks down there, I will instead start with a few impressions I had of various Argentinian things, and later perhaps give you a detailed account of certain adventures you might find amusing.
The People
I know usually they say to leave the best for last, but I am just so freaking excited about the people of Argentina that I have to talk about them first. Then again, I am not quite sure exactly what to say. I can't really express how freaking awesome and kind and generous and welcoming Argentinians are (for the most part). You will just have to take my word for it, or hopefully, visit one day.
In Buenos Aires, Anna and I stayed with some old family friends of my mom's. When I say old, I mean that they hadn't seen each other or been in touch for some 20 years (short of a very brief stay last year). I have never met these people, yet they (Millie and Martin) picked me and Anna up from the airport, cooked us dinner, gave us a bed for three nights, spare keys, and more or less anything we could possibly want or imagine, including food, comfort, DVDs of House Season 6, wine, and more food. Plus, Millie's brother Eloy and his girlfriend invited us to their house for dinner, spent a couple of hours cooking an awesome asado (aka meat. Lots and lots of amazing grilled meat) for us, then took us out to a club in Buenos Aires with some sweet live music. Pretty darned awesome if you ask me.
Okay, you might say that this kind of treatment isn't that unusual, and that I'm practically family, and of course you are going to treat your guests well. But I am telling you, that sort of kindness was apparent from more or less all the Argentinians we met. As another example, people tend to ask cab drivers in Argentina for directions. In the middle of the road, while driving. Not only do the cab drivers roll down their windows, but they actually give directions. Correct ones! Usually with pointing and smiling too! Imagine that in NYC.
Another thing about the cab drivers: they love to chat with you. I mean, nearly every cab driver we met (which was quite a few), asked us how we liked Buenos Aires and Argentina, told us all kinds of interesting things, wished us good luck, gave us advice, talked soccer with us, whatever. It was pretty awesome, except for the mental anguish of having to think in so much Spanish.
In nearly every hostel we stayed in, the hosts or people who worked their went out of their way to be friendly. Not just in the you're-giving-me-money-and-business friendliness, but honest curiosity and concern. Patricia, one of the women who worked at our hostel in Cafayate, sat down and played cards with us for a couple of hours. The guy at the Tilcara hostel was so friendly I thought Anna was going to take him home with her, and I may have been slightly tempted myself.
The laundry man we went to in Cafayate talked to us for no less than 30 minutes when we dropped off our dirty clothes. He told us all sorts of things and seemed genuinely excited to get to talk about his town. And he didn't just do this when we brought in our clothes, but continued our conversation when we came to pick them up later that night sometime around 11:30, despite the fact that the place closed at 9 and he had no other customers.
Luis, the mechanic we met through circumstances that I will describe in another blog (dun dun dunnnn), gave us his personal cell phone number and asked us to come by his place whenever to check up on things, which we did.
When Anna and I were in need of help (again, I'll get to this in another blog), at least four or five groups of people stopped to offer advice, help, and friendliness.
Anyway, I don't know if my stories quite conveyed the overall feeling of trusting and generosity and kindness I got from nearly everyone we met in Argentina, but it was simply stunning. The people were perhaps my favorite thing about Argentina, and it makes me a little sad to say that Americans just don't have that reputation of being so laid back, sweet, and helpful towards strangers and visitors to their country. We should change that!
The Driving
Now that I have given you such a wonderful and idealistic image of Argentinians, I am ready to crush it all. Because, let me tell you, they drive like maniacs. They may or may not actually have rules of the road in Argentina, but they certainly don't follow them. Things like stop signs, traffic lights, lanes, speed limits, and road signs are more like suggestions than rules, and fairly poor suggestions at that. Most intersections have neither stop signs nor traffic lights, and it's something of a first-come first-serve battle of the vehicles to see who crosses first and fastest.
Now, I know this is coming from someone spoiled from the first world, but when you see a highway marked on a map with numbers and a nice steady black line, you are inclined to think that people actually might use said road, and that it might actually be a road. Think again. A thick black line on a map labeled "Highway 32" or some such is just as likely to be a tiny dirt road than a paved highway. It may or may not ever pass conveniences like gas stations of people.
Something else about driving in Argentina. Here, we predominately drive our cars on gas (gasoline). In Argentina, they drive their cars not only on gas, but also on gasoline. Which is to say that in the trunk of every car is a giant tank that looks like it would be more comfortable on the back of a scuba diver than in a motor vehicle, which is filled with compressed gas, on which the car can also run. Somewhere in each car is also supposedly a regular gas tank. This confusing state of affairs will be touched upon at a later time. Suffice to say that Argentinian drivers are insane, as are their roads, and their gas/gasoline stations.
The Water Problem
I should perhaps have titled this little section the Water Distribution Problem. It isn't that Argentinians don't have enough or have too much water. They just have a really poor idea of how to distribute it. For example, in the north, the majority of your "rivers" look about like this:
Which is to say, there is quite a large trench where water should be, but perhaps only a tiny muddy trickle of anything resembling water, and in many "rivers", no water at all. Anna and I came upon at least four or five such rivers which all seemed very prepared to contain a great deal more water, and perhaps were a little sad about their pathetically dry state. In no fewer than two of these river beds did we see large construction equipment. It seems as though Argentina is preparing to widen and deepen their river trenches in order to coax more water to flow. I wish them the best of luck in this endeavor.
In other parts of the country, however, like in the northeast, we have a vast abundance of water. Perhaps an absurd amount of water. Way more water than any reasonable river really needs:
This image is perhaps only a third or a quarter of the river, but I couldn't fit it all in one shot. I tried telling the Argentinians that they should work on their water distribution, and perhaps try to even it out a bit, but my Spanish is a little rusty, and I think they missed the point. Perhaps they were convinced their bulldozers and rototillers were already on their way to making more water in the too-dry areas, and the tourists were enough to soak up the extra water in the too-wet places. I just hope that one day, they will manage to have a little river equality in their country.
The "Winter"
They told me, "It's winter in the southern hemisphere now! It's July! Bring warm clothes!" So I did. I brought layers and sweaters and a ski coat and boots and extra socks and long pants. Little did I know, "winter" in Argentina (admittedly, only the parts of Argentina farther north than Buenos Aires), really means t-shirt weather. Some days, I maybe needed a light jacket. The cacti and palm trees that were more or less ubiquitous indicated that "winter" this close to the equator really means mild to perfect temperatures ranging from 65-75, almost perpetual sunshine, and chilly nights to keep the mosquitoes at bay. This may or may not be a con for you, depending on how you like perfect weather, t-shirts, etc... I'm inclined to love it, especially since I was missing 110 degree weather back home, and my lack of t-shirts proved only slightly problematic.
The Food
Okay I know I said that the people were the best thing about Argentina, but I may have been lying. The food was amazing. Amazing and cheap. Really cheap. I'm usually an almost-vegetarian and haven't missed steak or really any kind of red meat (or chicken for that matter) much at all in the past couple of years. On occasion I would get a craving for bacon or lamb, but that's about it. In Argentina, however, I discovered what steak can be. It was divine. It was wonderful. It was perhaps one of the most delicious and flavorful things I have ever consumed. And, I could buy a giant steak (the size of your face, if you have a large face), two sausages, two pints of beer, and a giant basket of fries for fifteen US dollars. I can't get over that.
Argentina is also famous for empanadas, which are little pastry things filled with meat or chicken or veggies or whatever, and they are delicious. They are also dirt cheap. Like seventy cents each cheap. Even I couldn't eat more than maybe five at a go, and that's after hiking all day.
Other than meat and empanadas, Argentinians love themselves some alfajores. These are something like little cakes, and something like cookies, and are filled with chocolate or dulce de leche and are amazing. They are like the Argentinian candy, and so much better than candy. Which brings me to dulce de leche. I wasn't a huge fan at first, since dulce de leche is basically spreadable sugar with a hint of vanilla or caramel, but it grows on you. Also, it's cheap, and everywhere, and insanely sweet.
The only bad thing I can think to say about the food from Argentina is that it's all in Argentina, and not here. Frig.
That about sums it up for my general impressions of Argentina, at a glance. Next up: Adventures with POS.
Rather than giving you all a play-by-play of my two weeks down there, I will instead start with a few impressions I had of various Argentinian things, and later perhaps give you a detailed account of certain adventures you might find amusing.
The People
I know usually they say to leave the best for last, but I am just so freaking excited about the people of Argentina that I have to talk about them first. Then again, I am not quite sure exactly what to say. I can't really express how freaking awesome and kind and generous and welcoming Argentinians are (for the most part). You will just have to take my word for it, or hopefully, visit one day.
In Buenos Aires, Anna and I stayed with some old family friends of my mom's. When I say old, I mean that they hadn't seen each other or been in touch for some 20 years (short of a very brief stay last year). I have never met these people, yet they (Millie and Martin) picked me and Anna up from the airport, cooked us dinner, gave us a bed for three nights, spare keys, and more or less anything we could possibly want or imagine, including food, comfort, DVDs of House Season 6, wine, and more food. Plus, Millie's brother Eloy and his girlfriend invited us to their house for dinner, spent a couple of hours cooking an awesome asado (aka meat. Lots and lots of amazing grilled meat) for us, then took us out to a club in Buenos Aires with some sweet live music. Pretty darned awesome if you ask me.
Okay, you might say that this kind of treatment isn't that unusual, and that I'm practically family, and of course you are going to treat your guests well. But I am telling you, that sort of kindness was apparent from more or less all the Argentinians we met. As another example, people tend to ask cab drivers in Argentina for directions. In the middle of the road, while driving. Not only do the cab drivers roll down their windows, but they actually give directions. Correct ones! Usually with pointing and smiling too! Imagine that in NYC.
Another thing about the cab drivers: they love to chat with you. I mean, nearly every cab driver we met (which was quite a few), asked us how we liked Buenos Aires and Argentina, told us all kinds of interesting things, wished us good luck, gave us advice, talked soccer with us, whatever. It was pretty awesome, except for the mental anguish of having to think in so much Spanish.
In nearly every hostel we stayed in, the hosts or people who worked their went out of their way to be friendly. Not just in the you're-giving-me-money-and-business friendliness, but honest curiosity and concern. Patricia, one of the women who worked at our hostel in Cafayate, sat down and played cards with us for a couple of hours. The guy at the Tilcara hostel was so friendly I thought Anna was going to take him home with her, and I may have been slightly tempted myself.
The laundry man we went to in Cafayate talked to us for no less than 30 minutes when we dropped off our dirty clothes. He told us all sorts of things and seemed genuinely excited to get to talk about his town. And he didn't just do this when we brought in our clothes, but continued our conversation when we came to pick them up later that night sometime around 11:30, despite the fact that the place closed at 9 and he had no other customers.
Luis, the mechanic we met through circumstances that I will describe in another blog (dun dun dunnnn), gave us his personal cell phone number and asked us to come by his place whenever to check up on things, which we did.
When Anna and I were in need of help (again, I'll get to this in another blog), at least four or five groups of people stopped to offer advice, help, and friendliness.
Anyway, I don't know if my stories quite conveyed the overall feeling of trusting and generosity and kindness I got from nearly everyone we met in Argentina, but it was simply stunning. The people were perhaps my favorite thing about Argentina, and it makes me a little sad to say that Americans just don't have that reputation of being so laid back, sweet, and helpful towards strangers and visitors to their country. We should change that!
The Driving
Now that I have given you such a wonderful and idealistic image of Argentinians, I am ready to crush it all. Because, let me tell you, they drive like maniacs. They may or may not actually have rules of the road in Argentina, but they certainly don't follow them. Things like stop signs, traffic lights, lanes, speed limits, and road signs are more like suggestions than rules, and fairly poor suggestions at that. Most intersections have neither stop signs nor traffic lights, and it's something of a first-come first-serve battle of the vehicles to see who crosses first and fastest.
Now, I know this is coming from someone spoiled from the first world, but when you see a highway marked on a map with numbers and a nice steady black line, you are inclined to think that people actually might use said road, and that it might actually be a road. Think again. A thick black line on a map labeled "Highway 32" or some such is just as likely to be a tiny dirt road than a paved highway. It may or may not ever pass conveniences like gas stations of people.
Something else about driving in Argentina. Here, we predominately drive our cars on gas (gasoline). In Argentina, they drive their cars not only on gas, but also on gasoline. Which is to say that in the trunk of every car is a giant tank that looks like it would be more comfortable on the back of a scuba diver than in a motor vehicle, which is filled with compressed gas, on which the car can also run. Somewhere in each car is also supposedly a regular gas tank. This confusing state of affairs will be touched upon at a later time. Suffice to say that Argentinian drivers are insane, as are their roads, and their gas/gasoline stations.
The Water Problem
I should perhaps have titled this little section the Water Distribution Problem. It isn't that Argentinians don't have enough or have too much water. They just have a really poor idea of how to distribute it. For example, in the north, the majority of your "rivers" look about like this:
In other parts of the country, however, like in the northeast, we have a vast abundance of water. Perhaps an absurd amount of water. Way more water than any reasonable river really needs:
The "Winter"
They told me, "It's winter in the southern hemisphere now! It's July! Bring warm clothes!" So I did. I brought layers and sweaters and a ski coat and boots and extra socks and long pants. Little did I know, "winter" in Argentina (admittedly, only the parts of Argentina farther north than Buenos Aires), really means t-shirt weather. Some days, I maybe needed a light jacket. The cacti and palm trees that were more or less ubiquitous indicated that "winter" this close to the equator really means mild to perfect temperatures ranging from 65-75, almost perpetual sunshine, and chilly nights to keep the mosquitoes at bay. This may or may not be a con for you, depending on how you like perfect weather, t-shirts, etc... I'm inclined to love it, especially since I was missing 110 degree weather back home, and my lack of t-shirts proved only slightly problematic.
The Food
Okay I know I said that the people were the best thing about Argentina, but I may have been lying. The food was amazing. Amazing and cheap. Really cheap. I'm usually an almost-vegetarian and haven't missed steak or really any kind of red meat (or chicken for that matter) much at all in the past couple of years. On occasion I would get a craving for bacon or lamb, but that's about it. In Argentina, however, I discovered what steak can be. It was divine. It was wonderful. It was perhaps one of the most delicious and flavorful things I have ever consumed. And, I could buy a giant steak (the size of your face, if you have a large face), two sausages, two pints of beer, and a giant basket of fries for fifteen US dollars. I can't get over that.
Argentina is also famous for empanadas, which are little pastry things filled with meat or chicken or veggies or whatever, and they are delicious. They are also dirt cheap. Like seventy cents each cheap. Even I couldn't eat more than maybe five at a go, and that's after hiking all day.
Other than meat and empanadas, Argentinians love themselves some alfajores. These are something like little cakes, and something like cookies, and are filled with chocolate or dulce de leche and are amazing. They are like the Argentinian candy, and so much better than candy. Which brings me to dulce de leche. I wasn't a huge fan at first, since dulce de leche is basically spreadable sugar with a hint of vanilla or caramel, but it grows on you. Also, it's cheap, and everywhere, and insanely sweet.
The only bad thing I can think to say about the food from Argentina is that it's all in Argentina, and not here. Frig.
That about sums it up for my general impressions of Argentina, at a glance. Next up: Adventures with POS.
July 9, 2011
ADD
I am fairly certain that I have MADD. What's MADD, you might ask? It's the term I've decided on for my particular brand of ADD: Melanie ADD. It differs somewhat from the typical ADD. Let me explain.
You see, I get bored incredibly easily, and lose focus constantly, but only with certain things. With other things I have the patience of a saint. Okay, probably not a saint, but some patience, anyway.
For example, I can sit down and read a book for hours and not get bored. And when I say hours, I mean like 10-12 hours, not 2-3 hours. When I want to study, I can focus like nobody's business. I can go over biochemistry problems and organic chemistry mechanisms unceasingly for a whole day, two days, several days even, without flinching. And don't even get me started on the number of hours I've spent writing essays.
Anyone who has been around me reading, writing, or studying understands the depth of that focus. You could talk about me right next to me and I wouldn't hear a word you say. You could have a dance party in the same room and I probably wouldn't notice. It is a wonderful (and for some people, infuriating) tic of mine.
On a side note, this sometimes pisses the hell out of my parents, brother, boyfriend, and friends. Often someone will ask me a question or say something while I'm reading. Moments later we will inevitably have a conversation that goes like this:
"Melanie. Melanie. MELANIE. Didn't you hear me?"
"Uh, what? Were you talking to me just now?"
"There is no one else in the room. I only said your name a dozen times. You even responded. I'm standing right next to you."
"Huh. So what were you saying again?" And I won't have any recollection of any of that. That's how focused I can be (or oblivious, if you're irritated about it). This actually happened once while I was watching dancers, and two people were having a very loud conversation about me (jokingly, I assume) immediately behind me. I think I ruined the funny part by not noticing in the slightest.
I can also sit on a sailboat and think all afternoon without getting bored. I can be entertained for an hour or more with a piece of string, or a remote control (forget the TV), or a stick (see you can write in the sand with it, or make a little tepee if you have a few, or you can pretend it's a sword, or a staff, or any of another dozen things). I have in my life undertaken somewhat daunting tasks for days, like trying to make myself ambidextrous, or trying to catch wild animals (really, who hasn't?).
So what makes me think I am ADD?
It is all the other things. The conversations that start and end abruptly and change topic a dozen times in under a minute. The near inability to hold onto one thread of thought for minutes on end. The challenge of holding eye contact instead of gazing around at all the random things in the room/space I am occupying. I have (despite my obliviousness) noticed that most other people do not have these difficulties.
For example, you may have noticed how short these paragraphs are (generally). I am making a serious effort almost all the time when blogging to stay on topic. It's actually quite a bit of a problem, and one of the reasons I don't post as often as I should, and also end up with a lot of side notes (such as this one. I meant to say, I edit profusely. I didn't really want to admit that, but there you go).
My highschool friends used to tell me I was like a goldfish. By the time I'd swum to one side of the bowl, I'd forgotten the other side. I think they were more referring to my lack of memory than my poor attention span, but either way works.
Speaking of fish, the few times Brian has taken me fishing, it has been incredibly challenging to not reel in and recast immediately after casting. Supposedly you have to leave the bait hanging out for a while to attract the fish. This. This is ridiculous.
Anyway, what was I saying? Ah yes, what makes me ADD. Well like I said, there are many times I get bored really easily, and can't pay attention to anything. Work can be like this. Planning experiments is very mentally taxing, simply because I have to pay attention to a lot of things at once, and can't let my mind wander. Most of my screw-ups at work have little to do with intelligence and everything to do with focus. Unfortunately, one without the other isn't particularly useful.
This is also a reason I am pretty obsessive about lists and post-its. Really, really obsessive. Anna can attest to this since she lived with me in college. No joke, my desk was constantly covered in post-its. I couldn't remember or focus on anything I needed to remember long enough to actually commit it to memory, so I wrote it down. I would never have done homework otherwise, which maybe wouldn't have been that big a loss, in retrospect.
Anyway, the really curious thing that really led me to think about my ADD-ness is the internet. You would think that the internet has a near infinite capacity to appease boredom and keep one's attention. I mean, you can look up anything you want to know (just about), play more games than you probably knew existed, talk to complete strangers, talk to your friends, watch videos, read comics, write, and much more.
And yet, I get bored on the internet in a matter of minutes. I kid you not. I get on my computer in the mornings and three minutes later I'm like, "Well, the internet sure is boring. It hasn't changed much since yesterday." This happens about three or four times a day.
I feel like maybe I'm doing the internet wrong. Perhaps I should try playing more games. Or reading more of the news, or something. But so far everything I've tried gets boring really quickly. Writing is the only thing I can do for more than ten minutes without having to find something in real life to occupy my attention.
What about facebook, you might be wondering. That's boring too! I mean, I like the ability to connect with people far away and get in touch fairly easily, but I usually check facebook once a day or every other day. And even then I'll spend about five minutes looking at the news feed and then wander away. This is a real problem on gchat as I tend to leave a lot of conversations in the middle, to some of my friends' bemusement. Later, I blame it on science.
All I know is that the internet is a fairly boring place. Pretty much anything I can do on the internet I can do in real life, only it's better. Like play games! Settlers of Catan would be much less fun not in person, and one of my favorite parts of solitaire is being able to cheat. Yeah, I cheat on solitaire. That game is f---ed up.
Or meet people. That's more fun in real life too, especially since you can avoid the creepers much more easily.
Accessing information is a fair bit more challenging in person than on the internet, depending on what you need to know. But libraries do still exist, and my favorite means of finding stuff out, which is asking people, is also better in person. (On a side note, I tried asking someone for help online a little while ago and within five minutes was referenced to managemylife.com... I am now also convinced that people are more polite in person).
I understand that the internet is useful for lots of things. So far though, entertainment and appeasing boredom haven't made it on that list. This isn't to say there aren't things I love about the internet. I read about a dozen webcomics almost daily, love being able to read the news online, and check google traffic all the time. However, I still can't be online for more than ten minutes without getting bored, and I have yet to be bored and turn to the internet for relief. (The one exception to this so far has been watching Naruto. That show is awesome. I don't care if your six-year-old watches it too. He has good taste).
Now maybe this aversion to the internet is common. Perhaps there are many people out there who find the internet equally mundane. But I have my doubts.
For example, Brian comes home from work sometimes and the first thing he does is get online. I wonder at his mental prowess, since he works with computers all day, and yet still finds the capacity to handle them outside work as well. At first I wondered about this special power of his. Within two or three minutes I would be peering over his shoulder in vague amazement, pestering him with questions like, "What are you doing?" and, "What's so interesting?" But it turns out that the internet is actually relaxing/fun for him, and whatever he was doing wouldn't hold me interest in the slightest.
This internet-ease seems to be the case for many others. It would certainly explain smartphones. And Twitter. And a lot of other things I find baffling.
Anyway when I started thinking about how uninteresting I find the internet, I figured that there must be something wrong with me. Many people (probably most of the people I know) spend hours on the internet a day, doing all sorts of supposedly interesting or necessary things. Many more turn to the internet for entertainment on a regular basis.
It was in pondering this that I considered (not for the first time) that I might actually be ADD. An inability to focus on something might explain this bizarre disinterest. And also a lot of other things, like the spastic conversations, the meandering blog posts, the challenge of group work, and the random difficulties I encounter at work and in life.
To be fair, many of those things might be entirely separate problems. I probably have many. But I'm not talking about those right now. So moving on.
Okay someone just informed me that an ability to focus intently is actually a symptom of ADD. Frig. Perhaps I am actually ADD, and not just MADD, or SADD (sarcastically ADD) although I like both those acronyms better.
Also no, I didn't look up anything about ADD before writing this. I have no factual evidence whatsoever for anything in this blog post. This is based entirely on anecdotes and assumptions. So sue me.
Okay time for some cooking and then a book!
The End!
You see, I get bored incredibly easily, and lose focus constantly, but only with certain things. With other things I have the patience of a saint. Okay, probably not a saint, but some patience, anyway.
For example, I can sit down and read a book for hours and not get bored. And when I say hours, I mean like 10-12 hours, not 2-3 hours. When I want to study, I can focus like nobody's business. I can go over biochemistry problems and organic chemistry mechanisms unceasingly for a whole day, two days, several days even, without flinching. And don't even get me started on the number of hours I've spent writing essays.
Anyone who has been around me reading, writing, or studying understands the depth of that focus. You could talk about me right next to me and I wouldn't hear a word you say. You could have a dance party in the same room and I probably wouldn't notice. It is a wonderful (and for some people, infuriating) tic of mine.
On a side note, this sometimes pisses the hell out of my parents, brother, boyfriend, and friends. Often someone will ask me a question or say something while I'm reading. Moments later we will inevitably have a conversation that goes like this:
"Melanie. Melanie. MELANIE. Didn't you hear me?"
"Uh, what? Were you talking to me just now?"
"There is no one else in the room. I only said your name a dozen times. You even responded. I'm standing right next to you."
"Huh. So what were you saying again?" And I won't have any recollection of any of that. That's how focused I can be (or oblivious, if you're irritated about it). This actually happened once while I was watching dancers, and two people were having a very loud conversation about me (jokingly, I assume) immediately behind me. I think I ruined the funny part by not noticing in the slightest.
I can also sit on a sailboat and think all afternoon without getting bored. I can be entertained for an hour or more with a piece of string, or a remote control (forget the TV), or a stick (see you can write in the sand with it, or make a little tepee if you have a few, or you can pretend it's a sword, or a staff, or any of another dozen things). I have in my life undertaken somewhat daunting tasks for days, like trying to make myself ambidextrous, or trying to catch wild animals (really, who hasn't?).
So what makes me think I am ADD?
It is all the other things. The conversations that start and end abruptly and change topic a dozen times in under a minute. The near inability to hold onto one thread of thought for minutes on end. The challenge of holding eye contact instead of gazing around at all the random things in the room/space I am occupying. I have (despite my obliviousness) noticed that most other people do not have these difficulties.
For example, you may have noticed how short these paragraphs are (generally). I am making a serious effort almost all the time when blogging to stay on topic. It's actually quite a bit of a problem, and one of the reasons I don't post as often as I should, and also end up with a lot of side notes (such as this one. I meant to say, I edit profusely. I didn't really want to admit that, but there you go).
My highschool friends used to tell me I was like a goldfish. By the time I'd swum to one side of the bowl, I'd forgotten the other side. I think they were more referring to my lack of memory than my poor attention span, but either way works.
Speaking of fish, the few times Brian has taken me fishing, it has been incredibly challenging to not reel in and recast immediately after casting. Supposedly you have to leave the bait hanging out for a while to attract the fish. This. This is ridiculous.
Anyway, what was I saying? Ah yes, what makes me ADD. Well like I said, there are many times I get bored really easily, and can't pay attention to anything. Work can be like this. Planning experiments is very mentally taxing, simply because I have to pay attention to a lot of things at once, and can't let my mind wander. Most of my screw-ups at work have little to do with intelligence and everything to do with focus. Unfortunately, one without the other isn't particularly useful.
This is also a reason I am pretty obsessive about lists and post-its. Really, really obsessive. Anna can attest to this since she lived with me in college. No joke, my desk was constantly covered in post-its. I couldn't remember or focus on anything I needed to remember long enough to actually commit it to memory, so I wrote it down. I would never have done homework otherwise, which maybe wouldn't have been that big a loss, in retrospect.
Anyway, the really curious thing that really led me to think about my ADD-ness is the internet. You would think that the internet has a near infinite capacity to appease boredom and keep one's attention. I mean, you can look up anything you want to know (just about), play more games than you probably knew existed, talk to complete strangers, talk to your friends, watch videos, read comics, write, and much more.
And yet, I get bored on the internet in a matter of minutes. I kid you not. I get on my computer in the mornings and three minutes later I'm like, "Well, the internet sure is boring. It hasn't changed much since yesterday." This happens about three or four times a day.
I feel like maybe I'm doing the internet wrong. Perhaps I should try playing more games. Or reading more of the news, or something. But so far everything I've tried gets boring really quickly. Writing is the only thing I can do for more than ten minutes without having to find something in real life to occupy my attention.
What about facebook, you might be wondering. That's boring too! I mean, I like the ability to connect with people far away and get in touch fairly easily, but I usually check facebook once a day or every other day. And even then I'll spend about five minutes looking at the news feed and then wander away. This is a real problem on gchat as I tend to leave a lot of conversations in the middle, to some of my friends' bemusement. Later, I blame it on science.
All I know is that the internet is a fairly boring place. Pretty much anything I can do on the internet I can do in real life, only it's better. Like play games! Settlers of Catan would be much less fun not in person, and one of my favorite parts of solitaire is being able to cheat. Yeah, I cheat on solitaire. That game is f---ed up.
Or meet people. That's more fun in real life too, especially since you can avoid the creepers much more easily.
Accessing information is a fair bit more challenging in person than on the internet, depending on what you need to know. But libraries do still exist, and my favorite means of finding stuff out, which is asking people, is also better in person. (On a side note, I tried asking someone for help online a little while ago and within five minutes was referenced to managemylife.com... I am now also convinced that people are more polite in person).
I understand that the internet is useful for lots of things. So far though, entertainment and appeasing boredom haven't made it on that list. This isn't to say there aren't things I love about the internet. I read about a dozen webcomics almost daily, love being able to read the news online, and check google traffic all the time. However, I still can't be online for more than ten minutes without getting bored, and I have yet to be bored and turn to the internet for relief. (The one exception to this so far has been watching Naruto. That show is awesome. I don't care if your six-year-old watches it too. He has good taste).
Now maybe this aversion to the internet is common. Perhaps there are many people out there who find the internet equally mundane. But I have my doubts.
For example, Brian comes home from work sometimes and the first thing he does is get online. I wonder at his mental prowess, since he works with computers all day, and yet still finds the capacity to handle them outside work as well. At first I wondered about this special power of his. Within two or three minutes I would be peering over his shoulder in vague amazement, pestering him with questions like, "What are you doing?" and, "What's so interesting?" But it turns out that the internet is actually relaxing/fun for him, and whatever he was doing wouldn't hold me interest in the slightest.
This internet-ease seems to be the case for many others. It would certainly explain smartphones. And Twitter. And a lot of other things I find baffling.
Anyway when I started thinking about how uninteresting I find the internet, I figured that there must be something wrong with me. Many people (probably most of the people I know) spend hours on the internet a day, doing all sorts of supposedly interesting or necessary things. Many more turn to the internet for entertainment on a regular basis.
It was in pondering this that I considered (not for the first time) that I might actually be ADD. An inability to focus on something might explain this bizarre disinterest. And also a lot of other things, like the spastic conversations, the meandering blog posts, the challenge of group work, and the random difficulties I encounter at work and in life.
To be fair, many of those things might be entirely separate problems. I probably have many. But I'm not talking about those right now. So moving on.
Okay someone just informed me that an ability to focus intently is actually a symptom of ADD. Frig. Perhaps I am actually ADD, and not just MADD, or SADD (sarcastically ADD) although I like both those acronyms better.
Also no, I didn't look up anything about ADD before writing this. I have no factual evidence whatsoever for anything in this blog post. This is based entirely on anecdotes and assumptions. So sue me.
Okay time for some cooking and then a book!
The End!
July 1, 2011
Turns Out People Are Complicated
Who knew?
I was talking with a friend recently about a particular situation in which we have on occasion found ourselves, a situation that is somewhat problematic, and to which there is no obvious solution. I would love anyone's opinion on how to handle this, or if you've ever been in a similar situation how it was resolved.
This particular situation is characterized by conflicting interests, conflicting people, and difficult choices. It might not be that common, but I'm sure many of you have experienced this to some degree. The specific situation I refer to is when you have a boyfriend or girlfriend and friends who do not get along, or who are jealous of each other, or in extreme cases, absolutely can not stand each other and never want to see, much less hear of, the other.
It seems to me rather difficult to have a healthy relationship, either a friendship or romantic relationship, if you can't be open about the things that are important to you, and have to eliminate an entire section of your life from conversation. You might think this is an extreme response to having a friend and bf/gf that don't get along, but if you really dislike someone, or think they aren't good for someone you care about, or are jealous of their influence, hearing about them isn't going to make you too happy.
So it's stressful for everyone, especially the person in the middle. You worry that if you bring up your friend/bf/gf, you will offend the person you're talking to. But you also worry that if you say nothing, they will get suspicious, or jealous. There's also the challenge of not saying anything about someone who is an important part of your life. You have to toe the line carefully between how much to say and how much to leave vague in order to pacify potential irritation or distress.You have to be careful about what you talk about and what you bring up. You have to be on guard at all times (at least if you want to be considerate of either your boyfriend/girlfriend or friend, and keep them in your life).
If you're like me, and have a strong sense of guilt and a desire to not only be as open and honest as possible but to please everyone, certainly the people you care about, this is a true dilemma.
But as bad as the lack of communication is, being forced into the role of bad guy is potentially worse. Every time you have to choose between seeing your gf/bf or your friend, you potentially get flak from the other. There is no "right" choice, and you are constantly forced to appease your own sense of guilt or the people you care about. You are forced to choose between remaining a good friend to someone, meanwhile hurting the person you're with, and making the person you're with happy and sacrificing a friendship. Both feel like crap.
This is thankfully not a super common occurrence. Most people are fairly understanding, and even if they can't stand your friend/boyfriend/girlfriend, they don't expect you to stop seeing them or hanging out, and will support you as long as you're happy. Many people would in fact say that if you get anything less as a response, then the friend/boyfriend/girlfriend isn't worth your affection anyway. But I've been on all sides of this in my life, and you can't control how you feel, or how someone's actions affect you.
Anyway I don't know how other people manage these kinds of situations, or if indeed you can have a long lasting relationship or friendship in the face of these obstacles, but I'd love to hear from anyone who has experiences to share. I've been lucky to have fairly understanding people in my life, but this has come up in the past, and having a friend go through a similar situation just had me wonder if anyone had any insights into this kind of people handling.
I was talking with a friend recently about a particular situation in which we have on occasion found ourselves, a situation that is somewhat problematic, and to which there is no obvious solution. I would love anyone's opinion on how to handle this, or if you've ever been in a similar situation how it was resolved.
This particular situation is characterized by conflicting interests, conflicting people, and difficult choices. It might not be that common, but I'm sure many of you have experienced this to some degree. The specific situation I refer to is when you have a boyfriend or girlfriend and friends who do not get along, or who are jealous of each other, or in extreme cases, absolutely can not stand each other and never want to see, much less hear of, the other.
It seems to me rather difficult to have a healthy relationship, either a friendship or romantic relationship, if you can't be open about the things that are important to you, and have to eliminate an entire section of your life from conversation. You might think this is an extreme response to having a friend and bf/gf that don't get along, but if you really dislike someone, or think they aren't good for someone you care about, or are jealous of their influence, hearing about them isn't going to make you too happy.
So it's stressful for everyone, especially the person in the middle. You worry that if you bring up your friend/bf/gf, you will offend the person you're talking to. But you also worry that if you say nothing, they will get suspicious, or jealous. There's also the challenge of not saying anything about someone who is an important part of your life. You have to toe the line carefully between how much to say and how much to leave vague in order to pacify potential irritation or distress.You have to be careful about what you talk about and what you bring up. You have to be on guard at all times (at least if you want to be considerate of either your boyfriend/girlfriend or friend, and keep them in your life).
If you're like me, and have a strong sense of guilt and a desire to not only be as open and honest as possible but to please everyone, certainly the people you care about, this is a true dilemma.
But as bad as the lack of communication is, being forced into the role of bad guy is potentially worse. Every time you have to choose between seeing your gf/bf or your friend, you potentially get flak from the other. There is no "right" choice, and you are constantly forced to appease your own sense of guilt or the people you care about. You are forced to choose between remaining a good friend to someone, meanwhile hurting the person you're with, and making the person you're with happy and sacrificing a friendship. Both feel like crap.
This is thankfully not a super common occurrence. Most people are fairly understanding, and even if they can't stand your friend/boyfriend/girlfriend, they don't expect you to stop seeing them or hanging out, and will support you as long as you're happy. Many people would in fact say that if you get anything less as a response, then the friend/boyfriend/girlfriend isn't worth your affection anyway. But I've been on all sides of this in my life, and you can't control how you feel, or how someone's actions affect you.
Anyway I don't know how other people manage these kinds of situations, or if indeed you can have a long lasting relationship or friendship in the face of these obstacles, but I'd love to hear from anyone who has experiences to share. I've been lucky to have fairly understanding people in my life, but this has come up in the past, and having a friend go through a similar situation just had me wonder if anyone had any insights into this kind of people handling.
June 23, 2011
Dreams
I am sorry for the long break there for a while. This was mostly due to being busy, but partly due to being lazy and partly due to spending too much time reading comics on the internet instead of writing. The truth is, I also had this great idea, and it was taking some time. Okay, the idea may not be that great, but I thought so at the time. It basically consists of me keeping a dream diary, and then sharing some of my dreams with you all! This thought struck me after a pretty ridiculous dream a while ago, and I was hoping for some extra material. Anyway, if you are nervous about delving into the inner workings of my subconscious, I suggest you skip this post. If you happen to be a professional or amateur dream interpreter, I would love to know what on earth my dreams could possibly mean.
Because of the nature of dreams (at least mine), I don't have complete stories to tell, but rather a couple of snippets and scenes that I've dreamed in the past several weeks.
Dream 1: Wolves Take Over the World
I woke up in a mall, not one I know. It was crowded, but without the usual rush and stampede of a mall on Christmas Eve. Rather, I had the impression that everyone had been there for quite some time, and they were in fact very comfortable together and being there.
As I was in a dream, and in dreams you understand a great deal without knowing how, I knew that the people I saw hadn't just been in the mall for a morning or afternoon, but rather for days, likely weeks. I also knew that it was only a matter of time before we were all in very real and terrible danger. I had the feeling that I was being watched, and the clock was ticking.
I must have spoken with some of the people in the mall, although the conversations are fuzzy now, because I understood later what had happened, and the reason for our predicament. It had been sudden, and devastating. The appearance of massive, intelligent, vicious, and incredibly numerous wolves with a taste for human flesh had taken the world by surprise. Some lucky few had managed to board up the mall and had been living there for the past several weeks. Many others had been devoured. The people in the mall seemed alright with their predicament, waiting for help that had yet to come, and I suspected would never come. You see, I knew that it wasn't just in our corner of the world that the people had become the hunted, it was everywhere.
I decided immediately that we needed a plan, something better than just waiting. We needed to prepare ourselves, to escape this death trap waiting to happen. After all, the food wouldn't last forever, and intelligent wolves, even without opposable thumbs, are a formidable enemy.
I began searching the mall, sick of the people there who were content waiting for death, waiting for something. It wasn't long before I found a supply store. It may have been an REI or an LL Bean, but anyway it had tents, sleeping bags, cook sets, everything necessary for camping and surviving, including some large knives.
There was someone else outside the store, a man who seemed as uncomfortable as I was about the whole situation. I was relieved to finally find someone else keen on escaping this mall. Unfortunately I had only just arrived, without the chance of making acquaintances, when the crash of broken glass made me jump and listen carefully. More crashes and screams followed. The wolves had broken in at last.
I ran to the balcony since I was on the second floor in a deserted corner. A huge wolf looked up at me from the ground floor where he had just broken in. Out of the corner of my eye I saw people running in the middle of the mall. A horde of wolves, as tall as I am at the shoulder, pursued them, their growls low and ominous. I backed up a few steps, but right then the wolf below me leaped.
If you were laughing before at the thought of wolves halting all of society, imagine now a wolf at least five feet high leaping a full story over a barrier onto the second floor of a mall with ease, jaws open, white teeth gleaming, tongue lolling. His eyes were intelligent and cold.
I didn't have time to react, but I still had a long knife from the store in my hand. The wolf struck and I dodged slightly and struck with the knife as jaws snapped right next to my head. We were knocked to the floor and grappled. I could feel claws raking my arms and legs, but I stabbed down again and again, holding onto my knife.
Suddenly, stillness. And then, the wolf tangled with my limbs and knife was gone. Just like that, poof. If I had had any doubts before about some bizarre magics making all this possible, the sudden disappearance of the wolf culled them. But I had discovered something valuable: the wolves could be killed.
We had only moments before the rest of the wolf pack would make it's way to our side of the mall, and implicitly I knew the man near the store and I were now a team. He pulled me up and we grabbed backpacks, stuffing them with whatever supplies were close on hand, before hoisting them on our shoulders and setting off. Later I realized the man was Brian and we had always known each other, although before we had never met. Dreams are weird like that.
The rest of the dream was fragmented. We made it out of the mall and traveled quite some ways under cover. Although I don't recall the time passing, when we next made contact with another group of people in a small town, the wolves had been destroying society and killing people indiscriminately for months. The people of the town had retained a car or two and pooled their gasoline, and they managed to keep one warehouse wolf-free. People had either learned how to defend themselves or been killed. We were chased more than once, and in the town we had to flee in a car from another hungry pack, but we survived.
Dream 2: Mel is Chased by the Authorities and Zombies
It was perpetual dusk. I was in a city of sorts, but one run down and nearly entirely abandoned. I was in a warehouse district, and I was running. The authorities were after me. They wanted something I had, and had set me up.
An outbreak had occurred not too long before, not unlike that in 28 Days Later if you've seen that movie, or in The Walking Dead if you've read that comic. That is to say, people were turning into zombies, then hunting for flesh and victims. Luckily in this dream, the zombies could only move at a shuffling walk, so it was easy to outrun them. On the other hand, when there were dozens of them surrounding you, evading them still proved difficult.
Like I said, I was running. I was running from zombies, and I was running from the authorities, who managed to have a few of the remaining functioning cars and whose only goal was to capture me.
You see, I had the antidote. I don't recall how I got it, but I had it. For some reason, the authorities were under the impression that I had stolen it or was going to destroy it (why, I don't know) and so they wanted to eliminate me as fast as possible. Unfortunately, the antidote was pretty fragile and I was worried that in any conflict it would be destroyed. I also didn't want to be eliminated.
So, I ran.
This involved a considerable amount of hiding in abandoned grey buildings. I tried to get the help of some friends, but I didn't want to get them in trouble with the authorities, and most of them had already been contacted.
There is a big fuzzy part of the dream I don't remember, but somehow I finally got in touch with someone in charge and managed to convince them that I just wanted the antidote used, and hadn't stolen it. As it was fragile and unstable, and the zombie-people were closing in everywhere, we hastily had to throw something together.
The solution: antidote grenades. For some reason they emitted a yellow-green smoke that made all the zombie-people in the area snap back to normal.
In the final scene I remember, the zombies were closing in and we were hastily trying to prepare the antidote and only had a couple of grenades ready. We launched them into the shambling crowd of zombies coming towards us, trapping us in a corner of an old warehouse.
Then I woke up.
Dream 3: Crazy Man Plans Assassination and Suicide With Coerced Help
This dream was way too messed up and terrifying for my liking, so I promptly purged most of it from my memory. However, the gist was that a man not unlike the Joker (from the latest Batman), who was psychologically ill and terrifying, planned on assassinating someone at a big event, then committing suicide. He needed help getting in the building and setting up things, so he blackmailed and threatened me (and others) into helping him.
I mostly remember one scene where we were in a public bathroom and one of the guys who was supposed to be helping tried to convince the crazy joker man to not to do it. Joker (since he didn't have a name in the dream, I'll call him that) stuffed the other man in one of the stalls and shot him while we all watched, then promptly continued to give us instructions.
The dream skipped forward a bunch and I don't recall much, but at the end we were in that same bathroom and the crazy man was threatening to kill himself with the pistol he'd been carrying all dream, and I was begging him not to. I think I covered my face and there was a shot and then I woke up.
Most of my dreams aren't nearly as terrifying as that last one, but for some reason I do get chased a lot in my dreams. Most of them are also incredibly vivid and bizarre. I don't know what's up with my subconscious that way.
Aside: Some of my past dreams have included aliens, spaceships, escaping from swamps with alligators, making myself super large and shrinking really small by pushing my belly button, getting kidnapped by the Phantom of the Opera, who later turned out to be someone wearing a Scream mask, battling cows with Mad Cow Disease at my old elementary school using catapults, flying, and turning into a green glass monster that shattered. So if you think these dreams were exceedingly bizarre or random, they are more or less on par with my regular nighttime excursions.
I'll possibly keep you posted on any more super exciting dreams I have, but I think I might be done with this experiment for now. Later, back to my real life!
PS: Okay so I was going to post this yesterday but I'm glad I didn't because last night I had this ridiculous dream where I was in a hospital trying to take care of this woman who had lost her baby. I was in Africa and the woman was refused care at three hospitals before we found one that would take her. Anyway I kept arguing with doctors and nurses and trying to see the woman and they wouldn't let me until the very end of the dream. In the end she was okay though. That was possibly the most normal dream I've had in a while, and I blame it entirely on reading the New York Times Health Section daily...
UPDATE 7-5-11
Last night I dreamed I was in the Hunger Games. If you've read the book, that's already terrifying. If you haven't, imagine something like the Roman Gladiatorial games, only in an area the size of Delaware, and lasting for weeks, and the last person standing wins. Anyway everyone started on the water, in boats, with two assistants who were there to guide you for the first couple of days. Then the killing would start. One of my friends from high school was also in the competition. I was in luck since I know about sailing, but people tried to rob me right off the bat since I had one of the better boats, and then I couldn't bring myself to kill anyone. I knocked a couple of people out, and didn't get hurt. Thankfully the dream ended before the inevitable bloodbath and potential murdering of friends. When I woke up, I wondered why no one in the actual Hunger Games committed suicide, because the fear of death seems a lot worse than death itself.
Because of the nature of dreams (at least mine), I don't have complete stories to tell, but rather a couple of snippets and scenes that I've dreamed in the past several weeks.
Dream 1: Wolves Take Over the World
I woke up in a mall, not one I know. It was crowded, but without the usual rush and stampede of a mall on Christmas Eve. Rather, I had the impression that everyone had been there for quite some time, and they were in fact very comfortable together and being there.
As I was in a dream, and in dreams you understand a great deal without knowing how, I knew that the people I saw hadn't just been in the mall for a morning or afternoon, but rather for days, likely weeks. I also knew that it was only a matter of time before we were all in very real and terrible danger. I had the feeling that I was being watched, and the clock was ticking.
I must have spoken with some of the people in the mall, although the conversations are fuzzy now, because I understood later what had happened, and the reason for our predicament. It had been sudden, and devastating. The appearance of massive, intelligent, vicious, and incredibly numerous wolves with a taste for human flesh had taken the world by surprise. Some lucky few had managed to board up the mall and had been living there for the past several weeks. Many others had been devoured. The people in the mall seemed alright with their predicament, waiting for help that had yet to come, and I suspected would never come. You see, I knew that it wasn't just in our corner of the world that the people had become the hunted, it was everywhere.
I decided immediately that we needed a plan, something better than just waiting. We needed to prepare ourselves, to escape this death trap waiting to happen. After all, the food wouldn't last forever, and intelligent wolves, even without opposable thumbs, are a formidable enemy.
I began searching the mall, sick of the people there who were content waiting for death, waiting for something. It wasn't long before I found a supply store. It may have been an REI or an LL Bean, but anyway it had tents, sleeping bags, cook sets, everything necessary for camping and surviving, including some large knives.
There was someone else outside the store, a man who seemed as uncomfortable as I was about the whole situation. I was relieved to finally find someone else keen on escaping this mall. Unfortunately I had only just arrived, without the chance of making acquaintances, when the crash of broken glass made me jump and listen carefully. More crashes and screams followed. The wolves had broken in at last.
I ran to the balcony since I was on the second floor in a deserted corner. A huge wolf looked up at me from the ground floor where he had just broken in. Out of the corner of my eye I saw people running in the middle of the mall. A horde of wolves, as tall as I am at the shoulder, pursued them, their growls low and ominous. I backed up a few steps, but right then the wolf below me leaped.
If you were laughing before at the thought of wolves halting all of society, imagine now a wolf at least five feet high leaping a full story over a barrier onto the second floor of a mall with ease, jaws open, white teeth gleaming, tongue lolling. His eyes were intelligent and cold.
I didn't have time to react, but I still had a long knife from the store in my hand. The wolf struck and I dodged slightly and struck with the knife as jaws snapped right next to my head. We were knocked to the floor and grappled. I could feel claws raking my arms and legs, but I stabbed down again and again, holding onto my knife.
Suddenly, stillness. And then, the wolf tangled with my limbs and knife was gone. Just like that, poof. If I had had any doubts before about some bizarre magics making all this possible, the sudden disappearance of the wolf culled them. But I had discovered something valuable: the wolves could be killed.
We had only moments before the rest of the wolf pack would make it's way to our side of the mall, and implicitly I knew the man near the store and I were now a team. He pulled me up and we grabbed backpacks, stuffing them with whatever supplies were close on hand, before hoisting them on our shoulders and setting off. Later I realized the man was Brian and we had always known each other, although before we had never met. Dreams are weird like that.
The rest of the dream was fragmented. We made it out of the mall and traveled quite some ways under cover. Although I don't recall the time passing, when we next made contact with another group of people in a small town, the wolves had been destroying society and killing people indiscriminately for months. The people of the town had retained a car or two and pooled their gasoline, and they managed to keep one warehouse wolf-free. People had either learned how to defend themselves or been killed. We were chased more than once, and in the town we had to flee in a car from another hungry pack, but we survived.
Dream 2: Mel is Chased by the Authorities and Zombies
It was perpetual dusk. I was in a city of sorts, but one run down and nearly entirely abandoned. I was in a warehouse district, and I was running. The authorities were after me. They wanted something I had, and had set me up.
An outbreak had occurred not too long before, not unlike that in 28 Days Later if you've seen that movie, or in The Walking Dead if you've read that comic. That is to say, people were turning into zombies, then hunting for flesh and victims. Luckily in this dream, the zombies could only move at a shuffling walk, so it was easy to outrun them. On the other hand, when there were dozens of them surrounding you, evading them still proved difficult.
Like I said, I was running. I was running from zombies, and I was running from the authorities, who managed to have a few of the remaining functioning cars and whose only goal was to capture me.
You see, I had the antidote. I don't recall how I got it, but I had it. For some reason, the authorities were under the impression that I had stolen it or was going to destroy it (why, I don't know) and so they wanted to eliminate me as fast as possible. Unfortunately, the antidote was pretty fragile and I was worried that in any conflict it would be destroyed. I also didn't want to be eliminated.
So, I ran.
This involved a considerable amount of hiding in abandoned grey buildings. I tried to get the help of some friends, but I didn't want to get them in trouble with the authorities, and most of them had already been contacted.
There is a big fuzzy part of the dream I don't remember, but somehow I finally got in touch with someone in charge and managed to convince them that I just wanted the antidote used, and hadn't stolen it. As it was fragile and unstable, and the zombie-people were closing in everywhere, we hastily had to throw something together.
The solution: antidote grenades. For some reason they emitted a yellow-green smoke that made all the zombie-people in the area snap back to normal.
In the final scene I remember, the zombies were closing in and we were hastily trying to prepare the antidote and only had a couple of grenades ready. We launched them into the shambling crowd of zombies coming towards us, trapping us in a corner of an old warehouse.
Then I woke up.
Dream 3: Crazy Man Plans Assassination and Suicide With Coerced Help
This dream was way too messed up and terrifying for my liking, so I promptly purged most of it from my memory. However, the gist was that a man not unlike the Joker (from the latest Batman), who was psychologically ill and terrifying, planned on assassinating someone at a big event, then committing suicide. He needed help getting in the building and setting up things, so he blackmailed and threatened me (and others) into helping him.
I mostly remember one scene where we were in a public bathroom and one of the guys who was supposed to be helping tried to convince the crazy joker man to not to do it. Joker (since he didn't have a name in the dream, I'll call him that) stuffed the other man in one of the stalls and shot him while we all watched, then promptly continued to give us instructions.
The dream skipped forward a bunch and I don't recall much, but at the end we were in that same bathroom and the crazy man was threatening to kill himself with the pistol he'd been carrying all dream, and I was begging him not to. I think I covered my face and there was a shot and then I woke up.
Most of my dreams aren't nearly as terrifying as that last one, but for some reason I do get chased a lot in my dreams. Most of them are also incredibly vivid and bizarre. I don't know what's up with my subconscious that way.
Aside: Some of my past dreams have included aliens, spaceships, escaping from swamps with alligators, making myself super large and shrinking really small by pushing my belly button, getting kidnapped by the Phantom of the Opera, who later turned out to be someone wearing a Scream mask, battling cows with Mad Cow Disease at my old elementary school using catapults, flying, and turning into a green glass monster that shattered. So if you think these dreams were exceedingly bizarre or random, they are more or less on par with my regular nighttime excursions.
I'll possibly keep you posted on any more super exciting dreams I have, but I think I might be done with this experiment for now. Later, back to my real life!
PS: Okay so I was going to post this yesterday but I'm glad I didn't because last night I had this ridiculous dream where I was in a hospital trying to take care of this woman who had lost her baby. I was in Africa and the woman was refused care at three hospitals before we found one that would take her. Anyway I kept arguing with doctors and nurses and trying to see the woman and they wouldn't let me until the very end of the dream. In the end she was okay though. That was possibly the most normal dream I've had in a while, and I blame it entirely on reading the New York Times Health Section daily...
UPDATE 7-5-11
Last night I dreamed I was in the Hunger Games. If you've read the book, that's already terrifying. If you haven't, imagine something like the Roman Gladiatorial games, only in an area the size of Delaware, and lasting for weeks, and the last person standing wins. Anyway everyone started on the water, in boats, with two assistants who were there to guide you for the first couple of days. Then the killing would start. One of my friends from high school was also in the competition. I was in luck since I know about sailing, but people tried to rob me right off the bat since I had one of the better boats, and then I couldn't bring myself to kill anyone. I knocked a couple of people out, and didn't get hurt. Thankfully the dream ended before the inevitable bloodbath and potential murdering of friends. When I woke up, I wondered why no one in the actual Hunger Games committed suicide, because the fear of death seems a lot worse than death itself.
June 6, 2011
Mel's Fishing Adventure
Guys I learned how to fish! And now that I know how to fish, I am prepared to share my knowledge with everyone. Which is why I have prepared for you this short step by step guide to catching all the fish you could ever desire.
Mel's Guide to Catching All the Fish Ever
Step 1 : Find a boyfriend who knows all about fishing. If you already have a boyfriend and he doesn't know about fishing, it's not too late to find another. Alternatively, I guess you could find a friend who knows all about fishing, or an uncle or something. If you don't know anyone at all who knows all about fishing, then you are SOL. I guess you could buy a book on it or something.
Step 2 : Have said boyfriend (or friend or uncle) take you on a fishing trip, preferably on a boat up a creek in southern Maryland, where there are lots of fish and eagles and prettiness.
Step 3 : Acquire fishing materials. This will likely include one or more fishing rods, bait (which can be live worms or minnows), sandwiches (for you, not the fish), two buckets (one for the all the fish you will catch and one for peeing in if you really have to), a camera (for documenting all the fish you catch), a boat (not necessary, but as I said, recommended), sunscreen, and a book (your boyfriend will tell you not to bring a book, but I still recommend bringing a book, although perhaps consider sneaking your book of choice onto the boat as discreetly as possible).
Step 3.5 : Wake up early. Yeah, I know, it sucks.
Step 4 : Get the boat in the water. If your boat is already in the water, you can obviously skip this step. If your boat is not in the water, you probably need to update your materials list to include a big car and a trailer. If you have no boat at all, skip to Step 7.
Step 5 : Drive the boat up the creek to your fishing spot. Alternatively, have your boyfriend or his dad drive the boat, and put your feet up and enjoy the nice breeze and the view. This is a great time for some pictures and for getting all that sunscreen on.
Step 6 : Cut the engine and drop anchor. Hopefully your boat came with an anchor. If not, a big rock tied to a rope will do. I also recommend having two anchors, so you have an extra for when the first gets stuck and breaks.
Step 7 : Wait politely while your boyfriend and his dad rig the fishing rods and bait them with little fish or worms. If you don't have a boyfriend who knows all about fishing, rigging pretty much consists of getting the string on the reel to the tip of the rod. Then you put on the hook and shiny bits and little floaty thing that will help you catch all the fish.
Step 8 : Watch your boyfriend and his dad cast, and wait for action. You might have to wait a while, depending on how good your boyfriend really is at fishing. If you decide to start reading your book right now, do it carefully and subtly so as not to offend your boyfriend or his dad.
Step 9 : When the floaty thing starts to bob underwater, watch carefully while your boyfriend hooks a fish. This is usually accomplished by reeling in any slack carefully, then tugging sharply on the rod. Later on, your boyfriend may show you how to do this yourself, so you can hook fish too. *Note: Try to hook the fish quickly. This will prevent them from swallowing the hook and making a bloody mess over everything, and also any guilt you might feel from significantly harming and likely killing an animal.
Step 10 : Take the rod handed to you by your boyfriend and reel in the hooked fish. You should do this steadily and fairly quickly. When the fish is at the side of the boat or in the air, watch eagerly while your boyfriend grabs it and takes the hook out. If your boyfriend ever makes you do this, it is fair grounds for making him sleep on the couch.
Step 11 : Take pictures to document your first caught fish! You might be encouraged to hold the fish for this procedure. If that is the case, try not to squeal and drop it in the bottom of the boat, even if it flops awkwardly while you're holding it. I recommend grabbing the fish by its bottom lip and holding on extremely tightly.
Step 12 : If the fish is very big, throw in bucket to keep for eating (make sure it is the correct bucket). Otherwise, toss back in the water and watch it swim away.
Step 13 : Repeat steps 7-12 for as long as your boyfriend and dad want. This will likely take at least half a day, and sometimes all day. Be prepared.
Step 13.5 : Eat your sandwich.
Step 14 : Once you have caught all the fish you desire, or everyone gets tired or hungry enough, drive your boat back down the creek and get it out of the water.
Congratulations! You are now prepared to start the sport of fishing!
Note: If the conditions are not ideal and you do not catch lots of fish on the river, your boyfriend and his dad may choose to take you to a friend's stocked pond. There you will get to do all the casting and hooking and reeling you desire (and then some) while your boyfriend unhooks the fish and documents your catches. You will be kept more than busy by all the hooking and reeling with little extra time, since in a stocked pond there are more than enough fish eager and excited to eat your bait and get hooked.
I realize this guide may not be helpful for all of you out there who lack boyfriends who know how to fish. But like I said in the beginning, it's never too late to find another. I also never exactly said he had to be your boyfriend. Either way, good luck with all your fishing adventures!
Mel's Guide to Catching All the Fish Ever
Step 1 : Find a boyfriend who knows all about fishing. If you already have a boyfriend and he doesn't know about fishing, it's not too late to find another. Alternatively, I guess you could find a friend who knows all about fishing, or an uncle or something. If you don't know anyone at all who knows all about fishing, then you are SOL. I guess you could buy a book on it or something.
Step 2 : Have said boyfriend (or friend or uncle) take you on a fishing trip, preferably on a boat up a creek in southern Maryland, where there are lots of fish and eagles and prettiness.
Step 3 : Acquire fishing materials. This will likely include one or more fishing rods, bait (which can be live worms or minnows), sandwiches (for you, not the fish), two buckets (one for the all the fish you will catch and one for peeing in if you really have to), a camera (for documenting all the fish you catch), a boat (not necessary, but as I said, recommended), sunscreen, and a book (your boyfriend will tell you not to bring a book, but I still recommend bringing a book, although perhaps consider sneaking your book of choice onto the boat as discreetly as possible).
Step 3.5 : Wake up early. Yeah, I know, it sucks.
Step 4 : Get the boat in the water. If your boat is already in the water, you can obviously skip this step. If your boat is not in the water, you probably need to update your materials list to include a big car and a trailer. If you have no boat at all, skip to Step 7.
Step 5 : Drive the boat up the creek to your fishing spot. Alternatively, have your boyfriend or his dad drive the boat, and put your feet up and enjoy the nice breeze and the view. This is a great time for some pictures and for getting all that sunscreen on.
Step 6 : Cut the engine and drop anchor. Hopefully your boat came with an anchor. If not, a big rock tied to a rope will do. I also recommend having two anchors, so you have an extra for when the first gets stuck and breaks.
Step 7 : Wait politely while your boyfriend and his dad rig the fishing rods and bait them with little fish or worms. If you don't have a boyfriend who knows all about fishing, rigging pretty much consists of getting the string on the reel to the tip of the rod. Then you put on the hook and shiny bits and little floaty thing that will help you catch all the fish.
Step 8 : Watch your boyfriend and his dad cast, and wait for action. You might have to wait a while, depending on how good your boyfriend really is at fishing. If you decide to start reading your book right now, do it carefully and subtly so as not to offend your boyfriend or his dad.
Step 9 : When the floaty thing starts to bob underwater, watch carefully while your boyfriend hooks a fish. This is usually accomplished by reeling in any slack carefully, then tugging sharply on the rod. Later on, your boyfriend may show you how to do this yourself, so you can hook fish too. *Note: Try to hook the fish quickly. This will prevent them from swallowing the hook and making a bloody mess over everything, and also any guilt you might feel from significantly harming and likely killing an animal.
Step 10 : Take the rod handed to you by your boyfriend and reel in the hooked fish. You should do this steadily and fairly quickly. When the fish is at the side of the boat or in the air, watch eagerly while your boyfriend grabs it and takes the hook out. If your boyfriend ever makes you do this, it is fair grounds for making him sleep on the couch.
Step 11 : Take pictures to document your first caught fish! You might be encouraged to hold the fish for this procedure. If that is the case, try not to squeal and drop it in the bottom of the boat, even if it flops awkwardly while you're holding it. I recommend grabbing the fish by its bottom lip and holding on extremely tightly.
Step 12 : If the fish is very big, throw in bucket to keep for eating (make sure it is the correct bucket). Otherwise, toss back in the water and watch it swim away.
Step 13 : Repeat steps 7-12 for as long as your boyfriend and dad want. This will likely take at least half a day, and sometimes all day. Be prepared.
Step 13.5 : Eat your sandwich.
Step 14 : Once you have caught all the fish you desire, or everyone gets tired or hungry enough, drive your boat back down the creek and get it out of the water.
Congratulations! You are now prepared to start the sport of fishing!
Note: If the conditions are not ideal and you do not catch lots of fish on the river, your boyfriend and his dad may choose to take you to a friend's stocked pond. There you will get to do all the casting and hooking and reeling you desire (and then some) while your boyfriend unhooks the fish and documents your catches. You will be kept more than busy by all the hooking and reeling with little extra time, since in a stocked pond there are more than enough fish eager and excited to eat your bait and get hooked.
I realize this guide may not be helpful for all of you out there who lack boyfriends who know how to fish. But like I said in the beginning, it's never too late to find another. I also never exactly said he had to be your boyfriend. Either way, good luck with all your fishing adventures!
May 16, 2011
Acceptance is the First Step
I have a confession to make.
I am a Luddite.
I can finally admit it.
I probably should have realized earlier, but it didn't occur to me that I had a problem until last summer. That was when I was first accused of being a Luddite. I think the exact context of the exchange went something like this. I was in the passenger's seat of a friend's car, and his phone started talking.
"In one mile, turn left."
"Wow! Your phone's talking to you!" That was me.
"Yes. It's got a GPS."
"Wow! That's amazing! Look, it's telling you everywhere you need to go!"
"..."
My friend gave me a look that seemed to say, "Do you live in a box?" I was too impressed with the fact that a phone could be a GPS as well as a phone to care.
Later that day, we were watching TV, and in the middle of a program, he picked up the remote, and rewound. He rewound. On TV!
"Wow! You're rewinding TV! That's crazy! How do you do that?!"
"It's tevo."
"That's awesome!"
It was around this time that I got that look again, which I previously thought reserved only for conversations referencing pop culture. My buddy proceeded to inform me that I was indeed a Luddite. I had to ask what he was referring to, which is when I learned that a Luddite is someone with a lack of affinity for technological advancement, more precisely someone "opposed to technological change."
I scoffed. I'm not a Luddite! I know all about the internets!
If you're anything like me, you might seem like it's a bit of a stretch that my inexperience and amazement with technologies like talking GPSs and rewinding TV truly puts me in the Luddite category. After all, it's not that unheard of to still keep paper maps in your car, right? And own a VHS player?
According to my friend, these things are not just a little arcane, but possibly unheard of in this century, and I am seriously lagging behind the technological curve.
Sadly, I have slowly come to realize that perhaps this is true, and my condition is worse than I originally feared. My second inkling, after my original accuser planted the idea in my mind, came at work, some weeks later.
I was relatively new to my job, and for some bureaucratic reason, I had to fill out some forms and get certain people important information, like a copy of my social security card.
After delaying the inevitable for quite some time, I finally decided to suck it up and face The Fax Machine. Since I don't work on the main campus of NIH, the easiest way to get people important forms you perhaps shouldn't e-mail (like your social security card), is to fax them. Up until this point in my life (22 proud years), I had never used a fax machine. But how hard could it be? It's like a phone, only with a copier, right?
Wrong.
I made my way to the third floor of our building, where I found the fax machine in a deserted corner. It is small and black and unassuming. It has about five buttons, and a tiny screen with enough room for two lines of text.
I stared it down for a while.
Finally, I pushed some buttons. The machine seemed to be responding, so I pushed a couple of other buttons. Good. I could read the screen, and the green light was on, and everything seemed to be going okay.
I took my social security card and put in the place where it seemed paper should go. So far, so good. I hit the FAX button. Still good. Then, the machine swallowed my card. The briefest flicker of a doubt crossed my mind, but I ignored it. Fax machines are supposed to swallow paper, right? And then they give it back again, along with a nice confirmation of my fax, right?
As you can perhaps guess, this did not happen.
What did happen was that the fax machine made several angry beeps and clicks, then proceeded to show me a big glowing error message. My card was nowhere to be seen.
Uh oh.
I tried pushing some buttons. I tried prying the lid open. I tried faxing another sheet of paper. I failed to receive any positive feedback from the fax machine, short of several desultory beeps and clicks. Finally, I tried panicking.
Unfortunately, I was in the middle of a series of experiments and quickly needed to get back to the lab. I hastily made the science happen, all the while hoping no one else needed to use the fax machine.
I was in luck. Not only did I manage to not royally screw up all my experiments in my distracted state, but our building's all-knowing and all-helpful secretary was at her desk when I returned upstairs. I proceeded to explain my predicament in a halting and red-faced manner.
Somehow, and this is why she is the best possible secretary, she managed to make me not feel like a complete idiot for failing to use a fax machine (did I mention that it has four buttons?). Additionally, she had experience dismantling the fax machine and proceeded to do so in an orderly fashion, retrieving my social security card and then copying and faxing it for me, without once mentioning that perhaps I could have asked for help using such an advanced piece of equipment (she has since retired, and I believe achieved the secretarial equivalent of sainthood).
I feel the need right now to mention the vague irony here. A fax machine is what, fifty bucks? Maybe? On a daily basis in my lab I work with equipment worth several orders of magnitude more than that, advanced robotic equipment on par with what the pharmaceutical industry uses. I am the local "expert" on the FDSS (Functional Drug Screening System), and can competently use luminescent and fluorescent readers, flow cytometers, and a number of other specialized instruments. And yet, I can't figure out a bloody fax machine.
This second experience with "advanced" technology left me befuddled and, yes, averse to certain new technologies. However, I did my best to cope and forget about it.
Recently, however, the complete extent of my technological ineptitude has revealed itself.
I went to Best Buy with Brian a few weeks ago and didn't recognize half of anything in the store. I asked Brian where the regular TVs were and he gave me a funny look. "What regular TVs?"
"You know, the not flat ones."
Again with that look.
On a recent road trip, I was reacquainted with the possible technologies available in cars, like automatic windows and locks, trunk-opening buttons, CD players (not to mention USB ports for your ipod) and seats that can be adjusted in directions other than forward and back. Although I love Charlie (my car), he has nothing other than AC and a tape deck.
Last week, I managed to successfully use the fax machine at work on the first try. And just today, I finally uploaded pictures from the last eight months onto facebook.
And so, I am finally ready to accept the truth. Maybe I do live in a box...
I am a Luddite.
I can finally admit it.
I probably should have realized earlier, but it didn't occur to me that I had a problem until last summer. That was when I was first accused of being a Luddite. I think the exact context of the exchange went something like this. I was in the passenger's seat of a friend's car, and his phone started talking.
"In one mile, turn left."
"Wow! Your phone's talking to you!" That was me.
"Yes. It's got a GPS."
"Wow! That's amazing! Look, it's telling you everywhere you need to go!"
"..."
My friend gave me a look that seemed to say, "Do you live in a box?" I was too impressed with the fact that a phone could be a GPS as well as a phone to care.
Later that day, we were watching TV, and in the middle of a program, he picked up the remote, and rewound. He rewound. On TV!
"Wow! You're rewinding TV! That's crazy! How do you do that?!"
"It's tevo."
"That's awesome!"
It was around this time that I got that look again, which I previously thought reserved only for conversations referencing pop culture. My buddy proceeded to inform me that I was indeed a Luddite. I had to ask what he was referring to, which is when I learned that a Luddite is someone with a lack of affinity for technological advancement, more precisely someone "opposed to technological change."
I scoffed. I'm not a Luddite! I know all about the internets!
If you're anything like me, you might seem like it's a bit of a stretch that my inexperience and amazement with technologies like talking GPSs and rewinding TV truly puts me in the Luddite category. After all, it's not that unheard of to still keep paper maps in your car, right? And own a VHS player?
According to my friend, these things are not just a little arcane, but possibly unheard of in this century, and I am seriously lagging behind the technological curve.
Sadly, I have slowly come to realize that perhaps this is true, and my condition is worse than I originally feared. My second inkling, after my original accuser planted the idea in my mind, came at work, some weeks later.
I was relatively new to my job, and for some bureaucratic reason, I had to fill out some forms and get certain people important information, like a copy of my social security card.
After delaying the inevitable for quite some time, I finally decided to suck it up and face The Fax Machine. Since I don't work on the main campus of NIH, the easiest way to get people important forms you perhaps shouldn't e-mail (like your social security card), is to fax them. Up until this point in my life (22 proud years), I had never used a fax machine. But how hard could it be? It's like a phone, only with a copier, right?
Wrong.
I made my way to the third floor of our building, where I found the fax machine in a deserted corner. It is small and black and unassuming. It has about five buttons, and a tiny screen with enough room for two lines of text.
I stared it down for a while.
Finally, I pushed some buttons. The machine seemed to be responding, so I pushed a couple of other buttons. Good. I could read the screen, and the green light was on, and everything seemed to be going okay.
I took my social security card and put in the place where it seemed paper should go. So far, so good. I hit the FAX button. Still good. Then, the machine swallowed my card. The briefest flicker of a doubt crossed my mind, but I ignored it. Fax machines are supposed to swallow paper, right? And then they give it back again, along with a nice confirmation of my fax, right?
As you can perhaps guess, this did not happen.
What did happen was that the fax machine made several angry beeps and clicks, then proceeded to show me a big glowing error message. My card was nowhere to be seen.
Uh oh.
I tried pushing some buttons. I tried prying the lid open. I tried faxing another sheet of paper. I failed to receive any positive feedback from the fax machine, short of several desultory beeps and clicks. Finally, I tried panicking.
Unfortunately, I was in the middle of a series of experiments and quickly needed to get back to the lab. I hastily made the science happen, all the while hoping no one else needed to use the fax machine.
I was in luck. Not only did I manage to not royally screw up all my experiments in my distracted state, but our building's all-knowing and all-helpful secretary was at her desk when I returned upstairs. I proceeded to explain my predicament in a halting and red-faced manner.
Somehow, and this is why she is the best possible secretary, she managed to make me not feel like a complete idiot for failing to use a fax machine (did I mention that it has four buttons?). Additionally, she had experience dismantling the fax machine and proceeded to do so in an orderly fashion, retrieving my social security card and then copying and faxing it for me, without once mentioning that perhaps I could have asked for help using such an advanced piece of equipment (she has since retired, and I believe achieved the secretarial equivalent of sainthood).
I feel the need right now to mention the vague irony here. A fax machine is what, fifty bucks? Maybe? On a daily basis in my lab I work with equipment worth several orders of magnitude more than that, advanced robotic equipment on par with what the pharmaceutical industry uses. I am the local "expert" on the FDSS (Functional Drug Screening System), and can competently use luminescent and fluorescent readers, flow cytometers, and a number of other specialized instruments. And yet, I can't figure out a bloody fax machine.
This second experience with "advanced" technology left me befuddled and, yes, averse to certain new technologies. However, I did my best to cope and forget about it.
Recently, however, the complete extent of my technological ineptitude has revealed itself.
I went to Best Buy with Brian a few weeks ago and didn't recognize half of anything in the store. I asked Brian where the regular TVs were and he gave me a funny look. "What regular TVs?"
"You know, the not flat ones."
Again with that look.
On a recent road trip, I was reacquainted with the possible technologies available in cars, like automatic windows and locks, trunk-opening buttons, CD players (not to mention USB ports for your ipod) and seats that can be adjusted in directions other than forward and back. Although I love Charlie (my car), he has nothing other than AC and a tape deck.
Last week, I managed to successfully use the fax machine at work on the first try. And just today, I finally uploaded pictures from the last eight months onto facebook.
And so, I am finally ready to accept the truth. Maybe I do live in a box...
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