Coffee clutch

I love university towns in general, but Madison is special. Despite Scott Walker's cretinous effort to have the words "pursuit of knowledge" removed from the state University system's mission statement, Madison still has an energetic air of intellectual striving about it. My older son has lived here for the last 7 years, working on his PhD: his job has been physics research; mine, supporting him however I can—verbal encouragement, hot cookies, checkbook, vacuum cleaner, or anything else I think may make his life a little easier.

Saturday morning, I was flopped in a squashy chair at Ancora Coffee on University Boulevard...the best possible start to a holiday weekend morning. Seven years we've been going there when we're in town, for good coffee, respite from the world, and to watch the other folks doing the same. I had a mug the size of a young washtub, full of cappuccino, and the boys were good to sleep in for a couple of hours yet. Realizing this was likely to be the last time I did this here left me with a distinct tug around the heart.

Ancora is my favorite coffee house anywhere. A small craft roaster, it's everything (in my own opinion, anyway) a coffee shop should be: a small, quirky place, gas fireplace with two battered armchairs next to it, and perhaps half a dozen little tables with vases of fresh flowers. Warm-toned wood and local art on the walls (the current display is floral close ups and nature shots), with good music in the background (Saturday, a mix of Daft Punk and Canned Heat) make Ancora very welcoming.

The door was propped open, with a fresh breeze coming in to mix with the scent of coffee and cinnamon scones. The sun coming in through the east windows washed gentle warmth over the rest of the folks enjoying the morning here.

Like most university towns, Madison provides some of the best people-watching ever—almost as good as London's Victoria Station—and it seems most of it comes through Ancora on weekend mornings. Saturday, there was the usual kaffee klatsch of eight or ten professors and professors emeriti and their spouses (t-shirts, Birkenstocks), who have been coming to Ancora nearly as long as I have. They had just finished dissecting 'this social media stuff' ("Can't I just TALK to someone without hashtags?!") and comparing trips: one guy's to Australia and Antarctica, two different trips to Italy ("Roma? Forget it—so crowded!—Amalfi is much better!"). They'd already argued about the best constituents of a dinner party, skiing, earthquakes, the veracity of ouija boards Gilligan's Island, and an antibacterial coating inspired by sharkskin, for use on hospital-machine dials. One wife appeared to have been married for her beauty, rather than her brains: "It was inspired, like, by some writer...." They began squabbling about the half-marathon being run in Madison over the weekend, with plenty of 'expertise' offered by the guy with the Baaahston accent who has clearly never run in anything more than in from the rain, and my attention wandered to the other customers.

At a table for two by the north window, a guy in a black-and-white striped Izod and beret (yes, really) was drawing my portrait (surprisingly accurate) on his napkin and talking about 'the formal cultural experience' in Nepal with a drop-dead elegant Red Hat lady who was somewhere between 90 and 300.

Two design students at the corner table were wearing their own creations, surely—no earthly clothier sells cerulean-blue skirts made of what looks like seines cast off by a fisherman who decided there were too many holes in them to be of any further use to him.

Over by the counter, there was what must surely have been an escapee from a cow-town bordello: laced boots, corset, floral skirt, talking with two tall, silver-haired gentlemen and Crocodile Dundee about replacing all the parts in some mysterious device, and sharing digital photos of birds over mocha and croissants, with full details of an approaching 'birding' weekend in Minnesota. Should significant others be invited? Would they be bored enough to spoil it?

Rasputin in a ratty grey hoodie and pink Crocs—he had to be a computer science grad student; a copy of Aho's 'Dragon Book' was tucked under his arm—dashes in to get a mocha latte, and then out again like he knew where something was buried. (Who knows; he might.)

A Pre-Raphaelite girl with flaming ringlets, wearing a flowing pale-green blouse, brought her own mug—the size of a flower pot—decorated with sequins and glass jewels. That wasn't her name on it, I hope; it said "Rapunzel"....

Three Japanese girls in bum-skimming striped dresses (or are they shirts?), clearly undergrads, who couldn't decide whether they wanted White Zombies or Caffé Miel jostled with a tall lanky guy who ordered, then, while waiting for his doppio espresso, discreetly stretched out his calves against the counter.

A major clutch at my heart tells me how much I'll miss Ancora, and Madison. Sure, I could drive up any weekend—but with my son moved to Canada, Madison would be a ghost town, populated by the spectres of unstructured, unplanned good times. Long hikes around Lake Mendota; great food and better craft beer; long afternoons in Avol's used bookshop—now only a memory anyway, thanks to the elderly owner's retirement. Grad school is over for Christopher, and a chapter of family life is over for all of us.


Addio, Madison.

Boats, Bridges, and Murphy's Law

Six o'clock in the morning....Madam Neu's still asleep, so, since I'm awake, I'm out on the terrace enjoying the peach-tinged sunrise. The seagulls are conducting a vociferous argument—when really vehement, they sound like squalling cats. The pigeons provide a soft counterpoint, cooing to each other along the roof edges.

We finally solved the luggage problem by going back to Marco Polo Thursday morning, and bullying the troll in the lost-baggage office until she let us loose in the baggage graveyard (a cavernous room filled with baggage of every possible description) to see if we could find our stuff ourselves. We did, and got back to the hotel with it somewhere around 1:00. I found myself wondering, on the return journey, if perhaps Murphy had worked for US Airways......

A quick visit to a small shop by the Rialto Bridge left us with olives, prosciutto, cheese, and a loaf of lovely crusty artisan bread, which we paired with a bottle of fruity Chardonnay in a celebratory picnic out on the terrace. There's a small lizard who lives in a crevice just over the railing, who came out to enjoy the sunshine with us. So far, the weather's been perfect—sunny, low 80's—punctuated by a fine thunderstorm yesterday evening.

The last couple of days have been a fantastic jumble, completely and not at all what we'd expected.

We both find the gondolas endlessly fascinating. We spent several hours one afternoon sitting at the water's edge beyond San Marco, watching them go by—sleek, shiny black craft, loaded down with camcorder-toting tourists. I dangle my feet in the cool green water, which activity Madam Neu eyes with the kind of wariness most people reserve for observation of hazardous waste. The gondolas themselves are largely the same in design: constructed of something like 280 pieces of 9 different kinds of wood, from what I've read, they all have a ferro, or prow, the same shape. However, their owners individualize them with what amounts to a hood ornament. We saw a number of winged victories, some carrying flags or flowers, others that look like statues of saints or other notables, but the one that put a huge grin on my face was a hood ornament that had originally graced the bonnet of a Jaguar.

The gondoliers wear traditional dress—beribboned, broad-brimmed straw hat (shady!), a shirt striped in black or red and white, and black pants. The gondoliers seem to be as diverse as their decorations. Some do a running monologue for their clients; others row in stolid silence. One or two rowed one-handed, using the free hand to hold a cell phone, into which they gabbled volubly. I'm a tad surprised their passengers didn't seize the offenders' phones and fling them into the canal!

Madam Neu's thoughts: We've only seen one gondolier singing, but they all wave and say hi—we must look like easy marks!

It's impossible to talk about one meal or another as discrete units, since the city itself is a feast, and we've been cheerfully willing to founder on everything we've eaten. Our first evening, we ate dinner in a little place in a small courtyard that was no more than a wide place in one of the narrow alleys, bordered by several hotels. Cindy had pasta with seafood that was incredible...clams, shrimp, scallops, and a few other things, in an oil-and-garlic sauce. I had something lurking under the humble name "mixed fish" that turned out to be a plateful of heaven. I could identify calamari, shrimp, very small sardines, and several other things, all thinly coated in a nearly-sheer batter and deep-fried crisp. It hadn't the faintest hint of oiliness, and I pigged it on down despite the fact that the little fishes were whole, and looking back at me.

Cindy's dessert was tiramisu. It arrived on an oblong plate, elegantly garnished with chocolate curlicues and whipped cream—it was, she insists, the best she's eaten in 22 years. I had lime sorbetto—tart enough to have a distinct bite to it, and sweet just enough to cut the acidity, it was perfection, served up in a tulip-shaped glass.

Waiters have been as entertaining as the food has been good—one, a cute little guy of 20 or so named Mario, with hair styled to resemble a hedgehog, had us rolling on the floor with his descriptions of "one of his exes" (!) having made a thoroughly creditable attempt to run him over—with his own car.

We've fallen into a routine of going out directly after breakfast, either to see something in particular or to follow one of the walking tours in Madam Neu's app. We come back to the hotel around 12:30, with bread and cheese, meat and wine, which we consume at our leisure in the shade on the terrace—thereby avoiding the worst of the crowds and heat. It's as humid here as St. Louis, but the sun is far more intense—more like New Orleans. Out again after, until 6:00 or 7:00; dinner around 8:00 until whenever. We're entranced by the separation imposed by canal and culture—Venice was originally something like 118 separate islands—and how the city's 60,000 locals and hordes of foreign visitors overcome it with connections made via boat, bridge, and conversation.

We're enjoying very much learning from them.

Point of (we hope) no return

So here's me and Madam Neu, flopped in the departure lounge at Lambert. Flight's late; we've only got half an hour layover at Philly now—that's cutting it damned close. We're keeping our minds off a possible missed connection by playing with technology, and loading up her travel vest.

Madam Neu tackles a nearby Starbucks, and returns with two coffees and a slice of lemon pound cake. Sharing the cake, we're talking nearly as hard as the girl behind us, catching up on mutual friends and details of Cindy's new job, so it seems like no time at all until we board.She's got one of those high-tech things with a million zippy pockets, gussets, and lanyard moorings—when she dug it out and put it on, I had to jam a fist beneath my jaw to keep from addressing her as 'bwana'. (Not an unsuitable word choice in many ways, not the least of which is the fact that it comes to English from Swahili.)

Around us are an elderly lady reading to what looks like her granddaughter from a magazine, a couple watching a shoot-'em-up on a laptop, and half a dozen folks deeply engrossed in iPhones. Three teenage boys to our left are getting through prodigious quantities of chips and soda, and some poor chick behind us, fresh from a job interview, is chattering nineteen to the dozen into her cell about the job interview she'd just been to.

The flight to Philadelphia is uneventful, until the pilot announces that, thanks to a storm, we're being diverted to Allentown—so much for our connection to Venice, we think. Another announcement from the cockpit tells us we don't have enough fuel on board to get as far as Allentown, so we're now second in line to land. (No, I can't imagine any other circumstances under which I'd be happy to hear that an aircraft carrying me is dangerously low on fuel.)

On the ground, we may just still make our connection, but it leaves from terminal A, and we're at terminal F. We catch the shuttle, along with the rest of the passengers from the puddle-jumper on which we came in from St. Louis. Arriving at terminal A, we're down to minutes from departure time. Only possible course of action: RUN. I kick off my sandals, and run barefoot (*broad grin*) and we make it to the gate just in time to see the plane taxi off to the runway.

Nothing for it but to head for Special Services, where we stand in a line that's slow as a dead turtle. The mood is turning ugly—one older guy in a hat is heckling the hapless staff at the desk, and people are grumbling restively. Technology to the rescue: seconds later, thanks to the marvel of a simple cellular phone call, our travel agents in St. Louis are on the case. By the time we reach the desk, we are able to tell the now-bellicose lady behind it that we're booked on the 8:30pm flight to Frankfurt, with a Lufthansa connection on through to Venice. Her face goes blank for a second, but, checking our reservation, she finds it's already been updated, and prints our boarding passes—kudos to Cathy and Katie at Tiger Travel....!

Back to the gate, board the plane (an Airbus A330, for those interested in aircraft), and we're in the air again in minutes.

Maybe I'm a complete wacko, but I enjoy the unexpected twists and turns of travel. Bravo for life's little ironies, as G.B. Trudeau once aptly put it. Next stop: Frankfurt.

Frankfurt is a quick stop, one plane straight to the next, a small Lufthansa, and in the air again to Marco Polo. An hour and a half later, we arrive.....to find both suitcases are still in Philadelphia. Paperwork ensues, with the Lost Baggage office, then a short bus journey onto the island.

It's only 3:00pm, so we spend the next several hours just walking—feeling—the town, before we finally (after an intense hunt for it) arrive at the hotel. We're on the 4th floor, with our own small rooftop terrace, overlooking a small courtyard.

Absolutely adore the city—looking forward to further exploration!

Georgia (Q) on my Mind

Originally posted on Posterous, September 2012

The Death of the Month Club guest of honor for September was my sister-in-law Jo's mother. The service was in Georgia, in the small town of Chatsworth. We stayed next door in Dalton. Founded in 1847, Dalton has a population of roughly 33,000 souls. The battle of Rocky Face Ridge and Dug Gap was fought here, during the War Between the States, ending when General Joseph Johnston withdrew from Dalton on May 12, 1864. Johnston's chiefly remembered here for leaving: the townsfolk erected a statue of him for having done so.

After the service and lunch with the family, we spent the afternoon hiking Rocky Face Ridge outside Dalton. A lovely place for a hike/climb in the woods, it must have been hell to attack. Ridges of rock set in place as battlements (twice attacked, and twice successfully defended) are still there, tumbled over now, and peacefully growing lichen.

After an afternoon in the woods, we were starving, and dinner south of the Mason-Dixon line meant barbecue. We chose Miller Brothers Rib Shack.

It's a cheerful little place that seats no more than 40, and seems to do a booming takeaway business as well. Red-and-white checked tablecloths cover the tables, and I noticed a Bible lying on one of them. Not a slick Gideon number, this was an old King James, so well-thumbed the cover was curling.

The walls were covered with Black-experience posters: B. B. King, Nelson Mandela, the Rev. Dr. King, Malcolm X, Harriet Tubman—and we were the only white folks in the place. The waitress, a pretty girl of about 20 came over, a guarded look in her eye.

She asked what we wanted to drink, and brought it without comment. Returning to take our order, she asked if we were from out of town. Yes, we said; we were down from St. Louis due to a death in the family. Southern hospitality is no myth, and the people of Georgia are just about the most hospitable you'll find. No exception this young lady: the reason for our being in Dalton thawed her completely. After expressing gracious condolences, she did what generations of women in the South have done when succor and solace are required: she fed us—after detailed comparison of our tastes and the menu.

Miller's bills itself as a 'rib shack', but I'm not big on ribs. I can't eat bones; keep 'em, and just bring me the meat. We both chose the brisket instead: it was smoky, with a sweetish, lightly-spiced tomato-based sauce with a faint suggestion of vinegar. It could have been a little more tender, but the flavor was still fantastic. Sides were Brunswick stew, corn on the cob, and Texas toast.

I hadn't been to Brunswick stew  in 30 years. This one was beef-based, with  corn, a little tomato, a modest amount of okra, and a hint of onion. Faintly smoky and on the thin side, it was good enough I had to force myself not to lick out the ramekin after I'd gobbled the contents—I could have made a meal on this alone.

The corn on the cob (half an ear, interestingly enough) was fresh, not too buttery, and served upright in a ramekin to keep it chastely separate from its more influential plate-mates. The toast was likewise not too buttery; browned just right, it was just crisp enough to be perfect.

As we ate, my mind wandered back to the last time I'd found myself in the racial minority. I'd been working at the local middle school for a year or two. The African-American population in Webster is all of 6.6%; the African-American population of the district I work for closer to 24%. We all manage to live and work together without too many bumps and bruises, so I found myself horrified one day as I was working on the computers in one of the special-services classrooms. Most of the kids in the room were black, as was the teacher. The book under study was The Watsons go to Birmingham—1963, and I was listening to the conversation with one ear until the teacher said, "So what do you think Whitey's gonna do next?" Talk about sudden verticality, realizing that 'Whitey' was sitting in my chair.

The best remedy for uncomfortable memories, I say, is dessert. Pie, for preference, and Miller's offers Key Lime, chocolate cream, dark chocolate, and sweet potato—house made.

Tom chose the dark chocolate. He said it was good, but not spectacular. I must say (with a thoroughly unpardonable smugness) that my sweet potato pie was nothing short of a religious experience. Though the crust was indisputably an undistinguished boughten one, it was filled with a creamy custard. Neither too heavy nor too rich, it was satiny smooth, thickened with egg yolk. Lots of sweet potato flavor blended with just a hint of nutmeg, and a distinct caramel undertone—it was utter simplicity, Nirvana on a plate. The folks at Miller's know it, too: addition of a dollop of whipped cream might have been appealing visually, but would have made it too rich. They wisely leave well enough alone.

I made myself eat it slowly, and found I was doing so with my eyes closed when, last bite gone, I came back to reality with a bump. Grinning, the waitress took my empty plate, admitting she had had a piece of it for breakfast. As Harper Lee observed in To Kill A Mockingbird, there's just one kind of folks—folks. Sweet potato pie makes the whole world kin, and as she waved us out the door she sent after us that most Southern of open invitations:

"Y'all come back now, hear?"

You better believe I will.

Dinner: Brazen Head

Originally posted on Posterous, April 30, 2012

Husband still asleep; tea and time to think. Still full from dinner last night, which we ate at the Brazen Head—the oldest pub in Dublin, and possibly, as Marie so rightly points out, in Europe. According to the books, there's been some kind of pub/ tavern/eatery on the site since 1198—which beats Vienna's Gosser Bierklinik by a good 500 years.

We went out of our way to walk along the Liffey on the way—and had it to ourselves, since rain only deters lesser mortals. On arriving, you fend for yourself by poking your head into one after another of the warren of small rooms to find an empty table. We ended up in a cozy side room, at a small table against the an iron stove that looked as though it used to do duty as both heat and cooking. It was snug and warm enough without, thanks to the crowd, and the candle atop it was an inviting touch. A bit more disconcerting was the coffin against which I was leaning. Propped against the wall, it's apparently been there long enough to be part of the decor.

What to drink? Guinness, of course—and the books are right; it's an entirely different critter here than in the States. It's a great deal smoother, and far less bitter. No clue if it's less hops, or a different kind of them, but it was very suave, with a velvety head that clung to the sides of the glass like a cold egg to a plate as I drained it. If the gods drink beer, surely this is their choice.

The first glass done, we had another with the meal. Since the venue was so traditional, we went that way with the food, as well: beef-and-Guinness stew for me, and lamb stew for Tom. Mine came served inside the biggest Yorkshire pudding I've ever seen, and had chunks of meat half the size of my palm, tender enough to knock apart with the spoon it arrived with. Jostling with mushrooms, celery, carrots, and a few other veggies in a rich brown gravy, and topped by a double scoop of mashed potatoes, it was redolent of rosemary and thyme—indescribably delicious. Tom's Irish stew was nearly as good, though he had to twist my arm to make me honor my promise to swap plates with him halfway through the meal. I could only manage one slice of the excellent wholemeal bread that arrived with it, and dessert unthinkable. (Famous first....)

The ambience was friendly and low-key, with a blend of local and foreign folk. I caught French, Canadian English, and what I think was Polish in addition to the local accent, and conversation amongst tables was easy and companionable—hard not to be, considering their proximity.
The music was interestingly eclectic and not loud enough to impede conversation. I caught the Stones (Angie), Blondie (Heart of Glass), Dire Straits (Money for Nothing), the Beatles (All You Need is Love), and Dido (Two Little Gods).

The food was good enough to have carried the evening by itself—but the people made it an experience. Going back before we leave town? Hellz, yeah.

"Baptism by Tyre"

Originally posted on Posterous, April 29, 2012

Took today slowly—actually slept til noon (an ability I thought I'd lost YEARS ago to dictatorial small children).

We didn't have the research done for this trip as well as we usually do; I'd bought an armful of guidebooks, but hadn't had a chance to open even one. So, while we lazed about the flat and took our time over tea and toast, Tom dipped into a couple of the more interesting guidebooks, I caught up with Twitter friends and checked in with Mike, the friend we'd intended to meet up with tonight.

Despite the wind and drizzle, neither of which I mind, we went out to have a look round the area that once was medieval Dublin. Not much is left of that era, at least in terms of buildings, but the present face of that part of the city is fascinating all the same. Most of St. Patrick's, the cathedral across the street from us, was apparently built in the late 1100's. The cathedral is supposedly built nearly upon the site of the well in which the saint baptized his converts. (That bad audio backing the video with this is the bells of St. Patrick's, caught with my phone.)

Medieval cities had narrow streets, and so, thanks to its medieval origins, does this part of modern Dublin. As the rain came down harder, the puddles in the streets grew correspondingly larger. The narrowness of the roads means pedestrians don't have a sporting chance of avoiding being repeatedly splashed; it's a wonder more of the creatures living in this part of town aren't ducks.

Partway through the walk, we stumbled across the building that once housed Dunlop's tyre factory—the world's first—which, for some incomprehensible reason, obscurely pleased Tom. We seem to have lost something since the 19th century: their solution to the problem of the discomfort caused posteriorly by bicycle seats was the invention of the pneumatic tire (or tyre, if you happen to have been born this side of the Atlantic). The current solution? As observed by Scott Adams, dorky pants. I think Dunlop's solution was superior, but then, I'm a runner, not a cyclist...

Disaster seems to have preceded us: we're two for two on not managing to make intended 3D meetups with friends, thanks to...um...unforeseen circumstances. Paul has had the flu most of the week; Mike's perfidious plumbing today made a valiant attempt to drown him and his family. Goes without saying, doesn't it, that both visits went down the dumper....

One thing to do, then.

Eat.

*Please note that Tom is responsible for the title; blame HIM.

"In Dublin's Fair City..."

Originally posted on Posterous, April 28, 2012

First days anywhere aren't usually very interesting, thanks to things like getting settled into wherever you're staying, figuring out what's where in the neighborhood, and realizing how tired you are.

I can't complain; we've a small flat in Patrick Street, and very cozy it is: upper floor overlooking the cathedral green—LOVING the church bells!—sitting room, bedroom, kitchen, bath. I prefer this to the more usual hotels or B&Bs. I'd far rather leave scheduling loose, and having to abide by fixed mealtimes (especially breakfast!) is a pain in the backside. A kitchen makes it possible to play hands-on with local food (I still say Wales has the best lamb in existence), and hang out over something to eat with friends for hours without dirty looks from wait staff.

We're liking Dublin enormously, even after just part of one day. The people, every last one us ignorant furriners have dealt with so far, have been incredibly nice. What little we've seen of the city is beautiful, and perfect for hours of walking, which we like better than any other mode of transport when traveling. I'd far rather be able to pause and look at the buildings and people, and listen to the sounds of life going on around me. This doesn't preclude travel by speedier means when more efficient; I just like <feeling> other cities directly. Besides, walking leaves travel open to serendipitous discoveries—fun little shops off the beaten path, small local eateries, and things to see and do I'd otherwise miss.

Today's major fun was a mid-afternoon meal at Queen of Tarts in Cow's Lane. Their site (http://www.queenoftarts.ie/) details the food to perfection....and perfection it was, altogether. I admit I'd cheerfully swim the Atlantic to eat the stuff, but the place itself is just fun. It was hard not to compare the afternoon to a similar one at Maids of Honour in Kew some years ago—not unfavorably to either establishment, I hasten to say (before the English beat me up).

The recommendation of the excellent Marie Ennis-O'Connor (@jbbc on Twitter), the Cow's Lane Queen (there's another, in Dame Street, apparently) is small, and crammed. I wonder if the line ever disappears, though it's worth the wait. Lots of small round wooden café tables and chairs, all laden with flowered china; cheerful waitresses who take the time to chat over the offerings with you; enormous pots of tea (and very good coffee!)...we spent most of the afternoon eating, drinking, and observing and chatting with those around us.

The other folks were a very diverting cross-section of humanity. Next to us was a large group of mums, aunties, and small girls, all dressed up for a girly outing. They were convivial fun, breezy and friendly. Very different they were from Grannie, Mummy, and Isabella-age-six, the group in Maids—informal and outgoing, just really nice people. There were groups of teenage girls, anchored by put-upon fathers, young couples, and middle aged ladies taking a break from shopping. More surprising were the business men in beautiful three-piece suits, and the gaggle of teenage boys in hoodies—neither were the sort I'd've expected to see in such a place. And they were just as friendly and interesting as the more-traditional female contingent—mes hommages to the locals!

One final thing: anyone pedantic enough to need to tell me that the title of this is the first line of "Molly Malone", a vaudeville number written in the US, can go pound sand. /grin

Zen and the art of the Layover

Originally posted on Posterous, April 28, 2012

Here in the upper-central US, you can't go to hell without going through Chicago. I don't really mind O'Hare, or the delay; time was, though, either would have driven me bonkers with frustration.
Age? Experience? A little of both, I suppose, mixed with exhaustion. I'm thankful, just now, for an enforced opportunity to do next to nothing. Nothing but watch the world go by, that is.

The best people-watching spot anywhere is London's Victoria Station—the entire population of the planet goes through there in the course of an afternoon—but O'Hare isn't half bad. There's a lady with striped orange hair, wound into a slip-shod bun, bleating on about her last conversation with her therapist; an Indian guy in a green turban, exuding imperturbability; and some wacko doing yoga off to one side of the concourse. No screaming child anywhere (amazing; clearly, Central Casting slipped up today).

I'd say two third of the people around me have some kind of electronic device they're absorbed in. iPads are the hands-down favorite, and most of them are the current model ( including mine), though there are a great many iPods as well. Interesting how the technology facilitates conversation—the people with paperbacks (lot of Clive Cussler, a James Patterson, and one dreadful bodice-ripper) are absorbed entirely, but the electronic folk enjoy comparing devices, apps, and sharing opinions. Mostly, they're using the gizmos to read the news, check email, and do social networking (I seem to be the only one fooling with iMovie); they're connecting outward, doing stuff. Wonder if electronic activity is as refreshing an escape for most as hiding out in a good novel can be? On reflection, I'd guess that's why most of the paperbacks are some kind of suspense/action subject matter—they're good, riveting reads that take the reader <somewhere> to occupy the time. Looks to me like the tech-based folk are enjoying their arguments, comparisons, and conversation as much as the readers their books.

Boarding now—onward to Ireland.

Tech, Travel, and the Smaller-World Concept

Originally posted on Posterous, April 27, 2012

Used to be, it was American Express you didn’t leave home without. Now, we travel as we live: bristling with gizmos. I’m lighter than usual, this time, packing iPhone and iPad, but leaving the MacBook behind—I’m sure I could hear it crying, when told it couldn’t go.

Technological advances, says the old saw, are making the world smaller. According to Google, it’s still just a hair less than 4k miles from St. Louis to Dublin, technojunk notwithstanding. A hundred years ago, I’d’ve made the crossing in a steamship; now, it’s a Boeing, probably a 767. (To those of you who’d STILL buy me a ticket for the Titanic….steerage, I’m sure!….PHHHHRRRRTTTT!!!!) I’m not thrilled about spending two weeks on iOS alone, but I can’t justify the weight and space trade-off involved in taking the more-powerful device. I DO like the thought of not being loaded down with film, extra lenses, and all the other old-fangled camera equipment—who really takes the time for serious shooting on a casual vacation? (Answer: not me.)

Both phone and iPad ensure that I’m not out of earshot of #2Son, alone at home for two weeks for the first time. He’s 20, so I could come home to a heap of smoking rubble, but it isn’t likely; he and his older brother are shockingly responsible souls. Besides, I have to keep up with several WWF wars….

Technology doesn’t decrease either the physical or the psychological distance between places and people, but it can, and does, give the superficial impression of doing so. It can, for real, but that takes work: getting to know another person, at whatever remove, takes time, attention, and effort—just as it always has, 3D. The obvious beauty of online life, and social networking in particular, is the opportunity to get acquainted with, and get to know, people you’d otherwise never have had the chance to meet. The serendipity factor makes it the more fascinating—meeting people who are friends of friends, or being cold-followed by someone who, over time, becomes a genuine friend.
Adventure beckons......

Distant Early Warning

Originally posted on Posterous, April 25, 2012

Back last fall, after my father died, the Honoured Spouse and I thought we’d plan a trip—months down the road, at that point—as R&R, once the dust settled.

The dust shows no signs of settling, so we’re going anyway: to Dublin, leaving day after tomorrow. I’ve lost count of how many people have wanted to know whether I intend to tweet as we go, post pictures, etc., etc., andI found myself wondering if the best solution might not be to just post links to a blog, rather than be a timeline-hog bore. I haven't particularly wanted to blog, heretofore; so much 'blogging' seems to just be re-posting of other people's content, I didn't want to add to the noise.

Nevertheless, here we are.

As yet, we’ve no firm plans, beyond meeting up with some online friends 3D—exciting!—and seeing the Book of Kells.