Saturday, September 16, 2006
Saturday, September 09, 2006
Monday, May 01, 2006
Mayday
Mayday
I feel as though I have been too hard on the kids, the dogs. My favorite word is No or Nunca. No don’t play in the fountain. Nunca. No don’t bludgeon the roses or the lavender or the guara. No tocar. Something is either sucio or peligroso or both. I take the dogs for a hike to the stream.
Heel. Sit. Sit. SIT. Heeelll.
I think I see a snake roiling in the shadows of the deep end of the stream, long after the dogs have decided to lie down in it and drink.
Come. COME. CUHMME.
It’s a beautiful night two nights in a row and together we show Isabel how to roast marshmallows over the fire pit (clearly an activity both dirty and dangerous) and she has a swell time.
I wake at two A.M. for a six A.M. flight. I haven’t traveled in a few months—since the move, I have been on a plane twice—and my internal clock is clearly way off. I toss and turn in bed trying not to move much, trying not to wake the dogs. At four I wake and before showering I take the dogs outside. They void themselves and then stretch out on the back porch in the darkness.
Lia tells me that she heard Isabel take herself to the bathroom in the middle of the night. I am proud of this but also saddened by it. Proud that she feels at home in the new house now, that we have made a space for her in which she feels safe and secure enough to walk about in the middle of the night. Saddened, of course, because she will soon be five and also because today she is registered for kindergarten.
It’s a beautiful night and the children are riding their bikes and scooters on the deck. The sunlight is failing and the temperatures are falling. I am wearing a sweater and it is time for bath and bed.
Isabel, come on in. Time for bath.
Dad, you are so predictable. You always make us not be out here.
I feel as though I have been too hard on the kids, the dogs. My favorite word is No or Nunca. No don’t play in the fountain. Nunca. No don’t bludgeon the roses or the lavender or the guara. No tocar. Something is either sucio or peligroso or both. I take the dogs for a hike to the stream.
Heel. Sit. Sit. SIT. Heeelll.
I think I see a snake roiling in the shadows of the deep end of the stream, long after the dogs have decided to lie down in it and drink.
Come. COME. CUHMME.
It’s a beautiful night two nights in a row and together we show Isabel how to roast marshmallows over the fire pit (clearly an activity both dirty and dangerous) and she has a swell time.
I wake at two A.M. for a six A.M. flight. I haven’t traveled in a few months—since the move, I have been on a plane twice—and my internal clock is clearly way off. I toss and turn in bed trying not to move much, trying not to wake the dogs. At four I wake and before showering I take the dogs outside. They void themselves and then stretch out on the back porch in the darkness.
Lia tells me that she heard Isabel take herself to the bathroom in the middle of the night. I am proud of this but also saddened by it. Proud that she feels at home in the new house now, that we have made a space for her in which she feels safe and secure enough to walk about in the middle of the night. Saddened, of course, because she will soon be five and also because today she is registered for kindergarten.
It’s a beautiful night and the children are riding their bikes and scooters on the deck. The sunlight is failing and the temperatures are falling. I am wearing a sweater and it is time for bath and bed.
Isabel, come on in. Time for bath.
Dad, you are so predictable. You always make us not be out here.
Friday, March 24, 2006
Friday, March 17, 2006
Wan Kenobi
Isabel says we should name the baby “Wan Kenobi.” I think she would spell it “Juan Kenobi.”
Friday, February 17, 2006
Tremendous Source of Inspiration
Three days after I arrive home I get the following email:
Dear Mr. Williams,
It was indeed a pleasure having you stay with us during your recent visit to Bangalore.
We thank you for sparing your valuable time to complete our Guest Questionnaire, which has been forwarded to us by our Chairman for action and response.
It is motivation from discerning patrons such as you, which encourages us to give our best. It has also been our utmost focus at The Oberoi, Bangalore to provide our valued guests with personalised service that meets high standards of hospitality.
I have conveyed your gracious compliments to Sreeram, for whom it has been a tremendous source of inspiration.
I look forward to the pleasure of your continued visits and assure you of our best services at all times.
Thank you,
Yours sincerely,
[name deleted]
General Manager
The Oberoi, Bangalore
Three days after I arrive home I get the following email:
Dear Mr. Williams,
It was indeed a pleasure having you stay with us during your recent visit to Bangalore.
We thank you for sparing your valuable time to complete our Guest Questionnaire, which has been forwarded to us by our Chairman for action and response.
It is motivation from discerning patrons such as you, which encourages us to give our best. It has also been our utmost focus at The Oberoi, Bangalore to provide our valued guests with personalised service that meets high standards of hospitality.
I have conveyed your gracious compliments to Sreeram, for whom it has been a tremendous source of inspiration.
I look forward to the pleasure of your continued visits and assure you of our best services at all times.
Thank you,
Yours sincerely,
[name deleted]
General Manager
The Oberoi, Bangalore
The Emerald Route
Delayed for a few weeks in jotting down the following:
Leaving Bangalore tonight on the 2:30 AM flight back to Frankfurt. Total flight time between here and home, 22 or so hours. I buy a copy of “The Emerald Route” by R.K. Narayan at Hal Airport and skim a few pages while watching a TV special about the inherent insecurity of India’s security forces.
I stumble on the following passage about Bangalore:
“The hoary nucleus of the city retains an indescribable charm, although the architecture may look outdated, and one’s passage at first may appear hazardous through it’s traffic, but actually the wheels steer off within a hair’s breadth and spare the pedestrian’s toes, who must survive by lightly leaping aside, and recovering his balance from the very edge of the granite pavement, and may not suffer more than an occasional jab from a cycle handle or a bump from its mudguard as crack-riders dash past, weaving their way through.”
This was 1977 of course, when Narayan was writing, before the advent of the autorickshaw which is by far the most prevalent vehicle on the streets of Bangalore. 75,000 of these or so are registered with the city government, but estimates of actual numbers on the streets range into the multiple hundreds of thousands. This was 1977, when the population of Bangalore was just over two million, while today it is greater than six million.
At no time did I ever feel safe crossing the street or riding in a car, though my driver, Anish, was a consummate pilot: calm and cool, and often quite strategic in his lane swapping and vehicle passing. Most of the time, however, I kept my eyes closed. When I commented multiple times on the traffic, I was told that if you ever doubted the existence of a higher power, go to India and watch the traffic work - it just works - inexplicably.
I sleep on the plane a few hours, then wake up and become completely absorbed in a Bollywood flick, No Entry, which is mysteriously captivating.
All is well until I eat something on the plane that in turn has me waylaid for the next three days.
Leaving Bangalore tonight on the 2:30 AM flight back to Frankfurt. Total flight time between here and home, 22 or so hours. I buy a copy of “The Emerald Route” by R.K. Narayan at Hal Airport and skim a few pages while watching a TV special about the inherent insecurity of India’s security forces.
I stumble on the following passage about Bangalore:
“The hoary nucleus of the city retains an indescribable charm, although the architecture may look outdated, and one’s passage at first may appear hazardous through it’s traffic, but actually the wheels steer off within a hair’s breadth and spare the pedestrian’s toes, who must survive by lightly leaping aside, and recovering his balance from the very edge of the granite pavement, and may not suffer more than an occasional jab from a cycle handle or a bump from its mudguard as crack-riders dash past, weaving their way through.”
This was 1977 of course, when Narayan was writing, before the advent of the autorickshaw which is by far the most prevalent vehicle on the streets of Bangalore. 75,000 of these or so are registered with the city government, but estimates of actual numbers on the streets range into the multiple hundreds of thousands. This was 1977, when the population of Bangalore was just over two million, while today it is greater than six million.At no time did I ever feel safe crossing the street or riding in a car, though my driver, Anish, was a consummate pilot: calm and cool, and often quite strategic in his lane swapping and vehicle passing. Most of the time, however, I kept my eyes closed. When I commented multiple times on the traffic, I was told that if you ever doubted the existence of a higher power, go to India and watch the traffic work - it just works - inexplicably.
I sleep on the plane a few hours, then wake up and become completely absorbed in a Bollywood flick, No Entry, which is mysteriously captivating.
All is well until I eat something on the plane that in turn has me waylaid for the next three days.
Thursday, February 02, 2006
Wednesday, February 01, 2006
Wolves
Enjoyed an impossibly good-to-great Chinese dinner (salt and pepper shrimp, salt and pepper squid, chicken with black bean sauce) with the team and with a friend from Chapel Hill (by way of Amsterdam). The woman across the dining room from us read her fortune out loud to her children and I could read her lips: “It’s always darkest before the dawn.”
Back to the Polo Club for a Guinness. Sreeram pours me a beer. He is still charging his phone on the bar in plain view of everyone, though it must be charged by now, as I’ve never seen him use it. I read Cheever and watch Pakistan beat India in the third test match. There is a team match here on Friday (the day after I leave) but I will miss it, and for this I am disappointed. I do receive a shirt with the company logo in the national colors and am quite honored.
I take a benedryl and watch a Bollywood remake of Pride and Prejudice (Gurinder Chadra – Bride and Prejudice). I fall asleep (to wait for the muezzin).
“The house was dark of course. The snow went on falling. The last of the cigarette butts was gone, the gin bottle was empty, even the aspirin supply was exhausted. He went upstairs to the medicine cabinet. The plastic vial that used to contain Miltown still held a few grains, and by wetting his finger he picked these up and ate them. They made no difference. At least we’re alive, he kept saying, at least we’re alive, but without alcohol, heat, aspiring, barbiturates, coffee and tobacco it seemed to be a living death. At least I can do something, he thought, at least I can distract myself, at least I can take a walk; but when he went to the door he saw wolves on the lawn.” – Cheever, “Journals”, 1967
Back to the Polo Club for a Guinness. Sreeram pours me a beer. He is still charging his phone on the bar in plain view of everyone, though it must be charged by now, as I’ve never seen him use it. I read Cheever and watch Pakistan beat India in the third test match. There is a team match here on Friday (the day after I leave) but I will miss it, and for this I am disappointed. I do receive a shirt with the company logo in the national colors and am quite honored.
I take a benedryl and watch a Bollywood remake of Pride and Prejudice (Gurinder Chadra – Bride and Prejudice). I fall asleep (to wait for the muezzin).
“The house was dark of course. The snow went on falling. The last of the cigarette butts was gone, the gin bottle was empty, even the aspirin supply was exhausted. He went upstairs to the medicine cabinet. The plastic vial that used to contain Miltown still held a few grains, and by wetting his finger he picked these up and ate them. They made no difference. At least we’re alive, he kept saying, at least we’re alive, but without alcohol, heat, aspiring, barbiturates, coffee and tobacco it seemed to be a living death. At least I can do something, he thought, at least I can distract myself, at least I can take a walk; but when he went to the door he saw wolves on the lawn.” – Cheever, “Journals”, 1967
Azan
Drinks in a bar called Ice with a logo comprised of stylized cubes of ice. A DJ plays Kenny Rogers, while on the LCD screen is Royksopp. Sleep hard for five hours.
Azan. The muezzin calls to prayer at 5:30 AM on the money and then again at lunch. He must call again, but I do not hear him.
Azan. The muezzin calls to prayer at 5:30 AM on the money and then again at lunch. He must call again, but I do not hear him.
Tuesday, January 31, 2006
Cunningham Road
After work, we go and look at carpets. I’ve set this up of course before hand with a colleague who knows what I am looking for, and though it is a perfectly normal endeavor to undertake, it feels nonetheless incredibly elitist. We see many carpets, silk and wool, hand-woven, and, to me, of reasonable expense. It seems logical to pay five or six thousand dollars for one of these fine pieces. We are offered tea. I decline, but only because I have had a gallon of tea already, and a gallon of coffee, and I feel I am already faring the worse for it. I am losing my voice and gaining a cough. It is a pleasant experience to see the hard work of one or two families gain such a price (but they are no doubt worth much more: 10 years of man hours in effect bubbles up only to twenty thousand US or so).
Afterwards, our driver takes us to Cunningham Road where there is more shopping and the crushing blow of humanity unabated, even on a Monday after hours (which is still the US Sabbath). Our driver parks in a secluded spot and we walk a few blocks into the core of the market area. It is almost impossible to not step into the path of an oncoming truck or motorcycle and yet at our feet are small children hibernating or weaving necklaces of flowers. It is an amazing mix of horse and cow, man and woman, child and smaller child.
I nod off in the car on the way back. I am unsure of the team either here or there, and note only my fatigue which is, at once very distinct. I am losing my voice and begin to feel completely drained.
At the Oberoi, a man in a Gurkha uniform opens the door for me. I take a spin at the bar with a book and a clean notepad or two. The bar is called the Polo Club and it is done up in dark greens and all sorts of Anglo-isms (pictures of locals in black and white, and random artifacts from Colonial times) which normally I would mind and find offensive, but in this case, I find them oddly un-ironic. I order pints of Kingfishers and watch India versus Zimbabwe in cricket. The game is weeks, perhaps months old now, but it still holds my attention.
My bartender, Sreeram, charges his cellular phone on the bar. His boss, a very dark Indian stares at him and chastises him in front of me: “In front of the customers?” he says to Sreeram. “Move it,” he says. There are Brits at the bar, one in a suit, and they are drinking lagers. I believe that they are bankers from HSBC and they smoke Marlboros and tell jokes. Sreeram moves his phone (with a fashionable designer case) below the bar next to the ice chest where I cannot see it. It is ironic to me that Sreeram is so badly chastised by his manager, the man who forgot to bring me a menu, and it occurs to me that the reason Sreeram was charging his phone where I could see it was just so that I, and everyone else, could in fact, see it.
I am joined on my side of the bar by Americans, here for the same reason as me. I listen to them discuss their work for a time, but find it boring and depressing. The Brits leave and the cricket highlights turn into, of all things, badminton highlights, mixed doubles.
I find my ideas, my preconceived notions of large families from years ago, of dynasties really, are still with me, and they still very much shape my world view. I can see now our family as a large one, possessed of large quarts of ice cream and many bags of fireworks, skis, skateboards, our children and our children’s friends nodding off still in sandy, wet swimsuits exhausted from time at the beach or the pool or the club, struggling to right themselves during a long trip in the back of the Disco, holding hands together maybe or holding books they can no longer see to read in the darkness.
I am relieved and excited when Sreeram, cleaning out his refrigerator, reveals a number of Guinness and I have two before I realize they are ten dollars each; I want a Clannagh tattoo desperately even though I am at most one quarter Irish.
Afterwards, our driver takes us to Cunningham Road where there is more shopping and the crushing blow of humanity unabated, even on a Monday after hours (which is still the US Sabbath). Our driver parks in a secluded spot and we walk a few blocks into the core of the market area. It is almost impossible to not step into the path of an oncoming truck or motorcycle and yet at our feet are small children hibernating or weaving necklaces of flowers. It is an amazing mix of horse and cow, man and woman, child and smaller child.
I nod off in the car on the way back. I am unsure of the team either here or there, and note only my fatigue which is, at once very distinct. I am losing my voice and begin to feel completely drained.
At the Oberoi, a man in a Gurkha uniform opens the door for me. I take a spin at the bar with a book and a clean notepad or two. The bar is called the Polo Club and it is done up in dark greens and all sorts of Anglo-isms (pictures of locals in black and white, and random artifacts from Colonial times) which normally I would mind and find offensive, but in this case, I find them oddly un-ironic. I order pints of Kingfishers and watch India versus Zimbabwe in cricket. The game is weeks, perhaps months old now, but it still holds my attention.
My bartender, Sreeram, charges his cellular phone on the bar. His boss, a very dark Indian stares at him and chastises him in front of me: “In front of the customers?” he says to Sreeram. “Move it,” he says. There are Brits at the bar, one in a suit, and they are drinking lagers. I believe that they are bankers from HSBC and they smoke Marlboros and tell jokes. Sreeram moves his phone (with a fashionable designer case) below the bar next to the ice chest where I cannot see it. It is ironic to me that Sreeram is so badly chastised by his manager, the man who forgot to bring me a menu, and it occurs to me that the reason Sreeram was charging his phone where I could see it was just so that I, and everyone else, could in fact, see it.
I am joined on my side of the bar by Americans, here for the same reason as me. I listen to them discuss their work for a time, but find it boring and depressing. The Brits leave and the cricket highlights turn into, of all things, badminton highlights, mixed doubles.
I find my ideas, my preconceived notions of large families from years ago, of dynasties really, are still with me, and they still very much shape my world view. I can see now our family as a large one, possessed of large quarts of ice cream and many bags of fireworks, skis, skateboards, our children and our children’s friends nodding off still in sandy, wet swimsuits exhausted from time at the beach or the pool or the club, struggling to right themselves during a long trip in the back of the Disco, holding hands together maybe or holding books they can no longer see to read in the darkness.
I am relieved and excited when Sreeram, cleaning out his refrigerator, reveals a number of Guinness and I have two before I realize they are ten dollars each; I want a Clannagh tattoo desperately even though I am at most one quarter Irish.
Sunday, January 29, 2006
Boston, Frankfurt, Bangalore
Chilly morning departure. Some tears at the front door, waiting for the taxi. Isabel says she won't be sad and that she will take care of mommy and Lee-Lee. Lee cries huge tears as he has begun to recognize my bags and what they have come to symbolize.
My cab driver sparks a discussion of globalism, and of capitalism in China. He is from the Congo. That his life is hard is an understatement.
I see neighbors in the airport. They are heading to D.C. to take a night away from the boys, and they are relieved that we sold the house to a couple who plan to restore it.
One clonazepam before boarding and a phone call home.
I am dissuaded from taking pictures on the tarmac at Logan and am more than a little put off by this until I remember that the initial flights from September 11 were dispatched from here. So much for Boston, which is, as much as I can recall, the same as when we left it: frozen, with dirty boulders of clumped snow spread wide across the runways.
The stewardess, while I was sleeping, refilled my water bottle and left next to my pile of books, a hand-drawn map to the farthest end of the light-filled terminals from where the international flights come and go and I use this little map to get to the Blue Line bus terminal. Though technically accurate, the map proves to be somewhat more confusing than just following the signs.
At Houlihan’s in the terminal by the E Gates, I order a stout and watch Roy Williams and Carolina pummel Arizona, then watch golf at the bar (thinking of Isabel and Lee, and Hari or Jack at the club). Read (Cheever and “War Trash”) and eat. I do have an image of all three of them in whites, sun-burned and tired from humping bags of clubs up and down Finley all day on an August Saturday. Or the three of them lined up like a cadre of revolutionaries driving range balls halfway from here to Sunday in rapid-fire succession. A nice thought. I will carry this with me to sleep.
Somewhat ironic to begin reading Ha Jin in Boston since he teaches here at Brandeis and is a frequent reader at AGNI events. Am making good, solid headway with “War Trash”, in between prepping ops review materials and making session plans for my trip to Germantown.
No cell coverage in Frankfurt (and T-Mobile Hotspots are all mysteriously down) so call Lia from a payphone. She cannot hear me (the connection is awful and wavers in and out) and we have an awkward series of “I love you’s” interspersed with pauses, then finally, “You’re breaking up.” At the gate, I sleep for maybe two hours solid before waking disoriented and even more tired than before.
Eight hours and five minutes from Frankfurt to Bangalore. I take some cold medicine and have a gin and tonic. I sleep for maybe three hours, read for maybe two, stare off into space for the remainder. Landing in Bangalore after midnight, and the airport is chaos. Customs and baggage are a swift series of fits and starts and when we are through being processed I step into the night air to a swarm of cab drivers and hotel shuttles. My driver, Anish, meets me with a colleague and I am given a cell phone to use while I am here. The night is cool and the air is clean though punctuated with the sharp smell of tobacco, and the endless honking of automobiles. The activity here is daunting and I am not prepared for the “awake-ness” of it all.
Anish swings us through downtown Bangalore which seems to be asleep compared to the activity at the airport and I see only stray dogs in the streets, circling and scratching themselves under Banyan trees.
My cab driver sparks a discussion of globalism, and of capitalism in China. He is from the Congo. That his life is hard is an understatement.
I see neighbors in the airport. They are heading to D.C. to take a night away from the boys, and they are relieved that we sold the house to a couple who plan to restore it.
One clonazepam before boarding and a phone call home.
I am dissuaded from taking pictures on the tarmac at Logan and am more than a little put off by this until I remember that the initial flights from September 11 were dispatched from here. So much for Boston, which is, as much as I can recall, the same as when we left it: frozen, with dirty boulders of clumped snow spread wide across the runways.
The stewardess, while I was sleeping, refilled my water bottle and left next to my pile of books, a hand-drawn map to the farthest end of the light-filled terminals from where the international flights come and go and I use this little map to get to the Blue Line bus terminal. Though technically accurate, the map proves to be somewhat more confusing than just following the signs.
At Houlihan’s in the terminal by the E Gates, I order a stout and watch Roy Williams and Carolina pummel Arizona, then watch golf at the bar (thinking of Isabel and Lee, and Hari or Jack at the club). Read (Cheever and “War Trash”) and eat. I do have an image of all three of them in whites, sun-burned and tired from humping bags of clubs up and down Finley all day on an August Saturday. Or the three of them lined up like a cadre of revolutionaries driving range balls halfway from here to Sunday in rapid-fire succession. A nice thought. I will carry this with me to sleep.
Somewhat ironic to begin reading Ha Jin in Boston since he teaches here at Brandeis and is a frequent reader at AGNI events. Am making good, solid headway with “War Trash”, in between prepping ops review materials and making session plans for my trip to Germantown.
No cell coverage in Frankfurt (and T-Mobile Hotspots are all mysteriously down) so call Lia from a payphone. She cannot hear me (the connection is awful and wavers in and out) and we have an awkward series of “I love you’s” interspersed with pauses, then finally, “You’re breaking up.” At the gate, I sleep for maybe two hours solid before waking disoriented and even more tired than before.
Eight hours and five minutes from Frankfurt to Bangalore. I take some cold medicine and have a gin and tonic. I sleep for maybe three hours, read for maybe two, stare off into space for the remainder. Landing in Bangalore after midnight, and the airport is chaos. Customs and baggage are a swift series of fits and starts and when we are through being processed I step into the night air to a swarm of cab drivers and hotel shuttles. My driver, Anish, meets me with a colleague and I am given a cell phone to use while I am here. The night is cool and the air is clean though punctuated with the sharp smell of tobacco, and the endless honking of automobiles. The activity here is daunting and I am not prepared for the “awake-ness” of it all.
Anish swings us through downtown Bangalore which seems to be asleep compared to the activity at the airport and I see only stray dogs in the streets, circling and scratching themselves under Banyan trees.
Sunday, January 22, 2006
Happy yet?
Andrew Oswald, professor of economics at Warwick University, may have an idea why (or why not). Oswald's research interests are in quantitative social science, applied economics and, as it turns out, happiness. In a recent article in Financial Times, titled "The Hippies Were Right All Along About Happiness," Oswald documents how industrialized nations, especially those with higher than average economic growth indicators, tend to have poorer mental health, higher rates of depression and suicide, and (somewhat obviously) increased levels of stress.
In short, studies and surveys have shown many in the US and the UK are more successful and less happy than our predecessors. At the root of the problem, Oswald posits, may be the fact that we're also less able to determine and choose those things which will make us happy.
The Symposium on Economics of Happiness in LA this March promises to shed some light on the topic.
Andrew Oswald, professor of economics at Warwick University, may have an idea why (or why not). Oswald's research interests are in quantitative social science, applied economics and, as it turns out, happiness. In a recent article in Financial Times, titled "The Hippies Were Right All Along About Happiness," Oswald documents how industrialized nations, especially those with higher than average economic growth indicators, tend to have poorer mental health, higher rates of depression and suicide, and (somewhat obviously) increased levels of stress.
In short, studies and surveys have shown many in the US and the UK are more successful and less happy than our predecessors. At the root of the problem, Oswald posits, may be the fact that we're also less able to determine and choose those things which will make us happy.
The Symposium on Economics of Happiness in LA this March promises to shed some light on the topic.
Saturday, January 07, 2006
It's a new year (thank God!) but between Christmas, New Year's, selling the house, buying another house, packing, learning how to make beer, and working, I haven't done anything original in weeks (I haven't even started my Bread Loaf application). That being said, I have been spending a lot of time dorking around on Flickr and lingering on Gnispen - a nice Amsterdam blog.
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