Something to Celebrate

The iguanas were too fast for me to catch - all seven of them, running from me!  Don’t interpret this as a power trip; it was much closer to a point of weakness.  Have you ever seen iguanas run?  No wonder we keep them in glass boxes with large branches obstructing any movement they might be capable of.  These things look hilarious!  Iguana owners wouldnt get anything done if pet shops encouraged back yards.

I did however catch a couple of my favorite foods down here to show you.  Food is more sedentary and so was my camera during the chase.  You see, food doesn’t look like it is trying to doggie-paddle its way above water while keeping a keen eye on its rudder of a tail.  The eye comes out of the side of its head, just above the crook of its mouth which poses a horribly-plastic, inborn look of concern.  It then stops.  Though it doesn’t sink, (once again there is no water, this iguana has scrawly claws not amphibious paws) it instead peers at you with huffy breaths: sculpted smile rising, sculpted smile falling and repeat.

Perhaps both of my foods could help Mr. Iguana and his fleet chill out a bit.  The pictures say it all but allow me to give them my own brevity in words here:

Food 1:  Monkey Hippy.
Food 2:  All Natural Water.  (yes, water is not food, my judgment to leave this technicality out until now was a decision based on the marginal costs of word additions to the previous sentences.  As they say in Ecuador: okie dokie.  Just look at the label.  It is once again fun to drink water!

Straight to…

Ill make this one short.  I’m a little sad today.  My new favorite team (Ecuador) just blew their game yesterday.  Jerks.  No jumping on the hoods of cars with my flag this time.

On top of it, my real favorite team (Brazil) also blew their game.  Where can I turn for something to celebrate around here?!

Ecuador Wins!

Yeah, I know, this news is a day or two late.  I wanted to be sure you received the true nature of my enthusiasm.  (I still havent found a dance school, but close!) 

Conveniently, for my consumption of turistic experiences, the place everybody comes to celebrate big wins is right down the street from where I live on Victor Emilio Estrada.  They hold celebratory mosh-pits and toot car horns repeatedly (the fans, not the unsuspecting families that happened to get stuck pitside in traffic) while parked in the street bumper-to-bumper.  The main, strikingly-yellow pit takes place right in front of a marvelous cerveceria known as El Manantial (the Spring).

I received answers telling me there are from 3 to 6 more games before Ecuador makes it to the finals of this round (you can tell the nuanced precision of the die-hard fans I am working with here).  And as I jest about my inability to be enthusiastic for a soccer game, I must also report that I have ditched my fidelity to the all-powerful Brazil (just for this month, you gotta blend in as a traveler) and I am now a fan of Ecuador!  We’re going straight to the World Cup baby!

Marginal Analysis and Language Acquisition

This falls in the studies I would do if I were omniscient category.  If you dont like studies you can gut this pseudo-one by simply reading the sentences that end in a question mark (?).

When learning a language there is a lot with which you can preoccupy yourself.  And depending on your ultimate goals, there are many ways you can measure your level of success.  Here are some rough thoughts on the topic; I’m open for suggestions.

Lets assume my ultimate goal in learning Spanish is to be able to communicate verbally (rather than in writing or with grammatical precision or to have a perfect accent…),  I am interested in the quickest route to this goal and am trying to consider where my time is best spent.

In the process of reaching this goal there are many obstacles; we will just take one to keep the analysis simple.  For example, in Spanish nouns have a gender (an aspect of the language that is completely foreign to me and that will require lots of time to learn).

A shortlist of things I must consider:

• Time it would take me to memorize the gender of nouns from a book.
• Number of nouns needed for an ample and sufficient intermediate vocabulary.
• Frequency I could learn the gender of a noun in a spoken conversation.
• Percent of nouns someone wouldnt understand if I guessed the wrong gender.
• Rates of noun acquisition at different levels of language ability
• ...

My question is: is it even necessary that I study the gender of nouns?  If my ultimate goal is to be able to communicate verbally and the costs of learning the gender of these nouns formally (through study) are much higher than the costs of learning them informally (through conversation), why bother?

Perceived costs of not learning the gender of nouns formally:

• Grammatical mistakes
• Time spent learning suboptimal vocabulary
• Minor confusions from time to time
• Loss of grammar-freak friends (could also be a benefit)

Perceived benefits of not learning the gender of nouns formally:

• More time in conversation
• Time spent learning the more applicable nouns to the standard vocabulary
• Better develop Spanish language intuition
• Quicker ascent to greater comprehension in conversation, which in turn would lead to a greater noun-gender acquisition.
• ...

What other things am I wasting my time studying that could more easily be acquired through action?

Hello Guayaquil

My new place is quite nice.  Come Friday I even got a taste of the neighbors playing horribly bass-ridden techno into the night.  I had succeeded in reading a slue of papers from the 2004 Mont Pelerin Society (essential illuminati) meeting until about four in the morning when, as I tried to sleep (and I am very tolerant in these moments, Friday is a night of celebration and by no means am I here to cramp anyones culture) and couldn’t, I figured I might as well dance.

Appropriately, to some foul techno version of California Dreaming, I put on my shoes and, as my stated goals on this trip are either to become kidnapped or married, head down the block.  It was only about 100 paces later and a neck wrenching triangle or two before I had determined that the party was behind a very high wall with no discriminate entrance. 

This is when, if my true goals were the aforementioned and I was a true diehard nightlifer, I would have stepped back, gathered some inertia and done a Jackie Chan-style wall-scaling entrance and awed either my future captors or my future wife.

This was not the case however.  Instead, regarding my dark-street-like status and realizing that the California Dreaming song had now ended (this would make my entrance all the less novel, even inopportune perhaps since it was once again clear that I dont even like this type of music) I retreated to another yet-unstated goal of the trip (perhaps even a more realistic one), devouring a wealth of marvelous economic literature.

After an hour more of drowning the bass in air-conditioner motor and bluegrass (yeah, the hoedown converted me) I emerged to realize it was once again silent (minus the air-conditioner motor, but this sound is like that of mosquitoes at dusk for a family that lives on Lake Michigan I would presume).  One doesn’t even need sheets to fall asleep in the humidity down here.  Asi es.

Tridge Revision #1

It seems I have miscalculated my audience.  Where I thought I could craftily sneak in a sleight of word and omit vital information, my father, a native of Midland, Michigan and one of the two people who has closely watched the evolution of my lying habits over the last 26 years (I don’t know which attribute may carry more weight, but rest assured that both of these factors are essential to the full understanding of this story), has called me on the following portion of my last post:

The three legs span the shores over the confluence of two docile, unknown rivers that will remain inessential to the full understanding of the story.

The rivers are, in fact, known as the Tittabawassee and the Chippewa.  They are even available for walleye fishing year-round.   Though, I will add, nobody was fishing on the day that I was there.  And although this new information has surfaced, the rivers remain, with me as the empirical witness, docile.

The Nostalgia that is Midland

The story begins with me helping start up a research unit out of the Department of Economics at San Jose State University.  The story has no ending yet, but somewhere in the middle I find myself running across the infamous Tridge of Midland, Michigan in the middle of a blizzard.

Before going any further, I must warn you that being from California, I carelessly use words like blizzard in reference to any weather that does not involve a sun.  The spelling of Tridge, however, was not careless; it is meant to imply a bridge with three legs (as opposed to the implicit two legs of the bridges with which you are most likely familiar).  The three legs span the shores over the confluence of two docile, unknown rivers that will remain inessential to the full understanding of the story.

While we’re off track, I used to spend my winter breaks in Midland.  This is where I first met snow.  This is where I would watch my grandfather devise intelligent bird-feeders that could throw a perpetrating squirrel a good ten feet and not spill but an ounce of seed. 

Also in the middle of the story I meet lots of really intelligent, passionate people and they teach me how to start and operate a think tank.  No, it is not that easy.  Nor is driving through a blizzard to an airport.  On return from Midland we missed our plane.  It’s the first time this has happened to me.

Jersey City, NJ

I think Nietzsche called it the ‘eternal return.’  I just know that as Amanda was driving me to the airport in New York, all of a sudden, the sign said Jersey City with some dastardly crooked arrow signaling pointedly into a muddle, and we were lost in the dirty city again.

My last adventure began this way and I am beginning to fear how Jersey City might sneak up on me the next time! 

Our (Jersey City and me) last encounter involved a case of six German wines.  The U.S. government stole them from me right out of the mail; held them hostage in a wherehouse down a tortuous, stop-lighted road in a vacated, numbered lot; and charged me two dollars to retrieve the care package that was sent to California in the first place.

Our (Amanda and me) time in Jersey City was mostly spent photographing streets with names like ‘Vroom’ and the undersides of the freeway from dirt roads that we came across in the multitudes of circling and where-the-heck-are-we’s we did around the dirty city.

Luckily, this time Amanda maneuvered free of the dirty city’s grasp with an ingenuous U-turn, obvious and round—an artless move that would insult the craftiest of ugly concrete mazes.

Yes, I am expressing triumph.

Halloween: Pittston, PA

The streets were quiet, but potential, while Amanda and I snuck out with her grandmother to the Olive Garden for dinner on Halloween night.  Leaving a note for the candy hunters on the door, telling them when we would be back, seemed more dignified than my effort the past year.

Although I learned many things in school, I do feel academia sheltered me from any exposure to these lil’ ones who are so potent and lifelike.  This became clear to me as I answered a knock on my door in San Jose last year: two trick-or-treaters.  With a shocked look on my face I greeted the dashing beasts with an “Is today Halloween?” and before they could reply asked them to hold on.  I closed the door and turned to Silvio quickly telling him to help me search the house for anything sweet and giveable.

After a little sweat and a twice over of the cupboards we returned to the door with the option of a banana or canned garbanzo beans.  Already halfwaydown my walkway the little beasts politely declined my offer and scampered off for a chance a sweeter plunder next-door.  Silvio and I quickly turned the lights out and hid in the backroom until we established a plan and proper escape route from our cornered situation.

Despite being in a State with arguably less youth, the return from the Olive Garden this year went a bit smoother—the neighbor greeting us to tell that the streets were quite calm this year.  “Not to many Haloweeners,” he said.  I quietly let go a sigh of relief, currently disregarding the fact that they refer to ‘trick-or-treaters’ as ‘halloweeners’ over here (I guess it is more appropriate for their average size). But Amanda’s grandmother wouldn’t let go so easy. 

This halloween I witnessed the type of compassion they don’t teach in academia.  Within minutes she was out on the porch with the candy bucket yelling at kids who looked like they might be passsing without getting the generous handful of sweets they were due: “Hey, come ova here!” she yelled to the ghost.  “I’ve got candy for ya!” she yelled to the zombie.  With plenty of effort she emptied that basket, mostly on the neighbor who also got a few extra handfuls to give to friends, though an eloquent bout of pro-active halloweening.

Meter Maids and Company

Two train ticket from New York to Philadelphia cost $35.00.  Amanda and I paid it.  But that I guess is not interesting.

My friends across Southern Europe had different interpretations of their public transportation systems.  Let me give you a list of our trips savings:

Barcelona: +16 Euros.  (Tickets to Sitges 6 Euros, but you can get on for the price of a metro ticket, 2 Euros.) Lyon: +6 Euros.  (There is no barrier in the Metro Station) Paris: +10 Euros. (Here you just jump, it is very circus like) Milan: +4 Euros (You validate the ticket in a machine on the Bus)—————————- Total Debits: +36 Euros in metro-hopping savings, a gift of local knowledge

But here comes the catch, the grand equilibrator (Yes, I’ve tactfully hidden information from you).

Milan: -34 Euros (A gift of foreign knowledge.  As we pulled up to a station and saw a handful of ticket checkers collaging the doors, we decided to jump off as to not be on the bus with them, though as it goes, they didn’t want on, but to see our tickets once we got off ((sad music)) (Yes, this is my story, i can choose the music).—————————- Total Credits: -34 Euros in metro-hopping slappings

Grand Total: +2 Euros!

Some people play Bingo or go to the Horse Track.  I ride public transportation while in foreign countries ((trail off with Hawaii Five-O type music)).

Introduce: Jean

Lyon, France.  Jean welcomed Amanda and I as we descended from the bus, greeted us warmly and treated us to our first metro ride a la Parisiansans ticket.

It was 6:00am by the time we reached Jeans apartment, late enough to get a wink of sleep (as the bus isnѕt always conducive to a full nights sleep) and early enough for a two-hour breakfast and some catching up.  We drank tea from bowls as it is done and as Jean head off for work, Amanda and I slept from 8am to 4pm and then went for breakfast again.  This time, croissant and pain au chocolat, or what was left of the pickings at this hour.

We met Jean back at his place after work, and along with his brother, had a Lyonese feast of quenelle, gnocchi, roquefort and friends, wine, cava (the Spanish bubbly), a homemade vodka, and chocolate.

City Folk

Along with a Scottish anarchist with a sharpened umbrella, we left Barcelona.  A good stay.  Please check out my visually imprecise, yet emotionally cordial pictures of Gaudis Casa Battllo.

I would also like to mention that they sell chickens - yes, real live chickensin the streets of Barcelona at 10 o’clock at night.  I am unsure where anyone who purchases a chicken in this city might keep it, as I am unsure of what type of farmer traffic frequents downtown Barcelona (the last time I checked the full-grown chicken wasn’t much the pet you give to a child on his birthday).  Though, contrary to the presumed falsity of most urban legends, I am sure they sell chickens.

Order

Yes, order. What of it?  I presume, as this is a diary of travels, which in itself is a linear experience, that, as one day we may meet and discuss a story or two from the breadth of our disordered recollection, an incongruous presentation is a minor detail.

Ikea

In the many homes in which we have stayed, I have come to believe that IKEA may be the Tupperware phase of home furnishing.  Or maybe it is something much bigger.

Frameless beads with headboards, bookshelves, miniature beanbag chairs and placemats with holsters for the silverware have all served as tools in the houses in which we have stayed, and they have all been from IKEA. 

Does this IKEA phenomena only appear in life on the cusp of ones studies and the work world, or is it much deeper than this?  I must admit my sample set is quite biased: friends from college who are now working.  I am about to start working. The lone fact that my family has a barn-full of salvageable dusty things (and this comment makes no assumptions of the quality or orderliness of said barn; it is an excellent, well ordered barn with the potential for horses and is currently being slabbed, a project that I cannot wait to see) may label me in another furnishing group, yet I must also admit that this sample set has invoked a small fear in me.  Am I also about to acquire grave instincts to start ravaging the nearest IKEA?

Introduce: Santi & Mar

If any of you have read the Da Vinci Code, Dan Brown mentions that in Da Vinci’s painting of the Last Supper, Da Vinci put a wine glass at every seat as opposed to just one single goblet as Sophie Nevu (who’s voice is awful in the book-on-tape version) guesses, the holy grail.  For some reason (and my unfamiliarity with the topic may come shining through right here) Da Vinci is apparently trying to reveal the true nature of the grail within these nuances in his art.

I just wanted to mention I saw a painting of the Last Supper from the same time period as Da Vinci where there was also a wine glass in front of each person at the table.  Maybe Da Vinci wasn’t the only one onto such secrets after all!

At a more recent supper, which also was a final supper to our stay in Madrid, I must openly commend someone who many of you may never meet: Chef Santi.  I had the pleasure of knowing Santi as an In-House Chef my last stay in Madrid, but it was many interests above food that brought us together in the first place.  Music such as the Tindersticks and Los Nios Gusanos stoked our bond and drinks like the Venezuelan Cacique and the Red frizzante cemented it.

Regardless, food once again was the centerpeice in the weaving together of our interests (and talents).  Even though I begged for the purple rice dish, Santi prepared us a fabulous plate of wide noodles and farfalle with the choice of a verdant Cinqueterra pesto or Spinach-a-la-Santi on the side.  During the preparation, Mar, from the entertainment division, cultured our Italian travel palates with stories of their travels through the Northern end of the Pasta-land.  Dinner led to more stories and discoveries(!) such as the origin of surfing and the ice cream brindis (cheers, salute… what the heck is the verb for this!?).

While some nights should never end, others are bookended with a bus ticket that leaves at midnight.  We pulled ourselves from sharing new music and waking the neighbors with drums and ran for the vacation home!  Yes, the vacation home is a Volkswagon bus.  I think the 1989 model. (Westfalia?  It said California on the side.)

With charismatic farewells, the bus was soon to bring us no sleep and to Barcelona.