Friday morning roundup

The Sudan-South Sudan agreement is lacking.

Some people could learn a thing or two about tolerance from Honey Boo Boo.

Is shaming a necessary anti-obesity evil?

The Onion on the latest news in castration.

Unlike the sentence-ending preposition stuff, the which/that rule is one I quite like. I'm less interested in the prescriptivist-descriptivist debate (which is a linguistic one) than I am in the need for clarity. We don't abide by grammatical rules and conventions arbitrarily; we do so to minimize strain and confusion on the part of our readers.

I've never understood the logic of, "we live in an age of gender equality, so I will slam that door in your face," but some guys apparently cling to it and very much so. Like the author, I tend to stand on the Metro, but I'm nonetheless encouraged when men offer me their seat (or even when women (or men) pause before claiming a newly-empty seat to ask whether I had my eyes on it). I'm also discouraged by the aggressive seat-vying, in addition to other inconsiderate metro behavior (pushing blind people out of the way, seat-hogging, aisle-hogging with luggage, etc.). So civility is always warranted on the Metro and elsewhere. And even though I certainly don't think I'm any more entitled to a seat than a man, and as mentioned, I don't even want one, I still found it off-putting (or, douchey) just yesterday when a young man went out of his way to beat me to a seat. But even that douchiness doesn't hold a candle to some of the comments on that chivalrous guy's Facebook page or even on the HuffPo article, like this charmer.

Saturday ramble: my week in reverse

First-world problem: I have friends who live in the District who have parties, and I've taken to not messing with the metro when it single tracks, so I've had to drive to (and in and from) the District two Saturdays in a row now. Last weekend wasn't bad, but today was. Mind you, I made it worst for myself--I was running late, as I'd lost track of time in the course of weeding and mulching, so I figured I'd just wing it instead of mapping it ahead of time. Oh, and I forgot to charge my phone (yes, I have a car charger but I've heard they degrade the battery so I only use it in emergencies). But I got lost enough that I did have to use my phone, and it had just enough battery power to get me there (I could figure out how to get back on my own). And enough gas to get me there and back. Perhaps I should be more on top of fueling my phone and my car? 

manners

I worked ten-hour days this week in order to take tomorrow off (in order to get a head start on some home improvement projects calling my name). This precluded cycling to (well, from) work, or at least made it stupid, since most of my ride is basically in a forest (with a paved trail running through it), and I won't ride through that forest in the dark. So I've been experiencing the metro.

Now, I won't complain about the metro, but I'll say a few words about the stew of humanity that I encounter on the metro. I won't complain about that, either, though-- because it's less dangerous and frustrating than the stew of humanity I used to encounter on the roadway.

Today, the woman sitting in the next seat over (i.e. the inner seat) said, "this is my stop."

Not "excuse me." Just "this is my stop."

I didn't think quickly enough to say, "and?"

Tuesday morning roundup

A new generation of Chinese workers sees little glory in "eating bitterness."

A new generation of American students sees little glory in critical thinking (and little harm in plagiarism):

"This represents a shift away from the view of education as the process of intellectual engagement through which we learn to think critically and toward the view of education as mere training. In training, you are trying to find the right answer at any cost, not trying to improve your mind."

It takes an incident for Metro to decide to make it harder to steal buses. By the way, the metro car I was on yesterday was a zoo--clueless tourists, crying babies, the works. I was standing not far from a woman who, in spite of the crowded car, felt free to take up the seat next to her with her stuff. An older woman came in and sat on the edge of that seat. An argument ensued--"You could say something and give me a chance to move my stuff," to which the other women gave her a few seconds and then sat down anyway, and the woman with the stuff practically knocked her off of the seat. My take, should you care for it, is that they were both in the wrong.

I can't fault Petula Dvorak for her decision not to adopt FIV-positive kittens, but I hope someone gives them a good home.

Anne Applebaum on the French aristo-political scandal.

So glad Tom Toles is back from vacation and drawing about our energy policy.

My self-imposed clusterf* of a hell week

You haven't heard much from me because I've been in headless-chicken mode. I had a fantastic long weekend with friends, but the drive took a lot out of me. Then I spent the next few days working late, sleeping poorly, and spending half my free time cooking and baking things for work events and the rother half running to non-work events. It was a week of misses, from the botched chili for the chili cook-off at work (the quinoa drained the flavor, making the chili bland) to the bad date (bad because I was a mess). Now, botched chili is not a tragedy--I had to make chili because I'm on the social committee at work (don't ask) and this was our event, and not that many people signed up to cook--but cooking misses make me sad. The bad date, however... I rarely meet interesting guys with personality, who look like Jon Hamm (except possibly more attractive). How do I botch the opportunity when it actually arises?

Wednesday roundup and ramble

Charles Blow on the epidemic of police violence against unarmed black people.

Afghan leaders have trouble convincing people to stay, since their own people have left.

Your beef habit is seriously destroying the rainforests and pretty much, the planet.

Sady Doyle on Hilary-haters and why we should care.

This spoof on the "nice guy" reminds me of a recent interaction on social media. I'd posted something about offering your seat on the Metro to anyone who needs it more--pretty basic principle, right? And some dude replied, "typical feminist."

newsflash: much of DC raised in barns

I don't think I posted this at the time because I'd so often posted like links, but this phenomenon--i.e. that of not offering seats, particularly seats designated for the pregnant, elderly and otherwise more in need of a seat than the average person--came up in conversation last night at dinner. Apparently, one of our coworkers, who is very pregnant, has never been offered a seat on the metro. One of my colleagues talked about how he had stood up to offer his seat to a pregnant woman who'd boarded, only to see a young, able-bodied guy take the seat within seconds (my coworker called him on it and he moved). WTF, people??

***
I caught myself thinking the other day how beautiful the term "clusterf*" sounds. It just has a ring to it. Have you all seen "Away from Her"? It's really good. And there's a scene, in the nursing home, where one of the ladies says something like, "It's...what do the young folks call it? a clusterf*... At this age, it’s a real clusterfuck, all the charmers are taken."

Budapest and Prague: pro/epilogue

I went into work on Friday--having returned stateside on Thursday afternoon--because I had to, for an external meeting. A coworker told me, hoping (correctly) that I wouldn’t be offended, that I looked like $hit. It was only natural; the trip kicked my ass. It was as exhausting as it was awesome. The number of stressful glitches were disproportionate to the trip's duration of not quite two weeks, but so was the number of miracles and other pleasant surprises. I wouldn’t change a thing.

The very first glitches came when my anticipated travel companions backed out (mom for health reasons, dad because he didn’t want to leave her alone, F. because we broke up). With each drop-out came, but also logistical complications, as I’d planned (and booked) the trip with their company in mind. You’ve read about my travels with my parents, so the "relief" part requires no elaboration; the "complications" part arose from having planned to take the night train from Budapest, the three of us sharing a couchette, to arrive in Prague the morning of the wedding. When my parents bailed on the trip, I bailed on the night train idea; I didn’t want to pay for a three-person couchette for myself, and I didn’t feel safe sharing one with random people, so I opted instead for an early-morning train that would get me to Prague just after noon the day of the wedding. I was cutting it close, but I wanted my two full days in Budapest, and (transnational) European trains are generally on time. F. was to get into Prague around the same time, and we’d head to the apartment we’d booked to clean up and then immediately to the wedding. When he dropped from the picture, Nina put me in touch with three friends of hers who were looking for an apartment for a few days—they’d get in Thursday (the day before I did) and leave on Monday morning—and suggested that I head straight to her place. The wedding would be in her garden. 

Before the trip, the new logistics were sorted and I managed to not really stress about the trip. I was too busy beforehand to give the it much thought, and I took the weekend before I left on Monday essentially practicing for the following weekend, i.e. drinking and partying. I was a little worried about a few things here and there, but had released them to the universe, if you will. At one of the pre-trip parties, I said something to a friend about not having packed yet. In response, she brought up a few things that hadn’t crossed my mind:

Friend: You haven’t met the people you'll be sharing the apartment with?

A.: No.

Friend: That doesn’t concern you at all?

A.: [Shrug.] They’re good friends of Nina’s. Besides, it’s just for a few days. I’ve shared rooms in youth hostels with total strangers for longer.

Friend: I know it might make you a little sad that the trip won’t be as planned, but it’s for the better.

A.: Oh, I know. It hit a few times as I looked over the directions Nina sent. I couldn’t help but think, “oh, yeah—he and I had planned on making our way there together. Oh, yeah, I remember that part of Prague from the last time I was there, he would have loved that bridge/view/neighborhood.” But then I realized I have no concept of what he would and wouldn’t have loved. He probably wouldn’t have given a $hit about any of it. The person I’d planned that trip with isn’t the person that he turned out to be. So yeah, I do think about how this trip, this wedding, will be a very different experience than I thought it would be a couple of months ago.

Friend: Oh, it’ll be okay to go stag.

A.: Oh, that hadn’t crossed my mind. I don’t care about that at all. I just meant that, it's been a mental adjustment.

Friend: It’s good that you’re still going. A lot of people would have canceled.

A.: Really? I was always going to go, hell or high water; it’s Nina’s wedding. Besides, you can have me shot if I ever turn down travel over a guy. Any guy. Actually, don’t have me shot—make my pathetic ass suffer. Find a painful way to put me out of my patheticness, if you ever see me back out of a trip because of a guy.

Friend: I mean, some people wouldn’t travel on their own.

A.: It’s true. I understand, in that I prefer to travel with other people—I’ve traveled alone and I’ve traveled with people, and it’s more fun with people—but I’d still rather go than not go.

My friend had more of a point than I’d realized. I meant what I said—drag me over some hot coals if I turn down a travel opportunity because some guy bailed on me—but I was a little anxious about feeling lonely for those few days before Prague. That had little to do with the absence of F.—he’d never planned on going to Budapest—but I’m human, so the breakup did affect me and what helped get me through those rough first weeks was that my friends really rallied. Also, it’s summer and people were having parties. Leaving for this trip entailed leaving a friendship-rich environment for a few days of navel-gazing (before rejoining another friendship-rich environment). I’m not normally one to turn down a few days of alone time—you may recall my balking at RM’s persistent concerns that I’d get lonely without him—but at the pre-trip moment, I wasn’t feeling the alone time. I admitted to myself that I didn’t feel like being alone, that alone was okay, but that I wanted this whole trip to be full of companionship. I thought of “The Easy Way,” Dar Williams’ great song partly inspired by an old break-up. There was one line in particular that rung true recently: “So here's what I took, I kept the wine and laughter.” But with the looming aloneness, the three lines that followed came to resonate as well:

So here's what I took:

I kept the wine and laughter

Until every path just grew up and ever after

Through the peaks and twisty canyons

I made many great companions

So it was that Monday, as I lined up for the bus to Dulles, the loneliness—or anticipation of loneliness—hit me. I hadn’t had time to feel it earlier that day; I’d gone to work (because I had to, but was able to leave on the earlier side because a friend graciously offered to finish what I’d come in to work on (working over the weekend wasn’t an issue; the delay was on the side of the people who didn’t get us stuff soon enough. But I digress)). I went home, cleaned, caulked the bathtub (yes, I had to do it then—I wanted the ten days for it to dry), finished packing, showed my wonderful neighbor how to give Gracie her pills, took a deep breath, and headed toward the metro and then the bus. I boarded the bus and headed toward the back, and as I positioned my bags by the seat, I looked up to see an old grad school friend smiling at me from a nearby seat. And that’s when I knew—when I really felt—that companionship would find me when I needed it.

***
“So here's what I took: I kept the wine and laughter.”

Oh, wine. The pre-trip training (drinking on roof decks) came in handy. When, in the course of the trip, there was insufficient vegan food to keep me going, wine served to make up the caloric deficit. [Disclosure: I did also have seafood a few times, even though these days my preference is to avoid it entirely. Had I been on my own, I could have stayed vegan, but at many of the restaurants we went to as a group, it was seafood or nothing. But I digress.]

The flight to Europe was rough going. I did have an aisle seat, albeit next to two obnoxious poster children for Aryan Youth. Before you accuse me of racism, let me point out that I have German friends. Just kidding (not about the friends, but about that being an absolution). Anyway, those of you who have come across German tourists or flown Lufthansa will understand when I say that these people think it’s their birthright to invade other people’s territory. Have they ever shoved you out of the way in a line, or at a tourist attraction? Reclined their seat so far in your face that you can see the back of their head? The girl next to me--perhaps the blondest in the world--not only took over the entire armrest, but proceeded to elbow her way into my seat. At one point, she pretzeled herself into her seat, shoving her feet into the space between me and my video screen (and at another point, right in my face). When her father stopped by, he shoved his arm directly in front of my face to adjust something on her video screen. Had I thought it, I would have weaponized the rock-hard “croissant” that was handed out for breakfast. It was much more suitable as a club than as a food, but I’d not thought to use it as either.

None of this bothered me as much as the fact the flight arrived just late enough to have me miss my connection and so spend an extra four hours in the crappiest airport in Europe rather than in one of its more beautiful cities. The FRA airport--at least the part I was in--was naturally devoid of vegetarian, much less vegan, fare. I was crabby for various reasons, and starvation was definitely a factor. Thankfully, European airlines serve food—and free alcohol—even on short trips, so I enjoyed a small Mediterranean salad (complete with beans and olives!) and a glass of wine on the way over. Doesn’t take a lot to win me over: food and wine will do it. More than that--or rather, before that--I kept coming back to the words of one of the flight attendants, who saw me looking dejected upon learning that I'd missed the connection. She said, "where ever you're going from here, it gets better." And so it was.

Self-help tips from the NYT, followed by a ramble

Willpower is an uphill battle; try pride, gratitude, and compassion.

We too often think about self-improvement and the pursuit of our goals in bracing, self-flagellating terms: I will do better, I will muscle through, I will wake up earlier. But it doesn’t need to be that way, and it shouldn’t: Self-control isn’t about feeling miserable.

From the Times' piece on be happy by thinking like an old person, this stuck with me:

None went to a job he did not like, coveted stuff she could not afford, brooded over a slight on the subway or lost sleep over events in the distant future.

I thought about it again this morning, in response to a real dick move not on the subway but on an airplane. It was a full flight, and the woman boarding just ahead of me (but sitting at least a few rows behind me, it turned out) took up some premium bin space with a puffy coat. I asked her to take it out at least until I could get my bag in; she suggested that I try a bin a few rows back. I told her that bags take priority over coats in bins. The woman in the seat next to mine--already sitting down--told her that they've asked people not to put coats in bins. The offending woman took her coat and huffed ahead, who knows how far back into the plane. My seat-neighbor and I rolled our eyes in solidarity and mild indignation at the woman's entitled, dickish behavior. I started to take satisfaction in the indignation, and then I remembered the line from the Times story.

Monday evening roundup and response to comment

Egyptian police brutality. caught on video.

Rampant tax evasion fuels income inequality in Pakistan.

What one man learned as a Cuban political prisoner.

States are taking steps to fight human trafficking.

First lesson of being a good guest: don't stick your hosts with an exorbitant utility bill.

Metro seat hogs get coverage in the Post.

***
I admit my evidence is anecdotal, and I concede the article's main point: I wouldn't have been hearing said anecdotal evidence a generation ago, because I wasn't talking to teachers, employers, etc. Parents--at least those of social status--probably were calling employers (see "Mad Men"). Other observations, such as the decline in critical thinking, may well be a function of changing educational standards rather than helicopter parenting. And parents have been loath to discipline their small children for a while, but I've observed both. For every kid that's allowed to wreak havoc on a plane or in a cafe, others are reined in by their parents. So it's hard to say whether the technological developments that have enabled helicopter parenting haven't been counterbalanced by other factors. What do you think?

Escape from DC

I can be a jackass sometimes—and I don’t just mean in ways that I’m always a jackass as far as you may be concerned, because that’s who I am; I mean, I can be a jackass even by my standards, even according to my own rules (or those I’ve embraced).

Case in point: I’m generally pretty good at counting my blessings and taking nothing for granted (life, health, employment, shelter, etc.), but occasionally, wanting more and wanting things to be perfect—not bad wants—can skew my circuitry. And so, a month or so ago when I learned I’d be traveling to Hawaii for work this week, my reaction was, ‘oh, okay.’ This will have been my sixth business trip to HI (first for this job), and, in my defense, it’s work—there are pretty mountains on the way too and from the meetings, and beautiful beaches, but it’s not like you’ll get out in time to enjoy them. Sure, it’s a nice change of scene, but when your coworkers are going to, say, Ghana, Vietnam and Cambodia, you can’t help but be a bit envious. Besides, the flight to HI is a long one, usually full of families. I hope I can get an aisle seat, away from those, I thought.

I know appreciate what a jackass I was. By Friday, I was scrambling to get to HI anyway I could—spoke to many a travel agent and airline agent as one flight after another that I’d been booked on was canceled (the rest of my team, which had booked out of Dulles, was less screwed). Eventually, a very resourceful AA agent got me on a flight leaving and getting in later than I would have liked (not to mention a day later), but at that point, I would have taken the first hot air balloon out of DC to pretty much anywhere else.

Seriously. Forget HI; take me to Omaha. Take me somewhere where I can leave the house. Ironically, I’d have had an easier time accepting staying in DC and not going to HI had the office been open—I’d have preferred to go to work. But the metro’s still not running above ground, and with more snow to hit DC today, it’s not going to be up and running today. The lack of resiliency is insane.

I had the resolve of someone given a second chance at life: when I get back, and DC is functioning again, I’ll do everything that’s going on—I’ll go to all the plays, trivia nights, concerts I can. At first when I thought I wouldn’t be able to go, I thought, ‘I’ll dig out all the stuff I turned down because I thought I’d be out of town.’ Then, realizing none of it would be going on, I became dejected. And promised it would be carpe diem when the city got back to normal.

To make a long story short, a very kind friend gave me a ride to Dulles. The ride to Georgetown was pretty rocky--rte. 1 was plowed but barely—but the rest of the trip was smooth. The orange line tracks run parallel to the highway were nowhere near clear.

Dulles was a ghost town. I took my sweet time getting to the gate (I had three hours)… stopped at Chipotle straight out of the security line to leisurely savor a breakfast burrito, then sauntered over to the gate. On a whim, I approached the counter and asked if there was any room on the flight and then on the one to Honolulu... and the woman doubted it, but worked her magic and got me on. I told her she was a saint.

I was so happy to be on my way that circumstances that would have annoyed me otherwise were immaterial. It was middle seats the whole way, with a loud, kicking child [not too small to be counseled otherwise] behind me on the longer flight. At one point I turned around.

A., politely: Would you please stop kicking my seat?
Kid’s mom: She’s not kicking!
Woman next to me: She’s kicking me, too!
A.: Impressive, isn’t it.
Woman next to me: She’s loud, too.
A.: She is, but it might be too much to ask to ask her mother to teach her about inside voices. I think it’s reasonable to ask her not to kick, though.
Woman: You’d think.

The truth is, perspective and all, loud, kicking kids on flights—especially in conjunction with self-righteous parents in denial—are annoying. The loudness bothered me less because I had my trusty noiseblockers (don’t leave home without them—really!) but my poor neighbor must have been going nuts.

It wasn't all frustrating (again, not that it mattered). I got to see an episode of 30 Rock (woohoo!) and Community, which I’d not seen before. Plus, Night at the Museum II was actually pretty funny. Love the Oscar the Grouch scene.

It is eerie to look outside and not see snow. It's eerie to be able to walk around without massive amounts of snow limiting every move. I’ve never been happier to be in Hawaii.

Monday evening roundup

You guessed it: I'm going to talk about lab-grown meat. In a minute.  Let's start with international news. Actually, I only have one thing on that: Is Putin marginalizing himself out of relevance? Now, onto science.

Satan planted a 15-million year-old whale skull on the banks of the Potomac to test our faith. I'm not sure whether he also gets credit for the wild rice growing along the Anacostia.

Eggplant seeds are the bane of my existence, so I'm all over Japanese eggplant.

Some dude in a plane is keeping track of pollution on the ground (spoiler alert: coal sucks; but that's not all he's watching for).

The downside to having a brain is that you're difficult to teleport on account of it.

I did not initially want to get into the should-scientists-advocate debate, at first because I found the first volley neither sophisticated, nor applicable in the U.S. (it was written in Britain, about Britain). I've since seen some very decent rebuttals and a really bizarre, confused post that was specifically about science-based advocacy in the U.S.

I question the quality of science in this study on narcissism, for the same doubts expressed in the article (assertiveness is narcissism?), but I took the quiz. I'm somewhat less narcissistic than the mean, but more vain (and yet, less exhibitionist--how does that work?). So much of these things strike me as personality differences that carry little pathology unless taken to extremes.

Speaking of (alleged) vanity, do you love clothes as much as I do but want more sustainable and ethical consumption?

Remember that talking Barbie in the 80s whose lines including "math is hard! let's go shopping!"? Well, The Children's Place decided to resurrect that theme.

Room for Debate is a pathetic waste of time as usual, but I feel the need to comment on this one because I wish my friends had been more willing to point out that I was dating an asshole. Then again, (1) he had them fooled as well and (2) I probably needed to see it for myself. But there were specific concerns that I brought up (with certain friends) and looking back on it, they saw them as red flags even then, even though their responses to me were that those issues were surmountable.

Oh, while we're (kind-of) on gender issues, I want to say that not for the first time, a nice man offered me his seat on the metro. I--and the next woman to whom he offered his seat--said "no, thank you," with an emphasis on the "thank you," in that we both made clear that although we didn't need to sit, we thought it was great that he asked.

Now then, what do you want to discuss about fake meat? Some of the questions that have popped up are, "is it okay?" and "is it vegan?" Let me start with a step back: whether or not the lab-grown meat is good, the debate over it is great because it draws people's attention to the consequences of farmed meat. Even calling into question, in the public discourse, the longterm sustainability of the way we eat now, is a step forward. The default position is reflected in the cluelessness of this post (in Scientific American, no less): but the lab meat has antibiotics! but it's expensive! Um, you won't need to search far on this blog or on the internet as a whole to find out about the debacle of antibiotics in farmed meat. And if you factored into farmed meat its actual cost--take away subsidies, add in environmental damage--it would cost quite a bit. As for "is it vegan?" I'll defer that debate to Erik Marcus, who is handling it very competently:

@vegan @apersonalvegan here we go.Bickering amongst eachother a/ a hypoth product.I understand #culturedbeef as a mind shift away from meat
— Michael Knaepen (@michaelknaepen) August 5, 2013

I'll also refer you to this morning's link to his take on honey, because it's the same argument: let's pick our battles. You can grasp at ideological purity, or you can make more of a difference for animal rights, the environment, and public health.

No need to share

I'm often under the impression that I should get out more, until I do, and remember why I don't.

I went to see the amazing Suzanne Farrell Ballet last night. I enjoyed it, even though the guy to my left--like the guy to my right on Friday night at Aurelie's Oratorio--seemed to think that his space included not only the entire shared armrest, but the space over my seat. I deliberately reasserted my space in both cases. I am not a spatial socialist; I do not subscribe to 'to everyone according to his need.' If you cannot, or choose not to, comfortably contain yourself in one seat, buy two.

And more importantly, shut the f* up. Why do I have to bitch about this every time I go out? Who ARE you people? What is so important that it cannot wait two hours? Does it even cross your mind, how rude it is not just to other theatergoers but to the performers? When a ballerina lost her balance and fell flat on her face in the final act, I wanted to blame the talkers, but I suppose that wouldn't be fair. There was a fair amount of shushing, and people were quiet most of the time, but why do they even need to be shushed?

More on this later, but I also wanted to mention that a number of elderly people came onto the shuttle bus from the Foggy Bottom metro when all the seats were already taken. I was already standing, but one young person and one not so young person got up to offer their seats. A very young woman just sat there. An older woman on the bus, wearing ginormous, dangly, real or very convincing diamond earrings, commented in French that the bus was awful and that they should have taken a metrobus, which was only fifty cents with a transfer.

Most of the people were going to "War and Peace." The music is supposed to be amazing, but you could not pay me to sit for four hours (not including intermissions).

Also: enough with the jeans and cuords: show some f*ing respect.

***
I may be the wrong person to ask why people feel the need to communicate during a performance. I mean, it would be rude in any case, but I don't understand the motivation. Then again, I go to the ballet by myself. I don't necessarily prefer to, but I don't mind. Last night, it was a last-minute decision and it was too late to even ask anyone if they wanted to go. But I've never been that much of a 'sharer.'

Except, obviously, I am, because I share articles with you guys all the time. Except I don't share on demand. I remember reading the New Yorker profile of Peter Orszag months ago, and RM was sitting in the same space (it was before I moved to my office). I laughed out loud, and RM said, "share! share!" and I just rolled my eyes. I don't want to share. I'd have to explain to much context. Read the f*ing article if you want. I offered a few sentences that explained nothing, and he fake-laughed. Similar thing happened when I was watching How I Met Your Mother and he wanted to watch with me, only to produce inane commentary until I glared at him to indicate that I was more interested in watching the show. I've watched TV with other people and enjoyed their non-inane commentary, but it's just different when it's forced. I guess the issue does come back to the fact that we weren't friends. But in any case, when you're at a ballet, you're not in your living room. Shut the f* up, and share LATER.

Helpful hints

Attention, barn-raised metro passengers: here are two rules (there are, of course, more, but we'll save those for another day)--
(1) Take up only one seat. Both seats are not for you. And I'm not talking about people who can't help but take up more than one seat; I'm talking about people who do so voluntarily.
(2) "I'm getting off here" is not a polite way to ask someone to stand up so that you can, indeed, exit the train. "I'm getting off here" is information. What you need is a request, such as, "excuse me."

Istanbul, Delphi, and the Athens airport

Dulles. The checkout counter guy was rude; the security checkpoint ID checker recoiled when she saw my passport photo (she apologized but I wasn’t bothered).

In the boarding area, I heard a few kids—and let me tell you, I’ve developed a sense for the ones that are going to be annoying. One already was: “look, daddy! Curtains!” I was relieved, as I boarded, to see her and her family far away in economy plus.

The flight over was not awful; I had a row to myself until someone jumped the seatbelt sign to usurp the other end of it before I could, but I shot him a dirty glare and occupied three of the five seats. The “breakfast” was a donut (230 cal, 110 g fat (!), 22 g sugar). And they wonder we have an obesity crisis.

The noiseblockers made a huge difference, on the way there and back. You still hear the kids, but their ability to gnaw at your soul is significantly curtailed. Ironically—and fortunately, since it makes you less dependent on a battery—they’re more effective for blocking non-ambient noise when switched off, perhaps because the ambient noise helps block out individual voices. That and they’re effective during takeoff and landing, when you have to turn off electronics. Whenever they announce that, I want to say, “could you ask those people to turn off their child for now, as well?”

Time for a public service announcement: DO NOT FLY LUFTHANSA. I had to wait in four different lines (directed to each by the one before) only to be told to go back to the gate to get my boarding pass, which for some reason I could not get when I checked in at Dulles). People were mostly rude, as well as useless, and the entire area was full of people annoyed that they were standing in the wrong line because airline personnel kept giving them the wrong information. The one thing I will say for Germans, or Europeans as a whole, is that they’re less likely to help themselves to part of your seat. That and they have the decency to serve alcohol for free, unlike United.

At the visa counter in Istanbul, the official handed back my passport as well as a fortune (I will be recognized and honored as a leader in my community). It was an auspicious welcome to a fabulous visit to an amazing city.

As soon as I got through immigration, Kate greeted me with a big hug and introduced me to her friend Ian. We then met the son of the family that runs Marmara Guesthouse, who drove us there along the Bosphorus Strait and the walls of the old city. Elif, his sister, checked us in and gave us lots of suggestions for exploring the city.

Istanbul is the only city in the world on two continents. I was under the impression that we’d be able to walk to Asia, but apparently they only open the Bosphorus bridge to pedestrians once a year, so a ferry would have to do. Even before we learned that the bridge was for motor vehicles only, Kate informed me that it was “quite a long walk to Asia.”

We settled in and went out for dinner and a walk. We learned quickly not to flush what I, after over a week with Kate, have come to call “bog roll.” Signs everywhere warn against it, including one in our hotel bathroom that adds, “Thank you for understanding the Turkish sewage system.”

The waiter in the restaurant we opted for (or were lured into— they have people standing outside to convince you to go in) was a bit odd. He—and he wasn’t the first— was confused by this arrangement Ian had going and was determined to figure out what was going on by asking if we’d had trouble finding a hotel and whether being married or not made a difference. He then said to Ian and Kate,

“I can’t understand you, perhaps because you’re American.”
“Actually, we’re English.”
“Why don’t you talk with British accents, then?”
“We do.”

He wasn’t the only one; it wasn’t long before I was asking them to repeat themselves and they were asking the same of me.

A.: I hear the hippodrome’s cool.
Ian: There’s a pajama school?

After dinner we went for a walk. It was Ian that the restaurant people approached (and approached constantly). The next day, carpet salesmen and, when it started to pour it down, umbrella salesmen joined their ranks. Some were witty (“how can I help you spend your money?” and, upon our return in the evening, “I’ve been waiting all day to sell you carpets!”); some were risqué (“which one is yours?” and “Oh, you have a harem! But you need six for a harem…”); all were persistent, but also cordial and not threatening. A lot of the time they made us laugh, and if nothing else, they inspired us to find alternate routes to and from the Guesthouse. It was almost like we were friends by the end of our visit—when we walked to the train station four days later, they said goodbye and wished us well.

Back at the hotel, I was caught taking notes and confessed that it was for the blog (well, travel notes, but they’ll go in the blog).

Kate, to Ian: Careful, or you’ll end up in the blog.
Ian: Will I be able to read it?
A.: The url’s clingingtomysanity…
Ian: The Euro is clinging to your sanity?

Kate said a few things that we deemed “too crass to blog,” which made it even funnier when we saw the Kras Airlines counter at Athens airport. Something had to be funny at Athens airport.

In preparation for the trip, I consciously chose clothing and shoes that would not scream “American.” Apparently, I did very well, because several locals asked me whether I was Turkish. One, handing out newspapers on the street, handed one to me (but not to Kate or Ian). It became a running joke.

I woke up the next morning at the call to prayer, but fell back asleep before I could decide whether or not it was time to get up. Thursday, our first (rainy) day, was great for all the touristy things: Topkapi Palace and its Harem; Hagia Sophia; Basilica Cistern; and the Blue Mosque. At Topkapi I found myself shopping for armor in the Armory; the maces looked like they could knock a screaming child right out.

On Friday we hit the Grand Bazaar and then the Spice Bazaar, where we tried samples of teas, lokum (Turkish Delight) and spices, and bought some to take home. Outside the bazaar buildings, street vendors sold similar wares. Dolce and Gabbana is apparently the knockoff of choice in Istanbul.

As we crossed the Galata Bridge over the Golden Horn, we made our way up to Beyoglu through what were apparently the fish bazaar; plumbing bazaar; satellite dish bazaar; and more). We enjoyed our walk across the bridge, in spite of the smell of fried fish. The bridge was always lined with fishermen.





Kate and I bought our tickets to Thessaloniki at the train station, once the terminal of the Orient Express. We walked around in that area and passed several restaurant lure-people, one of whom was particularly persistent but still friendly. We would walk by him several times over the next couple of days.

We explored Beyoglu and had a delicious, affordable dinner with a view. We walked back across the bridge and through the Sultanahmet neighborhood, local of Hagia Sophia and the Blue Mosque, as well as our hotel. We took pictures of them in the dark (mine came out not only dark, but with water spots), and I stepped aside to get a shot of HS without the cat that was sipping from the reflecting pool in the square in front of it. Kate said, “you could include the cat, then show it to Gracie and say, ‘this is what you could like if you lost weight.’” So I did. Feral cats abounded in both Istanbul and Greece, but for the most part they looked healthy and not emaciated.

On Saturday we took a cruise along the Bosphorus, stopping in Asia—in the village of Anadolu Kigali—for lunch and a hike to the castle ruins. From there we could see the Black Sea, and yet look back to downtown Istanbul in the other direction. We were very happy with our trip to Asia and with the ferry trip. We made it back to our hotel through the complete madness of Istanbul on a Saturday night, and had a wonderful dinner at Yeniyilda (“New Star”) in Sultanahmet.

We used the few words of Turkish we’d managed to learn. Everyone we ran into spoke English, but just lit up anyway when they heard “Tessekur Aderim” (sp?) for ‘thank you’ or other such words. Overall, people were incredibly friendly.

The next morning, after taking some pictures from the terrace of Marmara Guesthouse, we walked Ian to the tram he would take to the airport and said goodbye. Kate and I were curious whether we’d get a lot more unwanted attention without him; we didn’t.

We decided to just wander (our train was that evening), and wandered across the bridge and into Beyoglu, stopping for dessert along the way. We walked up and down Isteglal Caddessi and its side streets; bought some fruit and Borek Spinaca, i.e. Spanakopita for the road; explored a very cool used book bazaar; and had lunch in Cicek Pasaji (or Flower Arcade).

We crossed back to Eminonou on the bottom level of the bridge, passing a whole line of restaurant lure guys, each starting a conversation with us. Seeing that we were in a hurry, they didn’t press. The fourth or so that we passed, having seen us walk by the others, said, “I am the next one.” We couldn’t help but laugh.

We returned to Marmara Guesthouse to pick up our bags, said goodbye to Elif, and walked to the train station. We walked by the persistent restaurant lure guy, who wished us well, and realized we had an hour before we had to be at the train station, so we went back to his restaurant. He asked where we were going and offered to carry our bags, and was really surprised when we said, “here.” He took my bag, and said, “what is in here? I know! You killed your camel and stuffed it in your bag.” He chatted with us as we ordered, and, asked how he was, responded, “I am very sad, because you are leaving Istanbul.” Kate and I ordered lentil soup and a pizza to share. I dropped my lemon into my lentil soup, which splattered on my face and clothes. Kate lost it laughing; I got up and went to the washroom to clean up. One of the waiters asked her what happened and apparently also lost it laughing when she told him. He brought me a new lemon and made a flinching motion when I lifted it over my soup. From then on, when Kate and I directed the other to smile for a picture, the instruction was, “think lentil soup!”

We proceeded to the train station, settled into our couchette. As the train left Istanbul, we still saw the old wall of the city for quite a while. It was a very comfortable trip, apart from the (illicit) smoking in the corridor and the passport checks along the way. The customs guy asked us if we had anything to declare, looked skeptical when we sleepily shook our heads. “No? Nothing? Cigarettes? Whiskey? [pause] Drugs?”

We arrived in Thessaloniki only to learn that the next train to Athens was full. I’ll spare you the details, but we ended up getting bus tickets to Delphi (where we would have gone anyway but probably from Athens) and then spent the next few hours finding a tourist info center, and then booking it back to the train and bus stations to pick up our stuff and catch the bus. It was an interesting, pretty walk. The ride to Delphi was scenic, replete with hillside villages and the odd ruins. Even once it got dark, we could see orange trees and outlines of mountains.

The bus was practically empty, and mostly pleasant apart from the cigarette smoke. We had to change buses about half an hour beforehand, so I ran out and called a few hotels in Delphi, only to find out that they were closed for the winter. While I was at the phone booth, a local woman approached Kate with the name and phone number of Hotel Pan; I called, and they said they would expect us. The driver of the local bus enjoyed maneuvering the narrow streets and negotiating passage with the other cars. A cigarette in hand and Greek rap music blaring, he got us to Delphi.

Hotel Pan was beautiful—beautiful room, beautiful view. We went for a quick walk and quickly crashed. The only issue was that we were out of bog roll and the hotel manager had already gone to bed. He wasn’t particularly responsive the next morning, told us the cleaner would put some in the room. Luckily, she arrived early, and Kate could declare that we would no longer need to ration bog roll.

The next morning, we set out to find the oracle. I had the impression that if we just kept walking uphill we would get there, and Kate and I were both happy to just wander. This is how we ended up hiking on Mt. Parnassus.

A.: Keep your eye out for an oracle.
Kate: What might an oracle look like?
A.: Good question.

As we hiked, the rain got stronger and stronger. My waterproof shoes held out for a good hour, until they got wet from the inside. Kate and I couldn’t see where we were going because of the fog, but it was nice to be amid nature, having spent most of the previous day on a train and then bus. We kept asking the other if she wanted to turn around, but both decided to keep going. Then, the rain got really bad, and we approached some sort of natural stopping point, and turned around. Just as we did, the rain stopped, the sun started to come out, and the fog started to clear. A beautiful view opened up ahead of us, and we were completely surprised by it because we couldn’t see a thing on the way up. We had a lovely hike down and even dried off a bit.

We returned to the hotel to change clothes and camera batteries, and continued our search for the Sacred Precinct. When we found it, it was more amazing than we imagined. We visited the Temple of Apollo and surrounding ruins, and then crossed the street to see the Tholos. I thought that might be the oracle, as did Kate, since it’s the postcard image of Delphi. We asked it a question, at which point the cat sitting near it meowed, twice. We accepted the cat for the present-day incarnation of the oracle, even when we later read that the oracle was most likely up by the Temple of Apollo (the oracle referred to a being, rather than a set structure; the location referenced above is where the priestess conveyed the oracle’s pronouncements).

Delphi is SO beautiful. Even without the ruins it would be beautiful, but the ruins make it picture-perfect. We were very happy to be there, rain and all, in the off season, because it just wouldn’t be the same with hordes of people.

We headed back, ready for food, and debated whether we’d get a snack for lunch and big dinner, or the other way around.

A.: We can’t have spanakopita every day!
Kate: There’s no law that says you can’t.
A.: Okay, I can’t have spanakopita every day and wonder why I’m not as thin as I used to be.

We ended up getting—what else—spanakopita, which held us over to dinner. We set out for dinner and visited the few shops that were open in the off season. We chatted for a while with one shopkeeper, who said that over the weekends quite a few school groups and other visitors from Athens come, so it’s not as quiet, but that in the summer it gets crazy and very hot. She said that Canadians, who are often overweight, suffer when they come in the summer. Kate and I both figured she meant Americans but didn’t want to say it. She told us a little bit about the Greek language, and mentioned a common joke about how foreigners will say Calamari for “good morning” (which is “Kalimera”).

We weren’t quite ready for dinner so we stopped at an internet café. I discovered that Citi had absolutely gouged me with a foreign ATM withdrawal fee (the irony: my ING atm card had been in my wallet the whole time, but I canceled it before I found it).

We had a lovely dinner, although we had a feeling our waiter was a stoner. He had to ask Kate what her order had been, seconds after she placed it. I went to wash my hands, but the figures on the washroom doors were so androgynous that I couldn’t tell which was the ladies’ room. The one that had breasts also had a mustache. I guessed (and needless to say, nobody cared). We had a drink to toast our wonderful day. I remembered that before leaving the States, my friend May said to have an extra drink, for her, so I did.

We turned in and woke up the next morning in time to catch an earlyish bus to Athens. When we got to the bus station there, I watched our stuff while Kate went to find information about which bus to take into the city center.

Kate: Do you want the bad news, or the really bad news?
A.: [Blank stare]
Kate: The buses are on strike.

We went to get more info from the info desk. The woman there told us how to walk to the train station but couldn’t tell us whether it would be open, and told us the taxi drivers were gouging even more so than usual. We hoped to leave our bags there to explore Athens on foot. We stopped in the park across the street to eat our olives and to-mah-toes (as Kate calls them), as I couldn’t stomach anything else with phyllo dough (i.e. everything for sale at the bus station), and then lugged our stuff to the train station. My bag was awkward but waterproof, and not too bad carried as a backpack. Navigating Athens on foot was pretty scary, but we made it to the train station… only to find it closed. We opted to get a cab into the city center, but the cab drivers told us the city was cordoned off because of protests. We were about to walk, when he told us the metro would be open for another hour. We took it to Syndagma Square. On the way, a man on the metro gave Kate some basil, which made our journey fragrant if nothing else. We came out of the metro and saw for ourselves that the city was just not a good place to be at that time. We think the hill we saw from the square was the Acropolis, but didn’t wait too long to find out before we decided to cut our losses and head for the airport.

We took the metro as close to the airport as it would go, and then followed the locals out. We got some coffee and the only food available (the café was out of spanakopita, so we had to settle for cheese pie, i.e. spanakopita without the one healthy ingredient). It was quite good, but the phyllo dough diet was getting really old. The woman behind the counter told us to try to train, but it too had shut down. A guy on the street told us that all we could do was go across the street and hail a cab to the airport. He was very nice, and somewhat apologetic that our visit to Athens had come to this.

Kate: The people are really nice.
A.: Yes, the ones that don’t try to run us over are quite nice.
Kate: Well, yes… the ones we talk to.

We dallied on the highway for a while and took some pictures, and then tried to hail a cab along with a dozen other people. Eventually, a man who worked as a security guard at the airport hailed a cab and shared it with us, and we got there.

Kate and I had hoped to get earlier flights out of the city, but upon arrival we learned that all the flights for that day had been cancelled, because the air traffic controllers were on strike as well. So we made the most of what would be a very long night. I found myself at saying, “oh! Let’s explore the zeroth floor!” in a tone that should have been reserved for, “oh, look, it’s the Parthenon!”

Over dinner we had a slow-eating contest. Kate is one of the only people I’ve met who matches me in speed-eating (and actually in memory, too… we did a lot of reminiscing). Later, we had some wine, over which we played “car games.” She asked me to name all ten countries with four letters in the name (which Ian had asked her back at work); she and I together tried to name all the countries in Africa (surprisingly, we got all but three). We visited the really crappy but free internet terminals (which boot you off after ten minutes; have trouble sending e-mails—Kate drafted one to her husband about five times); and are difficult to type on) and did a few tours of lobby before settling into a perch on the second floor. Which was not carpeted. Tragi-ironically, it was the day of Kate’s (doctoral) graduation, but she’ll be able to formally graduate in the spring. Kate was able to sleep more than I did; I slept some, people watched more. In my few days in Greece, I noticed that people were very trendy, and skinny jeans abounded. Now, I respect Kate Moss as a fashion icon, but I also realize her iconic status is largely merited by the fact that she pulls off looks that few others can; most people have no business buying skinny jeans.

Morning came, and I was able to check in. I had to go through security, but Kate couldn’t get her boarding pass yet, so we had to say goodbye. Since we both arrived in Istanbul, it seemed so normal to be together again, as if nothing had changed since we met ten years ago or last saw one another five years ago. There were little reminders along the way that we would part ways, i.e. when she and Ian talked about what they would make with the spices they bought and I realized I wouldn’t be cooking with them. Nonetheless, it almost came as a surprise to me that we had to say goodbye, and I found myself choking back tears. I cried the whole way to the boarding area. I am capable of human emotion, who knew? Don’t tell anyone.

We both arrived home safely and much later, which is the important thing, but the rest of the trip was not fun. I was starving but hadn’t eaten in the airport because I was trying to acclimate myself to EST, and somehow the request for a veggie meal didn’t make it to Lufthansa (which is odd, because it’s automatically on my United profile, and it has in the past when I’ve flown partner airlines). It did not help that the flight attendant informed me that I had to order one in advance, and no I did not want a ham-covered tray anyway. What the cabin crew did do right was not support the asshole behind me who wouldn’t let me recline my seat even a little bit. I found a hand coming down on my head, and looked back, horrified. I reclined a little more. The asshole pressed the call button. I heard the flight attendant say, “you have enough room” and walk away. He continued to kick my seat out of revenge, but I managed to sleep anyway. Sadly, I was so preoccupied by the indignity of it all that I left my book—the one Kate gave me—in the seatback pouch. I realized it as soon as I went through immigration, i.e. as soon as it was too late to go back. I was crushed, both because of sentimental value and because I had gotten into it (I have since acquired another copy, although it's not as nice).

I won’t go into detail about why the next three hours in Frankfurt were not fun, except that Lufthansa not only doesn’t let you into the boarding areas if there’s a preceding flight there—so I had to continue to sit on hard floors—but also kept changing the gate. Lest you think I’m feeling sorry for myself, don’t; I read the NYT article about the state of children’s health in Afghanistan at the internet terminal in Athens airport, I know not to complain about air travel. I know even air travel can be a lot worse. Yet, I know it can also be a lot better.

The flight to Washington was full of screaming kids (the headphones REALLY do help) and other annoyances. A man got up to get something from the overhead bin and dropped a coke can on my hand; that hurts. The guy sitting next to me kept elbowing me. I don’t have a book, and unlike the way over, there’s one film screen for the whole cabin and I can’t see it (which is just as well because the films all suck). We arrive at Dulles and people take their sweet time getting off and making their way to the shuttle bus. Ironically (because I thought in Europe, I can’t wait until I’m somewhere where not everything smells of cigarette smoke), the shuttle bus smells of cigarette smoke. My point is, it was an unpleasant trip back.

It was SO worth it, though. It was a great trip.

And?

It's always bugged me when someone sitting on an inside seat on the metro says, "this is me" when they'd like you to move so they can get out. I believe the phrase they're looking for is, "excuse me."

"This is me" is a statement. If you would like me to do something, it would behoove you to make (or imply) a request.

This morning, the woman sitting next to me said, "this is my stop." I almost said, 'and?'

Response to Response to Response to Comment

I wasn't accusing you of being indifferent to the havoc your son was wreaking. Just pointing out that when a child misbehaves, I'm not thinking, "that parent must be a terrible person;" I'm thinking, "my head hurts." I appreciate it when the parent makes an effort to ease the pain.

Please also understand that I'm sort of fed up with *people.* Metro riders, theater-goers, voters. People. I've already gone on about what they do. I've already admitted that I know I must infuriate other people, too. It's a part of existing in a society. Which makes me seriously consider, but quickly dismiss, the prospect of hermitude. After all, I prefer a theatrical performance where someone to my right is crunching hard candy, while the person behind me is explaining what just happened to her companion, and someone next to him is rattling papers in her purse, to no theater at all. I'm also in no position to criticize people who take up more than one seat, as I brought one such person to a performance not long ago. I wish I could bring her more often, but we were lucky enough to be at the end of a row that time, and we couldn't do that to other patrons if we ended up surrounded by other people. But here's what I will say: had someone needed to get past her during the intermission, she would have gotten up and gotten out of the row to let people pass. She wouldn't have shot people the look that I got last week, the one that said, "you want me to actually get up?" Yes. I'm sorry but you're not small enough for me to get by you otherwise.

But row etiquette is a distraction. It's annoying, but it's not necessarily rude.

Talking, chewing, crunching, and rattling is rude.

The people on the stage are pouring everything into this show. Do you have any idea what goes into a theatrical or dance performance? Can you appreciate the training, the concentration, the sharing of all one's energy and spirit? If you can, see if you can go one f*ing hour without eating, chatting, or rifling through your purse.

Friday evening ramble

Something odd made its way into my Eat This, Not That newsletter:

There can be something slightly unnerving about turning your grocery cart into the frozen section. Will people think you're single and lonely? Or just lazy? Shouldn't you be loitering instead in the crisp produce and meat sections, planning out some Mario Batali-style feast?

Does anyone else not give a second thought to what people in the supermarket thing of them and what's in their shopping basket?

***
Someone commented in an Express poll that "We should be banning bikes from the streets not giving them a whole lane of traffic and making the cities slow traffic problem even worse." Because putting those people in cars is going to make city traffic a lot better. But I don't argue with morons unless I have to, so I'm just going to talk about how great it's been to get back on the bike, at least a couple of days a week. Even though it hurts when you've not been cycling regularly, but it's so much nicer than dealing with the crowded, noisy metro every day. Today, it wasn't even that crowded... but in the morning, these two women wouldn't stop yapping loudly (there's a tacit no-talking-in-the-morning rule, and you should at least keep it down). This afternoon, there was a screaming toddler and a seat hog. Yesterday, there was just fresh air, beautiful scenery, and peace and quiet once I got out of the city. A sore butt's a small price to pay.

Sunday roundup

The collective clusterf* that is the Middle East is often so absurd that it's funny. More often, it's just tragic. Closer to home, very few doctors are willing to document asylum seekers' signs of abuse.

Maoism is more appealing in theory than in practice.

No one's saying that it's easy for countries, cities to come to terms with their history.

What's ironic about this:

""I would suggest you convert to Christ!" Benham shouted over a megaphone. Islam "forces its dogma down your throat.""

The challenges for mothers in the military are significant, but on the third page of this article, a silver lining: fathers, when there are fathers, become more active partners in the marriage and more active fathers. This stood out because I was at a party yesterday (a friend's son's first birthday) and the moms were pointing out that the dads would get bored about three seconds when they were supposed to be watching their kids, and the kids would go gravitate toward stairs and other places where they'd be best observed rather than running loose.

Gotta love the transparency:

"Accustomed to the traditional anonymity of hawala networks, Taliban supporters sometimes fill out their customer slips by plainly stating that the payment is for "heroin" or "five vehicles for Taliban commander so-and-so," said a senior U.S. law-enforcement official."

The "Yes Men" Borat Big Business.

I-Hope-There's-Beer debasement isn't limited to young women.

Michelle Singletary is right to extend the onus to both the banks and their customers. I'm the first to say that banks will be predatory, will purposely obfuscate... but as I've been going on about food labeling, people need to maintain responsibility for what they consume, and for becoming informed about their choices.

I think about this every day that I bike, to work or otherwise. Not about the Brooklyn Bridge part, obviously, but as someone who, too, has shown up to work a little late with chain grease on her hands, I've had to negotiate with my fair share of clueless pedestrians. They don't make it easy... they often sprawl over both lanes, and you try to warn them but they're in their own world.

I also thought yesterday, driving home from north of Baltimore, amid torrential rain and poor visibility, how I hadn't seen such aggressive driving in a while. I could also blog about bad signage: there's no reason that even I, as bad as my sense of direction is, should be getting lost trying to get onto 295 from the beltway, or, as the other day, on the way to FedEx on Eisenhower-- I mean, I've been driving past and through those areas for years-- but they keep changing everything on the beltway and if they sign it at all, the signs are tiny and invisible in the dark, or too close to the turnoff point for you to make a decision--but I digress.

I wonder whether the pedestrians--and joggers--realize that how much of the lobbying that has made those trails happen has come from the biking community. They should be thanking us. As Mr. Sullivan said, the revolution has begun.

One suggestion for improving Metro's reliability: its management should listen to bloggers, especially those that also spotlight riders who were raised in a barn, such as those

"...putting their feet or wet umbrellas on seats. One memorable photo showed a man on the Orange Line trimming his arm hair and brushing the clippings on the seat and floor."

Some search engines are becoming increasingly parasitic, when they've thus far been largely symbiotic.

This gets funnier as it goes along:

all over the place blog

Do you know how many people tried to make me miss my train this afternoon? First, there was the very large man who, whether he wanted to or not, took up most of both escalator lanes. Then, on the next escalator, there was the guy who positioned his roller suitcase smack in the middle of the escalator. Then, with the train in sight, shortly before the doors closed--one good thing about rush hour is that you get that time that it takes people to get off the train-- the person in front of me just stopped. And thought. And then boarded. Thankfully, I made it in, too, but it was annoying. And it happens all the time. People are in a hurry, but then they stop and contemplate (or realize that it's not the line they want), but they continue to lock the doors. It's really f*ing annoying.

By the way, I'm not proud of or even unconcerned about this anti-overweight bias that Project Implicit has confirmed that I have (the good news is, I harbor "little or no" other biases, of the ones I tested on). I don't believe in trying to justify my bias, although part of it really is that I don't like it when people block the escalator or take up part of my seat. But I don't accept that kind of argument from other people-- I think it's pretty lame, actually. You hear guys especially say that it's not a shallow thing so much as a proxy for self-control. Having no self-control myself when it comes to food, I can hardly judge others for that. Maybe that's it? Maybe it's my own frustration with my post-30 weight, especially now that, given that I'm leaving in ten days, I have to accept that I'll be going on vacation chubby? Maybe that's why Gracie is especially annoying (although let me tell you, she is pretty annoying in her own right)?

***
Back to the topic of public transit, the buzz around Washington is that half the members of the WMATA board rarely use the system and some owe parking fees. The reactions range from "I'm shocked" to "makes perfect sense." It actually makes even more perfect sense given some of the inane, expensive ideas they've implemented over the years to try to improve service (hiring a marketing company to come up with cheesy posters on metro etiquette; hiring riders to test the system-- I mean, WTF?).

***
I didn't watch the Oscars; I don't have a TV, and anyway, most of it was past my bedtime. I did read about it, though, and I f*ing LOVED the opening line of Sean Penn's acceptance speech.

***
Okay, back to the studmaster. Which doesn't seem to think my kitchen wall has any studs. Well, it does, but they're never in the same place twice. I don't know.