Standards and Measurements

As with any move, some of the translations have little to do with language. For example, how many milliliters make up an ounce? How many cups in a liter (or litre)? I was struck by my complete lack of ability to translate between the metric measuring system and the standards based measuring system when I went to buy a measuring cup today.

Granted: most of my cooking is done with relative measurements. If I am cooking for one person, I assume one chicken breast is enough. Or a certain measurement of pasta is fitting for a certain amount of water, and both are relative to the number of people eating. Even for most things that require measurements, I needed just to know what one unit would look like, and then I could take a relative measurement: to make a roux I needed to mix equal portions flour and butter. If those portions are tablespoons, hogshead or milliliters, it didn't matter. They just simply needed to be the same.

It only became problematic when I wanted to make risotto. Risotto is not the easiest thing to cook, and requires a lot of ratios and stirring. That said, it's not really all that difficult to make either. With practice, and few crunchy risotto dishes, anyone can make it. Most risottos require a three to one ration of risotto to cooking liquid. So, if one were to make a cup of risotto, they would need three combined cups of liquid, be that liquid stock, wine, water, squid ink, etc. I find two parts chicken stock and one part wine to one part arborio rice works the best; white wine gives it a lighter flavor good for chicken or vegetable risottos (like pumpkin or butternut squash; now that I am saying it, though, I bet a little apple cider would be nice to for the rooty, autumnal vegetables), and red wine works well for beef or mushroom risottos and give the dish a nice purpley-pink color.

It would seem like that the measuring cup I used would not be a problem, and for the most part that was true. The issue arises when I combine the fact that I cook for myself with the tricky issue of the exact specifications for making risotto. Usually, when I cook for myself, I use a half cup of rice. Now, in Wales, quality arborio rice is not cheap. I didn't want to make more than I could eat, but I needed a good sized portion to act as my dinner. So I needed something that had American cups as a standard, not the smaller British cups or the unfathomable metric measurement.

It's not that I have anything against metric. For cooking, especially, the measuring system makes sense since it is based off water: the zero of the system is when water turns to ice, and the 100 measure is where water turns to steam; thus most measurements are based off where water ceases to be water, or where water changes it's physical state (Wikipedia tells us that by contemporary standards, the Celsius unit is based off of the difference between absolute zero and the freezing point of some specially prepared water; more on absolute zero later). This makes a lot more sense than Fahrenheit, which is based in God knows what. In Fahrenheit, as any junior high science teacher will tell you, water freezes at 32 and boils at 212. This, if America really thought about it, made no sense. What matter changes physical properties at 0 and 100 degrees Fahrenheit? Nothing that the average cook uses (the answer, again according to Wikipedia, is a brine made of water, ice, ammonium chloride and salt which freezes at zero Fahrenheit; of course, we all come in contact with this substance routinely, so using that as a standard for a system of measurement makes sense...).

That said, I have used the completely ridiculous Standard Measuring System, developed, mind you, by the Brits, for my whole life. I know that four cups make a quart and that four quarts make a gallon. 16 ounces make a cups. Great. I know that potatoes bake at 400 degrees above which point a random brine solution freezes. I know that I use 1/2 cup of dry rice to make risotto, and I had no idea how many milliliters that might be (236.588, roughly).

The whole problem with Celsius and Fahrenheit rears its ugly head when I look to see what the temperature is outside. The Weather Channel's UK sister site, I found, will list the temperature in Fahrenheit for me, but I didn't see that right away. Nor is this readily available when I am away from my computer. Of course, I could remember that C = 5(F -32)/9. Then, it's just some simple math, which my American education, heavy on the calculator, has deprived me the ability of performing in my head. Either way, when the British say that it should be nice because it will be nearly 25 degrees out, I silently wonder what sadist finds 25 degrees Fahrenheit comfortable. 25 Celsius is actually a quite comfortable 77 degrees Fahrenheit (F = 9C/5 + 32). Now in Chicago, when temperatures get below 0, I start to worry about frostbite, where here, below zero puts it in the thirties, a mild winter by some Northern Illinois standards.

And really, it's a question of relativity. I have associated certain circumstances with a number. Unfortunately, my number is relative to a liquid that I have no regular contact, and thus is meaningless outside of my experience. Though, it should be said that even the very rational Celsius is not perfect. After all, change the atmospheric settings, and water boils and freezes at different temperatures. And since some places don't exist at the requisite 1 atmosphere of pressure (I'm looking at you Colorado), this system is as meaningless as Fahrenheit is. There needs to be a more objective system of measurement, right?

And there is: absolute zero, the theoretical point at which all matter has lost it's energy. Or in simpler terms: space. The vacuum of space is as close as we are going to get to absolute zero. And this unchanging and harsh circumstance is the perfect standard for Earthly measurements. The Kelvin and Rankine systems are designed to shift the two standard measurements to absolute zero, which happens to be 273 degrees below 0 Celsius. Our future generations should be taught one of those temperature systems so later they can think to themselves, how many degrees warmer than the vacuum of space do I need to set the oven to boil water? 573 degrees Kelvin, of course.

Plus baking a potato at 860 degree Rankine makes it seem like cooking is a far more dangerous process than it actually is. And, in the end, that's what we all want: to sound like we risked life and limb for a delicious meal.

The Return of the American

Though I am more aware of what living in Aberystwyth is like, returning has still required some adjustment. It's not unlike driving a new car: you know what happens when you press the gas and the brake pedals, but things react differently than you might expect. Over time, though, you adjust to the new car, learning to ease or slam on the brakes as the case may be. The same can be said of returning to Aberystwyth. Now that it is no longer a completely foreign experience, I am more aware of a recalibration than an adjustment.

For instance, the phrase "meant to" is commonly used to replace the American "supposed to." For example, if one were to meet another and the first said he would call the second before arrival, but then didn't, the second would say, if American, "You were supposed to call before coming over." In Britain, the second person might reply, "You were meant to call before coming over." I find myself using the phrase "meant to" more and more, even in my internal monologue. Huh, my iPod is meant to charge when it's plugged in but it didn't. That's odd.

The same can be said for the word "sorted" which replaces the phrase "figured out." For example, a friend of mine has recently moved into her new flat and was going over all that she had done: "I've signed lease, moved up the furniture and unpacked. I'm sorted now." Likewise, when I got a new phone for my birthday, from said friend, my PhD supervisor said to me, "When you have the cellphone sorted, let me know the number." Much like the phrase "meant to," "sorted" has started to work its way into my day-to-day lexicon: I've got to get the tuition sorted so I can sort out the wiring. I hope my Mom has sorted out the transfer paper work.

And there are countless other words and phrases that, slowly, are working their way back into my vocabulary. This will create some amusing moments when I return to Chicago in December, much like it did when I returned in May.

A few days after I had arrived, Erika and I were discussing dinner.
"Do you want me to cook?"
"No. Let's go out."
"Okay, where do you want to go?"
"Well, I don't want to be out all night. So somewhere quick."
"Maybe we can go get some take-away."
Pause.
"What?"
"Take-away. You know, like some Chinese take-away. We could watch a movie and eat fried rice."
"You mean carry-out?"
Pause.
"You know, I think I do..."

I have to say, though, readjusting to a place has been far easier than first acclimating. I can walk into a store now and know what I am meant to do while there. I can sort out my library fines. I can even, if I fancy it, get some take-away to enjoy while watching the telly.

The Second Coming of Keegan; or, It's the Destination that Matters, Not How Difficult it is to Get There

If we are all really honest with ourselves, we can agree that traveling is never fun, particularly by plane. There is something to be said about driving somewhere, controlling your own destiny as it is. But even then, there are other drivers, weather conditions and the such to contend with. Quite simply: moving from A to B is never enjoyable. Once there, though, fun can be had, which is why people will deal with such horrible circumstances to get there.

Take Tahiti for instance. Erika has talked about going to the tropical island in the middle of the Pacific for our honeymoon, and while spending a week on an isolated island surrounded by water and sand is not my cup of tea, and is closer to my own personal center of hell, I agreed because I have a hard time saying no to her. When I looked up places to go in Tahiti what I found was paradise. The place was so beautiful that I would not be surprised if there was the ultimate tree of knowledge and a devious snake at the middle of it. Getting to paradise, though, was proving to be quite troublesome. The nice part about visiting large landmasses is the ease of accessibility. Small islands have no room for all their lush beauty and an airport. Secondly, not everyone can physically make it to Tahiti at a cost that made sense, so thus there is only one place in America that flies there (and, not surprisingly, O'Hare was not that airport). Thirdly, it was ungodly expensive. Again, isolated, remote beauty is only isolated and remote by being exactly that: hard to get to. Chicago, accessible by train, plane or boat is much easier to get to, but certainly lacks the exotic wonderment of Tahiti. All in all, Tahiti is more cumbersome to get to than is worth the experience. All the complications that come with the travel outweigh the benefit.

Now, as you may remember my loyal readers, I had not the easiest of travels here in January. Between being crammed in the middle of the middle aisle, my luggage (and good there in) falling to pieces and the subway ride during rush hour, only to arrive earlier than expected, forcing me to wait while exhausted and anxious for two hours, I had a less than pleasurable experience getting to what turned out to be a quite lovely little part of the world. This time, was not nearly as horrible, but again, I was forced to consider whether the experiences I have here are worth the troublesome travels.

I left from O'Hare, as I had done before, but this time was flying KLM Royal Dutch Airlines (a flight Delta sold to KLM) to Amsterdam, catching another KLM flight (operated by KLM for KLM) to Birmingham. This route, while more difficult to find, removed the Tube ride during rush hour and a train transfer in Birmingham, which I had hoped would make my life easier.

It's important to note that I was flying what I was told and purchased as a Delta flight. It seemed odd that a national and struggling airline would fly to Amsterdam several times a day, but I didn't want to raise any questions to the ferryman. Why is it important to note this? Terminal Assignment. See, when I flew United, I left from Terminal 1 at O'Hare. A centrally located terminal right off the highway. O'Hare has three terminals for intercontinental travel, and Delta's flights leave from Terminal 2. Terminal 5 is for international flights to exotic places on airlines like Aer Lingus, Royal Jordinian and Etihad. If your wondering, Terminal 4 is for freight.

When flying Luftansa, Germany's excellent airline, you leave from the United hub, because the two airlines are partnered for international travel. Delta, while they owned the ticket, used KLM Royal Airlines to operate their international travel, but figuring they operated like United, I figured Erika should drop me at the Delta terminal.

This is generally not a big problem. Though there is no way to walk from Terminals 1, 2 and 3 to Terminal 5, there is a direct-line monorail to bring you there. One needs merely to walk from the mistaken terminal, over the highway via the walkway to the train station, take the shuttle, and one would arrive safely. I know this because I was informed that I had to do that. Erika had foreseen this problem and suggested she wait until I knew that Terminal 2 was the place to be, but, fearing the wrath of the Airport Security, which is not unlike the wrath of any underpaid, underappreciated and overworked government employee, save these carry guns, I turned down her offer and sent her off. Plus, she was not particularly happy to see me off (happy to do it, but not happy to have to do it), so I didn't want to draw out the process any more than it need be.

Even having to take the shuttle, this should not be an issue. For me, though it was a bit of a struggle. Fearing that my luggage would again rip open, exposing my underwear to the world and the weather, I bought a decent duffel and a stronger, bigger rolling suitcase. I then checked the weight restrictions and packed both bags to the limits, fully expecting to pay the overweight bag fee. What this left me with was two stout, overpacked and extremely cumbersome bags that needed to be hauled from one location to the other, as opposed to given directly to the stewards at Terminal 2. Even with wheels, getting to Terminal 5 was a chore that left my arms and shoulder sore.

Once there, I was faced with another problem: weight. I understood that my bag was too heavy for the 50 pound limit that was free. You could take more than 50 pounds, but a fee would be charged. What I was unaware of was the maximum limit. Even having paid the fee, KLM would only allow 30 kilograms, or roughly 70 pounds. My bags, on the bathroom scale at home, averaged between 60 and 70 pounds when I weighed it. Apparently, this was not an accurate weight, and my bags came in at 32 kilograms. I needed to lose 2 kilograms before they would take my bag. My second bag, coincidentally, had already been checked, so I needed to lose 2 kilos and carry those with me in my already stuffed carry-on.

Being American, I have no conception of what 2 kilograms looks like. Tell me two pounds, and I can start to picture what two pounds of luggage would look like. When I was in school, learning the metric system like one learns a foreign language, I was told that a gram weighed about as much as a standard paperclip. So, readers, how many books equal the weight of 2,000 paperclips? The answer: four, if one is hard cover and the books average 200 pages in length. By using the baggage scale, I took out on book at a time until I reached the necessary weight, and by trial and error, I found the four smallest heaviest books in my larger suitcase. All while an angry line began to form behind me, probably wondering why I was suggesting reading material to the woman printing my boarding passes.

Security, while long, was nothing terrible, and for the first time ever I was not random selected for further screening (read: a rough frisking by a large, unhappy man). I have given up on trying to keep my appearances up since I have been randomly selected each time at the airport regardless of how I looked. This time, unshaven, with a hat pulled down low, I cleared security without any issues. This was true both in America and when I landed in Amsterdam and getting through customs. Maybe, as I push thirty, I no longer look like trouble.

Once on the KLM airplane, I thought I must have been blessed by God for being a good person. My seat, 28F was not on either aisle side of the four seat row, but row 28 was a front row, in that a bathroom was in front of the seats, not another row. On international flights, this is akin to winning the lottery and being given a puppy all at the same time. The row has extra leg room, no one in your lap, and no one to randomly shift the TV screens as your tracking the plane on the satellite maps. On my trip home to America, someone spilled their water bottle on the floor all over my carry-on, unbeknown to both of us, which has left a large stain on it. In this row, such an occurrence was not possible.

My neighbors to the left were an elderly Dutch couple who smiled too openly, made direct eye contact and kept looking at me. Maybe I am a bad person, but when I am traveling for several hours on a cramped plane through the night, the last thing I want to do is make friends and small chit-chat with people, especially when their English is not amazing. I managed to stave off most conversation by simply not looking back at them when they stared at me.

They settled in early, and both made for passable seat partners. Fantastic, I thought to myself, this is going to be the best flight over. Then, my neighbor to the right showed up.

Let me stop here briefly, and ask you what the worst thing to sit next to on an airplane would be. Someone that smelled? Possibly. The human body has the ability to become accustomed to odors over time, so given the length of the journey, a smelly person would be bad, but not terrible. A talker? Sure. But with movies, headphones, iPods and sleep, there are several ways to avoid talkers. Maybe someone who listened to their iPod or movie too loud? That would be annoying, but with your headphones on, you might not even notice.

No. I contend the worst thing to sit next to is an extremely fat person; and just such a person came waddling down the aisle, looking for 28G. This woman had the unfortunate circumstance to carry her weight in the middle, while also not being very tall. These combined for a lot of extra personage that needed to find space in the one place an airplane really lacks space: between the arm rests. Like most things that leak over a container space, her excess physicality hung over the armrests. This had to be horrible for both of us. When I needed to use my tray table, which I needed to do often during a flight that comes with two meals and a snack, I had to ask her to lean over or stand up so that I could get into the arm rest and free my tray table. When she dropped things, I needed to pick them up for her because she couldn't bend enough at the waist to get them (something that became annoying when dealing with the TV screens that stowed in the bottom of the armrests). Also, because of her size, I was forced to either cuddle up with her, or abandon my right arm rest. Pushed to my far left, then, the old man next to me was provided with the perfect pillow on which to fall asleep.

Despite this, I would not have traded the seat for one with less legroom. As a leggy man, that made the trip all the more bearable.

On the flight over, I watch Prince of Persia starring Jake Gyllenhall and Sir Ben Kingsley and Leap Year starring Amy Smart and some Irish people. Neither was very good, but Prince of Persia was downright horrible. Avoid that movie if at all possible. Both, though being subpar movies, passed the time well. Between them, and my excellent book, Zeitoun, the flight passed quickly. We also had a nice tail wind and landed almost a half hour early. All in all, it was nice to get off that plane, freeing myself from under the folds of that woman.

In Amsterdam, I was struck by how gray everything seemed. The airport seemed really isolated and I couldn't really make out any houses or buildings. In reality, the Schliphol airport is quite near the city. My confusion stemmed from the very dense fog that enveloped the city, reducing visibility to less than a half mile. That phrase, reduced visibility, is the death knell for air travel. When driving, you can creep along in the fog or rain or snow. Even through ice. But for air travel to work, the vehicle needs to reach a certain speed. And speed is not something possible with reduced visibility.

The fog was thick, but being near the ocean, not surprising. The more I took in my surroundings, though, the more I started to become alarmed. I landed around 8:00 am, which means the sun had certainly come above the horizon. It was not particularly cold, nor had it been cold, so the air temperature didn't seem to be prolonging the issue. Nor was it particularly humid. Whatever created this fog, then was immune to sun, temperature and humidity. In short, we were in for a long haul.

Fog is tricky, and thus predicting delay times is also tricky. Initially, despite the fog, my flight was scheduled to leave on time at 9:50. When I went back near 9:30, the flight had been delayed until 12:00. At 12:00, it was delayed until 12:45. By 12:45, the fog had cleared, and I was able to board. In the interim, I wandered the airport. Having spent the last several hours folded into an airplane, my legs were beginning to cramp. I took the delay as an opportunity to stretch out and see what the airport has to offer. As the only international airport in the Netherlands, Schliphol is graced with a huge shopping center and food court. Also, knowing that travelers are often coming from long distances, and several changing time zones, they offered a section of chairs that resembled those found pool side at fancy hotels. These, I found, were perfect for napping. Though, napping when traveling alone is a dicey deal. I found that I could only sleep comfortably if I wrapped the strap of my carry-on around my arms, essentially holding my heavy, lump bag to my chest. When one is tired, though, one can sleep amazingly well.

The rest of the journey was unremarkable. Once on the plane to Birmingham, I slept soundly for the entire duration (though, I was hungry, having missed both a snack and a drink). The plane was not full, so my seat mates moved, and I was afforded some extra leg room. Birmingham airport was nice, and I changed my money over, clear customs and found my way to the train that leads directly to Aberystwyth with no serious trouble save the extreme weight. There was, though, someone I felt more sorry for. Another American was making his way from my same flight through the airport carrying four wheeled suitcases and two strapped bags, all of which were marked by KLM as being heavy. I felt a tinge of sympathy as he struggled to maneuver this train of baggage through the airport, until I remembered having to do so with my underwear falling out.

An added benefit of flying in Birmingham is that the train runs directly to Aberystwyth, and takes about an hour and a half less than the train from London (which, not surprisingly, leaves from further away and goes through Birmingham). I got on the train, stowed my luggage, found a comfortable seat and made it to Aberystwyth with no problem.

Once there, I realized I didn't know where I was going. Well, more accurately, I didn't know where my friend I was staying with lived. Outside the train, though, is a pub with free WiFi. I quickly logged on there and found the cross streets. Once in the taxi, the driver got me nearby, and I directed him the rest of the way. Jamie had just arrived as I pulled up and my journey ended without any serious kinks. Having been spared the horrors of the last trip, I feel safe saying that I would rather be crammed under a fat person for six hours than having every stage of a four stage journey go awry.

Now, all I need is my room from the University and I am set to enjoy this place I have traveled so far to get to.

The Cost of Looking Forward

As I walked through Meijer's the other day, looking for milk, I ran across candy clearly marketed towards the Halloween crowd. This angered me greatly. Here it was, September 7th, and already the store suggested that we spend our time thinking about the last day of October. Of course, after Halloween, America turns it's attention toward Christmas (briefly glancing at the less marketable holiday Thanksgiving) before it gets ready for a quick stop at New Years and then on to Valentines Day. In this way, we don't ever notice today; instead, we spend our present trying to line up our ideal vision of the next holiday with the actual reality of how the holiday is shaping up. We buy candy in September, costumes in early October: time and effort is spend not on today, but on making the future tomorrow excellent. In this way, then, the present is lost.

I have been reading about how time is understood by mankind, and the theorist call this the presentification of the future, or protentions. We look forward to the future and anticipate what it will look like; then, this anticipation in hand, we try to make sure our lives line up with what we hope to remember in the future. We imagine the stories that we will tell about future events and occurrences, then spend our efforts to line up reality with these anticipations. In this way, our present is merely a speed bump on the way to the future which we imagine as having already happened.

This is all leading up to my engagement. In this event, I have cast a net far into the future, and will spend the next eleven months trying to make my imagined wedding come true. Of course, I have to consider what Erika wants, and incorporate those imaginings into mine, but nonetheless, very little of what I do in the now is going to be remembered. Essentially, my life will consist of trying to make the future happen. Which, of course, it will; but it might not happen in the right way. And that, readers, will lead to disappointment.

So I am stuck with a conundrum: do I imagine the best wedding I possibly can, which will, more than likely, lead to disappointment; or do I set my sights low so that later the reality of the situation is bound to exceed my expectations? No one wants to approach their wedding with a lackadaisical attitude, nor would I earn any special brownie points with the future-missus if I too a lackluster approach to the planning.

Already, though, I have had to renegotiate my anticipated future wedding memories. See, I have been to several hotel weddings, and in the end I generally leave satisfied. I can eat, party and hang out as late as I want, then stumble up to the room and fall asleep. Sometimes, even, the hotel will return the tux for me. Double bonus. The rooms are standard looking of course, but do what I want them to: hold people, a dance floor, and food.

This, however, is not what Erika wants. She imagines a unique space, one that people can buzz about: That wedding was so cool. Did you see where it was? It looked amazing! All those flowers and arches... and so on and so on. Consider the Chateau Bu Sche. Gorgeous. But small, and can't hold all that many people. Such a venue will also require outside caterers, which might cost more. Then our guests will have to get from the reception to the hotel, which could be dangerous, considering how much some of my friends like to drink.

Thus, the first issue arises: whose anticipated memory is going to be disappointed. In the end, it seems like mine. I can see Erika really wants to have this special location, and I want her to be happy. In order to keep my future memory on course, though, it will have to be a place that Erika and I can afford to bring all my friends. A wedding without my friends and family is like a wasted day, as far as I am concerned. I want the reception to be a good party where my friends can come, hangout, enjoy themselves and go home with some real memories to cherish.

This is just the first hiccup that we hit, and I am sure that there will be more. In fact, most days are going to be spent negotiating a compromise between what I want, and what she wants. It will remain to be seen who will be disappointed in the end, or if we can take our collected anticipations and make a wedding that exceeds all of them. Only time will tell, and my time is going to be spent obsessing over it.

Eat, Love, Pray; or Why It's Awesome to be a Rich White Woman

Eat, Love, Pray was surprising in that I did not hate it as much as I hated other similar movies like Into the Wild. Nonetheless, it was a story that has always bothered me: that of a white person, coming from a wealthy background, who needs to "find" him or her self. This usually entails said white person leaving behind all the worldly possessions so that he or she can co-opt another culture's less materialistic values. In the case of Into the Wild, I was so fed up with the main character, in this case, a well-to-do white man, that actually welcomed his horrific end as a sign that God does exist.

[Note: there are some parts of the plot that are revealed in the below review. If you want to see the movie, avoid reading this next part.]

Elizabeth Gilbert's movie (and I assume memoir) was a little different. It's possible that the movie did not capture the complexities of her life well, and that her problems may have been sincere, but it seemed as if her worst problems were being loved to much and having too much free time. The movie opens with her celebrating the success of her recent novel and her loving, attentive husband talking about how he helped and how good it was. On the ride home, her boyfriend talks about the possibility of going back to school. Granted, at his age, he should probably have decided what he wanted to do, and switching to yet another career path may not have been the most responsible choice in life. It hardly seems like a deal-breaker. Later that same night (supposedly), Gilbert and her husband talk about going to Aruba, Gilbert's next travel location for her job as a travel journalist. There, the two would be able to experience all that Aruba had to offer on the newspaper's dime. Her husband, for some strange reason, opts out of this paid vacation to paradise. That said, Gilbert decides she doesn't want to be married anymore. After getting a divorce from a man that, when pressured, chooses Gilbert as his sole dream in life, she falls into the arms of a young actor (who happens to be starring in her off-Broadway play). The two fall madly in love, and she is showered with the affection of this younger man. Again, though, as this new love interest opens his life to her, taking her on spiritual adventures and loving her with all his might, she finds that she, "doesn't know how to be [with him]."

This was very surprising. By all indications, Gilbert was experiencing success: she had a killer job, her book was best-selling, she was surrounded by friends who cared very much for her, and her husband and boyfriend unflinchingly loved her. Why, then, I wondered as she moaned about her life, eating delicious foods in her enormous apartment, did she want to leave it all to spend a year in Italy, India and Bali?

Here is problem 1: this solution to her problems is only available to her because of her wealth. Had she been a standard working class schmo, she would not have had the money or employment freedom to just pack up and leave for an entire year to jaunt about the globe. She rented an entire house (it seemed) in both Italy and Bali, and though it was indicated that she was living below her usual standard of luxury, she was hardly living a difficult life. In tropical Bali, her two room hut was located near the beach, and didn't need walls. She ate out every night with friends, took day trips from time to time, and despite the force labor of the Ashram she stayed at in India, she did not exchange services for any of the good she purchased. I can't imagine how much such a trip would cost, but cheap is not what comes to mind. She didn't keep all her belongings on her while sleeping in 20 plus bed hostel rooms. She didn't take up a job waiting tables, sharing a one room hovel with six other immigrants. She spent an entire year relaxing: eating delicious foods, experiencing intense spiritual enlightenment, and learning to be happy. Without the money she had, the job she had, or the friends she had, she could not have done any of it.

Which leads me to problem 2: It was because of her wealth that she developed the need to find herself. Working as a travel writer, spending time circling the globe, essentially paid to go on vacation every week: this gave her a lot of money and a copious amount of free time. Because of this, she had different things to think about in her downtime than most. If you have a hefty mortgage, lots of debt, a family or a job that does not make you happy, these things will occupy your thoughts. If you have more money than you need, few debts, a nice house and a fulfilling job, you tend to think more existentially. Less wealthy people don't have the time to "find" themselves; instead, less wealthy people spend their free time trying to overcome the constant stream of hurdles that come between the seldom taken vacations. Existentialist concerns, like learning to love oneself, are the spoils of the wealthy.

It seems to me that Gilbert would have been much happier if she was less successful in life. Had she more worries in her life than how to be loved by other people, she might have noticed how supporting not one, but TWO people had been in her life. She might have seen that she was working a really great job that gave her both the time and artistic freedom to pursue outside interests (like writing a best selling book and an off-Broadway play). She might have seen that she was living a really awesome life, and that she had nothing, NOTHING, to complain about.

Instead, though, the movie-watchers and book-readers are given her life as a cautionary tale. Remember reader and viewers, she seems to say, no matter how good it seems I have it, I am like you: rife with turmoil. Here is a woman who is courageous enough to stand up and say, enough. I am tired of leading a fulfilling life to which I am completely culpable. I will not wake up to the loving embrace of either a doting husband, or an attentive boyfriend. I will not spend time with adoring friends and co-workers. I will not get caught up in the rigmarole of the job everyone wishes they could have. Despite these hindrances, Gilbert shows us that even she can be happy. All she had to do was remove herself from this life that she made herself and realize that those with less than her (say, a near broke medicine man with no teeth, but a ever-present-smile) are really happy. It's true: the people with which she experienced life for a year were generally happy, but that was because their circumstance did not allow for the navel-gazing self-reflection that Gilbert's life allowed. The medicine man was not worried about how he could make his inner soul happy; he was worried about where the next meal was going to come from. Despite that very real problem, he managed to happy; and in this way, he was the real hero of the story.

If you listened closely, that was the message of Eat, Love, Pray, but you had to listen REALLY carefully (including blocking out all the toasts to her wonderfulness and the third, THIRD, man who fell unbelievably in love with Gilbert).

As I tried this rant out on Erika on the ride home from the theater, Erika said after a moment, "Isn't that why you went to Wales? To find yourself?" I was struck by that. It was, in fact, a reason I went to Wales. I was tired of my life in Illinois that, in retrospect, was pretty okay. I was finishing up a degree, I had lots of friends, and a very, large loving family. What was I running from? Of course, I am working during my three year vacation, and most of my time is spent trying to make different ends meet in a new place. Still, what might be most upsetting about this movie is not how much her problems irk me, but how much her story reflects my own.

Whatever, I thought to myself, I am still going to enjoy my trip to Norway next year. I need to learn how to make myself happy by touring the fjords.

Comic Con: The Presentation

On Sunday, it was safe to say I was a wreak. My entire summer thus far had been leading up to this day, and here I would make a splash (so to speak) in the comic academic community.

So maybe splash is not the right word to describe the tiny little bit of impact I would make on an already tiny subset of a tiny community. Maybe something more like...drip. Or, to hold to the aquatic theme, ripple. Regardless, I had good reason to be nervous. The presentation room held 210 people (roughly) and if even a quarter of those people showed up, it would be more than twice the size of my largest presentation to date. And though the Aberystwyth University English Department Graduate Conference is illustrious, the 40th Annual International Comic-Con draws a slightly wider, more prestigious crowd.

Erika and I made our way over to the convention center where, for the fourth day running, we battled with the City of San Diego in a silent war for our parking money. The regular rates had been jacked up anywhere between $5 and $10, and what was usually free on Sunday's now cost upwards of $25. My father raised me never to pay for what I could get for free, so we usually trolled the streets looking for street parking, which was at a greatly reduced rate. With my nerves on edge, I called a truce with San Diego and paid $15 for something that should have been free (at least, I told my Dad's watching spirit, it wasn't $25), and met my friend Jonathan and his girlfriend Lisa for breakfast.

I had a pretty delicious sandwich and a large tea, which, having spent time in Wales, has become my go-to relaxation drink. I bought a huge box of teabags at the grocery store at the end of summer and have taken to drinking a mug or two a day here in Chicago. Some friendly chatter and time in the sunshine detracted me nicely from the looming task at hand.

There was an added problem that I should probably address here: I was consciously long. I was given 20 minutes, and I prepared 30. Considering that the two presenters had roughly 50 minutes for both of us, I figured I could trim some as I went, but still hit just past the twenty-minute mark. This would cut the Q & A time short, and as you will later see, this could have been helpful. So, as we made our way over to the convention center, I started to worry about what ten minutes I was going to pull from my presentation.

After taking Jonathan and a much-amazed Lisa around the floor, the four of us made our way to 26AB - the room of my presentation. The previous presentation panel was still on, something about queer comics, and I had the "privilege" to sit through the last speakers paper on man/boy homoerotic Japanese comics, which left me wondering why he no longer taught high school history. Granted, I was only half listening, as I spent most of my time cutting whole pages from my paper.

The panel ended, and as the people milled about, I made my way to the speakers dais. There was a placard - and honest to God placard - with my name on it, and a microphone for questions. This was, it quickly dawned on me, the real deal. This was the big time for academic comic nerds. I had reached the highest I could reach (save for a Saturday presentation), and one thought burst through my racing mind: I am not ready for this.

Suddenly, like a rampaging army of Huns riding elephants, uncertainty sacked my previous aplomb, burned my confidence to the ground and raped my equanimity. The room, to my now gaping horror, continued to fill with people. Smart looking people, dress smartly and carrying smart looking notebooks filled with smart questions.

As I sat there, quietly falling into despair, something both wonderful and horrible happened: another panelist was added. Peter Coogan, the director of the Comic Arts Conference, told us, rather offhandedly, that another panelist was added (with some disdain, he withheld the reason, which leads me to believe, and with some justification, that she complained until getting her way), and that I needed to cut five more minutes from my paper (which was really now 15, or if you are doing the math, half of what I had in front of me).

The problem here grew from annoying to serious. I already had concerns that my paper lacked solid connections, and now I was given enough time to summarize the cobbled mess I had before me. While one might assume that this problem would lead me to further anxiety, quite the opposite was true.

Sure, I was still fairly (read: excessively) nervous, but now there was a task at hand: rewrite 17 somewhat cohesive pages, into a concise 8 page argument. Like a closer who comes in the ninth, with a one run lead and a winning run on second, I no longer saw the arena I was in, and was more focused on me, my presentation, and the mental exercise in front of me.

As I half listened to the first presentations - the one, added last minute, to my great annoyance/salvation which pit Wonder Woman and Tank Girl in a physical battle (Fan Boy nonsense, if you ask me), and the other which presented Captain America as the American ideal (an interested paper from a fellow scholar) - I cut away more pages and tried to tie up lose ends whenever possible. Before I knew it, my time had arrived.

The actual presentation went by in a blur, but when I watched the five minutes that Erika recorded, I was struck by how fast I spoke. It didn't feel that fast, but there is irrefutable evidence that it was, in fact, really fast. Regardless, it was well-received. Either because I was last, or because my presentation was, as the Brits say, aces, I fielded the most questions. Afterward, I answered some more questions, gave out business cards, and told others how they too could use the amazing free software I used for my presentation (which can be seen here).

There was really only one glitch to the whole thing, and that arose at the very end of my presentation. See: I claimed that Marvel was revising Captain America and the rest of the heroes to better speak to the fears of others, having the revised heroes resemble this generations Iron-Man. As I finished making this point, and I took my seat for questions, before Coogan could begin moderating the questions, one rather large woman from the back shouted at me: "I disagree with your entire premise!" She then had to repeat this, as no one could hear her over the shuffling of presenters. As she did, she went on to explain that Marvel polled their readers, and the poll showed Captain America to be more popular. Seeing as I was commenting on how Marvel saw their heroes in the world, I was a little concerned how a popular poll could disprove my premise (as I really didn't care what people thought), so I asked for clarification. She reiterated that people liked Captain America more, so my interpretation of the two characters as metaphors was invalid.

As you are confused reading this, I was thus confused. I finally answered that polls are always suspect, and I would be happy to talk more about this with her afterward so that we could move on to another question. As the next person asked me a question, one that was more relevant to what I was talking about, she stormed out of the room, never to be seen from again.

Though, as I left the room, on my way to lunch, I was not so sure she wasn't waiting there to knife me. Beside that question, though, and the resultant fear that came with it, I would say my first presentation at Comic-Con went fairly well.

Between Fredrick, MD and Virginia Beach, Va.; or, Why I Won't Buy a Nissan

Having made the late night trek to Monroeville, PA the night before, Erika, my sister Katie and I, after a nice visit with some friends in Fredrick, MD, made for the final destination of our trip: Virginia Beach, VA, and the Leg 'a Sea house. It was an overcast day, not much to write about really. Even the often hectic trip around DC proved uneventful, with only a few spots that required a slowing of traffic.

Between Washington DC and Richmond, VA, stretches a vast eight-lane superhighway that, at times, has taken travelers more than four hours to cover the 108 mile stretch. During the summer, it is particularly hot and horrible, as the sun can beat down on the concrete baking the cars and drivers below. On Saturday, the road was just such a hot day, which made the only major hitch in our travels that much more annoying.

At mile marker 156, the 2008 Nissan Versa my mother bought stalled. It was as if someone had switched the car into neutral: no matter how much I pushed the gas, the engine continued to slow to idle. While that would have been annoying in any situation, a crowded summer highway makes it down right perilous. As my car slowed to idle, I put the blinkers on, and tried to figure out how to maneuver my tiny Versa through the speeding traffic filled with SUVs and trucks. Blessedly, a long-haul trucker behind me noticed the blinkers, and slowed behind me, creating a passing lane to get at the right-hand shoulder. Had my car stalled a few yards earlier, I would have been able to come to a rest underneath an overpass for Dale Blvd., but as it was, I rolled to a stop in the blazing sun, just shy of mile marker 157.3.

We put our heads together and decided to use the AAA card my mother had to get a tow truck to drag us off the highway. The dispatcher was worried that we were on the highway, and made us a priority emergency. Within a half hour, I was told, a tow truck was coming to get us and take us to a nearby mechanic. Because we had three people and a dog, and because the average tow truck can hold a maximum of two people, a taxi was also sent for us. We piled out of the car to wait by the side of the road in the heat.

In this age of cellphones, I was not too surprised that no one stopped to see if we were okay. I was slightly alarmed at the number of people who used the vacuum our stalled car made to pass trucks and other considerate motorist who pulled to the left seeing a stalled vehicle. What was really surprising was the complete lack of state troopers. In the half hour that we all stood cooking on the highway, not a single officer stopped to make sure we were okay (nor did any drive by). At least in Illinois, that is one thing commonly found at the sites of stalled cars: state troopers ensuring the safety of the stranded motorists.

The taxi arrived first and took Erika, Katie and the dog to the AAA suggested mechanic. Ten to fifteen minutes later, the tow truck came. It was a massive flatbed wrecker with an extended cab. The driver got out and looked incredulous:
"You call AAA?"
"Yeah."
"Can I see your card?"
He examined the card.
"Weren't there three of you?"
"Yeah, but a taxi came to get them."
He stared at me.
"But I have an extended cab. I can take five people. Man...that sucks."
Why was this important? The cab driver may have exploited our out of town status to take a slower route to the mechanic, thus Erika was sidled with a $20 taxi ride. The taxi driver was quite distressed about this and called the AAA people to let them know that Old Dominion towing could take up to five people and he would have been happy to take the dog, too. That was nice of him, and just the first of the several nice things the tow driver did, and several others did.

On the way to the mechanic, the driver talked pleasantly of the surrounding area and his commitment, at times violent, to his children's education. As we were about to pull into one mechanic shop, I got a call saying that Erika and Katie had seen us go by. I was suspicious that the tow driver might have been trying to extend the ride so that he could charge us for some mileage that AAA wouldn't cover (which was three miles). He checked his phone and said that the tow location had been switched and he apologized for the misunderstanding, taking us immediately the Merchant Tire and Auto in Woodbridge, VA. When we got there, I asked how we were going to settle the dispute, ready to call AAA to complain about the roundabout trip. Without prompting, he decided to use the GPS to track the distance from the highway exit to the garage. It came out to 3.1 miles, and he called it even at 3, and the tow was free (thanks to AAA).

Once the truck was off the bed of the wrecker, I located the warranty card. My mother had purchased the extended warranty of the car, so that supposedly the car should have been fixed for free. This is only true, though, if we took it to the Nissan dealer. The garager, Merchants Tire and Auto in Woodbridge, VA, was nice enough to allow us to call Nissan and get things squared away with them. Nissan road side assistance sent another tow truck (which our AAA tow driver balked at; he, for some reason, remained behind to make sure that we made it home, offering us cheap deals for tows and rides places). While I talked with the Nissan people, the mechanics are Merchant checked to see if it was something minor, like a fluid issue (transmission or something similar), but unfortunately, the engine in the Versa is densely packed and no one could tell a thing without taking pieces out (which would have voided our warranty). It was agreed that towing it to Nissan would be the best idea.

During this whole time, the mechanics at Merchants were extremely nice. They suggested that they take a look, and bill Nissan, but, again, that would have voided our warranty. They let Erika, Katie and my dog loiter in their waiting area while I was on and off the phone. The looked up phone numbers and offered helpful advice. Really, for people who were not making any money from us, they were extremely nice. Actually, for anyone, they were extremely nice.

Here, though, the story takes a turn for the annoying. I called the local Nissan dealer to say that our car was coming and to see if they could take a look at the car that day. The service manager acted as if I had asked to sleep with his mother while he video taped. Evidently, they closed at 5:00 that night and could not get to it until Monday. He hung up thereafter. This hangup would become problematic later.

So, the car was going to be stranded at the very rude Woodbridge Nissan service station. Next step: get us a car to get to Virginia Beach from Woodbridge. When I called my mother to give her an update about the situation, she suggested calling Nissan to get the free rental that our warranty provides. It was 5:02. Here was a chance for Nissan to show that exceptional customer service that the commercials suggest they have. Unfortunately, the Nissan dealership decided today was not going to be a good customer service day.

The receptionist informed me that the service department was closed, and unfortunately the dealt with the issue of rental cars. There seemed to me to be a solution that I was just not seeing, and which the receptionist was not aware. Trying hard not to explode, I asked if there was someone else I could talk to. She transferred me to the sales manager who gave me a number to call. This number took me back to Nissan Roadside assistance, who told me that the dealership should take care of the rental, and if told to call back, inform the dealer that they, not Roadside Assistance, needed to give me a rental. I was, officially, in a run-around.

I went back into the place to collect my thoughts, and converse with the rest of my traveling party. There, I found a factory-like environment, where several people were on phones, surfing the internet, people milling about: all of them (save Erika, Katie and my dog) strangers; all of them trying to get me to my vacation. Kim, the manager of the mechanic shop was calling rental car places, looking for somewhere near by; one of the mechanics was on the phone with a friend of his who knew someone who operated a taxi service; the tow truck driver was consulting my sister on various options he could provide; and so on. It was sort of amazing. The people of the greater Woodbridge and Dale City area were surprisingly helpful, especially since none of these people owed me or my family anything. I was essentially wasting their time, using their resources and they were not going to get anything from me. Regardless, everyone was really helpful.

Sometimes, too helpful. I told my sister and Erika that it was unlikely that Nissan was going to give us a rental car, thus the previously unplanned Option B was necessary. The tow truck driver (now still with us for about an hour and a half) chimed in.
"Give me the number," he said.
"Thanks, but what we need to now do is figure out how to get a rental car."
He smiled. "Oh. You'll get one."
I was urged my Erika and my sister to give him the number, insisting that he, as a local, might hold more clout.
"Hi," he begins, "I'm a tow trucker and my last drop is stranded and they need to get to their destination and there is no way for them to get home..." He had, essentially, the same conversation I did with the receptionist, though it ends much different when he was transferred to the sales manager.
"This is the worst car company I have ever dealt with, and I am never going to give you my business," he yelled. "Who do I work for?" At that, he hung up the phone, rather proud of himself.
"Those people are rude. But I told them I was never giving them my business and that they were the worst car dealership ever. When he asked who I worked for, I hung up on him."
He acted like he took a punch for us. Certainly, I was grateful for the effort, but really, I worry that he did more harm than good. Our car needs to go to the dealership, and now our car is associated with the crazy out-of-towners who had a tow truck driver call and yell at them.

And still, we had no way to get from Woodbridge to Virginia Beach, a distance of 190 miles or so. It seems while I was dealing with Nissan, Erika reserved a car with Enterprise, who, as the advertisements say, will come and pick us up. This was extremely forward-thinking, and finally we had some direction to move in. Excellent.

Unfortunately, like the Service Center of the Nissan dealership, all (and let me stress this...ALL) of the car rental places were closed. Evidently, in Woodbridge, no one's car broke down or no one needed to rent a car after 5:00 PM. The only place to rent a car was the airport in DC, an hour in the wrong direction from where we needed to go. With a plan set (i.e. get a rental car), the shop burst into action. Mechanics and managers scrambled to get numbers of car dealerships, direct lines to rental places, taxis, and so on. It was determined that, in fact, nothing could be done, and we needed to take a taxi to the Metro station, train it into DC and walk to the Enterprise Rental place at the airport.

Until everyone realized we had a dog. Then there was a brief but unsatisfactory flurry of excitement as people tried to figure out if dogs could ride the DC Metro. Finally, someone confirmed a taxi could be obtained for $65-$70 and they would take us to the airport. Finally, we were on our way.

The taxi driver was extremely nice, sped the whole way there, and had us pay right when we get there so that he could wait for free as the car was pulled up. He even offered to drive us, free of charge to the car in the garage. That wasn't necessary as the Enterprise Rental people picked us up from our location at the front of the garage, no problem (picking us up from Woodbridge, though, was a considerable problem). On the way from Woodbridge to DC, the taxi driver asked where our car was, and we said the Nissan dealership.
"Oh man," he said with a soft, north Indian accent, "that place is no good man. No good."
What does it say about a place when a random taxi driver has nothing good to say, and instead only vehemently bad things to say, about your company? I would guess, your PR department needs to work overtime for a while.

Once at Enterprise, I was immediately offered water, and the young man at the counter promptly and immediately took care of us. He was great. We talked amiably about weather, cars, his uncle that lives not too far from where we are staying and so on. We went to go look at the cars on the lot while I went to unpack the taxi. Erika stood around charging her phone when he came back, and I realized an immediate benefit to having an attractive girlfriend: when I left, I was supposed to get a sedan; when Erika came back, I had a Chevy HHR (which, as the pictures demonstrate, was a great vehicle for the beach). I don't what Erika said, or rather, how she said it, but we got a free upgrade to a cross-over, and we were ready to be on our way.

After a brief detour through the airport because the signage was not clear, we took the first step to finishing our trip. I am not necessarily sure that I would ever buy a Nissan or trust in their warranty (which should read: you can be helped so long as you are stranded at a convenient time), but I cannot say enough nice about the people of Virginia where, as Tennessee Williams wrote, you can always depend on the kindness of strangers (for an excellent Simpsons reference to said Williams play, see the episode where Marge was Blanche DuBois, Ned Flanders was Stanley Kowalski, and they turned the "I can always depend on the kindness of strangers" bit into the final song).