Six of six -- tagged!

I was tagged by Mette of ungtblod for a six of six: "Open the 6th picture-folder on your computer, open the 6th photo and blog it. Write something about it." Wonderful invite. So here we go:


Many things about this picture. Every weekday at about 6.30 am I would walk from home to work. It was about a 35 minute brisk walk which I enjoyed. It was early and there was rarely anyone on the street for most of the way, even in Central London. After a while, I even began enjoying the moody sky that often greeted me in the morning. In an entire year of commuting to work on foot, I was turned back by rain only twice.

I also enjoyed the sight lines of London, particular these neighborhood with their late 19th Century/ early 20th Century homogenous blocks of buildings (with the occasional modern block punched in to remind us of the bombs of World War II if it was a 1950s building or of the modern boom if it was of 1990s vintage). Compared to New York the sky really opens up. Indeed, as I noticed and as you see above you get these great V-shaped slices of the sky. Early in my stay, I had a plan to take a picture of the sky everyday. It would be my diary of London. It didn't happen, but I still like the idea.

Finally this picture captures another feature of London, at least last year (don't know how it is now): constant construction. Everywhere you looked you could see these great cranes hovering over the city, like an alien invasion tearing away it.

BB

My computer is back!

And I transferred its brain back! And so far it is behaving exactly like its old self. Touch wood and all other talisman of luck that it stays this way. And good luck to the rest of you waiting for your computers.

xoxo

BB

The doctor dude will see you now

It seems to be my moment for these things, but I have been having some computer trouble. Why mince words? Right now I'm computerless. I do love my MacBookPro. It weighs a ton, but we know better than to judge someone by his or her weight, especially when he or she has style, lots of style.

But in any case, as I was waiting at the Apple Genius Bar, as I was overhearing other people describe their computer problems, I realized (the obvious) : it is identical to describing your symptoms to a doctor. You try (or at least you should) to be concise in describing the problem, but provide enough on the key moments when you think the problem developed and when the problem is experienced or not. And of course you edit out the embarrassing details. Exactly like being at the doctor:

Doc, I hear noises in my head. It started six months ago, maybe a year, but I've been ignoring it. I think it may be because I took too many flights in economy class . You should also know that I was smashed last night I don't drink enough water. I'm like a camel really. I wonder if that could be the cause instead?

Dude, my computer is acting up -- keeps on rebooting. It started two months ago, but I've been ignoring it. I think it may be because I took my computer on too many flights in economy, where there aren't any plugs. You should also know that I use my computer while in the bath except on planes, I always keep it plugged in. I'm like a leech really. I wonder if over-charging caused the problem instead?

Well, the dude in question was a very knowledge young man with interesting tattoos on his arms, and disgusting facial hair (disgusting because it was clearly deliberate, not just sloppy; let's leave it at that). He tested it for a few hours last night, while I was waiting. Let me tell you, malls are no better places to wait than hospitals, especially when your poor little computer has all kinds of pins and needles sticking into it. In any case, after the diagnostics, he said that my computer needs a new prefontal cortex hard drive.

The reason I am not (yet... fingers crossed) pulling my hair out, other than the fact that thin hair runs in the family and I really shouldn't encourage this situation, is that I have backed up my data by my count 6 times in different places. But what I also did before letting them operate was to mirror the computer. Now I don't want this to get too technical (since I don't understand the technicalities), but it copies everything from your computer onto an external hard drive and you can run your computer from there with everything on it (including software) and eventually copy it back on to the computer when the new hard drive is installed. In other words, in the best of all possible worlds, it will be like transplanting my computer's brain and then copying everything back as it was. That's the best case of course. The worst case is this...

(I was looking here for a link to the story about the man in Texas who had his pet bull cloned. The original bull was huge, but sweet as a puppy. The cloned bull looked identical but had the nasty habit of impaling his doting owner on his horns.)

In any case, I would like to conclude this rambling post with a word of advice to all you Mac users out there. You must not only back up your computer but mirror its contents to a firewire hard drive (note this is crucial -- must be firewire, cannot be usb). In principle time capsule can do this for you, but you need to set it up right...

Now I must get back to sleep work.

BB

Is there a baker on board?

Everyone's parents do something. Some people's parents are bakers. So growing up you take for granted that at dinner there will be good bread every night and on special occasions very nice pastries (I know that the boulanger is not the same as pâtissier but they are connected, if you know what I mean. If your dad is a boulanger then his golfing or tennis buddies must include some pâtissiers, no? Just as if your father is an allergist then knows more than a few surgeons.)

You grow up not giving it a second thought. And probably your childhood friends take it for granted too. And then one day, later in life, much later in life, it hits you -- everyone didn't grow up the way you did, with this special luxury.

* * *

Well my parents aren't bakers, though that would be nice. They are doctors, which is also nice. The last time I went to see a regular doctor before this week was in 2002, when I suddenly decided that I need a checkup, since my regular phone calls home did not qualify as such. So I went to see one of my father's medical school friends from his days here in New York. His friend, who I remember when we used to visit NYC as children, is very nicely set up in an East Side brownstone, with his office on the ground floor and living above. Anyway, I went to see him and we chatted for a bit. He used his stethoscope, took my blood pressure and sent me on my way, pronouncing me in excellent health and "say hi to your father..."

* * *

Once I was on a flight when the stewardess actually came on the announcement system and asked "Is there a doctor on board?" I was only 6, but I had seen this on television so I waited and watched my parents. They didn't reach for the call button. I nudged them a bit, and still nothing. It's not that they were going to let a patient die or even suffer. All of this infinite waiting really only lasted a second. They had already motioned to a stewardess and were in consultation. It turns out there several doctors on board and everything was under control.

Some time later, I had a dream (or was it a day dream?). I was on a plane and the stewardess came on the intercom and asked "Is there a baker on board? A gentleman in first class is having some trouble with a crusty bread roll."

* * *

Well this week I realized what it's like to grow up without fantastic dinner rolls every night. I need to see a doctor regarding a problem I've been having -- nothing terrible really, but very annoying. And when it's been going on for 3 months (or is it 6?) you think it might be time to see a doctor. By my parents are in India at the moment, and for immigration reasons I can't travel right now. So I finally (after 3 years) chose an official doctor from my health insurance and went in, in the need of seeing a specialist (or so my father told me I needed).

The doctor wasn't available for 3 weeks, but there was an assistant (resident?) who could see me within 10 days. So I went to see him this week. Initially I was suspicious. I don't want to see the assistant, I want to see the real doctor. Actually it turned out he was really, well there's no other word, cool. Looked a bit like the kid on Scrubs. He agreed that I need to see a specialist without much fuss.

* * *

Imagine if you grow up, begin to live on your own, and then finally realize that most people are in 4-10 week wait lists to have some really nice dinner rolls. Well, there it is, and there I am. I have never waited more than 1 week to see a specialist and now I am told that if I'm lucky they can get me in March. I'm not complaining (well, yes I am), but not in a presumptuous way that I somehow deserve better. But truly I had no idea that the whole world doesn't eat eclairs for breakfast if you see what I mean.

I've always intellectually understood that even for the fortunate health care is a struggle and a matter of anxiety here in the United States, and probably in much of the world, because after all can you really trust a doctor as much as your parents?

Today I resolve that I will never, ever take my dinner rolls for granted again.

BB

Is there a baker on board?

Everyone's parents do something. Some people's parents are bakers. So growing up you take for granted that at dinner there will be good bread every night and on special occasions very nice pastries (I know that the boulanger is not the same as pâtissier but they are connected, if you know what I mean. If your dad is a boulanger then his golfing or tennis buddies must include some pâtissiers, no? Just as if your father is a doctor then knows more than a few surgeons.)

You grow up not giving it a second thought. And probably your childhood friends take it for granted too. And then one day, later in life, much later in life, it hits you -- everyone didn't grow up the way you did, with this special luxury.

* * *

Well my parents aren't bakers, though that would be nice. They are doctors, which is also nice. The last time I went to see a regular doctor before this week was in 2002 (and before that 1980-something), when I suddenly decided that I need a checkup, since my regular phone calls home did not qualify as such. So I went to see one of my father's medical school friends from his days here in New York. His friend, who I remembered when we used to visit NYC as children, was very nicely set up in an East Side brownstone, with his office on the ground floor and living above. Anyway, I went to see him and we chatted for a bit. He used his stethoscope, took my blood pressure and sent me on my way, pronouncing me in excellent health and "say hi to your father..."

* * *

Once I was on a flight when the stewardess actually came on the announcement system and asked "Is there a doctor on board?" I was only 6, but I had seen this on television so I waited and watched my parents. They didn't reach for the call button. I nudged them a bit, and still nothing. The clock was ticking, at least in my mind. It's not that they were going to let a patient die or even suffer. All of this infinite waiting really only lasted a second. They had already motioned to a stewardess and were in consultation. It turns out there were several doctors on board and everything was under control.

Some time later, I had a dream (or was it a day dream?). I was on a plane and the stewardess came on the intercom and asked "Is there a baker on board? A gentleman in first class is having some trouble with a crusty bread roll."

* * *

Well this week I realized what it's like to grow up without fantastic dinner rolls every night. I need to see a doctor regarding a problem I've been having -- nothing terrible really, but very annoying. And when it's been going on for 3 months (or is it 6?) you think it might be time to see a doctor. By my parents are in India at the moment, and for immigration reasons I can't travel right now. So I finally (after 3 years) chose an official doctor from my health insurance and went in, in the need of seeing a specialist (or so my father told me I needed).

The doctor wasn't available for 3 weeks, but there was an assistant (resident?) who could see me within 10 days. So I went to see him this week. Initially I was suspicious. I don't want to see the assistant, I want to see the real doctor. Actually it turned out he was really, well there's no other word, cool. Looked a bit like the kid on Scrubs. He agreed that I need to see a specialist without much fuss.

* * *

Imagine if you grow up, begin to live on your own, and then finally realize that most people are in 4-10 week wait lists to have some really nice dinner rolls. Well, there it is, and there I am. I have never waited more than 1 week to see a specialist and now I am told that if I'm lucky they can get me in March. I'm not complaining (well, yes I am), but not in a presumptuous way that I somehow deserve better. But truly I had no idea that the whole world doesn't eat eclairs for breakfast if you see what I mean.

I've always intellectually understood that even for the fortunate health care is a struggle and a matter of anxiety here in the United States, and probably in much of the world, because after all can you really trust a doctor as much as your parents?

Today I resolve that I will never, ever take my dinner rolls for granted again.

BB

Another weekend

I am on the train. Sitting by myself. I am next to a noisy group of 4 co-workers, who are telling rude jokes and laughing. One of them has a wheezy laugh.

Which inner BB should I channel? The stoic or the feisty?

They are now checking their Blackberries. Hmm… Blackberry=BB (though I myself don’t have one…)

I’m going to let them off tonight… (though they don’t know it….)

* * *

I've just made it back to my apartment in NYC! (10 second pause)

That was the sigh heard across the world.

* * *

Just had dinner at my usual neighborhood spot. I was sitting next to a very severe woman who looked liked she didn't want to talk. But this is NY... Eventually we were chatting away.

I had the same experience in Boston recently, sitting next to a severe woman. But after I tried to speak with her, she took out a crossword! I know you Europeans don't talk to strangers while eating your dinner at bars, because you don't eat your dinner at a bar and you don't talk to strangers! But it's one of the pleasures of New York. I have my "bar buddies" -- who I know by first name and nothing else: Mark, the gay food stylist for Gourmet magazine; Yvette, the Texan woman who loves to have weekends in New York (but she emphasizes, and I quote her, "New York is just fun and nothing else. There's no choca-laca going on while I'm here"); Sam my Hawaiian bartender; Amy, the aspiring actress who has sadly moved on to other gigs.

Bar buddies aren't a substitute for well-loved friends, of whom I have a number in New York, but they are their own wonderful thing. And in a place like Boston where I don't know too many people, it could have been a nice way to get to know some locals. Could have been...

But I've got a weekend in NYC ahead of me!

* * *

I saw a film, Revolutionary Road, and went to a concert (the now venerable Italian maestro Ricardo Muti), which we followed by two glasses of champagne and slightly dizzy conversation. It was wonderful.

* * *

I'm back in Boston now, Sunday evening, watching Renoir's The River. An imperfect but wonderful film. As Renoir says in his introduction to the film, "[India] is one of the least mysterious countries there are. For a Frenchman, India is very easy to understand. People there have just about the same reactions as people here do." So profoundly true, and so profoundly wrong. Exoticism is what most filmmakers want to find when the look abroad for their stories. But exoticism is exactly the failure to see oneself in others. At the same time, there are real differences in how different countries look at the world. The irony and beauty of the film is that Renoir both succeeds in rendering India utterly exotic and utterly quotidian at the same time. It is beautifully observed (in the background -- the village scenes) and above all the colours, so intense! characters, both English and Indian, are more than a little cliched, but it didn't matter..

I am also enjoying a risotto I just made with a vulgarization of a procedure the Mia passed on to me a while ago. I added oven-roasted curried acorn squash and tomatoes, and adapted it to a red-wine risotto recipe. Truth be told, I over cooked it by just two ladles of stock, but nonetheless it turned out very nicely.

Hope you've all had a wonderful weekend.

BB!

Dance of the Seven Layers

OK - must admit - I don't know what this post is about. But as I was walking to buy some groceries this morning in -12 C weather, I realized that my body didn't feel cold (unlike my feet, which were so cold that I couldn't feel them at all). It's true that I live only 3 minutes on foot from the grocery store, but when it's this cold, distances are measured by the meter.

An aside on my use of the metric system. In school I studied metric, or System International, as most of the world does. But it was still in the transitional days so though I learned both there are some inconsistencies. I think of temperatures in Celsius, short distances in Imperial (because our paper is still measured in inches and so one gets used to this for thinking of anything that size), and longer distances in SI. 

An aside within the aside. A friend of mine noted that if you ask someone who lives in the US how far is it from City A to City B they tend to respond in time, not distance. It's 4 hours from Boston to New York. By car. Even I, who fly (it's 35-40 minutes), might say so. It turns out that it's about 300 km, which explains how I once drove door to door in 3'15".

An aside within the aside within the aside. It really should take about 4 hours by the time you factor in the traffic getting out of and into the cities. But I wasn't shy about using my autobahn skills to the fullest.

But getting back to metric, I must confess that here in the US referring to temperatures in Celsius is a deliberate albeit mild act of international provocationalism (I don't think this is a word, but you get the idea).

And finally getting back to my layers, I realized that I was in fact wearing seven layers to protect myself from the outside world. Perhaps this isn't quite the place to count off the details, but use your imagination.

* * *

While I was walking, I was also thinking of the plane sitting in the Hudson River a few miles down from me (inconsistency - I think of distances in Manhattan in miles because 20 blocks= 1 mile), with its wing pointing to the sky like a whale that had gone belly up. I'm sure all of you have read about the dramatic emergency landing in the Hudson earlier this week. The New York Times reporter interviewed some people who had gone to  see the plane where it had been moored. They said, "No one died, it was a great rescue, so that's why I came down here to take a look -- if people had been hurt, I wouldn't have come". But I fly often, indeed weekly, from La Guardia airport, usually on US Air. And though I'm relieved that there were no serious injuries, it's a bit worrisome to realize that it can happen just like that. 

And then I thought back to 2001, the last time a plane touched down in New York with such death and destruction. That time instead I, and many other New Yorkers, felt a need to go down to the World Trade Center. Absolutely not to take a look or snap pictures or pick up dust as a souvenir (all of which I saw people doing), but to express solidarity, to share pain, to honor those who suffered, to mourn the loss, all of which could only be done collectively, by being there, by looking into the eyes of your fellow New Yorkers and seeing the defenses come down and a flicker of understanding pass between you. 

On this occasion thankfully no one died, but it was too close a call for me to go down and want to make a spectacle of it. Say prayer; thank fate or God or luck as you see fit, instead.

* * *

And then I snapped out of it! My feet were numb, but otherwise I was boilingly hot.  I had reached the grocery store and it was time to do battle! 

BB