After a while, I felt I said enough about Eurodining. But absence makes the heart grow fonder, not to mention the palate. And the move to Austria has led to some new comments.
Quite a lot of food in Graz features pumpkinseed oil, or Kuerbisoel. I was suspicious of this after my encounter with the Samen Koenig, and remain wary, but am getting over it. This is the best salad dressing by far. (I mean, pumpkinseed oil.) I wondered why Americans don't make it, since we have no lack of pumpkins, but am told it requires a special kind of pumpkin that only grows in this region of Austria. Get it together, Californian genetic engineers! Get Styrian pumpkins out there! Styrians also have more pumpkin cream soup, and schnitzel in pumpkin crumbs. Delicious. I am already planning a second suitcase for my May trip to SoCal so I can bring several bottles of pumpkinseed oil.
And wine. I noted that Bremen white wine is generally sweet, whereas the wine here is quite dry. Much better. But similar wine can be found in SoCal, whereas the pumpkinseed oil seems to be a truly local phenomenon.
They also make bratkartoffeln differently in Austria. The northern Germans make it with bacon and onions. The Austrians instead skin the potatoes, bake them, and serve them naked. Also quite good, but I like the German potatoes better. I further learned that the locals have some beef with potato skin. Only figuratively; they do not like potato skin. I learned that after cooking for my labmates 2 weeks ago. I sent this email to everyone in the lab:
Hello,
Chef Brendan will most humbly grace our esteemed establishment with fine dining today (11 Mar) around lunchtime for anyone interested. Our Haute Cuisine for heute shall be:
Canary Island "Papas Arrugadas" (Wrinkled Potatoes), Boiled with Love and Fresh Sea Salt
A Melange of Gourmet Sliced Austrian and Imported Sausages, Drizzled with Gourmet First Cold Press Olive Oil
Fine Spanish Cured "Jamón ibérico" (Iberian Ham)
A Selection of Fine Leftover Pizzas from Cafe Schillerhof, heated a la Microwave
Cilantro Garlic Sauce
Spicy Pepper Vinegar Sauce
Cheese and Garlic Sauce
Chef Brendan personally assures you the three Canarian sauces remain magnificent and fresh, as determined by visual, gustatory, and olfactory inspection ten minutes ago. Chef Brendan further guarantees that the top three items on our prix fixe menu are even fresher, according to the highest standards of a food supplier so fantastic and elite that he is not even recognized by most gourmet chefs, Messr. Billa.
Substitutions are not allowed.
Your humble culinary servant,
Chef Brendan
My Canary Island potato party was disrupted when the boss came around 11, right when I was about to start boiling the potatoes, which need almost an hour. We met for an hour, meaning lunch was delayed an hour. Otherwise, the event went well, except some of my labbies peeled the skin off the potatoes before eating them. Why? Potato skin is good, and quite healthy. They had an educational cartoon on Saturday mornings, in the same series as "Interplanet Janet" and "Conjunction Junction", just to encourage us to eat potato skin. I know the planets (all nine of them), and can use conjunctions, or, at least I think I can. So the potato skin cartoon must have worked too. Surely, if they had them in Austria, the world balance of power would be different.
After the feast, I busted out a gift my brother brought from China: Pop Rocks. Half the lab smiled knowingly, and a few told me that Austria was not that isolated. The other half disproved that. Yes, several of them had the classic eye opening experience of candy detonating in your mouth. I tried to give some to my bosses, but they did not want it. Probably for the best.
People in Austria and Germany asked me what Americans say when they start their meal. Nothing, really. They don't believe me, but it's true. Unless prayer precedes the meal, we just eat. Maybe "enjoy your meal", but that's it. The Austrians (much more than Germans) have the declaration "Mahlzeit", which means meal time, and can be used before any meal. You say it to comrades at the table, waiters say it to you, you can use it to suggest getting lunch with someone; it is universal. "Guten appetit" runs a distant second. After this or really any greeting, Germans and Austrians alike often answer "likewise". In English. Which is odd, since I never heard any native English speaker use that term. Similarly, they also have pizzas here dubbed California, America, or New York pizza with exotic toppings like corn, broccoli, salami, ham, or tuna. Not authentic, but quite good. I have some in the fridge now patiently awaiting reheating. Mahlzeit!!
Saturday, March 28, 2009
Thursday, March 19, 2009
Waltz of the Snowflakes
It is snowing.
This is rather novel, since it hasn't happened in a few weeks. It has been snowing long enough that the trees are refrosted and the ground is solid white, which adumbrates sliding and sludge for a few days. I am instead focusing on the fact that it is currently relaxing and quite pretty. I downloaded Tchaikovzsky's Waltz of the Snowflakes, a great title and very playful piece that reminds one of the simple wonder snow can inspire. It would have fit well in the Nutcracker Suite.
Two weeks ago, I saw a quite different style of music, a band called The Base at a local club recommended by my buddy Guenter Krausz from Guger Technologies. The band name was enough to make me think for a while about whether it was clever before deciding it was not. Great band though.
Otherwise, my waking hours have approached pure work. I was completely overloaded a week ago, when it was quite unexpectedly suggested by Brussels that I lead a new grant application. Brussels, the European equivalent of DC, does not make such suggestions often or casually. I gave a talk on 9 March titled "Developing Grant Proposals" and said you should start at least 3 months ahead of time. I got The Call about 2 weeks before the deadline, which is 1 April. I doubt any fooling is involved. I would not get The Call unless such a quick proposal could be feasible, and I'm just the sort of person who can do it, both for better and worse. The other 2 senior postdocs in the lab lack the requisite writing skill, general BCI knowledge, or megalomania; they also each have families with new babies. I like them and my labmates. It is one of the best BCI labs in the world, and I have not worked for any such institution in about 5 years, when I worked for the Wolpaw lab. So it's not so much that I have nothing to say, it's just that I am saying it all in to my new grant proposal, plus 3 others I am working on, and my book for Springer, and several projects I'd love to talk about but not as much as I'd love to not have them stolen.
The govenator was in town a couple weeks ago and was spotted eating hot dogs in the main plaza. Ooooh. I wonder if he goes around with bodyguards. Who would have the temerity to guard that guy? To essentially consider himself the bigger man?
There's an old saying: If you don't have anything nice to say, don't say anything at all. I swap "nice" with "witty" and return to work.
This is rather novel, since it hasn't happened in a few weeks. It has been snowing long enough that the trees are refrosted and the ground is solid white, which adumbrates sliding and sludge for a few days. I am instead focusing on the fact that it is currently relaxing and quite pretty. I downloaded Tchaikovzsky's Waltz of the Snowflakes, a great title and very playful piece that reminds one of the simple wonder snow can inspire. It would have fit well in the Nutcracker Suite.
Two weeks ago, I saw a quite different style of music, a band called The Base at a local club recommended by my buddy Guenter Krausz from Guger Technologies. The band name was enough to make me think for a while about whether it was clever before deciding it was not. Great band though.
Otherwise, my waking hours have approached pure work. I was completely overloaded a week ago, when it was quite unexpectedly suggested by Brussels that I lead a new grant application. Brussels, the European equivalent of DC, does not make such suggestions often or casually. I gave a talk on 9 March titled "Developing Grant Proposals" and said you should start at least 3 months ahead of time. I got The Call about 2 weeks before the deadline, which is 1 April. I doubt any fooling is involved. I would not get The Call unless such a quick proposal could be feasible, and I'm just the sort of person who can do it, both for better and worse. The other 2 senior postdocs in the lab lack the requisite writing skill, general BCI knowledge, or megalomania; they also each have families with new babies. I like them and my labmates. It is one of the best BCI labs in the world, and I have not worked for any such institution in about 5 years, when I worked for the Wolpaw lab. So it's not so much that I have nothing to say, it's just that I am saying it all in to my new grant proposal, plus 3 others I am working on, and my book for Springer, and several projects I'd love to talk about but not as much as I'd love to not have them stolen.
The govenator was in town a couple weeks ago and was spotted eating hot dogs in the main plaza. Ooooh. I wonder if he goes around with bodyguards. Who would have the temerity to guard that guy? To essentially consider himself the bigger man?
There's an old saying: If you don't have anything nice to say, don't say anything at all. I swap "nice" with "witty" and return to work.
Friday, February 20, 2009
Trip down memory wane
When I was an undergrad, I was at Longs Drugs in the shopping center at the corner of Nobel and Via La Jolla. I don't remember why, but do somehow feel confident that I wasn't buying anything, just accompanying Andy, and also that we were not buying beer. There was only one checkout counter open and a long line. We were at the end of it, and in front of us was a decrepit old bag with posture that made a candy cane look straight. Someone opened the adjacent checkout counter and announced that he would take the next person in line. The shriveled caterpillar didn't budge. Andy asked her, quite politely, "Excuse me, ma'am, are you in line?"
She replied, in a voice that wavered and cracked under its own sarcasm, "Am I standing here?" Andy said nothing, and moved to the front of the new line. He bought his stuff and we looked back and there was the old saddlebag, still in line, with a bit of a smug glare like she just told off that young whippersnapper. 2 other people in line gave us a conspiratorial grin.
Fast forward to this morning. I was walking to work along a dirt road through a forest. It was pitch black. The dirt road does have some street lights, but they are poorly positioned and pine trees are opaque. I heard some rustling to my left and froze. This was startling at first, but with my handy little pocket LED light, I soon discovered it was a deer. I was in no hurry at all and so I decided to sit at a local tree and watch. The deer did not seem to care, and after a minute I didn't either, so I quietly stood up and continued walking.
After another few hundred meters, I encountered a nice old lady heading the opposite direction. Her face was more wrinkled than her cortex, and probably had more live neurons. She was with a massive German Shepherd who probably outweighed her by 20 kilos and was on a leash that she had wound tightly round her hand, several times. Now, we both know that ostensibly domesticated dogs and deer don't mix, especially when the dog is far stronger than the leash holder. The following conversation ensured (in German):
Good morning.
(no reply)
Good morning!! (quite loudly)
(no reply)
Excuse me!!
(she turned)
Excuse me.
I can hear you. (looks at me quite sourly, as if greatly put out.)
Excuse me, ma'am, you should know that there is a deer ahead on to your right, about 300 meters.
(cocks her head)
There is a deer ahead, on the right. I tell you, for it is likely, your dog will run, and try to eat it. (I do not know "chase" in German, though surely Gerv does.)
He is just a puppy.
(in German, all dogs are male.)
Ma'am, that is a large dog, and he will try to eat the deer.
I said, he is a puppy. You do not listen.
(unlike the beginning of the conversation, she switched to the informal "you," which is normally reserved for friends, children, or morons. I doubt I was in category one or two. I remained formal.)
Ma'am, I think, that your dog could eat me. He is a very big dog.
I know that.
Ma'am, I only tell you, because there may be a problem. An emergency. When your dog sees the deer, he will try to eat it. Maybe you should remain here.
(no response)
Ma'am, I recommend, you remain, or return. The walk up the hill is not safe.
You are stupid.
(pause) Sorry ma'am! Have a good morning.
(mutters something incomprehensible, but clearly not nice. There are rare occasions when I am delighted to speak poor German, and this was one of them.)
So this served as a reminder that not all old ladies are nice. Positive prejudice is no more intelligent nor accurate than mainstream prejudice. Ah well. The two bitches kept walking up the hill, and I continued down it. Hm, my streetcar plans are now in disarray too, and they don't run that often in the mornings. I probably won't make the 1 like I planned, but I think if I turn left on Hilmteichstrasse, I can get the 7, or just walk to Jakominiplatz, it looks like a clear morning. I can just follow the streetcar lines, or I have my map, right? Yes! Plan: go to the streetlight up there, check the map for shortcuts, and-
WOOF!
Nein!!!
WOOF! WOOF WOOF WOOF!
(collision sounds)
Oh, oh! Rauwven! Halt, Rauwven!
WOOF WOOF! (Branches break. Or maybe it was a hip.)
Oh! (also something in German I couldn't understand, but I could certainly detect a dramatic change in tone from her last words to me.)
Rauwven!
(Clear sounds of thumping hooves, excited barking, and more broken branches, all waning like my memory of ages past.)
And, let's see, the 1 and the 7 are staggered, so if the streetcar that just went by is the 1, my best bet is the 7 in front of the hospital. OK, so I basically walk around the hospital along the western side, then go left, and that's the closest stop. Or maybe the other one, on what is it, Lenaugasse?
She replied, in a voice that wavered and cracked under its own sarcasm, "Am I standing here?" Andy said nothing, and moved to the front of the new line. He bought his stuff and we looked back and there was the old saddlebag, still in line, with a bit of a smug glare like she just told off that young whippersnapper. 2 other people in line gave us a conspiratorial grin.
Fast forward to this morning. I was walking to work along a dirt road through a forest. It was pitch black. The dirt road does have some street lights, but they are poorly positioned and pine trees are opaque. I heard some rustling to my left and froze. This was startling at first, but with my handy little pocket LED light, I soon discovered it was a deer. I was in no hurry at all and so I decided to sit at a local tree and watch. The deer did not seem to care, and after a minute I didn't either, so I quietly stood up and continued walking.
After another few hundred meters, I encountered a nice old lady heading the opposite direction. Her face was more wrinkled than her cortex, and probably had more live neurons. She was with a massive German Shepherd who probably outweighed her by 20 kilos and was on a leash that she had wound tightly round her hand, several times. Now, we both know that ostensibly domesticated dogs and deer don't mix, especially when the dog is far stronger than the leash holder. The following conversation ensured (in German):
Good morning.
(no reply)
Good morning!! (quite loudly)
(no reply)
Excuse me!!
(she turned)
Excuse me.
I can hear you. (looks at me quite sourly, as if greatly put out.)
Excuse me, ma'am, you should know that there is a deer ahead on to your right, about 300 meters.
(cocks her head)
There is a deer ahead, on the right. I tell you, for it is likely, your dog will run, and try to eat it. (I do not know "chase" in German, though surely Gerv does.)
He is just a puppy.
(in German, all dogs are male.)
Ma'am, that is a large dog, and he will try to eat the deer.
I said, he is a puppy. You do not listen.
(unlike the beginning of the conversation, she switched to the informal "you," which is normally reserved for friends, children, or morons. I doubt I was in category one or two. I remained formal.)
Ma'am, I think, that your dog could eat me. He is a very big dog.
I know that.
Ma'am, I only tell you, because there may be a problem. An emergency. When your dog sees the deer, he will try to eat it. Maybe you should remain here.
(no response)
Ma'am, I recommend, you remain, or return. The walk up the hill is not safe.
You are stupid.
(pause) Sorry ma'am! Have a good morning.
(mutters something incomprehensible, but clearly not nice. There are rare occasions when I am delighted to speak poor German, and this was one of them.)
So this served as a reminder that not all old ladies are nice. Positive prejudice is no more intelligent nor accurate than mainstream prejudice. Ah well. The two bitches kept walking up the hill, and I continued down it. Hm, my streetcar plans are now in disarray too, and they don't run that often in the mornings. I probably won't make the 1 like I planned, but I think if I turn left on Hilmteichstrasse, I can get the 7, or just walk to Jakominiplatz, it looks like a clear morning. I can just follow the streetcar lines, or I have my map, right? Yes! Plan: go to the streetlight up there, check the map for shortcuts, and-
WOOF!
Nein!!!
WOOF! WOOF WOOF WOOF!
(collision sounds)
Oh, oh! Rauwven! Halt, Rauwven!
WOOF WOOF! (Branches break. Or maybe it was a hip.)
Oh! (also something in German I couldn't understand, but I could certainly detect a dramatic change in tone from her last words to me.)
Rauwven!
(Clear sounds of thumping hooves, excited barking, and more broken branches, all waning like my memory of ages past.)
And, let's see, the 1 and the 7 are staggered, so if the streetcar that just went by is the 1, my best bet is the 7 in front of the hospital. OK, so I basically walk around the hospital along the western side, then go left, and that's the closest stop. Or maybe the other one, on what is it, Lenaugasse?
Sunday, February 15, 2009
Halo
(written 14 Feb)
I arrived in Graz last night. My friend and, now, co-worker, Robert Leeb, met me at the train station. The last time I saw him, he was fretting over his PhD thesis like all good PhD students do, worrying way too much about details. I told him the same thing my Mom told me when I was revising my PhD- you are not writing for the ages. Meet the requirements for your PhD, get the signatures from the committee, and move on. Save the obsessive mastery for work that will be read by more than five people. Harsh, but true.
I notice an interesting psychological schism in late stage PhD students. You hit the extremes of stress and peace. Femke Nijboer, who successfully defended her PhD in the Birbaumer lab last year, called herself the “freakishly calm late stage PhD student” at the time. I called her a couple times planning on calming her down and instead found myself getting more relaxed talking to her. There are so many stressors, fears, and consummations devoutly to be wish’d, all at the mercy of five mysterious committee members, you get all confused about just how stressed out you are supposed to be. I find myself in a similar situation now. I am starting what is, and should be, my highest pressure job ever. Working at the Wolpaw lab was close, but I had little direct contact with him. Not so here. When Dr. Robert Leeb met me at the train station at 8:30 PM, he said we should get to my apartment by 9 PM since my boss Prof. Dr. Pfurtscheller wants to meet at my apartment at 9 PM to discuss the grant proposals I am working on. Now there’s a devoted boss. He is one of the original giants of noninvasive BCI research, along with Birbaumer and Wolpaw. However, Niels is distracted with a new son and Jon somehow manages to run a separate, larger lab that does spinal research. So I have the twin turbochargers of a top BCI lab and being under a magnifying glass held by the big boss. Bring it!!
Inspiring, but confusing. On the bright side, things seem fine at the moment. Pfu told me last night that I did a “very good job” and indeed it’s hard to have an unhappy boss when you’ve essentially been working for his lab for free for months. On the other hand, he seems eager to put me on as many grants as possible, including one with Bremen that screams disaster from every pore. I can already sense that being forced to work with Bremen will be one of the major stressors of my new position. However, time is on my side with that one. As news of what really happened in Bremen percolates through the community, this pressure should abate. Until then, I must eat shit, waste time on poorly conceived projects, and whine appropriately- enough to make damn sure I am heard, not enough to alienate bosses.
I spent much of the day catching up on emails and grant work, then headed back to my apartment to avoid the sickening Valentine’s Day crowd. Yup, they have it here too. My new pad is quite unlike anywhere I lived before, and totally unexpected for university housing. The apartment is in the middle of a little forest next to a tiny lake. It can only be accessed via a ten minute walk up a dirt road that does not allow vehicles except for residents. This apartment complex is the only building I can see, excluding a small shed. The building is surrounded by pine trees. Further, the building is quite old, and seemed a bit too fancy for us meager academics. Pfu explained that this used to be the Lord Mayor’s house, and it was adapted for uni housing. I feel flattered. While the building itself is old and pretty stylin, the inside of the apartment has modern furniture and fixtures, a TV, even a full kitchen with oven. Seems like a good combo.
It also brings back memories. When I was 7.5, we went to Kansas to visit some relatives. I know my age because I can distinctly remember sitting around a table with Dad and maybe 15 other people, having a great outdoor feast, when I felt the urge to inform Dad it was my seven and a halfth birthday. Dad said, “Brendan asked me to announce that we are here, not just to celebrate that it’s Wednesday, but also that Brendan is now 7 and a half.” The table sang Happy Birthday. I was later told that we were going to the mayor’s house. Wow, I thought! The mayor! Didn’t know our family was so connected. In retrospect, I had an overly fanciful view of mayoral regality. Being the mayor of a small town in Kansas is not such a feat. But I didn’t know that. That night, we went to visit the Maher residence and I was thoroughly disappointed by my misunderstanding. Perhaps one of the Mahers is also the mayor? No. Sorry, kid. But the evening was saved by an imminent hurricane. Mom pointed to it and there it was, a dirt brown wriggling twister, just like the pictures. We all had to get to the basement, where Dad told me that it was the only safe place and we might go out tomorrow and the whole house would be gone. I thought this was too fucking cool, and remember thinking about whether I could put some kind of movie camera up there to watch the house get torn apart. (Note this was well before webcams; a 7.5 year old American kid today could probably rig such surveillance without any trouble.) I was again disappointed to emerge the next morning to an intact house. Now, in curious narrative closure, I live in the Lord Mayor’s house. And it is a pretty phat house, as if the mayor of Graz is indeed a VIP. There is thus some restoration of childlike marvel. My new mystery is what difference exists, if any, between a Mayor and Lord Mayor.
The main drawback to this pad is obvious. You can’t get from the middle of a big city to the middle of a forest easily. It’s more than 10 minutes to the nearest streetcar stop, and at least 25 more to work. This is not such a bad commute, and walking 10 minutes through a forest twice a day is much better than driving through heavy traffic on 52 east. However, walking uphill on an unmaintained dirt road without drainage will be far less charming through rain or sleet. I see i cee sludge in my future.
But again, as I did not understand until moving to Europe, commuting through traffic just doesn’t compare to commuting on foot and streetcar. On a streetcar, you can read, talk to locals, watch the news (Graz streetcars, unlike those in Bremen, have TVs with news), or just zone out. Yes, I know, you can do these things while driving, but you aren’t supposed to.
I arrived in Graz last night. My friend and, now, co-worker, Robert Leeb, met me at the train station. The last time I saw him, he was fretting over his PhD thesis like all good PhD students do, worrying way too much about details. I told him the same thing my Mom told me when I was revising my PhD- you are not writing for the ages. Meet the requirements for your PhD, get the signatures from the committee, and move on. Save the obsessive mastery for work that will be read by more than five people. Harsh, but true.
I notice an interesting psychological schism in late stage PhD students. You hit the extremes of stress and peace. Femke Nijboer, who successfully defended her PhD in the Birbaumer lab last year, called herself the “freakishly calm late stage PhD student” at the time. I called her a couple times planning on calming her down and instead found myself getting more relaxed talking to her. There are so many stressors, fears, and consummations devoutly to be wish’d, all at the mercy of five mysterious committee members, you get all confused about just how stressed out you are supposed to be. I find myself in a similar situation now. I am starting what is, and should be, my highest pressure job ever. Working at the Wolpaw lab was close, but I had little direct contact with him. Not so here. When Dr. Robert Leeb met me at the train station at 8:30 PM, he said we should get to my apartment by 9 PM since my boss Prof. Dr. Pfurtscheller wants to meet at my apartment at 9 PM to discuss the grant proposals I am working on. Now there’s a devoted boss. He is one of the original giants of noninvasive BCI research, along with Birbaumer and Wolpaw. However, Niels is distracted with a new son and Jon somehow manages to run a separate, larger lab that does spinal research. So I have the twin turbochargers of a top BCI lab and being under a magnifying glass held by the big boss. Bring it!!
Inspiring, but confusing. On the bright side, things seem fine at the moment. Pfu told me last night that I did a “very good job” and indeed it’s hard to have an unhappy boss when you’ve essentially been working for his lab for free for months. On the other hand, he seems eager to put me on as many grants as possible, including one with Bremen that screams disaster from every pore. I can already sense that being forced to work with Bremen will be one of the major stressors of my new position. However, time is on my side with that one. As news of what really happened in Bremen percolates through the community, this pressure should abate. Until then, I must eat shit, waste time on poorly conceived projects, and whine appropriately- enough to make damn sure I am heard, not enough to alienate bosses.
I spent much of the day catching up on emails and grant work, then headed back to my apartment to avoid the sickening Valentine’s Day crowd. Yup, they have it here too. My new pad is quite unlike anywhere I lived before, and totally unexpected for university housing. The apartment is in the middle of a little forest next to a tiny lake. It can only be accessed via a ten minute walk up a dirt road that does not allow vehicles except for residents. This apartment complex is the only building I can see, excluding a small shed. The building is surrounded by pine trees. Further, the building is quite old, and seemed a bit too fancy for us meager academics. Pfu explained that this used to be the Lord Mayor’s house, and it was adapted for uni housing. I feel flattered. While the building itself is old and pretty stylin, the inside of the apartment has modern furniture and fixtures, a TV, even a full kitchen with oven. Seems like a good combo.
It also brings back memories. When I was 7.5, we went to Kansas to visit some relatives. I know my age because I can distinctly remember sitting around a table with Dad and maybe 15 other people, having a great outdoor feast, when I felt the urge to inform Dad it was my seven and a halfth birthday. Dad said, “Brendan asked me to announce that we are here, not just to celebrate that it’s Wednesday, but also that Brendan is now 7 and a half.” The table sang Happy Birthday. I was later told that we were going to the mayor’s house. Wow, I thought! The mayor! Didn’t know our family was so connected. In retrospect, I had an overly fanciful view of mayoral regality. Being the mayor of a small town in Kansas is not such a feat. But I didn’t know that. That night, we went to visit the Maher residence and I was thoroughly disappointed by my misunderstanding. Perhaps one of the Mahers is also the mayor? No. Sorry, kid. But the evening was saved by an imminent hurricane. Mom pointed to it and there it was, a dirt brown wriggling twister, just like the pictures. We all had to get to the basement, where Dad told me that it was the only safe place and we might go out tomorrow and the whole house would be gone. I thought this was too fucking cool, and remember thinking about whether I could put some kind of movie camera up there to watch the house get torn apart. (Note this was well before webcams; a 7.5 year old American kid today could probably rig such surveillance without any trouble.) I was again disappointed to emerge the next morning to an intact house. Now, in curious narrative closure, I live in the Lord Mayor’s house. And it is a pretty phat house, as if the mayor of Graz is indeed a VIP. There is thus some restoration of childlike marvel. My new mystery is what difference exists, if any, between a Mayor and Lord Mayor.
The main drawback to this pad is obvious. You can’t get from the middle of a big city to the middle of a forest easily. It’s more than 10 minutes to the nearest streetcar stop, and at least 25 more to work. This is not such a bad commute, and walking 10 minutes through a forest twice a day is much better than driving through heavy traffic on 52 east. However, walking uphill on an unmaintained dirt road without drainage will be far less charming through rain or sleet. I see i cee sludge in my future.
But again, as I did not understand until moving to Europe, commuting through traffic just doesn’t compare to commuting on foot and streetcar. On a streetcar, you can read, talk to locals, watch the news (Graz streetcars, unlike those in Bremen, have TVs with news), or just zone out. Yes, I know, you can do these things while driving, but you aren’t supposed to.
Saturday, February 14, 2009
Tschus
(written 13 Feb)
I woke up quite early this morning to a heavy snow. This is eerily consistent with the experience Steve and I had on our travels. Each city we visited had great weather until the last day. Great by local standards, anyway. I brought a pair of shorts and sneakers and did not use them once the whole trip. Similarly, Bremen was cold, but at least dry, while Steve was there. The day after he left, Bremen returned to normal: drizzly. And then, the last night, heavy snow, leaving the roads awash in icy sludge. There’s nothing quite like icy sludge. Not mud, not slush, not mudwater, not dirty snow, not even ice or sludge; no single word captures it. But it struck me as a reminder of what I wanted to leave, and hence a reaffirmation I should be happy. Sure, Graz has icy sludge too, and I wish it didn’t, but at least it’s new icy sludge.
The first several hours were surreal because the heavy snow just went on and on. In previous blogs I commented on the changing terrain on the train ride from Bremen to Munich, a trip I took a few times now. This time, the same trip was like a slow ride through a huge straw. Looking out the window provided no info about where we were or even how fast we were going. No trees, no mountains, no rivers, just a long blur. I slept for a bit, worked on a grant proposal until my battery died, and then talked to three cute dental assistants who were heading to Munich to party for the weekend. The conversation was easy to start because I saw one of them reading an intro to English book, but thereafter quite difficult because my German was the best mutual language available. This is the first time I met a group of native Germans under 30 who did not speak English; I thought they taught it in all schools. Perhaps it is not quite as important for dental hygenists.
Indeed, as I told them, I went to the dentist last week. I was due for a dental checkup and wanted to get it out of the way before moving to Graz. Nobody there spoke English, as is reasonable for a German dentist’s office in Germany that caters to Germans, and the whole experience underscored the power of schema. This is really apparent at restaurants; without knowing the language, you and the waiter both follow specific procedures that are fairly consistent most anywhere. But these are relatively simple procedures. For example, would you normally spit on command? No. But if someone just scraped your molars, and then gave you a cup of water next to a sink, you would rinse and spit regardless of what she said. It might have been, “I pissed in your water cup, you fucking Yank” or “If you drink that, I will stab your gums until you wish you were doing airline stretches on an Atlas Poo flight.” But everything was very natural and I think that knowing German would not have made the process faster or smoother. If my bill exceeds the expected 47 euros, then I’ll eat my words. And then brush and floss to minimize future dental visits.
This reminds me of Steve’s comment about being a foreigner in Europe or Marrakech vs. China. He lived in China for 2 years now. He’s used to being quite obviously foreign. No matter how he dresses, what he says, or where he goes, he is instantly spotted as an outlander. This is what it was like for me living in downtown Atlanta; you stand out like a sore bum. It’s different here. You can sit in a restaurant, train seat, even dentist’s chair, and until you open your mouth or have to respond to a question, you may as well be a native. This happened with the 3 dental assistants I mentioned above. When I sat down, they lowered their voices a bit and covered something they were reading. I could have said there was no point in doing so, but was busy with my grant. 3 hours went by before one of them busted out the English book and I decided to be social.
To paraphrase Mark Twain: Better to remain silent and be thought an American than to speak and remove all doubt.
Now I am on the train from Munich to Salzburg. The snow just ended and the resulting winter wonderland is a welcome change. Snow is everywhere, and though I can see no nearby mountains now, I am sure the snow-capped peaks of Salzburg will be glory incarnate. I have a 1 hour layover in Salzburg and will certainly work on no grants. I am hoping to walk along the Salzach to the old city and back within an hour- a bit rushed for such a stately city, but a better plan than sitting in Salzburg Hauptbanhof, the only nonglorious part of that city.
Three hours later, and my mission in the preceding paragraph went as expected. Though it was about 25 degrees and snowing, Salzburg was refreshing and flawless as always. I’m on the train to Graz now and can see the mountains slowly turning into hills as the day becomes night.
I am also enjoying my last couple hours of keylessness. Yesterday, I left my work keys in Bremen where they belong, and this morning, I left my apartment keys in the apartment, where my greedy and dishonest former landlord will surely try to find all sorts of cockamamie excuses to gouge my security deposit. In a few hours, I will get the keys to my new apartment, and I will get my new work keys on Monday. But at the moment, I can’t get through any locked door anywhere without charm, recognition, deception, cajoling, threats, theft, begging, or gruesome mutilation of an innocent lock. Kinda nice, to imagine I have no responsibilities. But it’s only imaginary. In fact, now that the sun has set on my mountain views, I should get back to grantwriting.
“He’s in a hospital, and if we felt anything but sympathy toward him, it was probably envy.”
--Pfc Philip Siegel, 29th division, in a letter to his wife Sylvie written Feb 1945 from Bremen. Phil and Syl were my grandparents. Obviously, Bremen in 1945 was dissuasive for reasons beyond bad weather, but the quote still fits.
I woke up quite early this morning to a heavy snow. This is eerily consistent with the experience Steve and I had on our travels. Each city we visited had great weather until the last day. Great by local standards, anyway. I brought a pair of shorts and sneakers and did not use them once the whole trip. Similarly, Bremen was cold, but at least dry, while Steve was there. The day after he left, Bremen returned to normal: drizzly. And then, the last night, heavy snow, leaving the roads awash in icy sludge. There’s nothing quite like icy sludge. Not mud, not slush, not mudwater, not dirty snow, not even ice or sludge; no single word captures it. But it struck me as a reminder of what I wanted to leave, and hence a reaffirmation I should be happy. Sure, Graz has icy sludge too, and I wish it didn’t, but at least it’s new icy sludge.
The first several hours were surreal because the heavy snow just went on and on. In previous blogs I commented on the changing terrain on the train ride from Bremen to Munich, a trip I took a few times now. This time, the same trip was like a slow ride through a huge straw. Looking out the window provided no info about where we were or even how fast we were going. No trees, no mountains, no rivers, just a long blur. I slept for a bit, worked on a grant proposal until my battery died, and then talked to three cute dental assistants who were heading to Munich to party for the weekend. The conversation was easy to start because I saw one of them reading an intro to English book, but thereafter quite difficult because my German was the best mutual language available. This is the first time I met a group of native Germans under 30 who did not speak English; I thought they taught it in all schools. Perhaps it is not quite as important for dental hygenists.
Indeed, as I told them, I went to the dentist last week. I was due for a dental checkup and wanted to get it out of the way before moving to Graz. Nobody there spoke English, as is reasonable for a German dentist’s office in Germany that caters to Germans, and the whole experience underscored the power of schema. This is really apparent at restaurants; without knowing the language, you and the waiter both follow specific procedures that are fairly consistent most anywhere. But these are relatively simple procedures. For example, would you normally spit on command? No. But if someone just scraped your molars, and then gave you a cup of water next to a sink, you would rinse and spit regardless of what she said. It might have been, “I pissed in your water cup, you fucking Yank” or “If you drink that, I will stab your gums until you wish you were doing airline stretches on an Atlas Poo flight.” But everything was very natural and I think that knowing German would not have made the process faster or smoother. If my bill exceeds the expected 47 euros, then I’ll eat my words. And then brush and floss to minimize future dental visits.
This reminds me of Steve’s comment about being a foreigner in Europe or Marrakech vs. China. He lived in China for 2 years now. He’s used to being quite obviously foreign. No matter how he dresses, what he says, or where he goes, he is instantly spotted as an outlander. This is what it was like for me living in downtown Atlanta; you stand out like a sore bum. It’s different here. You can sit in a restaurant, train seat, even dentist’s chair, and until you open your mouth or have to respond to a question, you may as well be a native. This happened with the 3 dental assistants I mentioned above. When I sat down, they lowered their voices a bit and covered something they were reading. I could have said there was no point in doing so, but was busy with my grant. 3 hours went by before one of them busted out the English book and I decided to be social.
To paraphrase Mark Twain: Better to remain silent and be thought an American than to speak and remove all doubt.
Now I am on the train from Munich to Salzburg. The snow just ended and the resulting winter wonderland is a welcome change. Snow is everywhere, and though I can see no nearby mountains now, I am sure the snow-capped peaks of Salzburg will be glory incarnate. I have a 1 hour layover in Salzburg and will certainly work on no grants. I am hoping to walk along the Salzach to the old city and back within an hour- a bit rushed for such a stately city, but a better plan than sitting in Salzburg Hauptbanhof, the only nonglorious part of that city.
Three hours later, and my mission in the preceding paragraph went as expected. Though it was about 25 degrees and snowing, Salzburg was refreshing and flawless as always. I’m on the train to Graz now and can see the mountains slowly turning into hills as the day becomes night.
I am also enjoying my last couple hours of keylessness. Yesterday, I left my work keys in Bremen where they belong, and this morning, I left my apartment keys in the apartment, where my greedy and dishonest former landlord will surely try to find all sorts of cockamamie excuses to gouge my security deposit. In a few hours, I will get the keys to my new apartment, and I will get my new work keys on Monday. But at the moment, I can’t get through any locked door anywhere without charm, recognition, deception, cajoling, threats, theft, begging, or gruesome mutilation of an innocent lock. Kinda nice, to imagine I have no responsibilities. But it’s only imaginary. In fact, now that the sun has set on my mountain views, I should get back to grantwriting.
“He’s in a hospital, and if we felt anything but sympathy toward him, it was probably envy.”
--Pfc Philip Siegel, 29th division, in a letter to his wife Sylvie written Feb 1945 from Bremen. Phil and Syl were my grandparents. Obviously, Bremen in 1945 was dissuasive for reasons beyond bad weather, but the quote still fits.
Thursday, February 12, 2009
Walk the Casbah
It's hard to follow a masturbating Greek.
(although, I guess it would quite risky standing in front of him.)
After the fun of Madrid, Steve and I went to Marrakech. The flight was late, but our ride from the airport was there, provided free from the hotel if you book for 3 nights. The Dar Touyir was a particularly enjoyable hotel - cheap, quiet, relaxing, with very friendly staff and tasty food. Steve planned to sign up for a Moroccan cooking class for 100 euros, but we instead learned that we could take a class at the hotel for 30 euro. Steve negotiated them down to 25 in French (which is not bad, since his French is) and we did this 2 days. Wake up, eat a good breakfast, meet our instructor (a wide and kind faced woman), follow her to the little shops to get stuff, cook with her for 3 hours, have a feast. I took notes the whole time and look forward to having a pressure cooker so I can try it again.
The markets, indeed the whole city, were just what we wanted: different. Unlike Europeans, even Eastern ones nowadays, the people and dress and decor were not quite what you see in the States. Cars and technology were everywhere and I sensed again the fortune of being able to make it to Marrakech while there was still some of it left, before the whole world gets homogeneous. The Muslim call to prayer rang loud and blear five times a day, though few people seemed to heed it. The shops were filled with all kinds of things, all hagglable, often jutting from really narrow dirt alleys. There were several central bazaars and one of them had a row of people selling fresh orange juice. Each of them sold for 3 dirham, or under 30 cents. After my yapping about how nice it was to have fresh OJ for 2 euros, this was just too much to handle. At first, anyway. I asked one if I could get 2 for 5. No, he said. Steve and I went to the next cart. Same question. No, he said. Next cart. Same question. Sure. Easy to haggle with such accessible competition.
Amidst the snake handlers, weird fortune tellers, oddly dressed but friendly cops, and various street performers, there were a lot of beggars. Some got quite obnoxious, and one followed us arounf for a good half kilometer pestering us for money on the grounds that he directed us to the central square. Counterarguments that we did not request that information, did not want to go to the central square, and already knew where it was (all of which were true) were totally unpersuasive. Nothing much you can do about such people, which I also encountered a lot in Atlanta. Guy just kept pestering, wouldn't take no. It can sour your afternoon, along with the choking pollution there. But overall a great time, can't wait to go back.
On the last evening, Steve's friend from high school came down. Sam lived nearby on a Fulbright and spoke some Arabic. We walked around the city, haggled, had lunch, and did indeed walk the casbah. It was a walled area, cool mainly in that the walls and indeed the whole city were in that Arabic style. I never really considered firsthand the proposal that it be rocked. We instead had a great dinner and crashed. That morning, our little breakfast table had a third setting that we were not charged for. We already loved the place, but that really sold it.
Now over at the temple
Oh! They really pack 'em in
The in crowd say it's cool
To dig this chanting thing
But as the wind changed direction
The temple band took five
The crowd caught a wiff
Of that crazy Casbah jive
-- The Clash, Rock the casbah
Gotta speed up to catch up to now in time to catch a bus. After that, we flew to Barcelona. It had a different style than Madrid and we had a lot of fun. The second day there, I had to give a talk and asked a guy named Felip from Barcelona Digital where he recommended. Senor Parillada, he said, and it was indeed a great meal. The next day I gave a talk too, and the last day we made it to the Picasso museum before flying to Amsterdam.
Amsterdam. What can one say? It easily deserves its own blog entry, and um.... yeah.
Then there were a few more days in Bremen before Steve left, and then sudden silence. Hadn't seen my brother in 2 years, and now he was gone for who knows how long. I had to refocus on my work and my move to Graz. All kinds of horrific, ugly last minute politicking from Ivan and the boss, but (as always) I got along great with eveyone here except those two and that makes up for a lot. We had a nice little going away party/movie night last night and I'll miss working with most of the people here. But, it's over. It's 11:45 PM on my last night in Bremen. I just burned my last DVD, printed my last article, and said goodbye to Ivan. I am about to take the last bus to my quiet and empty apartment. I got a train at 7 tomorrow to Munich, then Salzburg, then Graz. No return ticket.
(although, I guess it would quite risky standing in front of him.)
After the fun of Madrid, Steve and I went to Marrakech. The flight was late, but our ride from the airport was there, provided free from the hotel if you book for 3 nights. The Dar Touyir was a particularly enjoyable hotel - cheap, quiet, relaxing, with very friendly staff and tasty food. Steve planned to sign up for a Moroccan cooking class for 100 euros, but we instead learned that we could take a class at the hotel for 30 euro. Steve negotiated them down to 25 in French (which is not bad, since his French is) and we did this 2 days. Wake up, eat a good breakfast, meet our instructor (a wide and kind faced woman), follow her to the little shops to get stuff, cook with her for 3 hours, have a feast. I took notes the whole time and look forward to having a pressure cooker so I can try it again.
The markets, indeed the whole city, were just what we wanted: different. Unlike Europeans, even Eastern ones nowadays, the people and dress and decor were not quite what you see in the States. Cars and technology were everywhere and I sensed again the fortune of being able to make it to Marrakech while there was still some of it left, before the whole world gets homogeneous. The Muslim call to prayer rang loud and blear five times a day, though few people seemed to heed it. The shops were filled with all kinds of things, all hagglable, often jutting from really narrow dirt alleys. There were several central bazaars and one of them had a row of people selling fresh orange juice. Each of them sold for 3 dirham, or under 30 cents. After my yapping about how nice it was to have fresh OJ for 2 euros, this was just too much to handle. At first, anyway. I asked one if I could get 2 for 5. No, he said. Steve and I went to the next cart. Same question. No, he said. Next cart. Same question. Sure. Easy to haggle with such accessible competition.
Amidst the snake handlers, weird fortune tellers, oddly dressed but friendly cops, and various street performers, there were a lot of beggars. Some got quite obnoxious, and one followed us arounf for a good half kilometer pestering us for money on the grounds that he directed us to the central square. Counterarguments that we did not request that information, did not want to go to the central square, and already knew where it was (all of which were true) were totally unpersuasive. Nothing much you can do about such people, which I also encountered a lot in Atlanta. Guy just kept pestering, wouldn't take no. It can sour your afternoon, along with the choking pollution there. But overall a great time, can't wait to go back.
On the last evening, Steve's friend from high school came down. Sam lived nearby on a Fulbright and spoke some Arabic. We walked around the city, haggled, had lunch, and did indeed walk the casbah. It was a walled area, cool mainly in that the walls and indeed the whole city were in that Arabic style. I never really considered firsthand the proposal that it be rocked. We instead had a great dinner and crashed. That morning, our little breakfast table had a third setting that we were not charged for. We already loved the place, but that really sold it.
Now over at the temple
Oh! They really pack 'em in
The in crowd say it's cool
To dig this chanting thing
But as the wind changed direction
The temple band took five
The crowd caught a wiff
Of that crazy Casbah jive
-- The Clash, Rock the casbah
Gotta speed up to catch up to now in time to catch a bus. After that, we flew to Barcelona. It had a different style than Madrid and we had a lot of fun. The second day there, I had to give a talk and asked a guy named Felip from Barcelona Digital where he recommended. Senor Parillada, he said, and it was indeed a great meal. The next day I gave a talk too, and the last day we made it to the Picasso museum before flying to Amsterdam.
Amsterdam. What can one say? It easily deserves its own blog entry, and um.... yeah.
Then there were a few more days in Bremen before Steve left, and then sudden silence. Hadn't seen my brother in 2 years, and now he was gone for who knows how long. I had to refocus on my work and my move to Graz. All kinds of horrific, ugly last minute politicking from Ivan and the boss, but (as always) I got along great with eveyone here except those two and that makes up for a lot. We had a nice little going away party/movie night last night and I'll miss working with most of the people here. But, it's over. It's 11:45 PM on my last night in Bremen. I just burned my last DVD, printed my last article, and said goodbye to Ivan. I am about to take the last bus to my quiet and empty apartment. I got a train at 7 tomorrow to Munich, then Salzburg, then Graz. No return ticket.
Sunday, January 25, 2009
Diogenius
My brother Steve and I arrived in Madrid on Saturday the 17th and soon met my old Spanish friend Guillermo Tortora and his girlfriend Sam. We returned to Cosas de Toni on Sunday for lunch, which was (like my trip in March) spectacular. On Monday I gave a talk at an institution near Madrid. The boss there decided to have some fun with me. While introducing me, he announced that my talk would be in Spanish. I had, of course, written the talk in English and intended to speak in the same language. Everyone there spoke English. So I thought, well, OK then. I began the talk by announcing that I had never before given a talk in Spanish, and was not responsible for the consequences. It went reasonably well, given that I was an American, presenting a talk to Spaniards in Spain, with mediocre Spanish and a Mexican accent. Midway through the talk, I pointed out that they all wanted to get lunch after my talk, and it would go a lot faster in English. Shoulda thought of that first! The boss announced that I would switch to English and indeed the talk proceeded more smoothly. After lunch, I crafted the seeds of a new grant proposal with three of the people there. So it was productive and entertaining; I was of course the target of some humor, but handled it graciously.
The next day I went to Telefonica HQ and gave a talk and discussed grant issues. The BRAIN grant that was stolen from me is floundering like an epileptic fish on a hot plate. I said, yup, what did you expect? I told you this would happen. You think this is bad, wait until the EU realizes how badly you are fucking up my grant. I then tried to make it back to the hotel by 5:30 to catch the Coronation of Obama, but was a little late. I got to the hotel and my brother regaled me with his adventures in El Prado. This soured me on my volunteer work that day. It was nice to meet some people there, but really made me question why I went there. I got no travel reimbursal from anyone. Telefonica did not even pay me for the taxi ride to and from Telefonica, even though it was an invited talk and there was strong agreement that my talk and my 2 hours of free consulting was invaluable. This is highly unusual; every other time I was invited to speak, including the talk Monday and my talk planned for Barcelona next week, I got some kind of reimbursal. I think a change of strategy is in order. I deserve not only travel costs but a phat consulting fee. Or, I deserve to enjoy my vacation with my brother. I hope I learn.
I recovered some over the next couple days, with a fair amount of tourist adventure. I hung out with Steve and followed the novel strategy of not working during vacation. We saw quite a few cow statues, which I have seen in other European capitals. They have this “cow parade” art project that is pretty entertaining. No idea why they chose cows as canvasses, instead of horses, people, cabrones, spoons, brains, or Sarah Palin. But that just makes it all the more mysterious and artsy. I got quite a few cups of fresh OJ, which I recalled from before and also loved in the Canaries. Only 2 euros for a nice glass of juice that was in an orange literally a minute ago. I made it to El Prado, we had some good meals, hung out more with Bill and Sam, and we flew here to Marrakech on Thursday. I failed to get heckled by old women, but will try harder in Barcelona, where we will go tonight (Sunday).
El Prado is in Parque El Retiro, and has a reasonable number of Madrid policemen and police cars. The police cars have little renditions of Guernica on them. This is kind of artsy and cute, except that Guernica is not in El Prado nor El Retiro; it is in the Reina Sofia. This edifice looks great from the outside, but I did not go in. Moreover, the guy in Guernica is not very intimidating. You want art theives and tourist muggers to be afraid of policemen. Use one of the many, many more violent and realistic paintings owned by Spain if you want to deter criminals. If you were thinking of grabbing a Goya, would you think twice if you feared a goofy, unarmed, disfigured stick figure loping after you? Come on! Get policemen with only one eye on each side of the head, who stand up straight, with their heads straight and facing forward instead of thrown back in an unintimidating wail. Waaaah! Someone’s stealing our art! Paint my pain!
As with most museums, I left El Prado wishing I had more time to explore it. El Greco seemed to have the most style, the most distinct mastery of faces and people and individual charisma. Rubens was prominent, with his many renditions of nude women a few sizes larger even than the norms of the time. Not quite as bad as Germans on topless beaches, but standards of beauty have indeed changed since then. El Prado had some decidedly odd works. I expected the famous Goya of Jupiter eating junior, and they had plenty of Bosch’s premonitory and judgmental glowering. Yeah, yeah. There were of course many dead Jesuses and beheaded St Johns and Goliaths. Pah. They had a guy getting stabbed in the eye, which was a little nastier. But I was most surprised and thus entertained by some really weird ones. They had a sculpture of a hermaphrodite, and a painting of a bearded man breastfeeding Jesus.
Nothing compared to the masturbating satyr for pure shock value. Amidst many Roman statues depicting gods, emperors, conquests, and far more glorious endeavors, they had a sculpture of a satyr indulging quite unabashedly in everyone’s favorite game of solitaire. The text by the sculpture explained that the work was an homage to Diogenes, who “practiced and preached self-gratification in public as a means of controlling the sexual impulse.” I always assumed that such action was equally effective in private, but who can argue with the wisdom of the ancient Greeks, later honored and ratified by the Romans? Have I been doing it wrong for most of my life? Being a good scientist, I pondered some quick hypothesis testing right there in the Prado. The elderly security guard wasn’t paying much attention. They can’t really bust me for channeling the greats. Life imitates art. They had painters in El Prado, copying great works of art; who are they to challenge my fervent enthusiasm?
Further, Diogenes was widely considered a wise man. He is best known for travelling through ancient Greece holding a lantern trying to find one honest man. Well, now we know why he failed. We can guess what he was doing with his other hand. If you saw a masturbating old Greek at your door, his lantern light rhythmically strobing with arm occlusion, would you open the door?
The next day I went to Telefonica HQ and gave a talk and discussed grant issues. The BRAIN grant that was stolen from me is floundering like an epileptic fish on a hot plate. I said, yup, what did you expect? I told you this would happen. You think this is bad, wait until the EU realizes how badly you are fucking up my grant. I then tried to make it back to the hotel by 5:30 to catch the Coronation of Obama, but was a little late. I got to the hotel and my brother regaled me with his adventures in El Prado. This soured me on my volunteer work that day. It was nice to meet some people there, but really made me question why I went there. I got no travel reimbursal from anyone. Telefonica did not even pay me for the taxi ride to and from Telefonica, even though it was an invited talk and there was strong agreement that my talk and my 2 hours of free consulting was invaluable. This is highly unusual; every other time I was invited to speak, including the talk Monday and my talk planned for Barcelona next week, I got some kind of reimbursal. I think a change of strategy is in order. I deserve not only travel costs but a phat consulting fee. Or, I deserve to enjoy my vacation with my brother. I hope I learn.
I recovered some over the next couple days, with a fair amount of tourist adventure. I hung out with Steve and followed the novel strategy of not working during vacation. We saw quite a few cow statues, which I have seen in other European capitals. They have this “cow parade” art project that is pretty entertaining. No idea why they chose cows as canvasses, instead of horses, people, cabrones, spoons, brains, or Sarah Palin. But that just makes it all the more mysterious and artsy. I got quite a few cups of fresh OJ, which I recalled from before and also loved in the Canaries. Only 2 euros for a nice glass of juice that was in an orange literally a minute ago. I made it to El Prado, we had some good meals, hung out more with Bill and Sam, and we flew here to Marrakech on Thursday. I failed to get heckled by old women, but will try harder in Barcelona, where we will go tonight (Sunday).
El Prado is in Parque El Retiro, and has a reasonable number of Madrid policemen and police cars. The police cars have little renditions of Guernica on them. This is kind of artsy and cute, except that Guernica is not in El Prado nor El Retiro; it is in the Reina Sofia. This edifice looks great from the outside, but I did not go in. Moreover, the guy in Guernica is not very intimidating. You want art theives and tourist muggers to be afraid of policemen. Use one of the many, many more violent and realistic paintings owned by Spain if you want to deter criminals. If you were thinking of grabbing a Goya, would you think twice if you feared a goofy, unarmed, disfigured stick figure loping after you? Come on! Get policemen with only one eye on each side of the head, who stand up straight, with their heads straight and facing forward instead of thrown back in an unintimidating wail. Waaaah! Someone’s stealing our art! Paint my pain!
As with most museums, I left El Prado wishing I had more time to explore it. El Greco seemed to have the most style, the most distinct mastery of faces and people and individual charisma. Rubens was prominent, with his many renditions of nude women a few sizes larger even than the norms of the time. Not quite as bad as Germans on topless beaches, but standards of beauty have indeed changed since then. El Prado had some decidedly odd works. I expected the famous Goya of Jupiter eating junior, and they had plenty of Bosch’s premonitory and judgmental glowering. Yeah, yeah. There were of course many dead Jesuses and beheaded St Johns and Goliaths. Pah. They had a guy getting stabbed in the eye, which was a little nastier. But I was most surprised and thus entertained by some really weird ones. They had a sculpture of a hermaphrodite, and a painting of a bearded man breastfeeding Jesus.
Nothing compared to the masturbating satyr for pure shock value. Amidst many Roman statues depicting gods, emperors, conquests, and far more glorious endeavors, they had a sculpture of a satyr indulging quite unabashedly in everyone’s favorite game of solitaire. The text by the sculpture explained that the work was an homage to Diogenes, who “practiced and preached self-gratification in public as a means of controlling the sexual impulse.” I always assumed that such action was equally effective in private, but who can argue with the wisdom of the ancient Greeks, later honored and ratified by the Romans? Have I been doing it wrong for most of my life? Being a good scientist, I pondered some quick hypothesis testing right there in the Prado. The elderly security guard wasn’t paying much attention. They can’t really bust me for channeling the greats. Life imitates art. They had painters in El Prado, copying great works of art; who are they to challenge my fervent enthusiasm?
Further, Diogenes was widely considered a wise man. He is best known for travelling through ancient Greece holding a lantern trying to find one honest man. Well, now we know why he failed. We can guess what he was doing with his other hand. If you saw a masturbating old Greek at your door, his lantern light rhythmically strobing with arm occlusion, would you open the door?
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