kenjisan

"Do nothing light"

Yesterday, Cyndi and I ended up in a bar in Hollywood talking to a couple regulars about life and travel. The conversation started off filled with a string of cliched proverbs ("glass half filled," "live life to its fullest," "seize the day," and so many others I began to think that they were reading out of Ye Ol' Book o' Sayings). As I watched one of them down Heineken after Heineken, I thought about a billboard for Heineken Light we say on the way into the city. "Have you ever tried Heineken Light?" I asked. "I don't do anything 'light,'" he explained to me. "I don't drink light beer, I smoke Malboro Reds, and I eat butter." He did most of it in moderation (with the exception of the beer drinking on this day, I could only assume) and didn't understand why people felt they needed to pay more for less.

Obviously the man isn't a technorati.

In any case, my hat is off to you, Mr. Heineken (Not Light). While i suspect you may not be practicing what you preach, as they say--as you may have said yesterday--"It's the thought that counts."

What I love, what I hate

I love that first moment in an airport, just before a trip is about to begin. The PA system echoes overhead something urgent in an inevitably soothing voice: "Last call for LA... last call." Small motored vehicles beep as they pass. Everyone is about to begin an adventure, or is returning home from one. Anticipation and release.

I hate the actual travel part. The turbulance on take off, landing, and everything in between. Babies crying, ears popping, I want to sleep but can't settle my head. Everything is swollen and the movie is never great, even when it's a great movie. We're told to appreciate the journey (I guess metaphorically speaking), but sometimes the journey is too much. Plane trips are like this for me.

And finally, I love the touch down. Deboarding. Stepping out into either an unfamiliar airport, or one I call home. Either way, it's refreshing. The adventure is just beginning, or just ending. And I'm part of that intangible feeling I first had stepping in here at the beginning.

"How was Vegas?"

Would "It realigned my world" be an appropriate answer?

So these two guys are at a meeting, trying to sell "innovation" to a bunch of business men. It's early in December and the first snow has fallen the night before. It's just below 32 degrees outside as the business men step from their taxis and are ushered into the board room that happens to overlook a courtyard blanketed serenely in white.

The men, the hockers of innovation, aren't quite sure how to proceed until just before the meeting has started. "I have an idea," one of them says. "Bear with me, I have an idea..." So this man gathers the business men around the window and says, "Gentlemen, I want you to look out there and tell me what you see, and how it makes you feel."

Somewhat confused, the upstanding men of corporate America look out and say, "I see snow," or "It makes me feel peaceful." The man continues to prompt, digging deeper. "I'm beginning to think of the holidays, of Christmas, of what I'm going to give to others, of my holiday bonus and how I'm going to give it to various charities because I'm in a generous mood." And so on, and so forth.

"Now, what if it was one degree warmer? How would you feel if you woke up and it was one degree warmer?" the man asks. The snow will have turned to slush, gross, cold and wet. The drive from their hotels, their houses, to this meeting would have been arduous. So cold it hurt their noses. The slush would be dirty and miserable. "I would have been in a bad mood. I would have been thinking about how I'm not looking forward to the holidays, to that annoying uncle, to giving presents to my ungrateful nieces and nephews, to how my holiday bonus was not enough and that I didn't want to share. To how I was cold and didn't want to go out, to this meeting." And so on, and so forth.

"But gentlemen," the man reminded, "it's one degree." One degree... Amazing how much things can change is we look at it even a tiny bit differently. The world doesn't need 180s to realign.

I wish I could take credit for that story, but all credit goes to Andy Stefanovich, from Play, who's "In Charge of What's Next." He was the first of a string of fantastic speakers at the How Design Conference. So how was Vegas? All I can hope is that maybe, just maybe, I've come to see things just a tiny bit differently.

Quick Update

We're back and we're pretty beat. I promise there will be more updates to follow (with pictures included), but here's a quick snippet I'm lifting from an e-mail to Novak:

As for Buenos Aires, it was a very cool city. In many ways, it was like Paris (like people say), although only in parts of the city. Other parts had an entirely different--yet still very foreign--feel. I'm still digesting it all. We went to the ballet at one of the most renowned opera houses in the world (Teatra Colon), we saw a tango show in a small cafe (Tortoni), which was certainly not touristy, like so many of the shows, we shopped in these huge outdoor markets, saw Evita's tomb in one of the coolest necropolises I've ever seen (okay, I'm going to admit here that it's also the only one I've ever seen), discovered a park filled with literally hundreds of feral (but very cute) cats, and did a wealth of other things that are all blending together now.

Oh, a few other things: those people LOVE steak and beef--not a single day went by that I didn't have something that involved red meat; I witnessed some of the worst driving I have ever seen (and this includes Rome); and a bottle of wine a day is healthy, right?

Atlantic City

(Sure, I'm filing you under "travel")

My first time in AC and the inevitable comparisons to Vegas were immediately raised. I wanted it to be like the desert gambling mecca, only on a boardwalk. Sadly, it was not. More spread out, seedier, and much more expensive, I'd pick Vegas over AC any day but for one amazing little discovery I made: I love poker more than any other table game.

Sounds obvious for those of you who know me, but that's only because poker is the most home-friendly of the table games. No one wants to come over and play blackjack, and craps has that whole table/felt/dice thing going on that makes it tough (although there was once talk of building a table). I always thought that craps would be top dog in the casinos--it's exciting seeing all your money out there, all at once. Due to the stiflingly high price for all the of table games, I braved the poker room for the first time.

Eight hours later, I stumbled into the 24-hour diner and ordered a bacon cheeseburger because we all know that zombies like cheeseburgers and bacon, and that's precisely how I was feeling right then. It was five in the morning.

So back to the AC-Vegas comparison. For almost everything--poker and travel to and from--Vegas is cheaper, cleaner (imagine that), and generally more entertaining. And yet, if all I'm going to do is sit there and play hand after hand of poker, who needs the strip and its $6 yards of just about anything?

Texas

Just got back in to DC last night and the first thing I thought was, "This place is cold." Compared to Texas, the statement couldn't be truer. I'm not one for generalizations, but it's pretty hard to deny the chill factor between the one climate and the other. The weather hovered around 70 and 75 degrees and the skies were blue, marked only by the ocassional white cloud. Josh and Jess couldn't have picked a more perfect weekend to get married on, especially since both the rehearsal dinner and the reception were outside.

But I guess I'm not just talking about the climate. Texans were a pretty friendly bunch. At least the little slice of the population that we got. I'm going to leave that observation at that. Take it however you want.

The travel bug has stirred in me once again, so I'm going to repeat things I've said many times before. The thing I love about traveling is the way it shatters my little bubble of reality--no matter how temporary or fleeting that may be. I'm reminded that there is so much more out there than Arlington and Alexandria, DC and the darkshores of Maryland. There are places that just feel different, where people think differently, and where they challenge me to think about my own life. I'm not talking about some kind of brainwashing, some kind of evangelistic mumbo-jumbo, but a purer challenging of self.

Anyway, so there you have it. Texas. Bigger. Warmer. Flatter. And different. I had a lot of fun. Thanks Jess and Josh. Have fun being all married and stuff.

Pictures to follow (I hope).

Old haunts

In Pattern Recognition, William Gibson notes the "mirror world" of England: things in London are so similar to their American equivalents that they're nearly identical, yet everything feels just a little bit off. The milk tastes different, the McDonalds serves curry, and even a regular sentence is said with a foreign inflection. His words rang true when I first read them, and last weekend they quickly came to mind.

But as strange as it is traveling to another country, it may be stranger to travel into one's past. I was reminded of this about a month ago when I returned to UVA, nearly four years after graduating. Jon put it very well when he spoke of how everything—the buildings, the classrooms, the cafeterias, the grass, the trees, the restaurants, and all the things above and below—felt nostalgically familiar, yet were no longer ours. A new generation had commandeered not only our physical localities, but our lifestyles, and they did it without a twinge of regret or a flutter of remorse.

Now, imagine the collision of surreal emotion that would result in traveling both into the past and into England's mirror world. The photo above is of my old workplace. Eerily familiar, yet changed. The pubs we went to around it have closed or have changed names. The building that was being built across the street has been completed, standing tall, a glassy monument to modern London. And the workers inside, the usurpers of my past, tap away at keyboards that were once mine, calling on phones that I'd used before, and going about their daily lives... as they should.

It was nice returning to London. I had a wonderful time there, but unlike the first trip—and certainly the second—I felt like a visitor. A particularly knowledgeable visitor, but a visitor nonetheless. Like UVA, so many things stirred up a happy, very wistful, memory. And like UVA, I was reminded in not-so-many-words that my time was over and another’s—thousands of others—are just beginning.

Camping Notes

This weekend, I set aside my city ways and went into the woods in search of spiritual enlightenment. Well, sort of. Big Meadows wasn't exactly what I had in mind when I mentioned camping, but it was still a lot of fun. I'd never been "drive-up" camping before, and while we weren't pitching our tent right next to the trusty Protege5, it wasn't like we were cursing ourselves when we forgot something either. It also didn't help that the people to the left and right of us had those propane lanterns that burned with the intensity of a thousand suns (the people to our left had two of them... two thousand suns?), and that another group somewhere in the distance had a not-so-talented folk soloist in their midst.

My boss asked me last week why people feel the need to forego a comfortable bed, running water, and all the conveniences of home and hearth. What draw is there to sleep on the ground in the woods?

Interestingly, without any media devices/input, it's really difficult to tell time. I literally have no idea what time I went to bed. I know it was dark. I know that it had been dark for some time. But was it an hour? Three hours? Six hours? I'll never know. Same goes for the time I woke up, and the only reason I know the answer to that one was because I checked. I thought it was 10. It was 8. Sounds kind of disheartening, but it was actually wonderfully freeing. I went to bed when I was tired, I woke up when I was not. Simple as that.

I'm not sure how to answer my boss's pragmatic questions. I don't know what compels me to camp, or hike, or do anything that has no obvious purpose. Even now, after doing it, all I can do is shrug and say, "It was fun." But I think there are intangibles to be taken into account here. Inspiration, for example. Wonder. And in the end, what's wrong with "It was fun." I enjoyed it. What better reason is there than that?

English recollections

Have you ever noticed how on a trip—even a very long one—it is often the first week or so that stands out most clearly in your memory? Perhaps it is the enhanced perception that voyages bring, or perhaps it is an effect of orientation response on the senses, or perhaps it is simply that even the charm of newness soon wears off, but it has been my experience that the first days in a new place, or seeing new people, often set the tone for the rest of the trip. Or in this case, the rest of my life. —Dan Simmons, Endymion

I can still clearly remember the disorientation I felt stepping off the plane at Heathrow over four years ago, finding my way to the bus that would take me into London for the first time in my life. I can remember thinking that this wasn't the London I'd dreamt of based on Dickens and Eliot. There were used car lots off the elevated super highway selling cars that I'd never seen before. There was industry and suburbs—not row houses, but houses. And not the chugging smoke stacks of the industrial revolution, either. It felt, for a second, like I was approaching Baltimore.

And then I was in a city that was unmistakably London. Low buildings, winding streets, the occassional tree-lined boulevard, the Tube's crossed out O. I remember Regent's Park in the summer time. I remember walking down Baker's Street. I remember Shakespeare in the park, swans and ducks in the man-made river. I remember taking the long way around the park and walking into an ivy covered building with that same nervousness you get on the first day of class.

If I just stop and think about it, I can practically recreate those first few, wandering days.

But you know what I remember most? I remember eating lunch with Cyndi for the first time in my whole life. She was wearing a flannel shirt (plaid, of course). We ate sandwiches bought from the college's cafeteria. We were eating outside, on the soft grass in Regent's Park, under the trees, away from the tourists. I was impressed.

It was a nice day.

Portland, the day after

Riding the Metro in this morning has put my whole trip to Portland into an interesting perspective, and I’m still trying to wrap my head around it right now. I have these vague impressions of quaintness, maybe; definitely West Coast-ness; some thoughts on a “small city playing at being a larger one;” smart growth at its best, so like a park, yet so like a city, too! But on top of it all, a whole bunch of “I like this” and “I like that.” Nothing constructive right now. Nothing to write a blog about. Not right now.

For now, I’ll leave you with my un-official survey of Portland coffee. All these shops were found within a few blocks of one another, and all are different shops. Even the four Starbucks. For such a small city, there sure are variety of ways to get yourself caffeinated.

Europa

Thanks goes out to kwc for posting world66.com's latest travel map generator.

Note that these are countries I've traveled through. Slovakia is a bit of a stretch—the time spent in Slovakia was occupied on a slab-like bed on a train, rattling its way through the cold night.

create your personalized map of europe
or write about it on the open travel guide

Sometimes, what happens in Vegas...

...comes home in the form of pictures. Sometimes, those pictures take forever to make their way to the internet. Sometimes, those pictures never do.

But not this time!

This picture is one of my favorites.

Enjoy.

That Kooky New England Accent

Last night I returned from New England having eaten more than I normally do in a week (thank you, Cyndi's mom and dad). We stayed in Portsmouth, the town just north of the quaint town of Newport. The out-of-towners, the New Yorkers, the Bostonians, the posh, were starting to make their summer migration up now that Memorial Day Weekend and white pants had finally arrived.

What a strange place all of New England is. It's so... white! Such a change from the black-hair dominated world of Tokyo and Kyoto. To me, Boston feels like a nicer version of Baltimore. Both are walkable. Both are working class. Both are port cities. I don't know if the facts support this feeling, but it is a feeling, after all.

Anyway, to make this potentially long post a shorter one, I've decided that New England is one of those places that falls into the category of "nice to visit" rather than "nice to live." Unlike so many other people, I can't really picture myself living in Boston. I'd like to. It's a nice idea. But for whatever reason, the place doesn't click for me.

Jet Lag

It's 4 in the morning and I can't sleep. No surprise there.

To say that a trip like the one I just had was life changing would be a bit of a redundancy. I think that in most ways, all trips (for me) could be classified as "life changing." Takes away some impact of the words, I know, but I like to think I grow off all my trips, even the short ones to the Eastern Shore, or the crazy ones to Vegas.

Returning to Japan, I think that this was more personal, and therefore more moving, for me than most. The problem is, it's really hard to convey these feelings without resorting to words such as "awesome" or "fantastic" or "wow." I can't point to any one thing and say, "This is what I liked about the trip." I only have a collection of thoughts, impressions, and feelings.

There's color everywhere: lime green public phones, purple construction equipment, neon lights, golden temples, small cars and vans that would make Crayola proud. The kids all wear yellow hats when they're on field trips. People line up to get on the subway and trains. The tiled roofs of temples neighbor 20th buildings on the skyline. People still sleep on the floor, and tatami mats and rice paper lanterns aren't just things you see at Ikea. I'm always thinking that people are calling my name!

I can list on and on, but I won't. Not here. I feel... at home there. It's comfortable. I remember walking through the thick stream of people dispersing this way and that at Tokyo station and smiling.

One of my friends (Emilie from SF) had this theory about places that really resonate with your soul. Certain people are drawn to particular cities. For her, that city was Sydney. For me... I can't say it's any one place. I think that doing so would be an over-simplification of something that should never be over-simplified. I don't think I want to over-analyze something like that. But I do think that certain places speak to me more than others. Some places are places to visit; some are places to live. For me, Japan tops the list of places to live.