XXII

ALBANY, N.Y. - Today's my birthday. I thought I'd mark the occasion here by looking back at what happened 22 years ago today, as I was emerging into this great Earth.

According to Wikipedia, the day is notable because:

"The Tamil Tigers begin the purge of the Sinhalese from North and East Sri Lanka; 127 are killed."

The Nevada Board of Regents "Approved authorization to seek the changes in NRS 396.325 as reflected in Ref. K, filed with the permanent minutes, and approved the interim policy, also defined in the reference material."

The New Kingdom Metaphors were officially deactivated from the Cosmic Baseball Association.

The Dukes of Hazzard episode "Danger on the Hazzard Express" primeres. One reviewers on Amazon describes the episode as, "Boss Hogg's crooks steal the General Lee and rig it with explosives to crash the car into a train filled with gold."

And I was just 22 years away from my 22nd birthday.

Flat Box

ALBANY, N.Y. - What will it take to get cups and bowls back onto American hiking trails?

Utensils and silverware have been under attack in the hiking world for some time now. While Thoreau traveled to Walden Pond with a set of knives and stew pot, experts today recommend the long distance hiker travel with just a metal bowl. Minimalists eat freeze dried food and drink coffee out of the same bowl.

While the few ounces might help on day six of a week-long trek through the Rockies, it makes the trip a less uncivilized. Enter Orkiaso, the flat plastic sheets that fold into leak-proof cups, bowls and plates within a minute.

I first saw these at Eastern Mountain Sports, where I'm putting in a few extra shifts for the holidays (Holidays to Russia don't fund themselves). EMS is giving the item a large display in the campware section of the store.



This clever innovation comes not from the land of the tatami but fussy old England. Three recent university grads took spacial-visual skills and a clever marketing strategy and turned it into one of the year's hottest inventions. It's now available - according to the product's Web site - on six continents, although who exactly in Africa is begging for flat bowls for hiking trips I'm not sure.

You won't find it mentioned on their Web site, butorkiaso means "folded plastic" in Japanese, and is a form of origami. It can't be considered true origami, because the sheets used to make the items have been cut into non-square shapes. But this invention shows that the one or two days devoted to teaching American children how to make a paper sailboat (or if you're lucky enough to have a Japanese exchange student, a crane) might not be a complete waste of time.

(On the subject of Eastern folding traditions, I wanted to point out that the Russian nesting doll, or matrioshka, isn't really Russian. The first ones of these dolls-within-dolls that every person brings back from Moscow were made in 1891, as a copy of an older Japanese style. The Japanese dolls in turn evolved from Chinese Boxes, the fount of thing-inside-a-smaller-thing worldwide.)

Orkiaso is manufactured in Shenzhen, near Hong Kong. This means that it took Brits, Russians, and Japanese to modify a Chinese invention, which is now made in China and sold to Americans and Africans at inflated prices. Imperialism is not dead.

Our Chinese Representation

ALBANY, N.Y. - Sunday's Times Union features a lengthy profile of successful Democratic candidate for Congress and my former employer Kristen Gillibrand. In it I learned a few interesting tidbits:

She majored in Asian Studies at Dartmouth.

She spent a year abroad in China, and writes decent Chinese.

She visited the home base of the Dalai Lama in India, with her mother.

She wrote a lengthy paper on the religious fervor of Tibetans.

I feel closer to my Congress-woman elect already. Perhaps she can be my new Chinese study partner?

A Russian Master

ALBANY, N.Y. - I'll cop to putting some unusual things on the blog this week. Poems, old articles and weird pictures. That's just the way it's going to be sometimes on here.

This morning I had tea with a Russian woman, Irina. Irina is in her middle 40s and came to our meeting in a full-length formal coat and black slacks. Her wavy hair was recently highlighted.

I wore a mint colored button down shirt with a yellow and blue band near the shoulders that said "RedEx: Redhot Express" across the front. It cost $5 at an export shop in Hong Kong.

We met at Border's Books and Music in the Albany suburb of Colonie. My father was there, and so was Irina's daughter, Tonya. Tonya, 15, is a ranked chess player, future AP student and anime fan. By coming to Albany today, she missed anime festival in New Hampshire. She made an elaborate costume for Halloween this year, a hooded warrior that took more than 20 hours of sewing between Irina and Tonya, and plans to wear it at future anime gatherings. I told her about my recent trip to an anime festival, where I saw a number of people walking the hotel event room floor with eight-foot keys from the game Kingdom Hearts.

"That's a very popular game," Tonya said. Apparently anime tastes in the Northeast aren't terribly different than in the Heartland.

Tonya and Irina live in Montpelier, the tiny capital of Vermont. (Tonya said it only has 8,000 people, Wikipedia says 8,035, which is pretty damn close.) They're originally from Moscow. I'm not sure why they came over here: I was too busy talking about anime to ask.

Irina and I met because I've recently begun planning a trip to Russia. I tentatively thinking about flying to Moscow from New York in early February, and making my way to language school in Beijing by rail. Paul Theroux, the chronicler of train journeys, has convinced me to take this long trip. Irina's never been on the long train, but she had some advice on the Moscow leg of the trip.



"The plane food was O.K.," she said. The best part about Aeroflot - the Russian airline - was the free rubber duck provided in coach.

Moscow has terrible traffic. It always moves, just at a slow pace. Obviously Irina does not travel with the blue light buying sect in the city.

I shouldn't travel places at night, it's not good. What will happene, I'm not sure, but Irina didn't get into I didn't want to ask.

There's a cool chocolate factory near the riverside monument to Peter the Great. Sounds yummy.



And best of all, Irina agreed to hook me up with an American friend living in Moscow to be a companion, guide, friend and possible host while in the city. For the price of a cup of Pomegranate Green Icea Tea, I learned quite a bit.

The Poetry of Work

TROY, N.Y. - We've been scoring too hard. Our supervisor at the testing site told us today we're working too fast, and we might have to leave our jobs early. At my scoring table we decided to address the problem by stopping work and writing poems. Here's three:

Poem A

Last week we had stars,
shining in the sky,

Then we smelled rain,
Amanda said good-bye.

Wednesday was Earth,
saved by little kids,

And now...
we're reading poems
and I've hit the skids.

Poem B

The kid to my right is a new generation
He serves his answers with intense concentration

"A 4," he says - "No," I say, "3"
The shocked look on his face says he doesn't agree

The numbers are high
As a result, we'll lose work
My team says "Slow down!"
But it's hard for to shirk

At 20 you have all that time ahead
At 60, you're fighting a hospital bed

For you have to be fast and you have to be quick
To outrun the clock and its accelerating tick

But for my around I will slow down
So on Wednesday we'll get to come round

Another 2 - then a zero - a 4
Then drag your feet - don't do anymore.

Poem C

We're grading a question 'bout music
that's more than a little confusic...
Should the kid play the sax?
Or turn amp to the max?
Or just go and find him a floosie?

Bump Bump Bump-ed

ORLANDO - Orlando International Airport is terrible, terrible in a faded Blade Runner-style exit signs, blueberry Pleather seats and Argyle patterned floor type-way that plagues many American airports. Departing a 757 and walking into the airport for the first time in a decade, I wasn't disappointed by this tired-looking entrance port. I knew it was coming.

I also I wasn't surprised when leaving to see the American Airlines gates (11-20) filled with thousands of harried travelers, crammed between sharp aluminum armrests, watching CNN Airport Edition replay footage of Britney Spears' Tuesday appearance on Letterman. She just got divorced, you see.

There's an announcement. "Attention passengers on American Airlines Flight 815 to Boston. This flight is overbooked and we are currently looking for a few volunteers with flexible travel arrangements to give up their seats. We are offering in compensation a $300 travel voucher and seats on a flight to Boston tomorrow morning, with a stop in Miami, arriving in Boston at 3:30. If you are interested, please come up to the service counter."

I headed toward the counter, scanning the crowd for anyone else willing to torpedo a day of work for $300. I'm traveling abroad soon, you see. I shouldn't have worried. Ten minutes after I handed over my ticket, I heard a familiar voice. "Attention passengers on American Airlines Flight 815 to Boston..."

The announcement repeated every 10 minutes. The airline pushed back the departure time by 20 minutes, although 15 minutes after take-off no one had boarded the plane. They still needed volunteers.

Time cured my sister's sense of obligation to return to Boston College for a Monday lecture. "I suppose I can miss one day of class," she said.

American Airlines doesn't really want to give you $300. They really want to sell additional seats to last-minute customers, who pay between three and 10 times more than people purchasing advance discount fares. Bumping off a few customers at $300 ensures a full, profitable flight.

The money comes with restrictions. "This is just like cash. Don't loose it," the graying attendant said to me as he handed over a ticket-sized piece of paper covered in tiny black ink. "Service Fee May Apply at Time of Redemption," the voucher warned.

I have a feeling I won't be using this $300 for anything productive. For now, I've got a free hotel room in a three-star hotel (not the Ritz, but better than some hostels from the last few months) and a first-class ticket for a flight home tomorrow. Not bad a bad haul from a terrible airport.

Porte de Elephant

BOSTON - A circuitous weekend trip means I'm back in Boston for a few hours, and I decided to see some friends I missed last week. Wanting to maximize my time, and having temporarily "misplaced" my cell phone, I sent out a mass e-mail:

"Enormous Room, 9-9:15. The Enormous Room is in Central, next to the T stop, in the same building as the Central Kitchen. It's upstairs. Look for the door with the Elephant."

Boarding the T (subway) for the restaurant, I explained to my friend Jill that I couldn't be more specific in my directions. The Enormous Room has no sign.

"I'm going to be honest, Jon," she said. "This doesn't sound like the place I'm going to like."

Me either, but the Enormous Room is probably my favorite bar in Boston. Location is a key part. It's in Central Square, a neighborhood equidistant from Harvard and MIT, which guarantees an audience of hyper-smart graduate students and young professors. They don't want dirty, dank clubs, this crowd demands funky, moderately-priced spots. Central Square provides, with venues like Boston's best performing venue, the Middle East, and a bar with a chemistry/test tube scene.

The Room flirts with the tag of pretentious hipster den. When the Enormous Room opened two years ago, it served just one dish, the Enormous Platter, which consists of "many little tastes on an enormous plate ... choose either a Moroccan spiced beef skewer, harissa chicken skewer, or a herb rubbed salmon skewer and it will be served with a variety of north African style accompaniments such as couscous & baba ganoush & picked beets & pickled turmeric cauliflower & lamb briouats & potato date briouats & marinated feta & tabouli & mixed olives & kefir sauce & harissa, etc ... etc ... creative license is involved in the platters. most things, but not always everything will appear. trust us."

The menu now has six items, but the We-Don't-Give-A-Shit vibe is still in place. Our waitress, a young woman with thick, hay bale dreads, stops over with the regularly of the hour clock. When we first arrive near the end of the dinner crowd, she advises to sit a couple of stairs and watch out for a table. She didn't plan on helping us with tables. We, of course, did decide to come through the unmarked door.

Eventually a couple of men - chemists, perhaps - leave and we inherit their place. Seating is on one of several soft mats. Most people sit Indian-style (or as my sister informs me, it is now supposed to be called "pretzel-style") lie against the wall pillows. The low-lighting, Persian style wall murals and hints of insence encourage the kinds of meaningful conversations that old friends have after a time apart.

After a round of drinks, the bar's oddities - only bottled beer, a speaker placed right next to my head - become charms. At the end of the night, the crowd's won over. They will come through the unmarked door again.

Lessons from the Home by the Airport

TROY, N.Y. - First day at a job. Awkwardness abounds.

For reasons I can't get into I was telling two younger workers a story about my travels in Iceland. Every night at the Reykjavik Youth Hostel, I would gather with six or seven other young backpackers in the living room. Every half an hour, we would put on our hats, scarves, mittens and coats and walk around to the back of the one-story building, where there was no outside light. Then we would look up.

About 15 seconds later someone would inevitably say, "It's still cloudy," and we would head back around front and back into the living. In six days, I saw no lights.

Just then, a woman of about 65, eating a cup of yogurt at the next table spoke up. "Excuse me," she said, her wrinkled lips softly speaking the words, "Did you just say you use to live in Iceland?"

"No, sorry," I said, "I just went there on a vacation."

She didn't look sad. "I used to teach there," she said.

"I worked in Keflavik," she said, pronouncing it with deep Scandinavian guttural sounds, not the warm grandmotherly voice she uses in English.

It was the early 1960's and she was right out of teaching school. An agency that provided English teachers in Europe said if she'd go to Iceland for a year, she could have her pick of assignments the year after.

"And that didn't sound like a bad idea," she said. "I thought, 'why not.'"

She lived in a tin-roofed apartment building. She spent half her time teaching blonde Icelandic children, the other half teaching American military children. Both spoke English at the same level. Icelandic is not a very useful language, so the natives spoke several other languages.

She found the Icelanders a proud but secretive people. Her window into the culture was a young university student she met, who would take her out to parties in Reykjavik on weekends. The city was small then, but the parties were legendary.

"They can outdrink anyone," she said.

There were other perks to the job. She flew free on military planes to England and Ireland during school breaks. She got to hang out on base, eating missed American foods and hearing a familiar accent. Soon enough her "hardship post" was over, and she flew to sunny Spain, where she taught for several more years.

"I'd love to go back," she said. "You don't hear too much about it. You're the first person I met that actually decided to go on a vacation there. That's very interesting."

Supermarket Sweeps

BOSTON – After a long, arduous journey, I have made it out of the wilderness. I went to a Trader Joe's.

Trader Joe's is a supermarket, but that's like saying brie is a type of cheese. Joe's is market with specialty foods in Coolidge Corner, a fashionable part of the Bostonian suburb of Brookline.

The cornucopia of foods available include eight Merlots, Greek style yogurt and a whole aisle of fruit leather. I heard someone ask an employee, "Where are your Thai dumplings?" (Answer: Aisle 7.) All the creature comforts are here, plus items that can make a long day at work more tolerable: heat-and-serve masala, for instance.

Every country on Earth now has a supermarket, even Taiyuan, China. I stopped into the Taiyuan store to purchase a few supplies for an overnight train to Zhengzhou in May. Taiyuan is the dry, dusty capital of China's Shanxi province. It is the third-most polluted city in the world, and is almost completely without charm. My view of the city skyline was blocked out by a dust storm. Taiyuan's supermarket matches the end-of-the-Earth feeling of the city. Partially open containers of crackers were $0.50, melted chocolates around $1. I grabbed a couple dusty plastic bottles of water and bought dinner next door at a KFC knockoff.

A week later I was back in Hong Kong, the city of Wellcome. As I've mentioned before, Wellcome is a clean, rather Western store. But the Western trapping means its shortcomings can be more apparent. There's no sharp cheddar cheese or couscous. Apples are the nuclear Granny Smith variety or include a worm. Don't even think about buying grapes. I refuse to buy seafood from any tanks that include frogs.

From Hong Kong it was on to Kansas, and the Super Wal-Mart. Wal-Mart's made large strides in its grocery business since 2000 - it now accounts for 40% of Wichita's grocery sales. Food at Wal-Marts tends to be in about a dozen aisles near the entrance. Prices are low, but there isn't the variety found in a traditional American supermarket. Forget about gourmet anything, and stock up on all the $0.30 taquitos you can eat. There's no couscous here, either.

So now I'm in Boston, happy as a pig in shit, because here's grocery store not only has couscous, but 15 varieties of it.