A story that really affected me, for reasons I don't quite understand. It's long, but it's worth your time ... and be thankful that you have the time. Take note, also, of some fantastic turns of phrase along the way. Just a very nice piece of writing.
Link brought to me by my home page, Arts and Letters Daily. Tremendous repository of good writing that might not be brought to your attention by anybody else. I envy the job of the person who compiles this daily.
Saturday, January 27, 2007
Friday, January 26, 2007
How things change
RALEIGH, N.C. -- This time last week, I was in Sydney; it was sunny, warm, the middle of summer, and everybody was nice and polite and wonderful and speaking with those delightful accents.
Today, I'm in North Carolina. It's none of the above.
Today, I'm in North Carolina. It's none of the above.
Friday, January 19, 2007
on the way home
sitting on board the united 747 that will take me on the first step home. i'm ready to go home. but i certainly will miss this place.
Tuesday, January 16, 2007
Scenes from a New South Wales Sunday
My Australian co-worker and I spent Sunday as tourists. "I love being a tourist in my own country," he said repeatedly. I loved it too; it was fun to watch the looks on other people's faces when he introduced himself in his thick Melbourne accent as an "American."
Here are a few snaps from our day, which started in a bright sunny downtown Sydney morning and wound through the Hunter Valley, the eastern Australia coast's wine country.
Here are a few snaps from our day, which started in a bright sunny downtown Sydney morning and wound through the Hunter Valley, the eastern Australia coast's wine country.
Sydneysiders love their city, and they love summer, both with good reason.
The Queen Victoria Building. It was a train station. Now it's a mall. In between, it was almost torn down. Score a big one for the preservationists.
The obligatory kangaroo picture. Saw this one at the Australia Walkabout Wildlife Park near Calga.
In 1830, a bunch of convicts were assigned to build a road from Sydney north to the Hunter Valley. Much of the road remains. Read more about it here.
The vineyards at the Brokenwood Winery.
Australia's shame lingers
As most people know, Australia was originally a British penal colony. Thousands of petty criminals were transported here from the British Isles from 1790 to around 1870. Under the not-so-gentle supervision of their overseers, their labor laid the foundation for the Australia of today. But not even the convicts were there first.
Groups of people known collectively as the Aborigines populated Australia many tens of thousands of years before white settlers. Nobody's quite sure how they got here. Research shows their time in Australia predates reliable overseas navigation, yet the Australian land mass was never connected to another continent. And the Aborigines weren't telling; some scholars estimate the various tribes combined for 750 different languages, none easy to discern.
So the Europeans, many of whom who weren't emigrating to Australia voluntarily, did what Europeans in those days did to people they can't figure out: they tortured them, they marginalized them, and they took their land and anything else they could take. They built cities and forced the Aborigines into the bush. They killed thousands of Aborigines, some by violence, most by European diseases to which the Aborigines were not immune.
Then they tried the most awful way possible to "fix" the problem. From 1900 until 1970, the Australian government did not recognize the parental rights of Aborigines. The states took thousands of Aboriginal children from their parents and put them in orphanages, in foster care, in concentration camps. The intentions behind this were almost worthy: The idea was that these children would be more easily assimilated into larger white society if they were raised outside of their tribal customs, giving them a chance at jobs, education and a successful (read: more white-like) existence.
In reality, children were taken from their parents, always against the parents' will, sometimes violently so.
The policy no longer exists, and Australia has spent most of the last 20 years apologizing for it in various ways. But it's also still paying for it.
A few of the surviving Aborigines are often seen around Sydney, usually drunk, aggressively panhandling. I saw evidence of this sad phenomenon this weekend; a scruffy looking dark-skinned man scrubbing windshields at a busy intersection near my apartment, two wasted young women screaming at passers-by to give them money in the Central Business District's more touristy section.
How do Australians feel about this? Don't dare ask. In a country that prides itself on its largely liberal views and its belief that everybody deserves a "fair go," the Aborigines are not a subject to be discussed. My Australian friend and co-worker, who's very liberal, very tolerant and very willing to talk about anything related to his home country, won't discuss them. Other Australians I've talked to dismiss the subject by saying, "yeah, mate, the Aborigines, it's a problem." The fact that many visible Aborigines in urban Australia are drunk, homeless and unpleasant toward others doesn't help their cause.
Few nations have proud records with regard to treatment of indigenous peoples -- not Canada, not Mexico, not most of Europe, and certainly not the United States. And Australia as a nation has been forthright and contrite about the wrongs committed in the past, even if Australians individually would rather not talk about it.
I didn't intend to spend so much space writing about Aborigines. It's an incredibly complex subject, and really kind of out of place in what is otherwise a fawning travelogue. If you're interested the subject, Google the term "Stolen Generation," or read about Cathy Freeman, the Aborigine who won the 400-meter run at the 2000 Olympics in Sydney, in front of thousands of cheering fellow Australians of all races.
Many, many things about Australian society are wonderful, and then some. The Aborigine situation, however, is a stark reminder of the fundamental imperfection of humanity.
Groups of people known collectively as the Aborigines populated Australia many tens of thousands of years before white settlers. Nobody's quite sure how they got here. Research shows their time in Australia predates reliable overseas navigation, yet the Australian land mass was never connected to another continent. And the Aborigines weren't telling; some scholars estimate the various tribes combined for 750 different languages, none easy to discern.
So the Europeans, many of whom who weren't emigrating to Australia voluntarily, did what Europeans in those days did to people they can't figure out: they tortured them, they marginalized them, and they took their land and anything else they could take. They built cities and forced the Aborigines into the bush. They killed thousands of Aborigines, some by violence, most by European diseases to which the Aborigines were not immune.
Then they tried the most awful way possible to "fix" the problem. From 1900 until 1970, the Australian government did not recognize the parental rights of Aborigines. The states took thousands of Aboriginal children from their parents and put them in orphanages, in foster care, in concentration camps. The intentions behind this were almost worthy: The idea was that these children would be more easily assimilated into larger white society if they were raised outside of their tribal customs, giving them a chance at jobs, education and a successful (read: more white-like) existence.
In reality, children were taken from their parents, always against the parents' will, sometimes violently so.
The policy no longer exists, and Australia has spent most of the last 20 years apologizing for it in various ways. But it's also still paying for it.
A few of the surviving Aborigines are often seen around Sydney, usually drunk, aggressively panhandling. I saw evidence of this sad phenomenon this weekend; a scruffy looking dark-skinned man scrubbing windshields at a busy intersection near my apartment, two wasted young women screaming at passers-by to give them money in the Central Business District's more touristy section.
How do Australians feel about this? Don't dare ask. In a country that prides itself on its largely liberal views and its belief that everybody deserves a "fair go," the Aborigines are not a subject to be discussed. My Australian friend and co-worker, who's very liberal, very tolerant and very willing to talk about anything related to his home country, won't discuss them. Other Australians I've talked to dismiss the subject by saying, "yeah, mate, the Aborigines, it's a problem." The fact that many visible Aborigines in urban Australia are drunk, homeless and unpleasant toward others doesn't help their cause.
Few nations have proud records with regard to treatment of indigenous peoples -- not Canada, not Mexico, not most of Europe, and certainly not the United States. And Australia as a nation has been forthright and contrite about the wrongs committed in the past, even if Australians individually would rather not talk about it.
I didn't intend to spend so much space writing about Aborigines. It's an incredibly complex subject, and really kind of out of place in what is otherwise a fawning travelogue. If you're interested the subject, Google the term "Stolen Generation," or read about Cathy Freeman, the Aborigine who won the 400-meter run at the 2000 Olympics in Sydney, in front of thousands of cheering fellow Australians of all races.
Many, many things about Australian society are wonderful, and then some. The Aborigine situation, however, is a stark reminder of the fundamental imperfection of humanity.
Friday, January 12, 2007
It's the weekend, mates (so stop calling me!)
SYDNEY -- The work week sputters on in the U.S. like a car that won't turn off. One of the joys of being here is that co-workers can call you into a meeting at 7 a.m. Saturday and not feel terribly bad about it. I certainly wouldn't, if I was there instead of here.
But now that the 5:30 bell has rung in the Eastern Time Zone, it's time to officially start a Sydney weekend.
A co-worker and good friend, S, landed here yesterday. This is his second trip to Sydney for this project, but it's more of a homecoming of sorts for him. He grew up in Melbourne, and still speaks with that accent that American women (including The Wife) love so.
When he came here back in October, he seemed more excited about it than I expected he would, given that the Australia Novelty Factor was less of a factor for him than it would be for, say, me.
"Well, mate, I've never been to Sydney," he said.
Wait a minute. You lived in Australia for more than 25 years and have never been to Sydney?
"Well, it's not exactly a small country," he said, with that slight touch of miffedness that Australians will occasionally express when a common misconception about their country is brought to light yet again -- say, for instance, the common belief that Keith Urban is Australian (he's actually from New Zealand.)
Australia, you see, is a very large country. Geographically, it's about the same size as the U.S. The main difference is that 280 million fewer people live here. Melbourne and Sydney are as far apart (and, in many ways, as different) as New York and Charlotte, N.C. And I was in my mid-30s the first time I visited New York.
The other difference, of course, is that some 90 percent of the population is in about 5 percent of the land mass. Imagine the U.S. being populated from New York, down the East Coast and around Florida to New Orleans ... and Los Angeles. Everything else is virtually empty. That's Australia.
So today, my friend and I will explore downtown Sydney, and I'll be the one with the funny accent. Tomorrow, we're loosely planning a trip to wine country in the Hunter Valley. And I'm hoping like hell that cell phone reception is spotty.
But now that the 5:30 bell has rung in the Eastern Time Zone, it's time to officially start a Sydney weekend.
A co-worker and good friend, S, landed here yesterday. This is his second trip to Sydney for this project, but it's more of a homecoming of sorts for him. He grew up in Melbourne, and still speaks with that accent that American women (including The Wife) love so.
When he came here back in October, he seemed more excited about it than I expected he would, given that the Australia Novelty Factor was less of a factor for him than it would be for, say, me.
"Well, mate, I've never been to Sydney," he said.
Wait a minute. You lived in Australia for more than 25 years and have never been to Sydney?
"Well, it's not exactly a small country," he said, with that slight touch of miffedness that Australians will occasionally express when a common misconception about their country is brought to light yet again -- say, for instance, the common belief that Keith Urban is Australian (he's actually from New Zealand.)
Australia, you see, is a very large country. Geographically, it's about the same size as the U.S. The main difference is that 280 million fewer people live here. Melbourne and Sydney are as far apart (and, in many ways, as different) as New York and Charlotte, N.C. And I was in my mid-30s the first time I visited New York.
The other difference, of course, is that some 90 percent of the population is in about 5 percent of the land mass. Imagine the U.S. being populated from New York, down the East Coast and around Florida to New Orleans ... and Los Angeles. Everything else is virtually empty. That's Australia.
So today, my friend and I will explore downtown Sydney, and I'll be the one with the funny accent. Tomorrow, we're loosely planning a trip to wine country in the Hunter Valley. And I'm hoping like hell that cell phone reception is spotty.
Wednesday, January 10, 2007
Now with visuals!
Nothing terribly new to add today; finished up Day 3 of training, and training just really isn't all that interesting, no matter what continent you're on. I will say this of my Australian trainees: I've never worked with a group of people who are at the same time smarter, funnier and more polite than these folks. The Australian attitude is one from which the rest of the world can learn.
You might note, however, that the previous days' posts have been enhanced (in the loosest sense of the term) with some stuff from my trusty digital camera. Apparently, you can click on the images and make them bigger. God bless Google.
You can read more about this below. Ain't technology grand?
You might note, however, that the previous days' posts have been enhanced (in the loosest sense of the term) with some stuff from my trusty digital camera. Apparently, you can click on the images and make them bigger. God bless Google.
Monday, January 08, 2007
Sunday, January 07, 2007
Sunday observations
A bunch of scribbles in my notebook, mostly car-related:
-- I switched hotels today, from the airport hotel to the apartment in which I'll spend the next two weeks. It's very nice, close to the bus line and well-served by taxis. I was more than happy to give back the wrong-side Toyota.
-- Speaking of cars, and Toyotas: The apartment is next to the Toyota/Lexus dealer. Because I had a two-hour wait before I could check in, I wandered in to the showroom. I determined this: Cars in Australia are very, very expensive. That little Toyota I was driving -- a $14,000 car in the U.S. -- will set you back about $22,000 in Australia. A Lexus IS250, which is an "entry-level" luxury car similar to mine -- low $30s in the U.S. -- has a much steeper entry fee in Sydney, just shy of $50,000.
-- This might explain why Australians keep their cars for a long time. My Sunday morning walk took me past many mid-'80s Holdens and Peugeots and Fords. But imagine my surprise when I saw that somebody was still driving around in ... a 1978 Mazda GLC. My first car.
I'm pretty sure I haven't seen one since I got rid of mine in 1986; they weren't exactly built to last. This one was badged as a "323" (which is what they came to call that model in the U.S., starting in the early '80s) and it was orange, not faded-out silver, but it was in every way identical to the junkbox I proudly drove 20 years ago.
-- The Holden is Australia's "domestic" car. Holden is owned by General Motors, and did recently export its first car to the U.S.: the Pontiac GTO of a few years ago was a rebadged Holden Monaro. The Australian Fords are not exported, and they still bear the names of Fords from 30-40 years ago: Falcon, Fairlane, Fairmont, Futura.
-- The Mustang is not sold here, however. Sports cars are not very common, likely because Australia very strictly enforces speed limits. A ticket that would cost you $60 in the U.S. might very well cost you your license in New South Wales. And you might be caught by a radar-actuated camera, meaning "I was going with the flow of traffic" won't matter a whit.
-- Pretty much every Japanese and Korean manufacturer has a strong presence on Australian roads. The Toyota Camry is as common a sight here as it is on any U.S. road. I did see a Chrysler 300, but the only Chrysler product that is common in Sydney is the Jeep Grand Cherokee. There are way fewer SUVs here, and the ones you see here look as if they're equipped to actually go, you know, off-road.
-- There's no F-150 or the Holden equivalent of a Chevy Silverado. People who need to haul drive "utes," which are simply truck versions of cars -- like El Caminos.
-- Gas is about $4.50 a gallon, slightly less than in Denmark, and about the same as in Canada.
-- I switched hotels today, from the airport hotel to the apartment in which I'll spend the next two weeks. It's very nice, close to the bus line and well-served by taxis. I was more than happy to give back the wrong-side Toyota.
The view from my 10th floor balcony. It ain't much, but for the next two weeks, it's home.
-- Speaking of cars, and Toyotas: The apartment is next to the Toyota/Lexus dealer. Because I had a two-hour wait before I could check in, I wandered in to the showroom. I determined this: Cars in Australia are very, very expensive. That little Toyota I was driving -- a $14,000 car in the U.S. -- will set you back about $22,000 in Australia. A Lexus IS250, which is an "entry-level" luxury car similar to mine -- low $30s in the U.S. -- has a much steeper entry fee in Sydney, just shy of $50,000.
-- This might explain why Australians keep their cars for a long time. My Sunday morning walk took me past many mid-'80s Holdens and Peugeots and Fords. But imagine my surprise when I saw that somebody was still driving around in ... a 1978 Mazda GLC. My first car.
The last time you saw one of these, I was driving it.
I'm pretty sure I haven't seen one since I got rid of mine in 1986; they weren't exactly built to last. This one was badged as a "323" (which is what they came to call that model in the U.S., starting in the early '80s) and it was orange, not faded-out silver, but it was in every way identical to the junkbox I proudly drove 20 years ago.
-- The Holden is Australia's "domestic" car. Holden is owned by General Motors, and did recently export its first car to the U.S.: the Pontiac GTO of a few years ago was a rebadged Holden Monaro. The Australian Fords are not exported, and they still bear the names of Fords from 30-40 years ago: Falcon, Fairlane, Fairmont, Futura.
-- The Mustang is not sold here, however. Sports cars are not very common, likely because Australia very strictly enforces speed limits. A ticket that would cost you $60 in the U.S. might very well cost you your license in New South Wales. And you might be caught by a radar-actuated camera, meaning "I was going with the flow of traffic" won't matter a whit.
-- Pretty much every Japanese and Korean manufacturer has a strong presence on Australian roads. The Toyota Camry is as common a sight here as it is on any U.S. road. I did see a Chrysler 300, but the only Chrysler product that is common in Sydney is the Jeep Grand Cherokee. There are way fewer SUVs here, and the ones you see here look as if they're equipped to actually go, you know, off-road.
-- There's no F-150 or the Holden equivalent of a Chevy Silverado. People who need to haul drive "utes," which are simply truck versions of cars -- like El Caminos.
-- Gas is about $4.50 a gallon, slightly less than in Denmark, and about the same as in Canada.
Headed for the mountains
WENTWORTH FALLS, New South Wales, Australia -- I had two choices Saturday. I could go a few kilometers east to the beach and see some breathtaking natural beauty, or I could drive about 50 miles to the west to the Blue Mountains to see some breathtaking natural beauty. I hope Sydneysiders realize how lucky they are to have this choice right in their own backyard, every day.
As for me, I can drive 30 miles from my house and see a beach. I pointed the wrong-side Toyota west.
Motorway 4 takes you from Sydney's western suburbs in typical expressway fashion for about 15 kilometers until it becomes the Great Western Highway, or State Route 32. The expressway goes from six lanes to four to, occasionally, two or three, depending on whether you were going up or down hill. The road gently winds upward through Blue Mountains National Park, taking you very quickly from metropolitan Sydney to rural Australia.
The Blue Mountains are not mountains like, say, Colorado or Utah; they're much more akin to the Appalachians of the Carolina-Tennessee border, or even the Ozarks of my youth. The land is heavily forested, and majestic rock bluffs ascend to overlook the trees and plants.
I stopped at a petrol station just outside Penrith, a town that appears to be in that transition between rural outpost and suburbia, not terribly unlike many small towns in the United States. I bought a liter of water and, owing to the red rapidly rising on my right arm, a bottle of sunscreen.
A few kilometers farther and all evidence of suburbia was gone. Just past Springwood, I slowed down for a Saturday morning flea market -- again, not unlike something across which you'd stumble in Mount Vernon, Mo., or Plant City, Fla. I stopped and bought a bag of homemade trail mix, but passed on the hubcaps, third-hand books and furniture.
The next town was Wentworth Falls, a very well-preserved small town with a train station, a hotel and a cafe. A road sign pointed south to a "Blue Mountains National Park Conservation Hut." I turned left (very carefully, of course) and made my way down to the conservation hut.
The hut was a typical state-park concession stand and trail head. From the hut, you could hike several trails of varying length and difficulty down toward the falls for which Wentworth Falls was named. I picked a trail of apparent medium difficulty and began descending.
It started out as a typical trail through the woods (the bush, as they call it here). Wooden planks had been laid for steps on the gentle downward slope. About 10 minutes into the walk, I came across the first "scenic lookout," and scenic it was. I was looking down on miles and miles of trees, about 300 feet below me, between two rock bluffs, each about a mile long. I felt like I could see all the way to Antarctica.
The trail's descent became a tad steeper from there. Then a tad steeper. Then, metal steps at such an angle that they might better be described as a ladder. With the midday sun shining above me and the temperature in the low 90s, a thought crossed my mind: At some point, you're going to have to come back up. I made a note of that thought and descended the stairs/ladder.
The stairs/ladder rounded a corner to another stairs/ladder, then the trail leveled off again. I was now standing under a rock overhang. The temperature went down about 10 degrees as the forestation became thicker. I was now walking in dark shade. Water trickled down a steep rock to my right; the very beginnings of a waterfall.
I kept walking down the rock, toward the sound of a bunch of people who sounded like they were having a really good time. I couldn't see them, but I had been hearing them ever since I was on the stairs/ladder. I pressed on to find the source of the excitement.
The trail led me, about 10 minutes later, to a steep, slippery rock, down which water was descending at a rapid pace. This was where the people were.
They were rappelling, two at a time, down this rock, starting at a point about 250 feet up and ending in a pool of water about 8-10 feet deep. The rock was nearly vertical, and shiny with the water coming down. I wanted to tell them I knew of an easier way to get down here; just be careful on the stairs/ladder. But they seemed to be enjoying their method.
I stood and watch, transfixed, for about 20 minutes. It was a group of college-age men and women, obviously part of a group; they were all wearing the same color wet suits and helmets. They were very serious about what they were doing. All the noise I heard was not whooping and hollering; it was instructions being barked from the guys holding the ropes just up from the landing pool.
After I determined that there was pretty much no way I would have ever had the athletic ability or the balls to do what they were doing, not 20 years ago and certainly not now, I headed back up the rock.
As the dark shade became bright Australian sun, I referred back to the note I had made about coming back up. And just for the record, yes, it was lung-splittingly difficult. Several stops later, I made it back to the conservation hut, in roughly half-again the time it took me to get down to the waterfall.
The thing that struck me as I was resting back in the hut: What I had just seen was strikingly beautiful, but not amazingly more beautiful than, say, the bluffs around the Lake of the Ozarks, or the woods around Blue Spring State Park near DeLand, Fla., or Caesar's Head up in Carolina. But it was a reminder to me of the incredible scale of the world. I was standing on a trail that could have been in the Ozarks, and I was standing 10,000 miles from home. It's really not a small world, yet it somehow is.
As for me, I can drive 30 miles from my house and see a beach. I pointed the wrong-side Toyota west.
Motorway 4 takes you from Sydney's western suburbs in typical expressway fashion for about 15 kilometers until it becomes the Great Western Highway, or State Route 32. The expressway goes from six lanes to four to, occasionally, two or three, depending on whether you were going up or down hill. The road gently winds upward through Blue Mountains National Park, taking you very quickly from metropolitan Sydney to rural Australia.
The Blue Mountains are not mountains like, say, Colorado or Utah; they're much more akin to the Appalachians of the Carolina-Tennessee border, or even the Ozarks of my youth. The land is heavily forested, and majestic rock bluffs ascend to overlook the trees and plants.
I stopped at a petrol station just outside Penrith, a town that appears to be in that transition between rural outpost and suburbia, not terribly unlike many small towns in the United States. I bought a liter of water and, owing to the red rapidly rising on my right arm, a bottle of sunscreen.
A few kilometers farther and all evidence of suburbia was gone. Just past Springwood, I slowed down for a Saturday morning flea market -- again, not unlike something across which you'd stumble in Mount Vernon, Mo., or Plant City, Fla. I stopped and bought a bag of homemade trail mix, but passed on the hubcaps, third-hand books and furniture.
The next town was Wentworth Falls, a very well-preserved small town with a train station, a hotel and a cafe. A road sign pointed south to a "Blue Mountains National Park Conservation Hut." I turned left (very carefully, of course) and made my way down to the conservation hut.
The hut was a typical state-park concession stand and trail head. From the hut, you could hike several trails of varying length and difficulty down toward the falls for which Wentworth Falls was named. I picked a trail of apparent medium difficulty and began descending.
It started out as a typical trail through the woods (the bush, as they call it here). Wooden planks had been laid for steps on the gentle downward slope. About 10 minutes into the walk, I came across the first "scenic lookout," and scenic it was. I was looking down on miles and miles of trees, about 300 feet below me, between two rock bluffs, each about a mile long. I felt like I could see all the way to Antarctica.
Worth a thousand words, and then some. I can add nothing more.
The trail's descent became a tad steeper from there. Then a tad steeper. Then, metal steps at such an angle that they might better be described as a ladder. With the midday sun shining above me and the temperature in the low 90s, a thought crossed my mind: At some point, you're going to have to come back up. I made a note of that thought and descended the stairs/ladder.
The stairs/ladder. Going down was the easy part.
The stairs/ladder rounded a corner to another stairs/ladder, then the trail leveled off again. I was now standing under a rock overhang. The temperature went down about 10 degrees as the forestation became thicker. I was now walking in dark shade. Water trickled down a steep rock to my right; the very beginnings of a waterfall.
I kept walking down the rock, toward the sound of a bunch of people who sounded like they were having a really good time. I couldn't see them, but I had been hearing them ever since I was on the stairs/ladder. I pressed on to find the source of the excitement.
The trail led me, about 10 minutes later, to a steep, slippery rock, down which water was descending at a rapid pace. This was where the people were.
They were rappelling, two at a time, down this rock, starting at a point about 250 feet up and ending in a pool of water about 8-10 feet deep. The rock was nearly vertical, and shiny with the water coming down. I wanted to tell them I knew of an easier way to get down here; just be careful on the stairs/ladder. But they seemed to be enjoying their method.
You can't tell from here, but the guy on the left nearly killed himself -- and the woman to his right -- on the way down. He seemed to have been somewhat ill-prepared for his vertical adventure.
I stood and watch, transfixed, for about 20 minutes. It was a group of college-age men and women, obviously part of a group; they were all wearing the same color wet suits and helmets. They were very serious about what they were doing. All the noise I heard was not whooping and hollering; it was instructions being barked from the guys holding the ropes just up from the landing pool.
After I determined that there was pretty much no way I would have ever had the athletic ability or the balls to do what they were doing, not 20 years ago and certainly not now, I headed back up the rock.
As the dark shade became bright Australian sun, I referred back to the note I had made about coming back up. And just for the record, yes, it was lung-splittingly difficult. Several stops later, I made it back to the conservation hut, in roughly half-again the time it took me to get down to the waterfall.
The thing that struck me as I was resting back in the hut: What I had just seen was strikingly beautiful, but not amazingly more beautiful than, say, the bluffs around the Lake of the Ozarks, or the woods around Blue Spring State Park near DeLand, Fla., or Caesar's Head up in Carolina. But it was a reminder to me of the incredible scale of the world. I was standing on a trail that could have been in the Ozarks, and I was standing 10,000 miles from home. It's really not a small world, yet it somehow is.
Friday, January 05, 2007
Editor's note
The times at the bottom of these posts continue to be in U.S. Eastern Standard Time. Sydney time is 16 hours ahead of those times. And it's Daylight Savings Time here, which means I'm seeing the very beginnings of a beautiful Friday night sunset at 7:45 p.m.
One from the road
Observation: Driving on the left is really, REALLY, really hard.
I drove my first right-hand-drive car this evening. It's a little 2007 Toyota Corolla, pretty indistinguishable from most Toyotas, except the steering wheel is on the wrong side.
Nothing felt right about driving that car. Getting in on what for the last 38 years of my life has been the passenger side was strange enough. Shifting with the left hand was extremely difficult -- thank God I didn't get the manual-transmission model. The radio's volume knob is on the right. The windshield wiper switch is where the turn signal switch should be. The turn signal switch is up for left and down for right. I only signaled the wrong direction twice, but I do now have the cleanest windshield in all Australia.
I was driving north toward downtown Sydney from the airport hotel. I just got behind somebody and followed them. I was ready to think, "This isn't so bad." Then I realized I had been proceeding straight down the same road for several kilometers. At some point, I would have to turn.
Turning is really hard, all of a sudden. Turning left is not so bad -- it's like going from one one-way street to another, a maneuver I do occasionally back home. You can turn left on red after stopping, in this land of Great Opposites. Turning right is a whole different adventure. Further complicating matters is that on four-lane roads, the lines dividing my side from their side are not yellow. They're white, just like the lines dividing the left northbound and right northbound lanes. I wonder if anybody has suggested to the Australian government that center lines SHOULD BE FREAKING YELLOW.
I did manage to avoid head-on disaster long enough to drive across the Sydney Harbour Bridge, which provides a great view of the Harbour area. I did some preliminary investigation of the city and determined that it is indeed as wonderful as it seems.
I'll be headed west tomorrow, toward the Blue Mountains which form the western edge of the Sydney metropolitan area. I wonder if I can get there without turning.
I drove my first right-hand-drive car this evening. It's a little 2007 Toyota Corolla, pretty indistinguishable from most Toyotas, except the steering wheel is on the wrong side.
Nothing felt right about driving that car. Getting in on what for the last 38 years of my life has been the passenger side was strange enough. Shifting with the left hand was extremely difficult -- thank God I didn't get the manual-transmission model. The radio's volume knob is on the right. The windshield wiper switch is where the turn signal switch should be. The turn signal switch is up for left and down for right. I only signaled the wrong direction twice, but I do now have the cleanest windshield in all Australia.
I was driving north toward downtown Sydney from the airport hotel. I just got behind somebody and followed them. I was ready to think, "This isn't so bad." Then I realized I had been proceeding straight down the same road for several kilometers. At some point, I would have to turn.
Turning is really hard, all of a sudden. Turning left is not so bad -- it's like going from one one-way street to another, a maneuver I do occasionally back home. You can turn left on red after stopping, in this land of Great Opposites. Turning right is a whole different adventure. Further complicating matters is that on four-lane roads, the lines dividing my side from their side are not yellow. They're white, just like the lines dividing the left northbound and right northbound lanes. I wonder if anybody has suggested to the Australian government that center lines SHOULD BE FREAKING YELLOW.
I did manage to avoid head-on disaster long enough to drive across the Sydney Harbour Bridge, which provides a great view of the Harbour area. I did some preliminary investigation of the city and determined that it is indeed as wonderful as it seems.
I'll be headed west tomorrow, toward the Blue Mountains which form the western edge of the Sydney metropolitan area. I wonder if I can get there without turning.
Thursday, January 04, 2007
The other side of the world, Day 1
SYDNEY -- I'm enjoying the view of a beautiful antipodean summer day.
(Antipodean, /(")an-"ti-p&-'dE-&n/ n. or adj.: the parts of the earth diametrically opposite -- usually used in plural; often used of Australia and New Zealand as contrasted to the western hemisphere. Source: m-w.com. There. Got that out of the way.)
Total travel time, from the two-hour-early arrival at Tampa International Airport to clearing customs in Sydney: 27 hours. I do not recommend that, generally speaking. As much as I'm sure I'm going to love this place, it's not a trip that a body should be put through more than once, maybe twice a year.
I'm on the 11th floor of the Stamford Sydney Airport, watching the traffic go by on the wrong sides of the road. I'm contemplating renting a car tomorrow from the Europcar across the street to do some exploration, but I suspect I'll find myself driving in reverse, or something.
Everything here, of course, is the opposite of what I'm accustomed to. Cars drive on the left and drivers sit on the right. It's summertime (complete with Daylight Savings Time) in January. The drain swirls the wrong way. It's already tomorrow here. I half expected to come off the plane and be tall, left-handed and no longer in need of glasses.
All of that would have been nice, especially the glasses part, because I was faced with my first crisis as the final hour of the 14-hour journey started: My glasses fell completely apart. Both lenses popped out. One of the little screws somehow dislodged itself, and was saved only by clinging to the magnetic area where the clip-on sunglasses fasten. I cobbled them back together just enough to get through Customs; they'll probably be OK as long as I don't try to run anywhere. But now I'm faced with needing to buy an eyeglass repair kit in Sydney. And, of course, I must carve out some time to flog myself for being idiot enough to not carry one.
I'm watching cricket on TV right now. The Australian fans are going absolutely nuts. I think they just won, or something. If you think baseball is boring, cricket will put you to sleep faster than Ambien. It's fun to watch a sport I know absolutely nothing about. For a minute.
Time now to go find some lunch and see how long I can last before the jet-lag kicks in.
(Antipodean, /(")an-"ti-p&-'dE-&n/ n. or adj.: the parts of the earth diametrically opposite -- usually used in plural; often used of Australia and New Zealand as contrasted to the western hemisphere. Source: m-w.com. There. Got that out of the way.)
Total travel time, from the two-hour-early arrival at Tampa International Airport to clearing customs in Sydney: 27 hours. I do not recommend that, generally speaking. As much as I'm sure I'm going to love this place, it's not a trip that a body should be put through more than once, maybe twice a year.
I'm on the 11th floor of the Stamford Sydney Airport, watching the traffic go by on the wrong sides of the road. I'm contemplating renting a car tomorrow from the Europcar across the street to do some exploration, but I suspect I'll find myself driving in reverse, or something.
Everything here, of course, is the opposite of what I'm accustomed to. Cars drive on the left and drivers sit on the right. It's summertime (complete with Daylight Savings Time) in January. The drain swirls the wrong way. It's already tomorrow here. I half expected to come off the plane and be tall, left-handed and no longer in need of glasses.
All of that would have been nice, especially the glasses part, because I was faced with my first crisis as the final hour of the 14-hour journey started: My glasses fell completely apart. Both lenses popped out. One of the little screws somehow dislodged itself, and was saved only by clinging to the magnetic area where the clip-on sunglasses fasten. I cobbled them back together just enough to get through Customs; they'll probably be OK as long as I don't try to run anywhere. But now I'm faced with needing to buy an eyeglass repair kit in Sydney. And, of course, I must carve out some time to flog myself for being idiot enough to not carry one.
I'm watching cricket on TV right now. The Australian fans are going absolutely nuts. I think they just won, or something. If you think baseball is boring, cricket will put you to sleep faster than Ambien. It's fun to watch a sport I know absolutely nothing about. For a minute.
Time now to go find some lunch and see how long I can last before the jet-lag kicks in.
Headed south. Way south
In 1979, I was in sixth grade. I had never in my life so much as crossed the Missouri state line. The longest trips I had ever taken during my 11 years were an overnight to St. Louis (where I did look across the Mississippi River to Illinois) and a day trip to Worlds of Fun in Kansas City. I have a vague memory of being pleasantly surprised that people in Kansas City spoke English.
My world seemed to me to be a very, very large world. It was bounded roughly by Battlefield Road, Glenstone Avenue, Scenic Avenue and Interstate 44. My cousins lived on the other side of Scenic. We thought going to see them was a journey.
Most of the kids in my neighborhood were similarly poorly traveled. Mrs. Thompson, our sixth-grade teacher, assigned us a presentation on our favorite foreign country. This was not an easy task for a bunch of kids who thought Arkansas was a foreign country.
After digging my globe from my toy box and spinning it a few times, I chose Australia, for reasons that made perfect sense to me at the time. The first album I ever purchased was by the Little River Band, which had a string of perfectly average adult-contemporary hits in the late '70s and early '80s, hits that were in heavy rotation at the roller skating rink my friends and I frequented. The Little River Band was from Australia. Therefore, Australia became my favorite foreign country.
The presentation went OK, as I remember it. I made an Australian flag out of construction paper. I played "Lonesome Loser" on a cassette player for the class, to set the tone. I delivered facts and figures, and I?m pretty sure I got an "A."
The assignment, however, served what I suspect now to have been its intended purposes: one, to make very non-worldly kid aware that there actually was a world on the other side of Interstate 44, and two, to generate in said kid an interest in said world.
Australia became my real favorite foreign country. It seemed to be such a fascinating place ? so far away, yet so similar and familiar. They speak (a form of) English, yet they have summer in January. They drive Fords, but on the wrong side of the road. They have bands that were even better than the Little River Band, like AC/DC. I put Australia on my short list of places I would choose to visit, if I ever gained the inclination or the ability to cross the Missouri state line.
So, 28 years later, I find myself doing that very thing.
As I type this, I'm on a plane to San Francisco, the second of three flights that will take me eventually to Sydney. It?s a business trip; on Monday (Sunday night U.S. time), I'll be training a bunch of Australian journalists in the workings of our computer system. The Wife had originally been scheduled to accompany me, but we weren?t able to work out the logistics. This was a major disappointment, but I?m traveling with orders from her to enjoy myself as much as possible. So I will.
I'm hoping to provide at least daily posts describing this fascinating land and a trip that was nearly three decades in the making. I'll try to weave in the word "antipodean" as much as possible. Whether you choose to listen to the Little River Band while you read is up to you.
My world seemed to me to be a very, very large world. It was bounded roughly by Battlefield Road, Glenstone Avenue, Scenic Avenue and Interstate 44. My cousins lived on the other side of Scenic. We thought going to see them was a journey.
Most of the kids in my neighborhood were similarly poorly traveled. Mrs. Thompson, our sixth-grade teacher, assigned us a presentation on our favorite foreign country. This was not an easy task for a bunch of kids who thought Arkansas was a foreign country.
After digging my globe from my toy box and spinning it a few times, I chose Australia, for reasons that made perfect sense to me at the time. The first album I ever purchased was by the Little River Band, which had a string of perfectly average adult-contemporary hits in the late '70s and early '80s, hits that were in heavy rotation at the roller skating rink my friends and I frequented. The Little River Band was from Australia. Therefore, Australia became my favorite foreign country.
The presentation went OK, as I remember it. I made an Australian flag out of construction paper. I played "Lonesome Loser" on a cassette player for the class, to set the tone. I delivered facts and figures, and I?m pretty sure I got an "A."
The assignment, however, served what I suspect now to have been its intended purposes: one, to make very non-worldly kid aware that there actually was a world on the other side of Interstate 44, and two, to generate in said kid an interest in said world.
Australia became my real favorite foreign country. It seemed to be such a fascinating place ? so far away, yet so similar and familiar. They speak (a form of) English, yet they have summer in January. They drive Fords, but on the wrong side of the road. They have bands that were even better than the Little River Band, like AC/DC. I put Australia on my short list of places I would choose to visit, if I ever gained the inclination or the ability to cross the Missouri state line.
So, 28 years later, I find myself doing that very thing.
As I type this, I'm on a plane to San Francisco, the second of three flights that will take me eventually to Sydney. It?s a business trip; on Monday (Sunday night U.S. time), I'll be training a bunch of Australian journalists in the workings of our computer system. The Wife had originally been scheduled to accompany me, but we weren?t able to work out the logistics. This was a major disappointment, but I?m traveling with orders from her to enjoy myself as much as possible. So I will.
I'm hoping to provide at least daily posts describing this fascinating land and a trip that was nearly three decades in the making. I'll try to weave in the word "antipodean" as much as possible. Whether you choose to listen to the Little River Band while you read is up to you.
Friday, December 01, 2006
Not so fast
The previous entry stated that today I would "leave the 4:30 p.m. sunset and predicted ice storm behind." Well, maybe not. Here at Montréal's Pierre Trudeau International Airport, it's pitch-dark outside at 16h37 (as they write it here) and I am not leaving anything behind just yet. My original flight, which connected at JFK, is canceled. So, instead of flying first class from New York to the Western Edge, I'll be flying in a regional jet to Atlanta, hoping like hell the flight that is scheduled to leave at 10:40 p.m. isn't somehow screwed up so that I can scrunch myself into seat 32D on the way home.
I should be happy to be getting home, I guess. The disembodied bilingual PA voice just rattled off a long list of flights, ending with, "please pick up your luggage." They're not leaving Montréal tonight.
You learn a lot about airports by spending time in airports. Can't get a wireless connection? Set up shop right outside the door of the hoity-toity airline club. You can usually hop onto its signal. Can't find an outlet? Look for a Coke machine. It only requires one, and there's probably another back there. If you're comfortable with sitting on the floor, you can set up a mini-office there and most people won't even give you a second look. Try doing that while taking up three chairs.
Meanwhile, I wonder: If I get stuck here tonight, do I have to clear Customs again?
Updated, 5:24 p.m.
What the hell ... Let's just live-blog the first gawdawful travel day of the 2006-07 winter.
Delta has three flights this evening from Montréal. One goes to Cincinnati, one to Atlanta and one to New York. I was on the New York flight. It has been canceled. I'm interested to know what they've done with my fellow JFK travelers, because you can't fit everybody from one regional jet into another. I have my seat on the Atlanta flight, though, and you're going to have to pry me out of it.
The Delta gates are kind of in the basement of the international departures area of Trudeau Airport. The area is starting to fill up fast. The Cincinnati flight is delayed, also, although that may not affect me; it appears that most of those passengers are actually going to Cincinnati, and those who were going to miss connections already have and don't have any hope of making said connections in Atlanta. So the excess people in here apparently are going to Atlanta with me.
Somebody's trying to get rebooked on Continental. No luck; Continental's planes aren't going anywhere tonight.
My flight shows a 6:50 departure. We'll see.
Home
Strangely, everything went very smoothly from there. Landed in Atlanta on time, landed in Tampa on time, not much to complain about, all things considered. I was home 30 minutes later than scheduled, which is not atypical.
Of course: five hours after arrival, I found myself on the way to Disney World. That's another story for another time.
I should be happy to be getting home, I guess. The disembodied bilingual PA voice just rattled off a long list of flights, ending with, "please pick up your luggage." They're not leaving Montréal tonight.
You learn a lot about airports by spending time in airports. Can't get a wireless connection? Set up shop right outside the door of the hoity-toity airline club. You can usually hop onto its signal. Can't find an outlet? Look for a Coke machine. It only requires one, and there's probably another back there. If you're comfortable with sitting on the floor, you can set up a mini-office there and most people won't even give you a second look. Try doing that while taking up three chairs.
Meanwhile, I wonder: If I get stuck here tonight, do I have to clear Customs again?
Updated, 5:24 p.m.
What the hell ... Let's just live-blog the first gawdawful travel day of the 2006-07 winter.
Delta has three flights this evening from Montréal. One goes to Cincinnati, one to Atlanta and one to New York. I was on the New York flight. It has been canceled. I'm interested to know what they've done with my fellow JFK travelers, because you can't fit everybody from one regional jet into another. I have my seat on the Atlanta flight, though, and you're going to have to pry me out of it.
The Delta gates are kind of in the basement of the international departures area of Trudeau Airport. The area is starting to fill up fast. The Cincinnati flight is delayed, also, although that may not affect me; it appears that most of those passengers are actually going to Cincinnati, and those who were going to miss connections already have and don't have any hope of making said connections in Atlanta. So the excess people in here apparently are going to Atlanta with me.
Somebody's trying to get rebooked on Continental. No luck; Continental's planes aren't going anywhere tonight.
My flight shows a 6:50 departure. We'll see.
Home
Strangely, everything went very smoothly from there. Landed in Atlanta on time, landed in Tampa on time, not much to complain about, all things considered. I was home 30 minutes later than scheduled, which is not atypical.
Of course: five hours after arrival, I found myself on the way to Disney World. That's another story for another time.
Thursday, November 30, 2006
Vive la Montréal
MONTREAL -- Imagine Boston translated into French, with an attitude straight out of San Francisco. That's Montréal, our little pocket of Old Europe right here in North America.
I'm making what should be my last trip up here for a while. The project is just about wrapped up. It took longer than it normally would partly because of its size and scope, and partly because of the language thing. They're serious about speaking French up here. It's the law.
But, even if you don't parler, you can get around just fine. This is the city where everything's pretty much OK. One of the main downtown streets, Rue Ste.-Catherine, cuts through the campus of a major university and is home to a large mall and several beautiful 17th-century cathedrals. Also, strip clubs. And not subtle strip clubs, but big, huge, flashing-signs-with-neon-naked-women strip clubs. Mall, cathedral, strip club. Restaurant, electronics store, strip club. That's Rue Ste.-Catherine.
I found myself walking Ste.-Catherine on Wednesday night, because that's where I emerged when I got off the subway. Two young women walked by, smiling, laughing, holding hands. A couple of blocks away, the homeless guy sat with his bucket and his cardboard sign. The sign read, in English, "I need to smoke a JOINT -- Please Help." At least he's honest. I didn't contribute to his stash, but he was good for a laugh.
I found myself oddly surprised at how many of the homeless people have dogs. I saw four or five, bundling up in their makeshift quarters in storefronts, getting ready to call it a night. Nobody seemed to mind.
I turned the corner and fell in behind three large young men, who were smoking and talking hockey. My nose quickly picked up the fact that one of the men, shall we say, was not smoking a Camel. That smell is just as illegal up here as it is in the U.S., but hey, it's Montréal, everything's OK here.
I stopped into an Asian restaurant, where the Hispanic waitress greeted me in French. I ordered my poulet avec riz and was, as always, very pleased with the meal. Food is plentiful here, and all of it is good. Even the fast food seems to be better. Not sure why; it might have something to do with the French thing. Something about a "McPoulet Croustillant" makes it so much better than the typical crispy chicken sandwich.
The architecture is old, but everybody here is young. Even the older people look young, stylish, quick to smile. Billboards for pop stars and new movies and iPods are everywhere. Global warming and "America's war" are big topics of conversation here, especially because so many Canadians are dying fighting our battle in Afghanistan. There are three major political parties in Québec: Liberals, Conservatives, and the Bloc Québecois, which advocates the secession of Québec from Canada, among other things. Most real Québecois are torn on the issue, it seems; they're protective of their culture, but they also think of themselves as Canadian. And the conversation always turns to the laughter of concession when somebody utters the phrase "the Québec military."
I'll fly south tomorrow, leaving behind the predicted ice storm and the 4:30 p.m. sunset. I'll miss it, but I feel better knowing that a place like Montréal exists.
I'm making what should be my last trip up here for a while. The project is just about wrapped up. It took longer than it normally would partly because of its size and scope, and partly because of the language thing. They're serious about speaking French up here. It's the law.
But, even if you don't parler, you can get around just fine. This is the city where everything's pretty much OK. One of the main downtown streets, Rue Ste.-Catherine, cuts through the campus of a major university and is home to a large mall and several beautiful 17th-century cathedrals. Also, strip clubs. And not subtle strip clubs, but big, huge, flashing-signs-with-neon-naked-women strip clubs. Mall, cathedral, strip club. Restaurant, electronics store, strip club. That's Rue Ste.-Catherine.
I found myself walking Ste.-Catherine on Wednesday night, because that's where I emerged when I got off the subway. Two young women walked by, smiling, laughing, holding hands. A couple of blocks away, the homeless guy sat with his bucket and his cardboard sign. The sign read, in English, "I need to smoke a JOINT -- Please Help." At least he's honest. I didn't contribute to his stash, but he was good for a laugh.
I found myself oddly surprised at how many of the homeless people have dogs. I saw four or five, bundling up in their makeshift quarters in storefronts, getting ready to call it a night. Nobody seemed to mind.
I turned the corner and fell in behind three large young men, who were smoking and talking hockey. My nose quickly picked up the fact that one of the men, shall we say, was not smoking a Camel. That smell is just as illegal up here as it is in the U.S., but hey, it's Montréal, everything's OK here.
I stopped into an Asian restaurant, where the Hispanic waitress greeted me in French. I ordered my poulet avec riz and was, as always, very pleased with the meal. Food is plentiful here, and all of it is good. Even the fast food seems to be better. Not sure why; it might have something to do with the French thing. Something about a "McPoulet Croustillant" makes it so much better than the typical crispy chicken sandwich.
The architecture is old, but everybody here is young. Even the older people look young, stylish, quick to smile. Billboards for pop stars and new movies and iPods are everywhere. Global warming and "America's war" are big topics of conversation here, especially because so many Canadians are dying fighting our battle in Afghanistan. There are three major political parties in Québec: Liberals, Conservatives, and the Bloc Québecois, which advocates the secession of Québec from Canada, among other things. Most real Québecois are torn on the issue, it seems; they're protective of their culture, but they also think of themselves as Canadian. And the conversation always turns to the laughter of concession when somebody utters the phrase "the Québec military."
I'll fly south tomorrow, leaving behind the predicted ice storm and the 4:30 p.m. sunset. I'll miss it, but I feel better knowing that a place like Montréal exists.
Saturday, November 18, 2006
"Technical entrepreneur." Yeah, right
I like cars. I like cars a lot. Over the years, the fact that I like cars has caused me to make some really bad financial decisions. I don't care. I still like cars.
This is why I'm so interested in one of my semi-neighbors. Why a semi-neighbor? Because he paid more than $350,000 for the average suburban house across the street from me in my average suburban subdivision. He doesn't live there. Neither does anybody else. He just parks his cars there. Two in the garage, three in the driveway.
But these aren't just cars. We're not talking about Tauruses and Camrys, or even Camaros and Mustangs. Here's the current roster:
-- Aston Martin DB9
-- Maserati Quattroporte
-- Chevrolet Corvette Z06
-- Jaguar XK-R
-- Jaguar X-Type
You added correctly: That's more than $450,000 worth of cars parked across the street from me.
They're all his; they have actual license plates on them, not dealer plates or temp tags or anything. The 'Vette and the Aston Martin usually live in the garage; the Jags and the Maserati are parked outside, with covers. The Maserati's alarm has been intermittently going off all morning. We're not sure why.
The guy is a nice enough older fellow, late 50s probably, tall, an ex-Marine who is now, as he puts it, "a technical entrepreneur of sorts." I'm fairly certain that's neighborhood-ese for "Internet pornographer." Occasionally, you'll find his teenage son or early-20s daughter in the driveway, shining the wheels on the Maserati or one of the Jags. (The daughter drives a late-'90s Cavalier, by the way.) He lives in another house elsewhere in our neighborhood with his wife. He occasionally comes to his car-house to "watch TV so it doesn't bother the wife."
Oh, and none of these cars is his primary transportation; he has a Dodge Durango for that. He drives the Aston Martin every two weeks, "whether I want to or not," he says, because the battery has a tendency to run down if he doesn't.
"I like cars," he said to me one Sunday afternoon. He even went out of his way to compliment my car, a car that would be distinguished in just about every field other than his driveway. I was somewhat honored, actually.
When I grow up, I want to be a "technical entrepreneur of sorts."
This is why I'm so interested in one of my semi-neighbors. Why a semi-neighbor? Because he paid more than $350,000 for the average suburban house across the street from me in my average suburban subdivision. He doesn't live there. Neither does anybody else. He just parks his cars there. Two in the garage, three in the driveway.
But these aren't just cars. We're not talking about Tauruses and Camrys, or even Camaros and Mustangs. Here's the current roster:
-- Aston Martin DB9
-- Maserati Quattroporte
-- Chevrolet Corvette Z06
-- Jaguar XK-R
-- Jaguar X-Type
You added correctly: That's more than $450,000 worth of cars parked across the street from me.
They're all his; they have actual license plates on them, not dealer plates or temp tags or anything. The 'Vette and the Aston Martin usually live in the garage; the Jags and the Maserati are parked outside, with covers. The Maserati's alarm has been intermittently going off all morning. We're not sure why.
The guy is a nice enough older fellow, late 50s probably, tall, an ex-Marine who is now, as he puts it, "a technical entrepreneur of sorts." I'm fairly certain that's neighborhood-ese for "Internet pornographer." Occasionally, you'll find his teenage son or early-20s daughter in the driveway, shining the wheels on the Maserati or one of the Jags. (The daughter drives a late-'90s Cavalier, by the way.) He lives in another house elsewhere in our neighborhood with his wife. He occasionally comes to his car-house to "watch TV so it doesn't bother the wife."
Oh, and none of these cars is his primary transportation; he has a Dodge Durango for that. He drives the Aston Martin every two weeks, "whether I want to or not," he says, because the battery has a tendency to run down if he doesn't.
"I like cars," he said to me one Sunday afternoon. He even went out of his way to compliment my car, a car that would be distinguished in just about every field other than his driveway. I was somewhat honored, actually.
When I grow up, I want to be a "technical entrepreneur of sorts."
Thursday, November 02, 2006
A cartload of crap
I've been to Racine, Wis., a time or two, but I've never had a need to have any dealings with the Modine Manufacturing Company. I'm guessing my needs for thermal management are covered by my air conditioner and my car's radiator.
I would likely still not know of Modine Manufacturing were it not for a link on my favorite media news site. Apparently Modine was offended by a perfectly accurate headline in the local rag on a story about how the company laid off 50 of its workers recently.
The headline: "Modine fires 50."
Modine President David Rayburn apparently took offense at such a direct headline. He was clearly annoyed that the page designer didn't have enough space to allow the copy editor to write "Modine takes account of the interests of all its stakeholders, relieves 50 workers of further participation."
Rayburn writes:
Whatever. I write back:
Come on, man. Grow a pair. Sack up and tell people the truth: "Because of poor management, unrealistic profit goals, and an inability to anticipate changes in the global market for thermal management, we got to November with a realization that we need to find a way to keep more of the money we're making for ourselves. Because of this, we have determined that 50 of our co-workers are no longer necessary to the operation. Therefore, as the holiday season begins, we have decided to take what we were going to pay them next year and keep it for ourselves. Nothing personal; just business."
Instead, Rayburn figures shooting the messenger is a better plan. "I was very disappointed to see the large headline in the newspaper on Friday, October 27, "Modine fires 50," Rayburn wrote in his letter to the Journal Times of Racine. "These employees' jobs were eliminated, based on a business decision, carried out after careful consideration. It was very insensitive to these employees' hard work and service to characterize their situation in the sensational way you did."
My guess is the copy editor wrote "Modine fires 50" because "Modine shitcans 50" was a character or two too long. I again offer Rayburn an alternative: "It was very insensitive to make such a big deal about our bad business practices. It makes us look like cold, unfeeling bastards who would fire people in Q4 rather than take a risk of our bonuses being lower."
Figuring those 50 jobs averaged about $40,000 a year in salary and benefits, the cuts in Racine saved Modine $2 million for fiscal 2007. This doesn't count the savings from the 45 positions opened by early retirements that were not filled.
According to the AFL-CIO's Executive PayWatch Database, Rayburn earned just shy of $2.7 million in total compensation in 2005. One suspects it never occurred to Rayburn to try to get by on $700,000 next year in order to save these jobs.
There are other ways to keep labor costs down. Measurable performance goals and tough evaluation processes would help minimize dead wood. Realistic profit expectations would keep greedy stockholders and boards of directors at bay. Executive pay is horrendously out of control in all industries; would be nice to see some stockholder outrage against THAT.
Listen, I understand that it's just business. It happens in my current line of work, and it's happening a lot in my former line of work. People get laid off every day. But, Mr. Rayburn, save the bullshit. Just stand up and say, "We fired 50 people today , because we thought our chances to make money would be enhanced by their absence."
Oh well. At least Modine is creating opportunities in China and Mexico.
Meanwhile, here in America, we'll just keep telling the middle class that they're unnecessary.
I would likely still not know of Modine Manufacturing were it not for a link on my favorite media news site. Apparently Modine was offended by a perfectly accurate headline in the local rag on a story about how the company laid off 50 of its workers recently.
The headline: "Modine fires 50."
Modine President David Rayburn apparently took offense at such a direct headline. He was clearly annoyed that the page designer didn't have enough space to allow the copy editor to write "Modine takes account of the interests of all its stakeholders, relieves 50 workers of further participation."
Rayburn writes:
We thoroughly evaluated every position here in Racine, to determine its place in the new structure, and to eliminate redundancies. We offered early retirement packages, and then made the tough decision to eliminate 50 positions. We acted responsibly. We acted in the best long-term interest of all of our stakeholders - customers, suppliers, employees and shareholders.
Whatever. I write back:
Dear Mr. Rayburn: Fuck you.
Come on, man. Grow a pair. Sack up and tell people the truth: "Because of poor management, unrealistic profit goals, and an inability to anticipate changes in the global market for thermal management, we got to November with a realization that we need to find a way to keep more of the money we're making for ourselves. Because of this, we have determined that 50 of our co-workers are no longer necessary to the operation. Therefore, as the holiday season begins, we have decided to take what we were going to pay them next year and keep it for ourselves. Nothing personal; just business."
Instead, Rayburn figures shooting the messenger is a better plan. "I was very disappointed to see the large headline in the newspaper on Friday, October 27, "Modine fires 50," Rayburn wrote in his letter to the Journal Times of Racine. "These employees' jobs were eliminated, based on a business decision, carried out after careful consideration. It was very insensitive to these employees' hard work and service to characterize their situation in the sensational way you did."
My guess is the copy editor wrote "Modine fires 50" because "Modine shitcans 50" was a character or two too long. I again offer Rayburn an alternative: "It was very insensitive to make such a big deal about our bad business practices. It makes us look like cold, unfeeling bastards who would fire people in Q4 rather than take a risk of our bonuses being lower."
Figuring those 50 jobs averaged about $40,000 a year in salary and benefits, the cuts in Racine saved Modine $2 million for fiscal 2007. This doesn't count the savings from the 45 positions opened by early retirements that were not filled.
According to the AFL-CIO's Executive PayWatch Database, Rayburn earned just shy of $2.7 million in total compensation in 2005. One suspects it never occurred to Rayburn to try to get by on $700,000 next year in order to save these jobs.
There are other ways to keep labor costs down. Measurable performance goals and tough evaluation processes would help minimize dead wood. Realistic profit expectations would keep greedy stockholders and boards of directors at bay. Executive pay is horrendously out of control in all industries; would be nice to see some stockholder outrage against THAT.
Listen, I understand that it's just business. It happens in my current line of work, and it's happening a lot in my former line of work. People get laid off every day. But, Mr. Rayburn, save the bullshit. Just stand up and say, "We fired 50 people today , because we thought our chances to make money would be enhanced by their absence."
Oh well. At least Modine is creating opportunities in China and Mexico.
Meanwhile, here in America, we'll just keep telling the middle class that they're unnecessary.
Friday, October 20, 2006
Why I hate America
I don't, really, but now that I have your attention:
Can somebody explain to me why, after three and a half years of Republican bumbling, stumbling and fumbling, during which they gave us an unnecessary war and took away our civil liberties, during which the United States has become a worldwide punch line (or the nation that others fear most), that the GOP was still not in serious danger of losing Congress ... until it was discovered that one of its Congressmen was overly electronically friendly to teenage boys (most of whom, I must point out, were of the age of consent in many states; doesn't make it any less creepy, but it also doesn't exactly make him a pedophile)?
That's a long question, but there's a short answer.
We're stupid.
Can somebody explain to me why, after three and a half years of Republican bumbling, stumbling and fumbling, during which they gave us an unnecessary war and took away our civil liberties, during which the United States has become a worldwide punch line (or the nation that others fear most), that the GOP was still not in serious danger of losing Congress ... until it was discovered that one of its Congressmen was overly electronically friendly to teenage boys (most of whom, I must point out, were of the age of consent in many states; doesn't make it any less creepy, but it also doesn't exactly make him a pedophile)?
That's a long question, but there's a short answer.
We're stupid.
Ribbit
When you live in Florida, you accept that you're going to find critters occasionally in places you don't expect to find them. We've had plenty of untimely sightings of the 2-inch cockroaches euphemistically known as "palmetto bugs"; we've had a lizard or two pop up in the house; and not too long ago, we had a snake in our son's bedroom. (The Boy thought it was pretty cool.)
But I certainly did not expect to be awakened from a my-flight-landed-at-12:40 a.m. fog at 7 this morning by the Old Daughter screeching, "There's a frog in my toilet!"
Thank God she tends to look down before she sits down. (That's great advice for anybody to follow, by the way.) Try to imagine, if you will, the feeling of little amphibious toes tickling your butt. Yeah. That's an image you didn't need. You can thank me later, when that pops back into your head as you get ready for some relaxing commode time this evening.
Anyway: Because "that's why I got married," said The Wife, I had to go in and deal with the frog in the toilet. After verifying that he was still there, I did what any manly dad would do: I closed the lid on the toilet and flushed.
No such luck. That's one smart frog: He was clinging to the edge of the bowl. I prodded him gently with the toilet brush, and the sumbitch jumped nearly 6 feet from the rim of the toilet to the top of the mirror over the vanity. Pretty impressive, I thought. I opened the door to the outside and prodded him a few more times. Jump, jump, and he was outside, none the worse for wear.
That's a happy ending for all involved. So imagine my surprise when, in the midst of work that I shouldn't have had to be doing at 9:30 p.m., the Old Daughter screeches, "There's a frog in my bathroom!"
Holy shit. I have Instant Replay on my day! And today's the worst damn day for Instant Replay. I would pick about 1,000 other days I'd rather go back and relive.
So, I grab the broom, and once again help Kermit hop to his semi-natural habitat.
Now, all this begs the question: How did a frog find its way into our house? Is he coming up through the toilet? (The palmetto bugs occasionally make their way up through the drain.) The door to outside wasn't left open. There are no windows. There are no openings in the ceiling. And when I asked him as he was hop-hopping outside, the little bugger didn't even have the courtesy to say, "Ribbit."
Pretty rude, I think. Next time, he just might get flushed.
But I certainly did not expect to be awakened from a my-flight-landed-at-12:40 a.m. fog at 7 this morning by the Old Daughter screeching, "There's a frog in my toilet!"
Thank God she tends to look down before she sits down. (That's great advice for anybody to follow, by the way.) Try to imagine, if you will, the feeling of little amphibious toes tickling your butt. Yeah. That's an image you didn't need. You can thank me later, when that pops back into your head as you get ready for some relaxing commode time this evening.
Anyway: Because "that's why I got married," said The Wife, I had to go in and deal with the frog in the toilet. After verifying that he was still there, I did what any manly dad would do: I closed the lid on the toilet and flushed.
No such luck. That's one smart frog: He was clinging to the edge of the bowl. I prodded him gently with the toilet brush, and the sumbitch jumped nearly 6 feet from the rim of the toilet to the top of the mirror over the vanity. Pretty impressive, I thought. I opened the door to the outside and prodded him a few more times. Jump, jump, and he was outside, none the worse for wear.
That's a happy ending for all involved. So imagine my surprise when, in the midst of work that I shouldn't have had to be doing at 9:30 p.m., the Old Daughter screeches, "There's a frog in my bathroom!"
Holy shit. I have Instant Replay on my day! And today's the worst damn day for Instant Replay. I would pick about 1,000 other days I'd rather go back and relive.
So, I grab the broom, and once again help Kermit hop to his semi-natural habitat.
Now, all this begs the question: How did a frog find its way into our house? Is he coming up through the toilet? (The palmetto bugs occasionally make their way up through the drain.) The door to outside wasn't left open. There are no windows. There are no openings in the ceiling. And when I asked him as he was hop-hopping outside, the little bugger didn't even have the courtesy to say, "Ribbit."
Pretty rude, I think. Next time, he just might get flushed.