Do you ever think about how much of yourself you leave behind? I am not talking about impressions or neat little stories, I am saying that I am leaving behind a lot of DNA on this plane.
Pete said that this was one way that someone could make another one of me.
“No thank you.”
“Be fun for me. At times,” Pete smirked.
“But I would never get along with her.”
Wednesday, September 26, 2007
Second Leg
We have not reached cruising altitude, and Pete might be asleep.
For my part, I have discovered that two tiny bottles of airplane chardonnay tend to mellow my ass out just enough for me to get through the flight tolerably well, but I don’t sleep on planes. I don’t even get out of my seat, to tell you the truth. I love watching planes fly, especially near the airport—landing and taking off. I am just not so into this whole being-on-them thing.
Maybe I need to understand exactly how planes fly, and then some of my fear will be assuaged. Because it just seems like magic to me.
Speaking of magic, I think that one of the charms of Harry Potter for me is that it is distinctly un-modern. How’s that for a distracting nonsequitor? By “unmodern,” I mean that the world of Harry Potter does not rely on gadgets, machines, and technology. I know, they have magic, but they have not used magic to create more work for themselves. No one is worried about his or her cell phone. No one comes home from work and watches TV. No airplanes.
As much time as I waste on the Internet, I think I could do without it if it did not exist.
Yeah, he’s asleep. His mouth is open. How do people fall asleep so quickly? It’s a skill I have never mastered.
For my part, I have discovered that two tiny bottles of airplane chardonnay tend to mellow my ass out just enough for me to get through the flight tolerably well, but I don’t sleep on planes. I don’t even get out of my seat, to tell you the truth. I love watching planes fly, especially near the airport—landing and taking off. I am just not so into this whole being-on-them thing.
Maybe I need to understand exactly how planes fly, and then some of my fear will be assuaged. Because it just seems like magic to me.
Speaking of magic, I think that one of the charms of Harry Potter for me is that it is distinctly un-modern. How’s that for a distracting nonsequitor? By “unmodern,” I mean that the world of Harry Potter does not rely on gadgets, machines, and technology. I know, they have magic, but they have not used magic to create more work for themselves. No one is worried about his or her cell phone. No one comes home from work and watches TV. No airplanes.
As much time as I waste on the Internet, I think I could do without it if it did not exist.
Yeah, he’s asleep. His mouth is open. How do people fall asleep so quickly? It’s a skill I have never mastered.
Tuesday, September 25, 2007
Small Wonders, Equally Small Worries
September 25, 2007
I never thought I would be happy to be in Newark.
I know.
It’s an easy joke.
Bit of a low blow, really.
But it has not been the most auspicious of beginnings.
Checking in at the Minneapolis airport, my information did not match, and I had a moment when I thought that my reservation was not going to be there at all. The magic of computers is that they can both cause heart-stopping woe as well as breathtaking relief. I still don’t know what happened, but the nice, blonde lady at the counter punched some information into her seemingly very old terminal, resolved the situation, and I was checked through to Dublin.
The night before, at home in St. Paul, we debated back and forth about luggage: to check or not to check. Pete was bringing his guitar, Woody, and we figured we would just bring everything with us on the plane. That way we did not have to worry about things not making the connection in Newark. You can imagine our joy upon realizing that the plane was an 18 row by 3-seat little wonder with enough room overhead to hold a vanity bag. At the Jetway, we hastily removed computer, reading material, and purse, and Pete watched in anguish as Woody moved slowly down the conveyor belt in what we hoped would not be a death march. Next time, I check ahead and pay attention to the kind of plane I am on.
To further the comedy of errors, my in-flight magazines clearly had fruit juice spilled on them, and Pete’s flight card was stuck to the cover of his magazine, which was removed from the pages, by a fairly new piece of chewed Doublemint. These are not terrible things, in and of themselves, but they strike me as signs of inattention, which is not what you want from your airline, especially if you are a nervous flier. Every little thing can seem like a bad omen, even if your analytical mind doesn’t believe in that sort of crap.
The woman behind Pete had boarded the Houston 5:05 pm flight and was mad that they had let her do it. I thought, “Grab some personal responsibility, lady. First of all, why would you be boarding at 3:50 for a 5:05 flight? And secondly, you sat on your own take-away cup of tea that you put on your own seat. Who are you going to blame for that?”
These things made me feel anxious and uneasy.
Overly dramatic, I know, but we do lead a relatively privileged life. Our worries are comparatively minimal and almost unbearably silly.
As planes do not have dealer or maker logos like cars, let alone hood ornaments (I think that might interfere with wind resistance or something), I did not know what kind of plane I was on, aside from the fact that it was unexpectedly small for a flight to the east coast. Once I found a flight magazine that was not sealed by gum or pink, warped, and crinkly with fruit juice, I discovered it was plane from a Brazilian manufacturer that I had never heard of, which also did not inspire confidence.
Once in the air, the densely packed though not terribly thick band of clouds below us gave the illusion of safety, like an airbag. I was not always a nervous flier; I have developed into a nervous flier. It has a lot to do with knowing what you have to lose, which has a lot to do with actually having something of great importance to lose. This thing of great importance is my life with Pete. I try to remember Pete’s advice: There’s nothing you can do. All of this is out of my hands. But Pete is already on vacation, and he has been for a while; I am not. I’m already a bit of a worrier, and the last few days had been nothing but go, go, go--absolutely chock full of to-do lists. I was feeling a bit put upon. At this point, with all that behind me, I had moved on to my immediate worries: once we landed in Newark, there was the connection to make to Dublin. Once there, we have to make it to our B&B. I would be able to relax for a couple of days then, or at least a day, until we had to pick up our car.
Sad, really.
It’s nice to know that a country awash in Guinness awaits me.
I never thought I would be happy to be in Newark.
I know.
It’s an easy joke.
Bit of a low blow, really.
But it has not been the most auspicious of beginnings.
Checking in at the Minneapolis airport, my information did not match, and I had a moment when I thought that my reservation was not going to be there at all. The magic of computers is that they can both cause heart-stopping woe as well as breathtaking relief. I still don’t know what happened, but the nice, blonde lady at the counter punched some information into her seemingly very old terminal, resolved the situation, and I was checked through to Dublin.
The night before, at home in St. Paul, we debated back and forth about luggage: to check or not to check. Pete was bringing his guitar, Woody, and we figured we would just bring everything with us on the plane. That way we did not have to worry about things not making the connection in Newark. You can imagine our joy upon realizing that the plane was an 18 row by 3-seat little wonder with enough room overhead to hold a vanity bag. At the Jetway, we hastily removed computer, reading material, and purse, and Pete watched in anguish as Woody moved slowly down the conveyor belt in what we hoped would not be a death march. Next time, I check ahead and pay attention to the kind of plane I am on.
To further the comedy of errors, my in-flight magazines clearly had fruit juice spilled on them, and Pete’s flight card was stuck to the cover of his magazine, which was removed from the pages, by a fairly new piece of chewed Doublemint. These are not terrible things, in and of themselves, but they strike me as signs of inattention, which is not what you want from your airline, especially if you are a nervous flier. Every little thing can seem like a bad omen, even if your analytical mind doesn’t believe in that sort of crap.
The woman behind Pete had boarded the Houston 5:05 pm flight and was mad that they had let her do it. I thought, “Grab some personal responsibility, lady. First of all, why would you be boarding at 3:50 for a 5:05 flight? And secondly, you sat on your own take-away cup of tea that you put on your own seat. Who are you going to blame for that?”
These things made me feel anxious and uneasy.
Overly dramatic, I know, but we do lead a relatively privileged life. Our worries are comparatively minimal and almost unbearably silly.
As planes do not have dealer or maker logos like cars, let alone hood ornaments (I think that might interfere with wind resistance or something), I did not know what kind of plane I was on, aside from the fact that it was unexpectedly small for a flight to the east coast. Once I found a flight magazine that was not sealed by gum or pink, warped, and crinkly with fruit juice, I discovered it was plane from a Brazilian manufacturer that I had never heard of, which also did not inspire confidence.Once in the air, the densely packed though not terribly thick band of clouds below us gave the illusion of safety, like an airbag. I was not always a nervous flier; I have developed into a nervous flier. It has a lot to do with knowing what you have to lose, which has a lot to do with actually having something of great importance to lose. This thing of great importance is my life with Pete. I try to remember Pete’s advice: There’s nothing you can do. All of this is out of my hands. But Pete is already on vacation, and he has been for a while; I am not. I’m already a bit of a worrier, and the last few days had been nothing but go, go, go--absolutely chock full of to-do lists. I was feeling a bit put upon. At this point, with all that behind me, I had moved on to my immediate worries: once we landed in Newark, there was the connection to make to Dublin. Once there, we have to make it to our B&B. I would be able to relax for a couple of days then, or at least a day, until we had to pick up our car.
Sad, really.
It’s nice to know that a country awash in Guinness awaits me.
Tuesday, September 4, 2007
Monday, August 6, 2007
That Bridge, When We Come to it
When I was in my junior year of college, I lived in a house on the corner of University Avenue and 10th Avenue in southeast Minneapolis. Until August 1 2007, that location meant nothing more than a lack of parking and some freeway noise. Now, it’s kitty-corner from a national disaster. Yellow police tape, satellite trucks, law enforcement officers, and onlookers teem about the area.
I work at the University of Minnesota, and today, I decided to take a walk. I caught the 16 bus downtown and walked over to the river. A granite and limestone bridge built in 1883 spans 2,100 feet across the Mississippi from downtown Minneapolis to St. Anthony. The Stone Arch Bridge was rehabilitated and re-opened in 1994 for pedestrian and bike traffic, and it’s the nearest accessible bridge from which the public can view the bridge that collapsed on August 1st. It’s only the second time I have been on this bridge, the first being only a month ago. But that was just a walk.
I was half hoping a reporter would stop me and ask why I came down because I actually have an answer: a news event of national importance happened here less than a week ago, and I wanted to see what I could see with my own eyes. Like many people, I have been following this relatively closely. I watched TV from the moment we turned it on Wednesday evening expecting the frivolous spectacle of “So You Think You Can Dance” and instead saw a spectacle of another sort unfolding three miles away.
At first I thought it was another country, and then another city, and then I realized that it was local television, so I thought it was the suburbs. We have a lot of water and a lot of bridges in the Twin Cities, but it never occurred to me that a bridge of that size, right in the middle of Minneapolis, would be laying in the Mississippi River on a Wednesday evening. I called my parents, who were visiting family in Denver, as a preemptive measure, and Pete did the same for his family, who live in Massachusetts. Texts and phone calls crisscrossed the Metro as people located each other. Aside from a friend who had crossed the bridge twice that day delivering beer, no one I knew had even been on it recently.
My boss sent me a text telling me not to come in to work Thursday morning unless he called me. I guess he did not want me to have to deal with the possible mess that campus could be, I-35W being a close-by major thoroughfare. I sat at home and watched the coverage. The contrast between the national and local news was interesting, and I had a brief flash of what it must have felt like for New Yorkers in the days after September 11th, 2001. This is a fragment of the magnitude of that event, and its implications are much different, but the media attention and the ensuing inaccuracies have to be similar. Little things bugged me, like people saying that it was a bridge between Minneapolis and St. Paul, or using sound bytes from the NTSB chief to misinterpret the facts as he actually stated them. When WCCO TV signed off on Wednesday night after an evening of what I thought was respectful, informative, and responsible reporting, Don Shelby said that CNN was claiming that the bridge collapsed due to concrete failing on posts in the river. He added, shaking his head, that he saw no way that anyone could possibly know that, and that the people reporting it had probably never been to Minneapolis, let alone crossed that bridge.
It’s a scrutiny that we are not used to here, and it’s interesting. People are calling Pete and I, wondering how we are “holding up,” believing that our spirits need lifting during this time of tragedy. And you know what? We’re fine. It may sound callous to say, but we are. I am only upset when they show pictures of those who died and talk to their family members, but that would be true for any tragedy, anywhere in the world. This is a tragedy of infrastructure, a shock to the American sense of public safety, a wake up call, and an absolute devastation to those who lost loved ones when that bridge fell. It’s no comfort to tell them that it could have been much worse than it was, but it’s true. It’s astounding that more people were not killed.
From the Stone Arch Bridge, you can’t see a lot: you can see the slumped south side and part of the north side; you can glimpse the deck that is in the river. Without binoculars, you can’t see much else. I did not bring binoculars as this walk was an impulse at 1:00 in the afternoon, and I probably would not have brought binoculars anyway, though many people did. And there are a lot of people down there—all ages and walks of life trying to get a glimpse. On the north side, you can get relatively close to the deck that crashed down onto land, the part that crushed the train cars and came down over the River Road. Once you get up onto University Avenue, you can see across the river and the deck that is almost at a 45 degree angle. Cars still sit all over, perched at various spots all over the structure. On the chain link fence on University Avenue crossing I-35, someone has pinned a sheet, spray painted with the phrase “Stop Gawking-Go Home and Watch it on TV,” which is, I think, supposed to make us feel shame. It did not work. If anything, I smiled to myself and thought “Hypocritical.” And then I thought “That seems like the opposite of what people normally tell you to do.” As long as people are being respectful of the scene and are not getting in the way of those who are there to recover and clean up, people probably should see for themselves.
As I approached my old house, I noticed two other signs hanging from a fence and an apartment building. One read “Rebuild America (Not Iraq)” and the other “Bridges Not Bombs.” These were, I thought, better use of both words and sheets.
In my estimation, Minneapolis police and fire fighters and other “First Responders” did a remarkable job, and the citizens who were present on the scene and on the bridge were heroic in their efforts to help each other. Our political leaders can talk all they want about a “Minnesota Spirit,” but I don’t think that’s it. Nor do I think it’s an “American Spirit.” I would like to believe it’s a human response; that faced with such an event, there is something in the species that reacts with a moral impulse to help those in need. What else can we take from such a thing? We can get into the political and practical issues later, as we no doubt will, but right now, a bunch of strangers lent aid to each other, and a little of that can go a long way in times such as these.
I work at the University of Minnesota, and today, I decided to take a walk. I caught the 16 bus downtown and walked over to the river. A granite and limestone bridge built in 1883 spans 2,100 feet across the Mississippi from downtown Minneapolis to St. Anthony. The Stone Arch Bridge was rehabilitated and re-opened in 1994 for pedestrian and bike traffic, and it’s the nearest accessible bridge from which the public can view the bridge that collapsed on August 1st. It’s only the second time I have been on this bridge, the first being only a month ago. But that was just a walk.
I was half hoping a reporter would stop me and ask why I came down because I actually have an answer: a news event of national importance happened here less than a week ago, and I wanted to see what I could see with my own eyes. Like many people, I have been following this relatively closely. I watched TV from the moment we turned it on Wednesday evening expecting the frivolous spectacle of “So You Think You Can Dance” and instead saw a spectacle of another sort unfolding three miles away.
At first I thought it was another country, and then another city, and then I realized that it was local television, so I thought it was the suburbs. We have a lot of water and a lot of bridges in the Twin Cities, but it never occurred to me that a bridge of that size, right in the middle of Minneapolis, would be laying in the Mississippi River on a Wednesday evening. I called my parents, who were visiting family in Denver, as a preemptive measure, and Pete did the same for his family, who live in Massachusetts. Texts and phone calls crisscrossed the Metro as people located each other. Aside from a friend who had crossed the bridge twice that day delivering beer, no one I knew had even been on it recently.
My boss sent me a text telling me not to come in to work Thursday morning unless he called me. I guess he did not want me to have to deal with the possible mess that campus could be, I-35W being a close-by major thoroughfare. I sat at home and watched the coverage. The contrast between the national and local news was interesting, and I had a brief flash of what it must have felt like for New Yorkers in the days after September 11th, 2001. This is a fragment of the magnitude of that event, and its implications are much different, but the media attention and the ensuing inaccuracies have to be similar. Little things bugged me, like people saying that it was a bridge between Minneapolis and St. Paul, or using sound bytes from the NTSB chief to misinterpret the facts as he actually stated them. When WCCO TV signed off on Wednesday night after an evening of what I thought was respectful, informative, and responsible reporting, Don Shelby said that CNN was claiming that the bridge collapsed due to concrete failing on posts in the river. He added, shaking his head, that he saw no way that anyone could possibly know that, and that the people reporting it had probably never been to Minneapolis, let alone crossed that bridge.
It’s a scrutiny that we are not used to here, and it’s interesting. People are calling Pete and I, wondering how we are “holding up,” believing that our spirits need lifting during this time of tragedy. And you know what? We’re fine. It may sound callous to say, but we are. I am only upset when they show pictures of those who died and talk to their family members, but that would be true for any tragedy, anywhere in the world. This is a tragedy of infrastructure, a shock to the American sense of public safety, a wake up call, and an absolute devastation to those who lost loved ones when that bridge fell. It’s no comfort to tell them that it could have been much worse than it was, but it’s true. It’s astounding that more people were not killed.
From the Stone Arch Bridge, you can’t see a lot: you can see the slumped south side and part of the north side; you can glimpse the deck that is in the river. Without binoculars, you can’t see much else. I did not bring binoculars as this walk was an impulse at 1:00 in the afternoon, and I probably would not have brought binoculars anyway, though many people did. And there are a lot of people down there—all ages and walks of life trying to get a glimpse. On the north side, you can get relatively close to the deck that crashed down onto land, the part that crushed the train cars and came down over the River Road. Once you get up onto University Avenue, you can see across the river and the deck that is almost at a 45 degree angle. Cars still sit all over, perched at various spots all over the structure. On the chain link fence on University Avenue crossing I-35, someone has pinned a sheet, spray painted with the phrase “Stop Gawking-Go Home and Watch it on TV,” which is, I think, supposed to make us feel shame. It did not work. If anything, I smiled to myself and thought “Hypocritical.” And then I thought “That seems like the opposite of what people normally tell you to do.” As long as people are being respectful of the scene and are not getting in the way of those who are there to recover and clean up, people probably should see for themselves.
As I approached my old house, I noticed two other signs hanging from a fence and an apartment building. One read “Rebuild America (Not Iraq)” and the other “Bridges Not Bombs.” These were, I thought, better use of both words and sheets.
In my estimation, Minneapolis police and fire fighters and other “First Responders” did a remarkable job, and the citizens who were present on the scene and on the bridge were heroic in their efforts to help each other. Our political leaders can talk all they want about a “Minnesota Spirit,” but I don’t think that’s it. Nor do I think it’s an “American Spirit.” I would like to believe it’s a human response; that faced with such an event, there is something in the species that reacts with a moral impulse to help those in need. What else can we take from such a thing? We can get into the political and practical issues later, as we no doubt will, but right now, a bunch of strangers lent aid to each other, and a little of that can go a long way in times such as these.
Friday, July 20, 2007
Dread
I've been waiting for so long. The anticipation has been exhilarating, almost overwhelming at times. I have become emotional and misty thinking about it. I am filled with excitement and dread that it is almost here, and it is almost over. My friends tell me that I should not be sad. This is a GOOD thing. There will be others. It's not really ending.
But it will never be like this again.
THIS will never happen again.
I want it, and I don't want it.
I don't know if I am ready.
But the die has been cast. The wheels are in motion. The pieces are in place.
The cliches are circling.
It cannot be stopped.
I have my wristband.
There's no turning back now.
But it will never be like this again.
THIS will never happen again.
I want it, and I don't want it.
I don't know if I am ready.
But the die has been cast. The wheels are in motion. The pieces are in place.
The cliches are circling.
It cannot be stopped.
I have my wristband.
There's no turning back now.
Thursday, July 12, 2007
Constituency, Bushly Defined
"constituency: a body of voters in a specified area who elect a representative to a legislative body. 2. a body of customers and supporters." (Concise Oxford English Dictionary)
Just so you know, President George W. Bush made it clear in his press conference today that he has many constituencies to consider in his decision-making process regarding the war in Iraq.
They are as follows:
1. "Clearly, the American people, who are paying for this, is the major constituency."
2. "The second constituency is the military, and I repeat to you, I'm pretty confident our military do not want their commander in chief making political decisions about their future."
3. "A third constituency that matters to me a lot is military families."
I getcha: most of those people are probably American citizens who are eligible to vote; the American people are paying for this, in more ways than one; by "military," I am assuming that he means members of the armed services, and yes, they would be considered a constituency; same goes for military families (again, with the caveat of assuming that he means family members of those serving in the military, not families that are very strict. It would be unfair to parse the off-the-cuff, live remarks of President Bush.).
But after that, I think I must take issue:
4. "Another constituency group that is important for me to talk to is the Iraqis."
Um...
5. "And finally, another constituency is the enemy, who are wondering whether or not America has got the resolve and the determination to stay after them."
I don't think it's parsing to state that Iraqis and "the enemy" are not constituencies. Maybe you could consider Iraqis "customers" if you expand to definition number 2, but I don't believe that Iraqis would consider themselves "customers" of either the United States of America or of this particular war. Nor do polls indicate that the majority of them are supporters. There is defining stretch that could make the fifth group a constituency.
Aside from the general irrelevance of President Bush's comments to the actual political landscape of the United States at this time, I have to wonder about his choice of words. One is usually beholden to a constituency, and one is therefore expected to make political decisions on behalf of that constituency. Either he does not understand the meaning of the word, or he equates these groups in his head as deserving of the same attention when it comes time to make decisions about the war. Neither of these options are pleasant or desirable in our commander in chief.
Just so you know, President George W. Bush made it clear in his press conference today that he has many constituencies to consider in his decision-making process regarding the war in Iraq.
They are as follows:
1. "Clearly, the American people, who are paying for this, is the major constituency."
2. "The second constituency is the military, and I repeat to you, I'm pretty confident our military do not want their commander in chief making political decisions about their future."
3. "A third constituency that matters to me a lot is military families."
I getcha: most of those people are probably American citizens who are eligible to vote; the American people are paying for this, in more ways than one; by "military," I am assuming that he means members of the armed services, and yes, they would be considered a constituency; same goes for military families (again, with the caveat of assuming that he means family members of those serving in the military, not families that are very strict. It would be unfair to parse the off-the-cuff, live remarks of President Bush.).
But after that, I think I must take issue:
4. "Another constituency group that is important for me to talk to is the Iraqis."
Um...
5. "And finally, another constituency is the enemy, who are wondering whether or not America has got the resolve and the determination to stay after them."
I don't think it's parsing to state that Iraqis and "the enemy" are not constituencies. Maybe you could consider Iraqis "customers" if you expand to definition number 2, but I don't believe that Iraqis would consider themselves "customers" of either the United States of America or of this particular war. Nor do polls indicate that the majority of them are supporters. There is defining stretch that could make the fifth group a constituency.
Aside from the general irrelevance of President Bush's comments to the actual political landscape of the United States at this time, I have to wonder about his choice of words. One is usually beholden to a constituency, and one is therefore expected to make political decisions on behalf of that constituency. Either he does not understand the meaning of the word, or he equates these groups in his head as deserving of the same attention when it comes time to make decisions about the war. Neither of these options are pleasant or desirable in our commander in chief.
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