Non-Travel-Related Jewelry Update

This just in: Jewelry designer Maya Brenner is now offering necklaces featuring all fifty states.

I'm thinking of getting Colorado:




Or maybe Wyoming:

Lost in Vacation

Of all the great cities in the world, Tokyo, it must be said, is probably among the ugliest. It is fascinating, energetic, odd, charming and exciting even when there is nothing specific going on, but it is not at all beautiful. There is no iconic skyline to wow you on the train ride from the airport, no graceful old (or, for that matter, new) buildings to catch glimpses of, just a fug of square buildings of various sizes and all the power and telephone lines you could want. (Undergrounding of utilities doesn't seem to have caught on here, though the undergrounding of the shopping malls is going quite well.) It really isn't the city's fault-- the place was bombed to oblivion in WWII, which meant it was largely rebuilt in the fifties, sixties and seventies, otherwise known and the "astoundingly ugly" period of international architecture.

None of which made much of an impression on me, since I was so tired after spending the last eighty hours (approx.) getting there that I slept for most of the train trip. When I woke up I saw a sign advertising the BBQ Tanning Salon, so I knew we were in the right place.





There is a downside to arriving in Tokyo massively jet-lagged. (And, barring a lottery win or a lot of frequent flyer miles, that seems like the only way I'm ever likely to arrive there.) The downside is that it is a very busy and confusing place, and while a surprising number of the signs are in English, a key percentage are not. Also, you're too whacked out to properly read your map, and end up determining that the best way to get from where you are in the train station to your hotel is to go through the very fancy department store, dragging your wheelie suitcase and unwashed hair past impeccable ladies shopping for three thousand dollar purses, then down some stairs, then down some more stairs, then around a building, then up a bit, then back to the street and to your hotel, around a corner and about a block and a half away from where you started. Which is the sort of thing that can get you thinking in run-on sentences, if you know what I mean.*

*I don't.

Tokyo and Back Again

Or: What I Blogged on My Summer Vacation




Greetings from San Mateo, which is notably Not Tokyo. You may have noticed a lack of blogging over the last week, if you notice that sort of thing. My apologies, but it turned out that free wifi wasn't easy to come by in Tokyo, and I'm too cheap to pay to type on my tiny ipod screen. But I did take notes, and I do intend to tell you all about it, once I recover from yesterday's transit extravaganza. (And watch the last two weeks' worth of "So You Think You Can Dance.") My goal is to have this all written up by the time I leave next month for the Santa Fe International Folk Art Market, where Mom and I will be selling silk carpets in Turkmenistan. But that's another story.

By The Way. . .

I seem to be going to Japan tomorrow. I probably could have mentioned this at some point. I'll try to blog while I'm there, depending on internet availability and iPod function, but Twitter may be slightly more reliable. Either way, I should have lots of stories to take far too long to tell when I get back.

Baked Kettle Chips

So, how do they get the kettle into the oven?

The Perfect Inspiration for Writing Your Next Western

The rifle-scented candle*:




Also available in opium and witch hunt.




*May need membership to open page.

My Loss, Your Gain, Etc.

Remember how I said I was on a buying freeze? And remember the shopping sites I mentioned? Well, I wouldn't be telling you about this, from one of the latter, if it wasn't for the former, because I would already own it myself, but there is a most thoroughly awesome pewter-colored, cheetah print raincoat at Editor's Closet. For $300 of retail! Two of them! Email me or leave a comment here and I'll send you an invite, and then rock it. And don't say I never did anything for you.

The Cute Streets: Preview

Hi, Meme!

This one's a little hard to explain. Suffice it to say it's known as "Play Him Off, Keyboard Cat" and it involved videos like this:



and this:




Does it make sense now?

World's Smallest Cube Puzzle

Do you have excellent eyesight, tiny but dexterous fingers and some free time? Know someone who does? Well then, do I have a gift idea for you:




Made by these fine folks, 3-D printers extraordinaires.

More Unusual Ingredients for Salads

Fried Egg:




Peeps:





Underpants(?):




Water:



Alien:




Commentary:



see more Lolcats and funny pictures

Unusual Salad Ingredient of the Day

Fortune Cookies:





Update: You would not believe how much cilantro they put in this thing.

Well, Duh

There is a link on the bottom of the Zappos website that says Don't Ever Click Here. Needless to say, I clicked.

The Cute Streets II: The Long Cute Night of the Soul

(See here for the previous installment.)

Fred was rolling around in the leaves, his paws slipping every time he tried to stand up. I steered the Roomba toward him, trying to get in in close enough without clogging the brushes. Nipsy licked the end of his tail nervously. Finally, when we were just about to run over the kid, I leaned off the edge and grabbed the scruff of his neck in my mouth, like I was his mother or something, and pulled him back up.

The kid landed in a lump next to the power button and tried to catch his breath.

"Oh, man," he said. "Thanks! I thought I was gone! Like, a goner."

"Yeah, well you weren't." I leaned over and looked straight into his big watery eyes. "But listen up, and listen good, because I'm only saying this once. A Roomba is not a toy. Got it?"

"Yes, sir. It won't happen again, sir."

"Damn right it won't." I flicked my tail in front of the sensor to turn the Roomba around. "Now let's go do our job."

We found the Diver Boys right where we expected them, under the big tree, practicing their dives and eating miniature waffles. Nipsy parked the Roomba and we went over to have a little chat.


As we approached, a couple of the Boys puffed their tails up at us, by I didn't pay them any mind. Just your average longhairs, all fluff and not much else. The only kitten we were interested in here was their boss, Bubbles. He wasn't hard to find-- there are only so many white Persians who wear bright pink princess wigs, and only one of them was here today.

"Morning, Bubbles," I said as he was getting ready to make a hop into a box. Surprised, he face-planted into the side and toppled over. Some of his boys helped him up and he glared at us.

"Mipsy," he said. "I should have known. Harassing innocent box-jumpers these days, are you?"

"You haven't been innocent since you could stand on all four paws at once, Bubbles," I said. "But we just wanted to stop by and have a little chat."

Nipsy wandered around and casually examined some balls with bells in them that were lying around. "Maybe you heard about the trouble that's been going around, with folks losing their Cokes?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," Bubbles sneered. "Maybe folks just need to be more careful with their sodas."

I nodded. "Maybe they do. Hey, Nipsy, speaking of being careful, do you smell something here? Something kind of herbal?"

"You know, Mipsy, now that you mention it, I think I do. You think we should take these balls back to headquarters, make sure they don't have any catnip in them?"

"I'm sure you'll understand," I said to Bubbles. "After all, we can't be too careful."

"Okay, okay! Geez. So maybe I did hear something, now that you mention it. But you aren't going to like it."

"I don't like a lot of things," I said. "Spill it."

He looked around and licked his paw nervously. "Look, I don't know why they're doing it. And don't tell anyone you heard it from me. But word on the street is, it's. . . the Bigeyes."


The Bigeyes. Captain Kawaii. Oh, this day just kept getting better and better.



[To Be Continued. . .]

Daisy Stops Shopping Again, World Economy Downgraded to a "Sell" Rating

Yes, my friends, I'm afraid it has come to this. After several months of valiantly trying to single-handedly save the retail sector from the collapse brought on by my last shopping hiatus, I'm afraid the time has come for me to once again set down my smoking credit card and step out of the fray, at least temporarily. In this case, the freeze is only for the month of May, starting today. (I would have done it for the whole month, but this weekend was Friends and Family at Macy's, where Alice works, and I couldn't let a friend down. I'm solid like that.)

I know this news will come as a blow to those of you who were counting on a speedy economic recovery (don't look at me like that, Mr. President) but please do not despair. Because I am going to give you the tools to achieve Daisy-like levels of shopping on your own, in the form of invitation links to three of my favorite members-only, limited-time sale websites, where you will find many fine goods irresistibly disccounted. (Trust me. Resisting is very, very hard.) I trust that you will use them wisely and well, and will send me pictures of anything you buy, because I want to see:

Gilt Groupe
Rue La La
ideeli



I've done all I can. It's up to you now.

Trick My What?

As I am sure you are aware, there is a show on the CMT network called "Trick My Truck," in which a team of skilled artisans takes relatively ordinary semi trailers (mostly) and turns them into rolling works of modern art, primarily via airburshing. In this week's episode they help to preserve the sanctity of marriage by turning an old fire truck into a wedding chapel, complete with organ. And airbrushing.




A crossover with CMT's other hit show, "My Big Redneck Wedding" seems rather inevitable.

Does This Work?

Now I'm testing how this works with Facebook. Please ignore this post as well.

What Do You Get When You Do A Google Image Search For "Miniature Waffles?"

You get stuff like this, is what you get.

Three For Thursday: Author Videos

First, two book trailers:

For Sophie Littlefield's upcoming debut novel, A Bad Day for Sorry:




And Louise Ure's latest, Liar's Anonymous:






Then, not embeddable but worth watching, Terry Pratchett's acceptance for the LA Times book award for Nation. Comes with bonus cat!

Maybe Things'll Get a Little Better in the Morning

Work your fingers to the bone, what do you get?

Boney fingers.

Pointless Gadget of the Day

Know someone who follows the stock market a little too closely? Want to kill them? Have I got the gift item for you:



The Ambient Orb. Turns red, yellow or green depending on the direction the market is moving. Perfect for the person who likes checking on the Dow every thirty seconds but finds opening their browser too labor-intensive.

Other options include weather and pollen forecasts, for people who want to know in advance how much they are going to be sneezing. One can only assume that a blue/red model will be available in time for the next presidential election.

If It's This Cute, It Has to Be Japanese

It's Monday, and do you know what you need? You need to watch a cat faceplant into a box:





(From Cute Overload, of course.)

I Will Never Look At a Smiley Face the Same Way Again

I can't exactly reproduce the sound I made when I first saw this, but it was something like Ewwerrrargh.

On the plane, about to leave Cincinnati. Considered local chili for lunch, but decided against, due to 5 hour plane ride.

By the way, anyone know how tonights Idol went? The very idea of disco night scares me.

? ????>?? ??=.???2 $??A?r??v?A?2?^????w? J?A???

? ??? :???? DG?Apv?]v???9 $ ?Ai7??.???? v?Att 4/??s ? r?? yy?N??.?5< ??t??./???7?? ???9?m ???2(?&???y;?f??o:?] ???yx] ???2h^ ?Aa???&??

Final Post About That One Wine-Tasting Trip And Then I Will Get Back To Videos And Kittens And Shoes And Stuff, I Swear

It was supposed to be a day trip. The idea was, we'd drive out to Lodi (stop me if you've heard this one) try some stuff, get dinner and drive back. Only, the thing was, we were about sixty miles up into the mountains, it was dark, the car was low on gas and neither of us was in very good condition to drive. So the day trip turned into an overnight visit.

For what appears to be a tourist town, Murphys has a surprising shortage of lodging. But, after a certain amount of wandering, we found ourselves at the pleasant if redundantly named Murphys Inn Motel, which has rooms with their own bathrooms and satellite TV, which made it a winner.

There's a certain adventuresomeness and romanticism in having a day trip wander on through the weekend, but there is also a lack of things like toothbrushes and extra clothes. Fortunately, thanks to my alcohol-burnished shopping trip, I had a lovely new blue dress to wear. Which was perhaps a little bit dressy for a day in the foothills, but what the heck. There are people in the world who wear pretty dresses all the time, just like regular clothes; why shouldn't I be one of them?

Nothing doing on the toothbrush front, though. You probably didn't need to know that.


After breakfast we wandered a few more miles up the road (in the car; we're not crazy) and found a town that still had snow on the ground and the presumptive "highest winery in California." (They aren't sure, but they think that 3300 feet is enough for the title.) Then it was back down towards the valley, and through one of the best-named towns in California. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you: Copperopolis.

Isn't it fun to say? Copperopolis, Copperopolis, Copperopolis. Everyone together, on three: one. . . two. . . three. . . Copperopolis!

It's a wonder Cameron didn't just leave me at the side of the road.


Ironic postscript about wine and snobbery:

Do you remember what I said at the beginning of this particular saga, about the wine that brought us to the Lodi region in the first place? It was a viognier from a place called Loredona, for which I couldn't find anything in the way of a tasting room, or even a vineyard. But I did find that it was associated with a Clay Station, which was in turn associated with a place in Manteca. Which turned out to be the Delicato Family Vineyards, one of the biggest of the big factory winemakers in the Central Valley.

Yep, that's us. Cutting-edge culinary adventurers. Sigh.

Why Does This Even Exist?

I seriously don't get the seventies. Is it because I've never done drugs?

Feminist Humor? Not An Oxymoron!

Haven't had much interest in Current so far, but this is pretty funny. Note: contains some language.

Murphys: The Town, Not the Soap. Also Not Lodi.

After escaping the clutches of the giant winery of scariness, we continued down Six Mile Road which, after a total distance of about six miles, deposited us in the town of Murphys.

The first thing you should know about Murphys is that it is almost impossibly cute, in a very California way (non-coastal division). By which I mean tiny, with extremely historic buildings dating all the way back to the late nineteenth century (including the early home of a Nobel Prize winner) and the generally laid-back air that comes with a population that includes a certain number of residual hippies. The second thing you should know is that there are nineteen tasting rooms on the three blocks that constitute the downtown.

It was at about this time that we decided to stay for dinner. And, since we were staying for dinner, that meant that I wouldn't have to be driving for a while, which meant I could take seriously the business of tasting.

It's a funny thing about tasting wine-- each one they give you is only a little bit, but they keep giving them to you. And, if one hasn't had anything to eat since a half-sandwich at lunchtime, one can get toasted in rather short order.

We didn't try all the wineries, of course. It was already late afternoon, and even we aren't that dedicated. But we did make it to a few, including one that was rather strenuously quirky (directions on their wine club form included: "Dress like a naughty pirate! Send us pictures!) but had some pretty decent wine, a couple of average/unexciting places and one that we liked quite well. Well enough to buy several bottles and join their wine club, anyway.

While C. was settling up with them, I slipped* off to check out a couple of boutiques I had noticed, because that is simply my nature. And, to paraphrase a line from an award-winning story by my close personal friend, Author Cornelia Read: I love shopping drunk. It's so easy.

In the end, I came away with a couple of necklaces and a rather lovely blue dress.


We had gotten a recommendation for a restaurant in town which was not only good, but reportedly did not charge a corkage fee if you brought in a bottle of local wine. Which turned out to be true on both counts.

*Not literally.**
**But I totally would have, if there was anything to slip on.

Was Sesame Street Always This Hip, And I Just Didn't Notice?

It's possible. I really wasn't that plugged in to the indie music scene when I was four. Anyways, here's Feist performing a version of her hit song/iTunes jingle, and it's kind of awesome:



(But, scandal! Where is The Count?)

Testing my ability to post from my phone. Please ignore this post.

What I Have Realized

It really shouldn't take two weeks for me to write up a daylong driving trip. But it does. So, there you go.

Not Lodi, Part Two: The Part Where We Don't Go to Lodi

So, we were driving. And we drove, and then we drove some more. And the scenery was lovely, what I could see of it when I wasn't focusing on the road, but curiously devoid of vineyards. In fact, it was devoid of just about anything, except for the occasional cow and signs advertising well-digging services. We were somewhat concerned, but it was a nice day and heck, we had come this far. So we drove on, past towns so tiny they made Two Rock look like a major metropolis*, through increasingly steep terrain that remained resolutely free of any form of wine grapes, into Calaveras County, a place made famous by a fictional bar bet involving frogs.

We were starting to wonder if Weird Guy had in fact been Humorously Malicious Guy, when Murphys showed up on a road sign, just before the sign that noted that Highway 4 was closed at Ebbet's Pass. So, reassured that this place, whatever it was, did exist, we pressed on, and were rewarded by something we hadn't seen in a while: a sign for a winery. Which was encouraging, since this was originally intended to be a wine-tasting trip.

The sign pointed us down something called Six Mile Road, to a small winery in an absolutely lovely little valley. The wines themselves were slightly less lovely, inasmuch as they seemed to be trying to kill us with tannins. Also, in the interests of randomness, it turned out that the place was owned by a Hollywood producer who had made, among other things, the TV show "The Young Riders," which I had an inexplicable fondness for back in high school.

From there, we continued down Six Mile Road (after briefly mistaking it for a driveway), towards a place that had been mentioned to us a couple of times (Ironwood or Ironstone-- Ironsomthing, anyway), passing some wild turkeys and a barrel-toasting place and giving my little Mazda its first taste of dirt-road driving on the way. Which is partly why we were so taken aback when we got there and discovered the place was a massive complex with a parking lot like an amusement park. We drove in, saw the busloads of elderly tourists, said almost simultaneously, "I don't want to stop here," and drove on.


*This is humorous exaggeration. Nothing could make Two Rock look like a major metropolis.

Am I Dreaming?

Or is this Neil Patrick Harris on Sesame Street, dancing and singing about shoes?




I'm dreaming, aren't I?

The Lodi That Wasn't

Well, it was supposed to be Lodi.

Last Saturday we went to go wine tasting in Lodi, inspired by a tasty yet affordable viognier from the area that has become kind of our house (okay, apartment) white. I scoped out their tourism website, wrote down the directions (because my printer is out of color ink and I am dammed if I can figure out how to tell it to print in grayscale), and headed east. We stopped first at the visitor center, which had the unfortunate characteristic of being the only place we stopped where they charged us for a tasting, even though we bought something, but did provide fully printed maps. Then, because all of the vineyards we could see around us appeared to be of the vast, corporate variety*, we made for the hills.

The first place we stopped was at a crossroads, options east and north, where an enthusiastic but somewhat weird winemaker sold both his wines and those of a business partner of some sort. This was the first place we came across what would become a theme: Spanish and Portuguese variatals like grenache and tempranillo and graciano (have they become fashionable? why does no one tell me these things?). We enjoyed the wines, so we bought some (this would become another theme), but the guy was off-putting enough that we skipped joining his wine club.

As we were getting ready to leave, we asked about what sort of luck we would have looking for wineries further up the road. Weird guy said, indeed, there were a lot of wineries up there, especially around a town called Murphys. The fact that for a while he could not remember the name of said town should probably have provided us with something like a clue. But it didn't.

So, clueless, we backtracked a bit to a place we had passed that advertised barbecue (excuse me, I mean "BBQ") and had that icon of California cuisine, the tri-tip sandwich. (Which was very good, but not a patch on Lombardi's.)

The plan for the afternoon was to head up the road, try out a few places and then come back to the places in town. That wasn't exactly how the day went.

[To be continued. . .]


*The irony of this will be addressed later.

You Kids Get Back In Here and Play Your Video Games!

Medical studies show first person shooters improve vision. Millions of guys suddenly claim they need treatment for "lazy eye."

Vote for Mom!

Not long ago I posted this link on my Twitter feed, along with the request that all and sundry visit it and vote "yes" in the poll they find there (lower right-hand part of the page, you may have to scroll down). I was going to post a full explanation here, but the fact of the matter is that would require an intricate knowledge of the management of sewage treatment systems and the operation thereof, and you really don't care. So instead I will just point out that "yes" is, in fact, the correct answer, and it is also the answer that is in support of my Mom, who is a very good Mom and can use all the yes votes you can spare.

And, as an added incentive/threat, as soon as we get it to 200, I will post a new installment of The Cute Streets, as soon as I write it.

Also: Bonus! If you visit the site you will be treated to this police blotter item, possibly the most Marinish police blotter item in the history of Marin. Or police blotters.:
A mother on Waterbury Lane called police after she got into an argument with her son during which he broke a crystal candleholder with a tennis racket in anger.

The Cute Streets: Tales of a Roomba Kitten

It's an adorable city. A cute, fuzzy, adorable city. But sometimes, sometimes things happen that are just a little too adorable. That's where I come in

My name is Mipsy, and I'm a kitten. I ride a Roomba.

It was another perfect Tuesday, and I was sitting in the office, shooting the breeze with my partner Nipsy (no relation) when the call came in. It came from the Chief's office, so we went over to see what the shouting was about.

Our Chief, Mr. Flufferwinkles, looked up at us from his ball of string.

"Mipsy, Nipsy, glad you're here. We've had a case just come in." He batted a folder full of papers around on the floor. "Cokes have been exploding and going flat all over the city. We think the Diver Boys may be involved. I want you two to look into it."

"Sure thing, Chief," I said. "Where do we start?"

"Try under the big tree. There's always something shady going on there. And take the new recruit with you. he needs some time in the field."

"If you say so, Chief."

"And, kittens, be careful. It's sticky out there."

The new recruit, M'Lady's Duke of Wigglesworth (we called him Fred) was so fresh his eyes had barely opened. While Nipsy tried to get him to stop romping around for long enough to explain the case, I snuck a few laps from the dish of cream I kept under my desk. It was shaping up to be another one of those days.


We headed out to our ride, a silver original-model Roomba with extra brushes, backup batteries and stealth mode. Not the prettiest girl on the lot, but she corners like a dream, and never falls down the stairs.

We started off towards the field, and immediately Fred was a problem.

"I wanna sit in front! I wanna see! Can I drive? Can I?"

He didn't understand about riding a Roomba, about how the sides slope down and how it turns whenever it meets an obstacle. Which is why he was bouncing around like a fool, which is why he slipped and fell off, and rolled down into a pile of leaves.

"No!" Nipsy cried. "We lost him!"

"Oh no we didn't," I said, turning the Roomba around by batting at the sensor. "We're going back."

"But he's gone!"

"Dammit, Nipsy, no kitten left behind! Not this time!"



To Be Continued. . .

Bummer!

It seems that the much anticipated (by me, anyway) puppet show version of The Trouble With Death Traps is not to be, at least this year. According to the convention organizer, they didn't have enough time to sufficiently prepare for the awesomeness. My apologies to all of you who already booked your travel for the premier; I'm afraid it was not to be. Perhaps next year?

I Can't Tell You Why This Picture Exists

I can tell you that the person on the left is my boss, and I get kind of squinty when I smile*. I may need to work on that.

Also: Really should stop tucking my hair behind my ears.


*On further reflection, I may have been laughing.

This Has Probably Been Going Around the Internet Forever

But hey, I always get to these things late.

Question: if you blog something someone posted on Twitter, do you still need to put "RT" in front of it to give credit? Just in case: RT @ColleenLindsay to RT @bsandusky: this post.

Which really just consists of this list, but what I want to know is, how did the name of my own dear departed cat end up on item #9? Is Japan watching me?

The Lure of Cheese

There is no shortage of cheese in my local environment. There is Draeger's within walking distance of home and Whole Foodses springing up everywhere I look, both with large, if pricey cheeseries. When I go back to the East Bay I can visit either or both locations of the much more reasonable Country Cheese, and C. and I recently discovered a new favorite blue, Humbolt Fog, which is produced a mere 315 miles from here*. So why do I have this urge to order two pounds of unknown Utah cheddar from Wine Woot?

Such is the mysterious draw of the cheese.


*Okay, that's really not that close. But it's still in California.

Physics Question

They resupplied the free Cokes at work today, which was good. No complaints there. But they weren't cold, so I put one in the freezer for a while. When I took it out of the freezer and opened it, I found that it had partially frozen, so I left it on my desk while I went into lab. When I got back, I found a pool of Coke on my desk, and what was left in the can largely flat.

Question 1:
What happened?

Question 2:
Why does this sort of thing always happen to me?

Attn: SciFi channel

I have found the plot of your next TV movie.

I'm thinking Josh Duhamel and Jamie Pressly as the maverick scientist and hot park ranger, respectively, and Ray Wise for the evil government flunky. With David Arquette on comic relief and Coolio playing some kind of military guy, of course. And, playing the snake, some really cheap CGI.


Actual quote from the article which would make a good line in the movie: "We've taken the snake and turned it into a giant thermometer."

Why I Need A Kitten

Because, without one, who will ride my Roomba?

Fun Fact of the Day

Apparently, the campus of the University of Victoria, in Canada, is overrun by bunnies. And if they see you have potato chips, they will attack:

The Saddest Little Gold Diggers

Feeling bad about the collapsing economy? How about a little schadenfreude to make you feel better?



(Thanks to C. for the link.)

Inspiration Strikes (Ow)

I would really like to write a story based on this, but I feel like it may have been done.

(Update: Potential title: "Baaad Boys")

(Second Update: Potential line of dialogue: "Okay, men, now get out there and get your goat!")

(Third Update: "Kids these days. . .")

Deep Impaction

Reporting from work, where the farewell emails keep pouring in after last week's layoffs. (By the way, did you know what the new word is? We've had fired, let go, laid off, made redundant, downsized and rightsized. Now, apparently, when you suddenly find yourself without employment, you've been "impacted." Like a molar.) But the thing that gets me about these emails is how cheerful they are. I mean, we're talking about people who have, in the last year, gone through a move, a previous round of layoffs, three CEO changes, a company spinoff and a really lame Christmas party, only to be dumped out into the worst job market in decades. You'd think there would be a certain amount of negativity in their communications, wouldn't you? But no, it's all "I truly appreciate my time here" and "I wish you all the best." I mean, seriously? I know biotech is a small world, and we're all bound to run into each other again, but did no one have "blaze of glory" on their to-do list? Not even a little dig about sinking ships, or the folly of letting go of the people who were doing the actual work around here? Granted, my cube neighbor did book a trip to Phuket, which may have been a subtle comment on her feelings, but I think it was really just that she likes scuba diving.

My Day In Clothes

Waking up-3:30: Nightgown, fleece.
3:30-5:00: Workout clothes.
5:00-Bedtime: Nightgown, fleece.

I am really going to miss being on vacation.

Happy New Year!

I went with the shoe option.

Decisions, Decisions

With the end of my self-imposed buying freeze approaching, I have a very important choice to make: What should I buy first? The way I see it, such a monumental achievement deserves some kind of reward, one purchased online at 12:01 am on January 1st. Naturally, I have some ideas.



It occurred to me recently that the one thing my collection of fabulous shoes was missing (besides more fabulous shoes) was a little black dress to show them off. Far to often, when presented with an occasion for which fabulous shoes would seem to be called, I have been stymied by the lack of an appropriate accompanying outfit.

I like this one for its simplicity, and the fact that it's an additional fifty percent off. So is this one, which is a little bit longer, but I'm not sure about that empire seam.





The other thing I've been doing lately, what with having so much time off work and being totally disinclined to do anything productive, is check out the jewelry sections of various cool websites. Which is how I came across this necklace with blue beads and a tiny gold starfish held loose inside a glass window. Or there's the elegant simplicity of this necklace with a circle of clear glass, or the charming badassery of this tiny chef's knife pendant. Sadly, the AK47 earrings are a little more than I'm willing to spend.




On the slightly more practical side, I've been thinking I need a new carry on/weekend bag, and this one caught my eye. It's a good size, has a removable shoulder strap, and seems like the sort of thing one could carry through an airport in France without looking like a total tourist rube.
Or, on the slightly more eccentric side, there's this, which makes up for in unusualness and sturdy construction what it lacks in shoulder straps and classic style.



And then, of course, there's the shoe option. (There's always a shoe option.) For some reason, right now I want a wedge ankle boot for everyday wear, and they're surprisingly hard to find. (Surprising because you can't throw a loafer these days without hitting an ankle boot, and you'd think a certain percentage would be wedges.) I think I'd get a lot of use out of these; they'd work with pants or a skirt, and I know this line makes really comfortable shoes. The only other pair I found that I liked are these, and I'm not sure I'm crazy about that pinking detail.



They're all good choices, right? So, what do I do?

Final Days!

Four days.
95 hours.
5707 minutes.
342430 seconds.

As you may recall, back in September I instituted a buying freeze, good through the end of the year.

The end is coming.

Strasbourg, Day 6-- Mostly About Food

For our last day in France (not counting the anticipated early-morning stagger to catch a train we are not one hundred percent sure we have tickets for), we made a more detailed exploration of the central town of Strasbourg. It was Sunday, so most places were closed-- restaurants, shops, even the big chain stores. The bakeries, however, were open for business. Apparently, nothing gets between the French and their pastries. Which is understandable, considering the pastries. We were getting pretty attached ourselves.

I believe I have expounded sufficiently only the delightful ancient charming delightfulness of the city at this point, so I'll spare you the effusing and just summarize: half-timbered buildings, touches of snow, river, islands, bridges, churches, cobblestones, setting up of Christmas decorations, Gutenberg.

Then, when the land-based charms got to be too much for us, we took to a tour boat (also, though the snow had stopped, it was still very cold, and the boat was enclosed) on the river and canals that wrap around the old part of the city. The guided part of the tour came through headphones that plugged in by our seats, and the onboard entertainment from a free-range toddler who bobbled up and down between the seats. We rode through ancient locks that seemed to now exist primarily to raise and lower tourist boats, and out to see the buildings of the European Parliament, possibly the grandest assemblage of pointless bureaucracy the modern world has yet to produce, with appropriately architectural buildings (by which I mean ugly, and probably leaking). It was a fine and interesting tour, and by the time we were done it was time for lunch.


We chose a place not far from the boat dock, with an ornately carved front and a menu of what we were coming to recognize as the regional specialties. As it happened, despite our three days of dedicated eating, there were a number of apparently key dishes neither of us had tried yet, and this seemed like the place to do it.

The interior of the restaurant was low-ceilinged and tightly packed with tables. The woman who greeted us put us at one near the door. The place was nearly empty, so we asked to move to another table across the room. She agreed, but a moment later changed her mind and came over to explain, with much hand-waving, that this table, though further from the door, was actually less protected from the draft, due to the way the curtain hung across the doorway. She had a point, so we agreed and moved back to our original table. Overall, it was a less than thoroughly elegant maneuver, particularly since I hit my head on a light fixture both ways.

This was a culinary exploration, and we had a lot of ground to cover. So I ordered the bacon and onion tart, with foie gras to start* and Cameron had a different kind of onion tart for an appetizer and the choucroute plate. That, along with the wine and beer, seemed like it would probably be enough.

I was expecting, since the foie gras here was listed for about half the price that seemed standard at the other places we had been, that it would be about half the amount. I was wrong. It was a full slab of the stuff, like a small piece of bread, accompanied by toast points and little cubes of Gewurztraminer jelly. Cameron's appetizer tart was more like a slice of quiche, with lots of onions, while my entree was almost pizza-like: a thin crust the size of a serving platter, covered with creme fraiche and studded with slices of onion and a generous amount of very good bacon. The choucroute (in the smaller size, I might add) was a plate heaped high with sauerkraut, with two potatoes and five kinds of meat crammed around its edges. With what I thought was heroic effort, we were able to get through the great majority of this feast, leaving only about a fifth of my tart, some sauerkraut and most of the blood sausage behind. But the waitress was not impressed. When we said we were done, she looked at our plates with dismay.

"You eat like leetle boys!" she declared.

Of course, since this was France, the fact that our plates were cleared away had nothing to do with anyone bringing us the bill**. For that we had to signal, which I did, since I had the better view of the dining room. This was apparently also incorrect.

"Non," she instructed me, placing the bill firmly in front of Cameron. "You do not ask for the check. You say, le garcon," she pointed to Cameron, "Le addition pour le garcon, s'il vous plais." Then she had me repeat it, just so we were clear.

Foreign travel is very educational.


We had had grand intentions of sight-seeing and museum-visiting for the afternoon, but after that lunch it was clear that anything more intellectually strenuous than getting me a snowglobe for my shelf at work was out of the question. It was also cold, so bitingly cold that I bought a paper cone of roasted chestnuts from a man selling them out of a cart even though I could hardly even bear the thought of food, just to keep my hands warm. (Besides, roasted chestnuts in a paper cone? How could I not?)

In anticipation of not finding much open on a Sunday night, and in keeping with our record of not really making it out in the evenings, we picked up a baguette and some desserts at a bakery that had already become a favorite, to serve as supplies. We already had some cheese and foie we had picked up at a very fancy supermarket (which was located in a fancy department store, for some reason) as our post-wine-adventure dinner the night before. It was a fine plan, marred only by the fact that the only utensil we had been able to acquire from the front desk was a fork, which is not the ideal tool for cutting and spreading.


And really, that was that. I'm leaving out a lot, not the least of which is the entire return journey, with the train ride that we may or may not have legitimately been supposed to be on, but no one threw us off, through the tiny commuter plane out of the Stuttgart airport and the approximately eighteen security checkpoints in Munich, up to the generous onboard alcohol policies of Luftansa, the nervous moments about how much wine we were bringing through customs and staggering, jet-lagged out of our noggins, back to San Mateo. It was a wonderful trip, and I have only two regrets. One is that I didn't get this blogging done in anything approaching a reasonable amount of time, and the other is that it wasn't nearly long enough.

I think a year would be about right.



*Yes, I realize I have already eaten foie gras on this trip. The point is, I haven't eaten all of it.
**Also true in Germany.

Day 5, Part 2-- More Wine, More Snow

The next place we tried, after the tasting shed, looked to be a larger operation. For example, it had its own building. But the person in charge was out for lunch and it occurred to us that we might be seeing a lot of this for a while, as the French take their lunch breaks fairly seriously. So we decided to have one of our own, and stopped in the next town we came to.

Of all of the cute towns we had been through, this was the first one that was clearly aware of its cuteness. Little shops lined the cobblestone streets, signs directed you to the old and impressive church and a Christmas fair was in the process of being set up in the town square. All morning we had been going in and out of the snow; getting ahead of it only to have it catch up to us again, and when we stopped for lunch it was definitely in the catching-up phase, with winds and a descending coldness. Which is why, when we had only done a partial survey of the local restaurants, I declared that it was time to go inside somewhere warm and picked the nearest place. Which wasn't a bad choice, but given the restaurant's large size and almost-trilingual menu (French, German, English via Babelfish), it did seem to be verging on the touristy. But this being France, that didn't stop the food from being just fine, from my grilled duck breast to Cameron's Stoneware Pot With Four Different Kinds of Meat and About Eight Potatoes Cooked In It. So at least they didn't short us on the portions.

The lunch stop was fine and all, but it happened to correspond with a moment of severe ambiguity in wine route map, where it was clear where we were expected to start from, and where we might hope to end up, but with little to no guidance as to how to connect these two points in space. Apparently, a certain amount of self-sufficiency is expected of wine tourists in France. Also, a GPS.

So, straightforward map usage was, at this moment, out. However, it seemed that if we were to head in the general direction of a place known to the map as Mont Ste-Odile (according to the map symbols, a religious site, and also possibly a mountain), we would be able to reconnect with the route. So we did, but having followed the signs for a while it seemed a shame to turn away from such a clearly-majorish site, so we went on to see what all the fuss was about. At the very least, we figured, we'd be able to get a nice view of the valley.

And we probably would have, since we ended going up quite high in elevation, only the storm we had been dodging in and out of all day happened to catch up with us on the way up, complete with snow, hail and some heavy cloud cover. The sight, when we got to it, appeared to be some sort of old convent, albeit one that had been converted into something involving a restaurant and tennis courts and a large parking lot. We got out, briefly, to look around, but it was very cold and even small hail can be kind of painful, so that didn't last. Still not sure what that place was, but driving up through the snowy mountain scenery was lovely, particularly since I was not the one doing the driving.

Coming back down, we found much warmer conditions and, after a few tries the wine route. Our next stop was the most corporate-looking establishment we found all day, a dedicated tasting room that did not appear to be attached to anybody's house. But even here, the guy working the counter (whose English was excellent) seemed to be actually involved in the operation of the winery (possibly a member of the family), and there didn't seem to be any question of charging for tastings. I did buy two bottles-- as an unabashed fan of the sweeter whites, I have discovered my happy place.

We were barely out of the one cute medieval town when we found ourselves in another one, and barely arrived there when we came upon a string of places advertising tastings. We parked and went in to the first one.

It was a combination home and winery, much larger than the first, and manned solely by the sister of the proprietors. Her sisters, she told us, were away in the south of France on a sales trip, and she had come over to mind the shop and keep an eye on the children. She was generous with her pourings of tastings ("Do you like to try them all? I can go get them all.") and information about life in the wine business, but wasn't able to tell us much about the wines themselves, as she didn't drink. She apologized repeatedly for her English, though I would have described her as fluent. The wines were uniformly fine, and my only regret is that we didn't buy more. We did pick up a late-harvest Sylvaner that reminded me of an icewine, but at a fraction of the cost. We stayed for probably at least half an hour, chatting and tasting in the stone-walled room filled with shelves of wine bottles.

Our final stop was just across the street. It was getting late and we were getting a little tasted-out, but we figured we might as well go into this one more place, what with having parked in their lot and all. Their tasting room seemed to be attached to a small hotel or house, a tiny but professional setup. There was a younger man who took his place behind the counter, and an older man (his father?) who would wander in and out and give orders as to what we should try next, and to demand that the young man break out the box of pretzels. Eventually, he settled in on a stool and took over the conversation, entirely in French, of course, which is why it took a little while to figure out that he was flirting with me. (It was the phrase "Une belle femme," that tipped us off.)


It was getting dark by the time we were done there, and even though we had barely done a quarter of the total route, it was time to head home. After all, you have to leave something for next time.

Wine Glasses

A few places we went to had these squat little green-stemmed wine glasses (see below), and I kind of love them. They're so unpretentious-- wine glasses for people who don't think drinking wine is a big deal.

France, Day 5—Wine Tasting Through the Snow

We found the old man in his shed by following signs from the main road, signs that got progressively smaller and less distinct the closer we got. The man spoke no English and possibly not much French—most of our communication was through German and hand signals. His signs said he produced something called “Rouge de Ottrot,” Ottrot being the name of the nearest town. We managed to hand-wave our way to a tasting, and found it to be a light, fruity red. Six euros later and we had our own bottle, along with the only piece of information I managed to understand out of the conversation, which was that it was to be drunk at 16 degrees C.

Going wine tasting in Alsace was Cameron’s idea; despite having grown up in California, it’s not something I’ve done much of. But we both like wine, and this was a wine-producing region, and the tourist office had a map of a wine route, so it seemed like a winning idea. The key, of course, was getting an early start, and for at least one of us that was not a problem-- jetlag having picked this day to strike Cameron with a vengeance, leaving him wide awake to wander the streets of Strasbourg at about five am. He ended up on a mission to try every pastry in the city, and he also located some car rental companies. They weren't open yet, but it was a start.

By the time I got up, at a slightly more respectable sevenish (because, no matter how jetlagged I am, I have a basic moral objection to getting up before dawn while I'm on vacation*) and we made it out the door, a few snowflakes were floating down, causing me to react with the kind of childish wonder only seen in Californians in rare encounters with actual weather. And, I guess, children. I believe this remained amusing for a while, but I tried to dial it back before it crossed the cute/annoying boundary. By this time, the rental agencies were actually open, and after a couple of tries we found one that was willing to rent us something with an automatic transmission, in exchange for a large amount of money. Europe seems to be a lot cheaper if you can drive a stick shift. And so, armed with an array of maps, we set out into the thickening snowfall, which was quickly transitioning from charmingly fluffy to just thick and wet and cold.

Between the Canadian and the Californian, there wasn't much question of who was going to be doing the driving in the snow (gender roles aside), so I was navigator. Which was somewhat complicated by the fact that the "wine route tour map" we had picked up at the tourist office was kind of non-specific about what actual roads you were expected to take, so we had supplemented it was a full-sized fold-out map of the region, plus another detailed one of the city. Basically, what I'm saying is, it's really quite understandable that I happened to initially put us on the freeway going the wrong direction. But we figured it out within an exit, and it only took a little figuring to get back on in the right direction.


The trip really wasn't about freeways, anyway; we only were on that one for long enough to get us away from the city. Then it was off onto smaller local roads, going through a series of little towns with mounting adorableness. Honestly, there's something about France that seems a little unfair. Does any one nation really deserve to have that much of the world's supply of charming? And they just live in them like they're normal places. At one point we got slightly off track because one of the signs (there were signs for the wine route, though they were infrequent and rarely appeared at critical intersections) seemed to be directing us through a narrow, apparently medieval stone arch.

"We can't possibly be expected to drive through there," we thought, until we had driven a little way in the other available direction and it became clear that this was not the way to go. So back we went, and followed the rest of the traffic through it and into yet another perfect little country town, about the fifth in a series.

Interestingly, almost all of them seemed to have Chinese restaurants.


It took us a while before we actually found anywhere to taste some wine. At first we weren't finding any places at all, and the ones we did find were closed. It was very much the off-season, which can't have helped, and signage wasn't exactly a feature. So I'll admit that I was getting a little nervous about this enterprise as we approached the town of Ottrot.

To call the guy's operation "small" would be to stretch the limits of understatement. He had a shed. And about eighty-five percent of the shed was taken up with wine making equipment and what I believe was "stuff." There was a small counter in the front, where he poured our tastings into square, green-stemmed glasses, and we all did a lot of smiling and nodding.

Honestly, that experience alone would have made the whole day worth it but we weren't anywhere near done. We were just getting started.

*Or, really, ever.

Going Dark, Going Home

About to leave for a very long day of traveling, so no blogging for a while. I'll try to do some writing catch-up en route so I can post when I get home. (Sigh. Do not want to leave!)

By the way, if anyone is going to need some free wifi access in France in the next thirty days, let me know and I can hook you up.

Day 4, Germany to a Part of France That Used to Be Part of Germany

In order to maximize our time in Strasbourg, we got tickets on one of the earliest trains out of Stuttgart. This seemed like an excellent idea when we were making the arrangements, slightly less so when we had to get up in time to return the rental car before making our train.

I wish I could say the trip took us through spectacular countryside, dotted with charming villages where little children came out to wave to the train as we passed. But if I did, I would be lying, because we were traveling through modern southwestern Germany, which lends itself more to subdivisions and industrial parks. So I went back to reading my book, which turned out to be less about racing around the world than about using writing credentials to get a major publisher to pay for a really awesome vacation. I really need to get some credentials.


We arrived in Strasbourg and were immediately charmed. In retrospect, it probably wasn’t fair to Germany; like traveling from Houston to Montreal and judging the countries accordingly. But what can I say, I’m a sucker for France.

We dropped our bags off at the hotel, where the approach to security was of the, “Ya, just stick your things in that room over there. It has a door,” variety. But it was much to early for us to check in, and we had things to see.

I should note that Strasbourg is almost inconceivably cute. Half timbered buildings are hanging over tiny cobblestone streets practically everywhere you turn, with cozy-looking bakeries, charcuteries and weinstubs on every adorable corner. And it has both the French charm and German friendliness, which happens to be a very nice combination. It also has a truly spectacular cathedral.

I would try to describe the Strasbourg cathedral to you, but my knowledge and vocabulary would shortly fail me. So I’m just going to cop out and send you to my friend Marilyn’s blog, as she was there last summer and happens to be an art historian. I encourage you to go and read what she has to say, and imagine me thinking that.

We stopped for lunch at a restaurant specializing in Alsatian dishes, where I realized that it is not only possible, but very easy to eat yourself sick in France, and Cameron was sitting in a place where he could spend the entire meal staring at a huge ham covered with puff pastry. No points for guessing what he had for lunch.

The rest of the day was more of the same; wandering around staring at buildings, then back to check in and rest up, then out into the freezing rain for another huge meal (dinner). By the end of the day, we had decided it was silly to go back to Stuttgart any sooner than we absolutely had to, and were determined to change our return tickets from Sunday night to Monday morning.

Ludwigsburg, Part 3

The second castle in Ludwigsburg, Shloss Favorite, was built as a vacation home for the main castle. It’s about fifty yards away, across a main street. I guess in Germany, vacation must be more of a state of mind. It was set in a large parkland, which seemed to be somewhere locals liked to go to jog, though it looked to me more like somewhere you would be eaten by wolves.

The vacation castle, though attractively detailed and colorfully painted, was smallish, and when I peered in appeared to be set up as some sort of sad nightclub. So I did one short circuit around it and set off to look for somewhere to eat lunch.

The place I found was in the city Rathouse, which fortunately appeared to be entirely devoid of rats. Instead, it had a nice café, where the food was generously portioned and the menu was entirely in German. Of the two items I ordered (soup, sandwich), I probably could have gotten by with one. Though, by the time I had been there an hour and a half and was running late to meet Cameron, what I really needed was a bill. They aren’t big on bringing you your bill in Germany, but this place had it down to an art form. At the time when I was looking around hopefully, long since finished eating, putting on my coat and looking around some more, my waiter was engaged in cheerful conversation with the rest of the waitstaff, his back to me, on the other side of a pillar. After a few minutes, when it became clear that none of the other waiters were going to notify him to my position, and it became clear that I was going to be late getting back, I had to actually get up and go over to get him. In that case, contrary to my American inclinations, I did not leave a tip.


The conference ended in the mid-afternoon, so we had a little time afterwards to do some touristing by car. Guidebook in hand, I suggested the Mecedes-Benz museum, seeing as Stuttgart seems to be the center and origin of the German auto industry, and neglecting the fact that neither of us are car people.

Take away lesson: Two tired people, touring a museum on a subject in which they have not much more than a passing interest, will soon start skipping through the exhibits.

We made it back to the hotel through rush hour traffic without too much trouble, but once there succumbed to the insidious appeal of napping, waking up only in time to stagger downstairs and get some completely non-authentic food from the hotel bar. But that’s fine because this is only the start of the trip. Tomorrow, tomorrow is France.

A Brief Interlude on the Subject of Airports

In order to make our transfer from the flying portion to the train portion of our flight to Stuttgart, we had to find the train terminal in the Frankfurt airport, check in and claim our bags there. That the check-in process was unnecessarily complicated and line-intensive I have already covered. Not complicated, however, were the customs procedures when we got our bags, which consisted entirely of the baggage handler guy pointing us towards two signs that said “nothing to declare” in several languages, and indicated that we should walk between them. There were also signs that said “goods to declare,” but they were blocked off and unmanned. Apparently, it was Nothing to Declare Day in Germany. In short, if you are planning to smuggle something into the EU, I highly recommend the Frankfurt airport.

Also, while you’re there, you should really get some sausages from the stand just down the hall. They’re delicious.

Ludwigsburg, Part 2

Having, in my own way, taken the pulse of the city, I retired to a café, where I had a really disappointingly bad pretzel, like white bread in a pretzel shape, along with some not-at-all disappointing hot chocolate. It wasn’t that I needed the snack so much, but getting it bought me a table in the café for as long as I wanted it, and I was looking for a place to sit and read, so it seemed like a reasonable deal. The book I was reading, The Ridiculous Race, chronicles the attempt by two TV writers to race each other around the world without using airplanes. The irony of reading a book about traveling while traveling, and doing it instead of any actual travel-related activities is duly noted.

Not long after I sat down, I was joined on the bench next to me by what I believe was an old lady, but may have been a man in an old lady costume, based on the voice and bad wig. She (possibly he) ordered some tea and proceeded to read the paper semi-aloud, in a whispery voice, to herself. The waitress, with whom I communicated primarily with hand signals, said “Have a nice day” when I left.

Interesting fact: Cafes in Germany that have outdoor seating do not eliminate the option in November. But they do set out fleece blankets on the chairs.


At noon, Cameron and I met up again, determined that he had more people to talk to and a free lunch to eat, and I was once again set loose on the city. This time, however, I had found a map, and determined that there were not one, but two castles just a few blocks away, including one that I believe I saw described somewhere as “the largest German baroque palace in the country.” This, of course, I had to see.

It was indeed large. If I was going to direct someone to the Residentialshloss in Ludwigsburg, Germany, large is definitely one of the words I would choose. I might also say baroque, but between you and me, I’m not entirely sure what that refers to. If it has to do with the presence of lots of kind of Greek/Roman-looking statues in the vicinity, then yes, definitely Baroque.

I started by wandering around the formal gardens in front of the castle, which you could access by walking through the open gate, just like the locals who seemed to use it as a kind of crosstown shortcut. I don’t think you can expect much from gardens in Germany in November, but I was pleasantly surprised by the roses. It must take a fairly hearty variety to bloom under these conditions, but there they were, blooming away, with top marks going to something called the “Elmshorn.” I recommend it for all your Northern European, late fall, rose-growing needs.

I had expected that was all I was going to get to see of the castle, but as I was making my way along past it I found there was another entrance, also free, that allowed me to go in and explore the huge central courtyard and peer in through the windows at the locked-up palace around it. Also, there was a gift shop, where I was able to purchase that travel essential, the cheesy tourist tchotcka to put on the shelf over my desk. (An mini ceramic beer stein, with the Ludwigsburg castle illustrated on the front and Frankfurt, Munich and Berlin given somewhat shorter shrift on the side.) As I left the castle through the other side, I happened across a small aviary, displaying various Birds of Asia, plus a couple of mourning doves. I hope they had somewhere warm to hide.

Whew! Lots still to cover, and I’m not even to lunch yet. Looks like this is going to be a three-parter, folks.

Germany, Day 3: Ludwigsburg, Part 1

I had grand plans for the places I was going to go and the things I was going to do while in Stuttgart. I had heard of a spa town somewhere nearby, off to the west in the Black Forest, and there was another medieval town highly recommended by the guidebook away to the northeast. In the end, though, tired out by my solo adventures of yesterday, I elected to take the easy way and go with Cameron to Ludwigsburg, the town where his conference was being held.

Cameron was presenting this morning, so we had to get an early start. I understand it’s bad form to show up late to your own presentation. Yesterday he had some trouble finding the place, to the tune of two hours of driving around Ludwigsburg, braving the public payphone system and eventually getting directions from a friendly English-speaking Enterprise employee (all due to some very bad directions from the conference venue). But I was able to benefit from that experience, because we made it there with no trouble at all, and some time to spare for breakfast.

After breakfast, Cameron headed back to the conference, and I took off to explore Ludwigsburg. It didn’t exactly make my guidebook, so I was going in blind, but I managed to amuse myself pretty well. There was a nice little downtown right near the conference venue, with lots of shops, some old buildings with attractive brickwork and even a mall, where I picked up a compilation CD of European bands and a scarf at H&M, having left mine behind in the hotel and regretted it. (I’ve suspended the buying freeze for the duration of the trip, for obvious reasons.)

(Have to leave for Strasbourg now, will resume later, assuming I can find internet.)

Tubingen, Part 2

On the plus side, I did manage to find most of what I was looking for, mainly because if you are wandering randomly over a very small area for long enough, eventually you find everything.

The first thing I found was the marktplatz (translation somewhat unnecessary, as seems to happen sometimes with German). And, in keeping with its name, the weekly farmer’s market was being held there when I arrived. It was all very pleasant and rustic, though I suspect some of the farmers may have been selling foods that they did not personally grow, seeing as they were pineapples (the foods, not the farmers). I wandered around a bit, took it all in, then consulted my map and set off in the first of many absolute wrong directions, and the only one that involved climbing a very long set of wet stone stairs.

For lunch, I went to one of the few places my guidebook was helpful about. (My guidebook, as I have mentioned, is generally uninterested in the greater Stuttgart area.) It was a fine and cozy little restaurant of Swabian specialties, with one elderly waitress who spoke no English and clearly wasn’t starting now. (Myth to debunk: that all Germans speak perfect English. They don’t. Many of them speak only German.) I ordered via the time-honored method of pointing to the only item on the menu with a word in it I understood (“sauerkraut”) and received, to my relief, a tasty lunch of entirely identifiable food items.

After lunch I wandered some more, this time with stricter attention paid to my map. I still got lost, but only because there are so many churches.

I finished my day at the castle that dominates the hill over the old city, where I wasted some money on entrance to an archeological museum where I could not read any of the informative notes on the items. For all I knew, I could have been looking at someone’s collection of cereal-box prizes from 1947-1983. Assuming German cereal companies went in for fake Roman artifacts, including entire amphoras.

So it was four euros down and not in the best mood that I got lost on the way back to the train station, hurrying now because I had to walk from the stop in Sindelfingen back to the hotel, and I didn’t want to do it in the dark. I did, of course; I got the world’s slowest local train to go the thirty miles from Tubingen to Stuttgart, and before I even got on the subway it was pitch black. Fortunately, the route to the hotel was direct and well-sidewalked, and there was an accident along the way that stopped traffic so bad that I was actually going faster than the cars. I realize that sounds like a heartless thing to be pleased about, but at the time it was very satisfying.

As I have mentioned, when I got back I was very tired, so instead of blogging I took a nap. Then Cameron came back from the conference and we went and I had dinner in the hotel bar, because he had already eaten and I was too tired and footsore to be able to be excited about going out and experiencing local culture. I did have some local beer with my club sandwich, though.

Germany, Day 2: Tubingen-- Part 1

For the first two days of our trip, Cameron’s time is taken by the conference, so I’m on my own for exploring. Today I went to Tubingen (two dots over the u), a small and ancient college town on the banks of the River Nektar. I traveled there by train, first on the local line from Sindelfingen, and then on a long-distance express from Stuttgart. This gave me ample opportunity to examine the German countryside, which I took, because not looking out the window made me feel a little carsick.
It wasn’t exactly inspiring scenery; not so much ugly as plain, in the way of a prosperous place that didn’t get where it was worrying about its looks. Some things, like the river that ran parallel for a while to the tracks, or the vineyards marching up the hillsides, might have had significantly more charm under blue skies but, though it never rained on me, the skies remained cloudy and gray the entire day.
(Detail of interest primarily to Mom: They seem to have no problem with putting their sewage treatment plants right on their rivers here.)
(Detail of interest to a broader range of readers: People shouting into cellphones in otherwise quiet environments seem to be a universal phenomenon.)

The old town part of Tubingen is tiny, probably no more than a quarter mile square, but upon entering it I found myself instantly lost, even more than usual. It has exactly the sort of tightly packed, half-timbered medieval buildings one sort of expects of Germany, all towering over narrow, hilly, orientation destroying cobblestone streets.

Not Dead, Just Resting

Only two days in, and already falling behind on updates? We have a new record! Seriously, I would but I'm tired. Soon, I swear.

Germany, Day 1: SFO to Sindelfingen

Have arrived in Stuttgart, or, to be more precise, Sindelfingen, where the Marriot is, after a shockingly long day. We began at SFO, where we had arrived with plenty of time to spare, more than enough to get through security, find our gate, find a store that sold European plug adapters, call both our dads to determine that the computers could operate with only the plug adapters, and we did not need to find voltage adapters (my dad won that one), buy books, magazines and hand wipes and have lunch at the Japanese restaurant. So we went for margaritas at the Mexican place, on the theory that, when traveling by air, it helps to have a relaxed attitude.

The first real disappointment of the trip came when we boarded the plane, and discovered that our “Luftansa” flight was actually on United, which struck me as a significant failure in disclosure. So instead of the fancy euro-accoutrements I was hoping for, we got the same old crummy seats, lousy food and sullen service familiar to any American air traveler. Sigh. Not helping matters was the fact that I was seated right next to the kitchen, where the stewardesses kept the lights on and the chatting going all through the overnight flight, or that I had carefully packed my eye mask in my suitcase. Which I checked. So the sleeping thing was kind of a non-starter.

Which was too bad, because the flight was only step one of our four-step travel schedule. Step two was to take the train from the Frankfurt airport to the Stuttgart train station (a step that was actually included on the ticket from Luftansa), which involved going through a fairly complicated and arduous check-in process, in order to get a boarding pass that no one ever looked at (the German approach to lines seems to have less to do with who got there first, and more with who can shove their way to the front) (also, based on today’s experiences, I would have to say that the rumors of German efficiency seem to have been somewhat exaggerated) (but we did have some tasty sausages from a booth in the train station).

The train trip was about an hour and a half through a countryside that mixed the residential, industrial and agricultural with wild abandon. Most of the houses looked like ordinary mid-century subdivisions, though there were a few stretches of tiny, almost shanty-looking places crammed along the edges of fields and up against the railroad fences that I’m still not entirely sure were homes.


One might think that, having arrived in Stuttgart, our presumptive destination, we would be all set. But no: the rental car was at the Stuttgart airport, another half an hour away by the subway system (for which, once again, we waited in line to purchase tickets, and once again no one ever looked at them). We made our way to the rental car counter and picked up the keys for the car, for which the instructions for finding went something like this: “Go to the end here and turn right. Then go across here and take the first moving walkway. Then take the second moving walkway and get off and turn left. Then go down in the elevator to the first floor and find Athen street in the parking lot. Then go over here, or you can cut through these spots, and you will find your car. There is a phone here if you get lost or you have a problem with the car. Any Kvestions?”

Shockingly, we did manage to locate the car eventually, without even having to send up a flare. Then it was on to the autobahn, where you can famously drive as fast as you want to, assuming “as fast as you want to” is the same as “the speed traveled by all the giant trucks around you (about ten miles an hour).”

Finally, we made it to Sindelfingen, where the Marriot is conveniently located next to the Cheverolet/Opel service center, just down the street from nothing in particular, and where we then proceeded to take a four-hour nap, and eat dinner in the hotel restaurant. It’s been a day.

The Pre-Trip Freak-Out

I'm leaving for Germany in about five hours, so of course I am panicking, just a little bit. You know, worrying about what I haven't done and/or packed, what I still have to do/pack and all ways I could manage not to catch my cab. Plus general free-floating anxiety. Everything is fine, of course, but that never stopped me.
Not helping matters is the fact that when I was driving home last night, in my newly-reacquired car, the engine light came on and stubbornly refused to turn itself back off. (I checked the engine. It's still there.)
Barring disaster (anticipated or otherwise), I plan to blog and twitter extensively for this trip, so watch this space. (And that one.)

The Dress I Don't Need

This dress is the reason I needed to go on a buying freeze:




Not the specific reason, of course; that would be the car and the move and the shrinking savings. But this, well, it's beautiful and elegant and different and I want it and I have absolutely no reason to need it. I do not have the kind of life that requires dresses like this, and I can't even pretend that I'm ever likely to. I'm not even saying I would have bought it if I wasn't on the freeze, it's a little out of my price range even on a good day, and I've never actually tried it on, but it's the sort of thing I would make excuses to myself just to own. And, since I am good at those kinds of excuses, I already have perhaps a few more dresses than someone with a jeans-and-t-shirt life truly needs. Which is why, as tough as it has been, this freeze is a good thing for me.

Switzerland, Finally Sick of Neutrality, Declares War on Rational Thought

First up: laws regarding the protection of the dignity of plants. (I encourage you to click through the related reading, if only to encounter the subtitle "Moral Consideration of Plants for their Own Sake")

Next: Does Walking Make Dirt Cry?: The Bipedal Transportation Acts of 2009.

What's an "Olan Mills," Anyway?

I have no idea what this is about; I just know it's funny.


(Stolen, of course, from Dave Barry's blog.)

(Speaking of which, you should totally go and read this article he wrote about the election and its aftermath. I think it's terrific, and I don't even like gin.)

Cross-Cultural Understanding and the Suburban Apartment Complex

My new apartment is in a large, multi-unit complex in San Mateo, about a block and a half from my old one. (I may have already mentioned this, but I'm too lazy to go back and check.) Among its many amenities, though not perhaps chief among them) is a monthly newsletter that goes out to all the residents. It seems to be composed of whatever the newsletter version of clip art is, plus the occasional reminder of office hours and what not to do with your trash. This month, one of the helpful sidebar items was this language lesson:

English: Leave me alone.
Spanish: Dejame en paz. (DEH-hah-meh ehn PAHS)


What I want to know is, exactly how helpful do they intend this to be?