Of Yoga & SF Yogis

I can't get over how up-their-posteriors SF's "yogi" and "yogini" faction of society tends to be.  People, you are doing some stretching & breathing exercises, and your flexibility is admirable.  Limber, you are.  Here is what you are NOT:

- Indian, despite you giving off vibes of being more Indian than Indians born and raised in India.
- Possessing of a close kinship to Lord Shiva, and intimately aware of what he would wish of the masses.  No, really. 
- Capable of being immersed into a collective consciousness on a molecular level, as is the nature of Asian cultures.  Living in a commune does not count, I'm afraid.
- Particularly egalitarian.  I'm no authority on yoga myself, but I doubt if it encourages practitioners to establish a sub-class system based on frequency of class attendance, deliberate spacy-ness, flexibility, & number of piercings/dreadlocks.

Get over yourselves.  You get the cheap daytime classes while the rest of us are out at work subsidizing you.  Be thankful for THAT, and move over to let us also unwind in the evening classes, judgment-free.

Unexpected Success (a.k.a. Raspberry Skillet Upside Down Cake)

Buying stuff for the kitchen is an obsession for me.  Obsession #2, right after food itself.  So, armed with new Le Creuset cast iron skillet (yes, it was my second, but this was a different SIZE... everyone who is anyone knows that size matters, so that resets all past purchases!!), I decided to try out a recipe that was a hybrid between Bi-Rite Market's "Skillet Upside Down Pear Cake" and this one.  Deadly, if I do say so myself. 


1/2 cup firmly packed light brown sugar
1/3 cup butter (about 3/4 stick butter) -- SAVE THE WRAPPER
1.25 cups fresh raspberries
1 cup all-purpose flour
1/2 tsp baking powder
Good pinch salt
3 large eggs
1.25 cups sugar
1 tsp vanilla essence

Preheat the oven to 350°.  Get a cake stand or flat plate (diameter larger than the skillet) ready.

Melt the butter in a pan of your choice (not the skillet you will be using).  Mix the brown sugar and melted butter in the skillet and spread it evenly over the bottom.  Now take the saved butter wrapper and rub it on the sides of the skillet... it will be sufficient grease.  If you think it's not enough, dip into the butter-sugar mixture a bit... it's sufficient, trust me.
Arrange the raspberries, over the brown sugar in the skillet, filling the entire space so no butter-sugar mixture is visible. 
Mix the flour, baking soda and salt together in a bowl.  In the bowl of an electric mixer, beat the eggs for about a minute at high speed, then add the sugar.  Beat the mixture until it is light and fluffy, about 5 minutes.  Add the vanilla extract and beat another 30 seconds or so.  Add the flour mixture and beat until everything is smooth and combined.  Do not overmix, or the cake will tend towards a tough crumb.
Pour the batter over the berries in the skillet, then carefully spread it out to cover the berries, and even out the surface, if needed.  Bake the cake until the top is firm and golden, about 35 – 40 minutes.  Check the cake with a toothpick or tester; it’s done when it comes out clean-ish (a few sticky crumbs never hurt anyone).
Carefully remove the skillet from the oven and carefully invert the skillet onto your cake stand or plate.  Leave it to sit for a couple of minutes so that the skillet fully releases the fruit and butter-sugar mixture.  Remove the skillet, and voila... best enjoyed warm (and it stands up to a bit of warming up in the microwave, without any compromise in taste).

Whole Wheat Banana Bread (Another recipe modification for those who care to try :-) )

Modified from the "Tartine Bakery"cookbook.  Everything they make is delicious, but one's got to try to keep some semblance of discipline in one's life.  Therefore, the attempt to make as many baked products as possible with non-white flour.

- 155g (1 cup plus 2 tablespoons) all-purpose flour [I substituted this for WW pastry flour]
- 2 tablespoons cornstarch
- 1 teaspoon ground cinnamon
- 2 teaspoons baking powder
- 1 teaspoon baking soda
- 255g (3 medium) unpeeled bananas, very ripe [I used 4... see note below]
- 2 large eggs
- 1-1/2 teaspoons vanilla extract
- 1/4 teaspoon salt
- 85g (6 tablespoons) unsalted butter, at room temperature
- 170g (3/4 cup plus 2 tablespoons) sugar [I reduced the quantity of sugar by 3 or so tbsp]
- 115g (1 cup) walnuts, chopped
[I added chopped dark chocolate, since no dessert is acceptable in our home sans chocolate chips]
- 225g (1-3/4 cups) pitted dates, coarsely chopped [I used barely half this amount]

Topping [I didn't go for the topping... I just crammed this extra banana into the cake for added moisture, given the WW flour substitution]- 1 medium banana
- 2 tablespoons sugar

Preheat the oven to 165°C (325°F). Line a 9x5 inch loaf pan with parchment paper -- forgo the buttering and flouring of the pan...trust me, this is much healthier, and the bread keeps better in this paper, with an extra wrapping of foil .

In medium bowl, stir together the flour and cornstarch. Peel the bananas and mash them in a second bowl. Add the eggs, vanilla, and salt, and combine thoroughly.

In a large mixing bowl, add the butter, then sprinkle the cinnamon, baking powder, and baking soda over. Beat the butter until light and creamy, about 2 minutes. Slowly add the sugar while beating until pale and fluffy, about 2 minutes, scraping down the sides of the bowl as you go. Beat in the banana mixture until incorporated. Sift the flour-cornstarch mixture over the batter and fold in gently with a rubber spatula. Add the nuts and dates. Scrape down the sides of the bowl and continue folding until everything is well-combined. Transfer the batter to the loaf pan and smooth with a spatula.

Bake until a toothpick inserted in the center comes out clean, about 1 hour. Let cool, then invert onto a cooling rack, then flip right side up. Serve at room temperature.

NEXT UP -- Substituting carrots for zucchini in Tartine's zucchini bread recipe :-)  Gotta put that 10 lb bag of organic carrots to use!

How about if...

Instead of the plain ol’ finger or glare that can often be taken as NON-constructive criticism, I suggest every car come equipped with these pre-loaded messages to be flashed at appropriate moments:

- Even your grandma's Buick could’ve made that turn in its own lane. Your car begs a better driver.
- Phone books need to make a comeback, if only so you can clear the wheel height & not be a menace.
- Clearly they’re not making smart enough cars yet to compensate for your kind. If I wasn’t in a hurry, I would let you hit my car on your next abrupt lane change, for the amusement factor.
- Seriously… the make-up doesn’t help you enough (if at all) to risk my life over.
- Take some chill-out lessons from the canine in the back seat. Stop suffering from fear of missing out on potholes in every lane.
- (to some bikers) We already know you’re an impossibly cool & ironic hipster. What could possibly further increase your appeal & demand? Reduced supply! Stay home!!
- (to tourists, on foot) Does everything look more appealing from the middle of the road? Would the camera angle be lost once you crossed to the other side?
- (to tourists, in cars) Is it really that hard to locate map & destination BEFORE you start driving?
- (to the 99% out there right now) Is the idea to occupy 99% of the streets so that the % of the 99 that are still paying taxes to support you can’t get to work? And please stop that infernal noise with your guitar.
- If we were part of that experiment where I could shock you as punishment, you would be in orbit right now.

Trial & error. And voila... a batch of scones!

Those who know me know that I adore anything with greater than 1/2 a stick of butter per helping (but, no, I still cannot tolerate Paula Deen. AT ALL. She makes me want to take a drill to my ears to stop the infernal noise of her voice. And ice picks to my eyes to prevent them from ever seeing one of her creations in any stage of prep.). ANYWAY, for those that want it, here is the recipe that B, my mum & I have settled on as the household favorite. Taken from the Tartine cookbook & epicurious.com, with some random additions & adaptations:

BUTTERMILK SCONES (makes as many scones as you put your mind to, but approximately 12 large ones)
4 3/4 cups all-purpose flour
3/4 cup dried currants
1 tbsp. baking powder (I have mis-read this before & put in 1 tsp... they still came out pretty good)
3/4 tsp. baking soda
1/2 cup sugar (I use whatever fine grained sugar I have at hand, but not muscavado)
1/2 tsp. of salt (the original recipes call for 1 1/4 tsp. salt, but it doesn't do it for me... depending on how altered my state is, I can sometimes taste it, which sucks for a scone)
1 cup cold, unsalted butter (Can't stress this enough. COLD. I freeze a few sticks of butter simply for this reason)
1 1/2 cups buttermilk (you will need more than this. This is what the original Tartine recipe calls for, but I have ALWAYS ended up needing more... just add more little by little until the mixture is wet & somewhat sticky).
Grated zest of 1 lemon/lime/orange
Chocolate chips/chunks, according to taste
Coarse brown sugar to sprinkle on top

1. Preheat the oven to 400 degrees F and line a baking sheet with parchment paper (or the like).
2. Pour hot water into a small bowl and pour the currants inside, allowing them to plump up (about 10 minutes). Once they've softened and plumped, drain the currants.
3. Put the flour, baking soda, baking powder, salt & sugar into a food processor bowl.
4. Cut the butter into 1 inch cubes and add them to the dry ingredients in the bowl. Pulse the processor to combine, without breaking down the butter too much (you want the mixture to be coarse, with visible pea-sized pieces of butter).
5. Put the dry mixture into a (regular mixing) bowl, and pour in the buttermilk, lemon zest, currants & chocolate. Mix well (use your hands, as it's the best way to tell when it's time to stop adding liquid).
6. Dust a large cutting board, or the kitchen counter, with flour and place the dough onto it, shaping it into a long rectangle or round shape, depending on how you want to shape your scones. Cut into equal sized portions.
7. Sprinkle with coarse brown sugar.
8. Bake the scones for approximately 25 to 35 minutes (until the surface is lightly browned).
9. Pig out & enjoy subsequent food coma.

The Hesitant Baker

I have recently laid my hands on the 2 most essential things a fledgling baker is wont to crave:

- Solid recipes, preferably with tons of pictures to keep the motivation up
- Guinea pig, of the human variety, with a sturdy gastro-intestinal tract.

I won't add "stand mixer" to the list because I've owned that for ages, and ladled out nothing but dust from it, on occasion.

So far, the following things have been attempted, but FAR from perfected:

- Irish brown bread
- Irish soda bread (yes, they are different. According to Avoca cafe, anyway)
- Scones (recipes from Avoca AND Tartine... I prefer Tartine's, but only marginally!)
- Banana bread (Avoca recipe is my favorite)
- Several variations of chocolate cookies. The whole wheat-oatmeal ones from 101cookbooks.com is the reigning favorite at home, but it's a fickle audience. The recipe from David Lebowitz is pick 2, but it's looking like it may be the long-term favorite. Once I PERFECT a chocolate chip recipe, as infuriating a task as it seems, I'm passing it down the generations. I don't even care if the generations did not emerge from my loins... someone's getting the damn thing, whether they like it or not!

Baking has breathed new life into my desire to eat & live healthy. I urge anyone wishing to be on that quest to devote themselves to baking for a bit. Contrary to what may seem like common sense, the "lighter & fluffier" the product, the higher the chances that the ingredients are anything but. For instance, let's take the unassuming scone. Looks non-oily, flaky/crumbly & innocent, right? WRONG!! A COPIOUS quantity of butter makes its way into every batch... in fact, the recipe calls for making sure the butter is plenty, cold, not over-mixed, and left as pea size pieces to maximize the flaky texture. Yup, pea size pieces. Pea. Sized. Pieces (as in, plural). Now I don't care where you live, and the size of the peas you get there... pea sized pieces of butter are NOT small enough in ANY country to make me feel good about the union of them & my ass. Enough said. Now back to making a batch, and living vicariously by watching B eat them, and perhaps nibbling the edges. THANK GOD for the 2% spandex in these jeans.

Of reviews & reviewers...

So… I was reading some online reviews for restaurants & bars just the other day, with some wildly misplaced faith in the power of the collective experience & intellect, to ascertain whether the new restaurant we were heading to was any good. By the end of 10 mins, I knew little to nothing about the food at the hot new restaurant. It did, however, occur to me that there should be a method for capturing (and publishing) reviewer demographics. Just so one can put the reviews in perspective, y'know, and go straight to the correct section (informative, entertaining, bizarre & demented... you catch my drift) instead of trying to sift through reviews that begin with "OMG, this was the worst dinner EVER. Broke my stiletto heel on the pavement right outside, and the homeless did NOTHING to help me. I'm like, WTF?!... blah blah" to find out whether the gnocchi was fluffy enough. I have concluded that MOST reviews for eating or drinking establishments don’t even purport to address anything related to the wares offered by the business. As an example, most restaurant reviews are about the date that brought them there, the dishiness quotient of the server, the fact that the neighboring table was too loud or having a much better time than the reviewer, etc etc. Anyway, I digress. I'm thinking that the demographics should be slotted according to criteria more apt & contemporary than the usual yawn-inducing age/education/salary ones, as these review sites have proven that none of those can guarantee a brain or the ability to put it to use. Perhaps some options such as these?
- I'm a generally malcontent cow...check out my other reviews for a real dose of bile. Nothing could make me happy. When I'm not writing these reviews, I am seething about why nobody will date me.
- I like to put down "I work in this industry" in my reviews to gain credibility, but what I really mean is that I'm the ONLY ONE who works in this industry. The rest of the lazy fucks are just out to get my overtime pay. Which I would achieve in just the time it takes me to turn one order around
- I have daddy issues and/or will do ANYTHING for the attention I was denied in my childhood/youth. This needlessly slutty review for a gelato shop is just the tip of the iceberg
- Wait, this ISN'T a dating site? Really? So I shouldn't mention that I am single, fabulous, and hint at my amazing sexual vigor in every post?
- Nobody caters to me in this new city, esp. not the merchants. I want my mommy!!

Another rager. This time with a slight twist.

The original plan: A farewell party for a friend moving to give true love its due
The gathering was pretty much as expected. D, T & I landed up to find a group of friendly, hyper-networked, high-achieving folks, with some having graduated from Harvard, etc. My first thought was that I was happy to have had assistance of the vapor kind prior to the event. Everything is 100X more entertaining when high. The person we were there for is pretty cool, but I didn't know her very well yet, and in a place as loud as that, it's just tough to hold a proper conversation anyway. Plus, she had other folks to attend to as well. I texted N to ask if he was coming, and he said "not likely". But our departing friend was having none of that, so being the sensitive soul that I am, I texted him again & said that he should. After a couple of texts (enough to make him feel sufficiently important & in demand), he landed up with a friend. A designer. Nice enough chap. Unfortunately, I have forgotten what exactly he designs. Already having slammed 3 drinks by then (wine + sake), the idea of going to another bar on Polk suddenly sounded infinitely more appealing than it would have minus those drinks.

Deviation from plan: A different bar on Polk
When we get there, it turns out that there was an agenda. Of the female kind. No surprise, as there always is one, with N. It turned out that she's from out of town, is pretty nice, and has 5-6 friends with her - they are gathered here from all over the US to vacation together... nice! The place was PACKED and one can't breathe without causing a human wave by merely that action. We proceeded to drink even more. N proceeded to tell the chick that I was a masseuse specializing in tantric massages. Uproarious laughter ensued. After 10 mins, to the side, she asked me "are you really a masseuse?". Clearly she does not know N too well yet. I was wearing my David Hasselhoff fan club T-shirt and showed it to my new friends. A German fellow walks up to me and says, "nobody believes me when I tell them that people love him in Germany". I assured him that I had several German friends who had told me that, and at least one that I trusted implicitly, so I saw no reason to doubt him. By this time, I was starting to get to the point of "I'm not going to remember tomorrow what I say from now on", so I decided to stick with my own from then on.

Deviation from deviation: After hours house party
After the last few bar patrons (us) were finally herded/shoved out by the bouncers, someone uttered the sweetest words to ever escape anyone's lips at 2 a.m. in the US: "let's go to such-and-such house party". Now...often, this person is me. Over the years, I've subjected M to several such impromptu parties at 2:15 a.m., spill-overs from seemingly harmless 6 p.m. happy hours after work. Anyway, back to the point: this time, it was not me. Some part of my brain that still had some tenuous hold on reality remembered that because Papa was home, I could not take my 10 new BFFs home with me. We bundled up into cabs and headed to this house party. After parking ourselves on one of the couches, a can of beer appeared, and was duly consumed. The girls & I were inseparable by now, more likely due to the dearth of seating space than my unfailing charm. Numbers were exchanged, and promises made to stay in touch forever and ever. As abruptly as he had disappeared, N re-appeared with the chick. A few minutes later, a guy came up to him/us, visibly upset, and said "that was NOT cool, dude. I don't even know you. That wasn't RIGHT!". Then he asked N to leave. Obviously, we stood by our man and left with him. Upon being pressed for details, N revealed that he and the chick were, um, getting to know each other better, and the room they happened to pick was his. Understandably, knowing neither party involved, he took offense to their choice of locations in which to conduct their business.

The finale: N's place, the volcano, and missing time
Being unceremoniously ejected in this manner took its toll on our drunken stupor, reducing it just enough to enable us to locate a cab. We headed to N's place to resume our single-minded pursuit of being totally obliterated (by this time, caution had been thrown to the wind (if you recall, more intoxicants than one were at work), and it had been decided that Papa's guilt trip about being out too late, leading to him worrying ceaselessly, would be dealt with when the time came... cross that bridge when it's got to, and all that). Anyway, we get to N's by around 4, promptly put the volcano to good use, and talk random gibberish for a couple of mins. I think. Then I topple to the side like a baby who hasn't quite figured out the concept of balance, and promptly pass out. I wake up in a couple of hours, see it's past 6 a.m., and my first thought is "FUUUUUCK. I have to go home to Papa". Dropped designer boy off on the way, and then snuck back into my own apartment with the stealth of a persistently errant spouse. As predicted, guilt trip was delivered, and duly accepted, later in the morning.

Oh San Francisco, how I love thee...

Living in San Francisco is a source of endless entertainment. Allow me to introduce you to but a few reasons why I love this city…

The EndUp: At what other “open to the public” club else can you end up (hehehe) for the whole weekend without break, with your ecstasy-procured 10 closest friends du jour? Oh, and where else can you experience the joy of someone expressing their interest by sleazing up to you and humping your leg on the dance floor? Oh yeah. Feel the love.

Farmers markets & sustainable consumerism: Since I got on this organic/local food bandwagon (you know how these things happen as you get older and are badgered into being more "aware" of the environment, and supporting the local farmers, etc. etc.), I try to drag my hung-over ass to this market on saturdays in the mid-mornings to endure the throngs of tourists who ogle and sample, yet hang on to their money with the ferocious tenacity that PK’s dog displays towards sticking his muzzle into guests’ crotches. Now this place can test one’s patience… for instance, if one more Martha-wannabe (Martha the food empire queen, not Martha the felon) tries to make suggestions to me like: "toast some crusty day old bread, top with some fromage blanc, green garlic, and a sprinkling of tarragon, and you have a quick and delicious snack. You can also choose to put some herbed goat cheese, warren pears, and candied walnuts on sesame baguette instead", I am going to flip the hell out. I go to this market for various reasons... listening to these smug earth mother types dole out ooh-la-la kind of gourmet friggin' recipes that I will likely NEVER be able to identify or dredge up the ingredients for is NOT one of them! Just sell me the goddamn fruits and save the Martha act for someone who puts their opposing thumbs to good use in the kitchen.

(Now that we are on the topic of markets) Rainbow Groceries: This place should be a must-visit for any tourist to really know SF. It is the poster child for every health buzzword ever. E-V-E-R. 100% vegetarian, organic, bio-dynamic, sustainable, free trade, responsible farming practice generated, wholesome, supportive of women organizations in Ghana… find one that it doesn’t exemplify, I challenge you. It houses magazines such as “midwifery today”. Everyone brings their own containers and avoids using plastic bags. It whispers seductively to me to be a better person than the unworthy skank mired in processed foods that I have no doubt been judged as in this temple. I’ve resisted it for well over 5 years.

“Unique” style: The fashions here are so retro that fashion mags haven’t even caught up yet. Some of the stuff that comes out on SF streets was put into the bin for a reason decades ago. Other places revere Cavalli, Kors & Prada; in SF, it's vintage all the way, baby... if it's not been used by someone unknown prior to you, it just doesn't have enough character. If this stuff is not on display in the mission, wait for it to emerge during love parade, or Burning Man decompression.

EVERYONE is saving the planet: Especially those who essentially don’t have a choice but don't like to admit it. Basically, it’s an unspoken crime in SF to drive a car. Pedestrians give you attitude. Cyclists give you attitude. Even dogs give you attitude. Because you (yes, YOU, you asshole who works 30 miles away in a regular corporate job in an area with the shittiest public transportation in all of the first world) should really find a more responsible way to commute, and stop this war on the middle east, you heinous bitch! We are as up in arms about this saving the planet stuff as Sweden except we are too busy making sure we persecute those who we perceive are not doing enough to actually do more ourselves.

“Missed connections” on Craigslist: Because, well, apparently the dating habits of the young and restless now require you to do diddly squat at the time itself, but rush home and post what you’d like to do to the object of your desire on the bus for all and sundry to read. The posts almost always contain a nugget such as “our eyes met, you seemed as keen to reach out as I did” (maybe s/he was looking for a less crowded spot?), and “let’s get a coffee/drink and get to know each other”. Seriously?? Did you put all 3 of your brain cells together and think this could work? Does anyone ever succeed with those posts? You could be an axe murderer, dude! As it is, in SF, there is a 98% chance that you are into something weird that 98% of the rest of humanity is not. The only thing it would encourage me to do is stop taking the bus with creepy fuckers like that on it.

It’s a city with high regard for religion & spirituality: Running behind on bible study or Sunday school? Fear not… step out onto Market street, where you can be assured that every second being on the street is highly likely to jump out in front of you and recite some part of it. Or shake their head and laugh maniacally. Well, religion HAS been known to affect people in different ways. As for spirituality, no other city in the US aside from possibly NYC & LA (I don’t have the stats, sorry) has more meditation and/or yoga studios and options for kinky sex/orgies than SF. All paths to spiritual salvation are covered.

Food takes center stage: Let’s face it, aside from NYC (where it’s still not possible to claim that the food is from the restaurant’s own garden!) there is no city/state where nature’s bounty and the “everything goes” attitude of the average denizen allows the food to be of this quality and provide this abundance of choice (including some that don’t quite work, but what the hell).

There is no CSI: San Fransisco!!!! [although... can you even imagine what that team would be like? My guess would be 3 stoned nerds (moonlighting as detectives because their real jobs are in the s/w industry, obviously) pontificating the metaphysical aspects of the murder, with a "crystal therapy consultant" flown in from LA, a "healing masseuse" from the Mission, the tamale lady (for munchies, yo!), and a hot Marina chick thrown in simply to balance out the looks equation.]

Riveting events like these are commonplace:
- “Dreaming Awake: How James Joyce Invented Experimental Cinema and Disguised it as a Book”

- “Jim Douglass: Gandhi and the Unspeakable: Why He Died and Why it Matters” in which this gent (also has authored four other books including 'The Nonviolent Coming of God.') will provide us enlightenment around the unrecognized history behind Gandhi's assassination and how that provides a key to understanding the later murders of John F. Kennedy, Martin Luther King, Jr., and the unspeakable targeting of a nonviolent vision today.”

It’s a city that’s militant about being tolerant: You cannot voice your less than enthusiastic opinion about A-N-Y issue, race, lifestyle, charity/cause, domesticated animal (you get the point)…ever ever. If you’re not going to open your mouth to gush about peace, love, tolerance and the importance of applying that indiscriminately in all aforementioned topics, depart the scene before you are lynched by an angry mob of do-gooders out to save everything under the sun. For instance, a casual statement such as “well, if this species is in its natural habitat and still requires this much help to survive from non-profit organizations while other species have adapted, maybe Darwin is calling?” will not win you any friends. Not even at the beer garden. Being called a cynic of the attempted socialist utopia in SF may well be worse than other curses beginning with the same alphabet.

And some other reasons...

Current Contemplations

- Would the rate of abortion drop dramatically if men were to have children instead of women? Would the general competitive spirit between men cause no fetus to be left behind?

- If perception is reality, and we all have our own perceptions of things, how many realities must there be at any given time? How do they all co-exist? Keeping this in mind, how can we ever expect to really see eye to eye with another person & be in a relationship with him/her? What if we all had to draw a “scene” from mental images only… how many renditions would there be? Can witnesses really be trusted?

- Why is it windier on bridges (than, say, flat lying areas)? I pretty sure there’s a physics theory for this… I just can’t think what.

- If sex is reasonably good the first time you have it with someone, how likely is it to be better the second time, when it may be sans the drunkenness & awkwardness of having to figure out what they don’t like? Should one-night stands like these actually be given 2 or 3 chances to gauge full potential?

- In most situations, and especially health, is it better to know, or not know? Would you rather drop dead of a disease without warning or continue to plod along allowing yourself only half the things you could do previously?

- When is it time to settle for less than the ideal (regardless of the situation)? What is the cost-benefit analysis, and what are the variables that should be considered?

- Given you could have only one in abundance, would you rather have the money or the time?

- Does privilege actually ruin us? When we cease having to use our skills to achieve something, do we tend to become the under-achieving mental/intellectual equivalents of aimless slugs? Is our drive, as a species, to acquire the most material comforts for our offspring potentially causing them more harm than good?

- What do children, being a largely negative NPV (net present value) project really provide for us aside from a well accepted and legitimized channel for our narcissism, and possibly one of the purest forms of selfishness (looking out for our own genes)?

- Given it’s normal for people to be selfish and look out for their own interests almost all the time, what causes people to be heroes? Is it just that they don’t have time to register the selfishness & think things over? Is there a higher, collective level of selfishness that is shared by the human race that supersedes the individual so that the species can not completely disappear? Does that happen in other species?

- Are humans the only species in the food chain without whom the planet could go on perfectly fine? Are we basically just a semi-intelligent virus?

- Who first looked at a pair of knickers, and a pair of stockings, both reasonably comfortable articles of clothing on their own, and sewed them together into the medieval torture contraption that is pantyhose?

- Ever wonder who picks the “feature presentation” movies for long haul flights? Is it a comedian with a macabre sense of humor, a thwarted script writer intent on indirectly torturing the potential audience s/he couldn’t have, a psychoanalyst trying to run a covert experiment to study the hand of media in complete mental breakdown, or just a true sadist (at par, perhaps, only with the inventor of pantyhose)?

- What is the psychology of boredom? Why are some people more easily bored than others? Is it wrong to be intellectually promiscuous (given there is no intent to follow through with a more conventionally understood form of cheating) – after all, can one person ever really completely satisfy another long term in this aspect?

The time has come...

...to admit that make-up would, indeed, help the cause. The following is an account of my recent foray into the land of cosmetic "help":

Those of you that know me well know that I'm not exactly an eager customer. Actually, unless it's food/booze, handbags, shoes or outerwear, I'm just not arsed to spend the time shopping. I can just see myself through the eyes of the person behind a make-up counter:

Me (Napoleon Dynamite-esque, spotting a shiny object/ bottle): "uhhh, what's THAT?"

Immaculately made up lady/ gent behind counter (with expression a mix of condescension and incredulity): "it's our revolutionary product that you merely have to smooth on, and it will foam up on its own, take away all signs of excesses that you have WRIT LARGE on your face. We've been written up in Allure [you know...that shining beacon of a magazine that has pretty much featured every product on the face of the earth if you actually counted or kept track]"

Me (no change in expression): "oh. sweet. umm... do you make chapstick [my standard term for all lip balm... I know, I know... the marketers/ advertisers have won!!]?"

Immaculately made up lady/ gent behind counter (expression changing to horror): "No! We do have a vitamin and minerals enriched gloss that plumps your lips up and rushes color to them due to the naturally stimulating action of *(insert random mineral here)*"

Me (completely uncomprehending): "ok. thanks. bye."

SO... when I decided to venture into the land of eyelash curlers, an "advanced" product, by all accounts, some friends begged and pleaded with me to not blind myself (literally?) to the possible ill-effects my clumsiness could have in this instance. One went as far as to say "You have them now. Given your lack of deftness with anything aside from lip balm, you may be without any in months. Please reconsider this mid-life crisis move".

Long story short, my stubbornness being as resolute as my lack of grace, I plunged ahead and bought an eyelash curler from Nordstrom (from a fancy Japanese brand, having heard this name bandied about at work, from the mouths of marketing ladies who KNOW these things!). Honestly, the thing looks like a torture instrument. The thought of putting it anywhere close to my eyes makes me immensely nervous. But the girl (she WAS quite young... do parents let kids wear make-up that age?) behind the counter was really nice, and resisted the eye-roll and sigh that most places might resort to when they spot you trying to hold the curler like a gun in suicide position (it's highly likely that her other job was as a tutor in a special-ed school). Now the contraption is at home, waiting patiently to be used at my brother's wedding.

Demotivators (got them off the web ages ago... don't remember to whom the credit should go)

“Oh, I thought YOU wanted to go…”

Saturday was a day of ambitious planning and poor execution. The day started out with a monumental fucking hangover from various intoxicants consumed Friday evening (must replenish milk thistle stock at home!). SU, who is staying with me for a few days (and will kill me for posting this, but what the hell), came into my room mid-morning, as she does every day, to discuss the day’s upcoming activities. In short, this was our conversation (I may have made only groaning sounds):

SU: “good morning”
Me: “hey. What’s up?”
SU: “I’m heading to eat brunch with a friend. Would you like to join us?”
Me: “who is it?”
SU: “so-and-so” (not someone I know)
Me: “no”
SU: “ok. Btw, I have taken stock of the vegetables in the kitchen today & will help you cook them this afternoon, if you want”
Me: “that’ll be nice”
SU: “ok. Let’s commence at 2:30 p.m. Then at 5, I’m meeting a friend for coffee. Bye”

Come 2:30, I’m not at home, as this seemed like a suggestion, not a plan. I am suitably admonished for it. Sweet… it’s as if I am in a relationship & don’t know it :-) I remain unfazed, as my relationship gauge normally works off the exclusivity & frequency of activities other than cooking together.

Around 6 p.m. DA and I decide to head to “opera in the ball park”… free simulcast of Il Trovatore for cultural misfits who’d rather be guzzling beer and thinking that this muzak break is ending & the baseball game starting any minute now. The real deal is on at the opera house with the blue hairs & the modern equivalents of pince-nez spectacles. Grand logistical plans are crafted.
“Let’s bus it till mission & embarcadero & then walk 1.3 miles to AT&T park”
“yeah, let’s do it. There’s a bus in 22 minutes. I’ll be on it, and at your stop 1.5 minutes later”
So we “meet” each other on the bus. A homeless person has been hitting on DA by the time I get on, and he gives her his card. No, really. We discuss buses, creepiness, life. Then the conversation veers towards the weather.
Me: “It’s become cold again today. It’ll be fucking freezing at the ball park, by the water & all. It couldn’t be nice for one more day (whine, whine… usual crap)”
DA: “Yeah, that’s why my friend with the baby bailed, I think”
Me: “Right. So who else are we meeting there?”
DA: “Nobody”
Me: “So it’s just us?”
DA: “yes”
Few seconds’ silence…
DA: “You really want to see this, right? I’m sure it’ll be nice.”
Me: “um.. no. I thought YOU wanted to see it. I only want to spend time with you.”
DA: “Should we do something else?”
Me: “Go back and chill out close to our place?”
DA: “yes”
And that’s what we did. Took the same damn bus back, and made a full circuit with the driver, for the first time in almost 8 years in SF. Lameness personified. The driver’s expression told us he thought so too. At least the evening ended with great conversation.

Bitch, please… (post dedicated to things for which I no longer have any patience)

CROSS THE FUCKING STREET ALREADY
Yes, I realize that it’s a tall task to pick your pants up from around your knees whilst clad in a puffy down jacket in the middle of a 80 degree day, keep them semi-anchored in the vicinity of your rear end with one hand, and yet continue to gesticulate sweet nothings to the homies you’re leaving behind on this side of this immeasurably wide city street. I dare underestimate neither the gravity of this urban form of conduct, nor the fact that you may need to stop halfway through the street (regardless of the color of the traffic light), ponder the state of what-the-fuck-ever, and then proceed at a glacial pace while grinning & wiggling your eyebrows at me. It’s so charming that it almost makes me regret that I have to rush to work to pay taxes that subsidize programs that allow you to do exactly this. So get out of my fucking way in a hurry or this very sequence of events you just subjected me to will be history.

STOP BEING SO RIDICULOUSLY WHOLESOME
You (female): skinny jeans, layered top look (ranging from asymmetrical cutting-edge to granny-chic), appropriately dreamy/wispy hairstyle, beret.
OR
You (male): skinny jeans, layered top look (ranging from asymmetrical cutting-edge to granny-chic), surfer dude hair OR slightly mussed up side-swept longish hair (plastic framed glasses must accompany latter).

Me: grumpy immigrant in her mid 30s with a curiosity or craving for whatever you’re hawking.

Let’s get this show on the road. Understand this basic capitalistic efficiency model: once I’ve pointed to, and asked to be given, something, don’t do a retarded-ass, belated sell attempt on me. It’s a gross waste of time. I don’t CARE that the cacao has been harvested by wood nymphs, packed by unicorns, and fair traded to you & you alone from Narnia so that I may consume this overpriced item. You have goodies. I have the required currency for this exchange to take place. Stop blinking vapidly at my apathy, and give me my change. Reserve your energy for tonight’s “saving the heart of "insert third world country here"” meet where your white guilt can be better articulated over kombucha cocktails & fluttery hand movements.

GET TO THE POINT
It can’t be easy to engage someone in conversation at bar or club. The chances of rejection & ridicule are high. Rate of return on time, effort, and financial investment is low. I get that. So, if you have managed to look past the generally disheveled appearance and stoned vacuous stare, and decided to make a move regardless, I implore you: please make it a pleasant transaction for all involved. Some of us are of a generally awkward social mindset and pretty much only come out to be with friends. This means that opportunities for conversations are likely limited, and should be dealt with efficiently, and in a manner befitting the circumstances. If it’s a place with music, chances are that it’s loud and your sparking personality may not get the air time or appreciation it deserves. So… first, declare your intent. A simple “hi, my name is so-and-so and I’d like to chat you up” should suffice. Honestly, not everyone may understand that you’re not really tapping them on the waist only to squeeze by enroute to a better dancing spot, or you don’t actually want to know if this band is on every Thursday at this location. Some folks just don’t dedicate enough brain power to this stuff. Second, keep it brief. I paid to see the band. They are why I come here almost every Thursday. Either get into this vibe with me, and we can bond, or wait till after they’re done. I can’t hear you OR the band properly while you make lame conversation about your only other Indian friend (seriously, in the bay area?! And, no, I don’t know him. There are a billion of us).

STOP TERRORIZING OTHER FOLKS USING PUBLIC TRANSPORTATION
The phone fairies: Are you the lifeline for a group of retarded chimps playing “who wants to be a millionaire” and the topic is SF streets? Are you keeping cartographer friends who are plotting the streets of SF on some continuum based on how long the bus takes to get from one block to another? Or are you simply demented and like to call out to your phone buddy the name of every single street the bus passes, interspersed with detailed discourses about issues with your ex? At the volume of 11. You are uninteresting & dull. Nothing except turning into Mary Louise Parker can compensate for this. Please keep your lackluster problems to yourself and use the phone only for periodic check ins, etc. Maybe the ex was right after all.

The profuse compliment givers (compilation from more than one object of affection): You know they’re high; they know they’re high. They’re also most likely homeless and smell like the inside of a port-a-potty. Just the sort of person you’d love to get a compliment from.

“you’re beautiful”.
“um…thanks, that’s very kind of you”.
“could you tell that I was looking at you?”.
“yes, the hairs at the back of my neck have been standing up so long they’ve become horns”

“you’re real purty… like the lady on the hair color box” (hopefully not the “before” specimen!!)
"hmm"

“you have lovely toes” (appropriate nervous tic included)

STOP DRIVING. JUST. FUCKING. STOP.
You know who you are. Get off the fucking road. Who gave you a license, for fuck’s sake?!?!?!?! Pick O-N-E lane, and drive in it. Or change fully into another lane and drive in that. This isn’t a country road and you’re not in a goddamn tractor… get a fucking clue.

Sydney

So I’m back from Australia & it was a stupendously good time. The break was essential to my sanity, and although Australia has not been on the top of list of places to visit, I’m beyond happy that I went!

Here are the key take-away points:

- Sonia & Keith seriously rock as hosts & parents. If I ever have children, that’s the attitude I wish for as a parent. I’d actually prefer to have children who are born as well behaved & lovely as Jyosna, requiring no effort on my part whatsoever, but if that’s not possible, I’ll settle for these two’s parental attitude. I miss the kids. Both of them have totally wormed their way into my heart. Sonia & I are largely convinced that Jannali, at 4 months, has more feminine wiles than the two of us put together. That kid reels you in with her coquettish smiles and, once you’re at arms length, gives you the “what’re you waiting for? Make yourself useful & pick me up, bitch” look. It works every time.

- Callum & Barry should collaborate and write a book called “eating & drinking your way through Sydney”. I had the best time hanging out with them!! Callum, sharing the enviable spot with S & K as my other Sydney host, is my male Adelle (the enormity of this compliment may escape him, though, having never met her, or seen us together). At the end of a couple of evenings together, I felt like a hyper child - overtired but over-stimulated and unable to put myself to sleep. I sleep too little as it is… if we lived in the same city, I would definitely need to alternate him with some duller/calmer friends, or some meditation.

- There’s no matching Keith’s cocktails. They kick ass. Keith is the “barefoot contessa” of mixed drinks (no comparison intended with Ina’s girth)… starting with the best ingredients, etc. etc. The best mixed drinks I’ve ever had in anyone’s home. And better than many bars.

- I did not notice if the water circles the drain clockwise or anti-clockwise.

- I am not as tall as I had previously thought. This has been a rather crushing realization.

- Nobody could explain why the equivalent of café au lait is called a “flat white”. I’d first assumed that it was the equivalent of a latte, but most places seem to do a latte AND a flat white. Weirdness.

- In most other places, one “becomes” pregnant. In Australia, one “falls” pregnant.

- The coffee shop close to work lists 2 items that nobody in the joint knows how to make.

- The dinner at Sepia ranks among the best meals consumed in my entire life. It also holds the distinction of being the only meal of my life that ended with a phone call from my mother announcing a death in the extended family.

- Sydney seems like a pretty safe city. The look & feel is a bit like SF. But the comparisons with SF have to end at the harbor & the temperature during “winter” months. For these things, Sydney kicks SF’s ass. I could probably live there (but not forever, as cocktail options are limited in most places. In fact, the mention of some liqueurs that are standard fare in SF bars could well elicit a completely befuddled look from most bartenders and customers alike). But then I can't really think of anywhere that I could live forever.

- Toasted banana bread with butter is really really good.

- “The seeker” (The Who) has been permanently ruined as a song for me. I will never again be able to listen to it without expecting accompanying plunking sounds from the guitar throughout the song and the crowd booing the band off stage after 2 minutes. Thanks, guitar hero.

- Aboriginal women are not trivial in size (I must include a disclaimer that my sample size was rather small and only consisted of the women in the Bangarra dance troupe).

- Duck tastes divine on a pizza.

- The Sydney office is the company's best office in the whole wide world because Barry’s girlfriend sends baked treats in with him twice a week or so.

- The historic (world’s steepest, supposedly) railway ride at Blue Mountains is a fantastic experience.

- I missed seeing the botanical gardens this time. It’s on my to-do list for next time. So are Melbourne & Hunter Valley.

- Apparently gin can be dry or floral. I have discovered that I prefer the floral variety over the dry. Keith is a master of comparative taste tests.

- The Indian habit of staring openly, unblinkingly, and without reserve has made its way across the seas rather smoothly & without any detriment to intensity, along with the bearers of said stares. Actual eye contact with, or any similar acknowledgment of, the object of regard is still studiously avoided, though. Another Indian heritage lovingly preserved.

- Orange curacao is not a good substitute for triple sec.

Pet Peeve #2: The power of one?

Now and again, I am confronted by a situation that is seemingly benign and ordinary, but irritates the living daylights out of me. Maybe I'm alone in feeling this, but I think not. Situation? Being single at a gathering full of couples or one half of a couple. We all know how this goes... the following questions/comments are inevitable:

- "is that (being single) a relatively new development?": W-H-Y do people ask this fucking question? Is being single the new cancer -- are they trying to ascertain how long I have left?

- "what are you looking for?": Do people really (I mean, REALLY) expect an answer to this? By the time the answer leaves your mouth, it may as well be a high pitched keening sound, for all the attention that'll be paid to it. This is largely because most people only ask that question in order to set the stage for the next statement. They're already on a mission... this is the social equivalent of the "how're you doing?" while walking away at a rapid pace, popular in the American workplace.

- "I have just the right person for you": Don't let the conversation get to this stage. You've been warned. Without fail, by the time this one is uttered, it's too late to issue the "I'm really not looking for anyone". This is the biggest lie of all, at least about 99.9% of the time, if not more. Through enough data points, I have gathered that if you fall for this one, the disaster will be two-fold:
-- you will find out what this "friend" actually thinks of you, to have set you up with an insanely boring slug. You will find it impossible to think affectionately about said friend ever again.
-- Insanely boring slugs are supremely difficult to rid oneself of. Or maybe it just seems like a lifetime.

If one is single, and comfortable with the status for the most part, it is absolutely critical that any attempt to discuss ANYTHING leading to a fix-up is nipped in the bud. Immediately, if not sooner. Examples of such topics include: discussions around potential change in housing situation (rent v. buy), holidays, families, flex hours at work, 4 door sedans, crime stats in your neighborhood, your preference for a 2 bedroom place, your age, etc. Obviously, it's not possible to avoid any and all topics...for instance: the last time I went to see a dentist, I was invited to a singles party by the dentist, even though I'm pretty sure I made only gurgling noises throughout our interaction...go figure.

On a more curious note, what is it about being single that attracts this immeasurable altruism in people one may have only just met? Isn't it ok to just be by yourself? Is it absolutely necessary to be validated in the eyes of the generalissimo by the fact that someone is in a relationship with you? And why the fuck should one have to endure random/clumsy passes simply due to being single (or risk being sulked at for ages) -- is this some sort of civic duty that I haven't heard about...an extra tax levied on the unattached? This is a (not so) mild form of harassment -- make it stop!!

Pet Peeve #1 (observations somewhat particular to my adopted country...US)

Yes, I know I haven't updated this since Jan...there's no reason for you to continue your friendly reminders, thank you. The problem is that there is too much to write, and too little. While I collect my thoughts and post what I think is communicable via the written word and my limited abilities, I will leave you with a post about a pet peeve that I just had to get out of my system.

******************

Girls/ Guys nights out

Americans are often seen excitedly planning such endeavors. However, to some, this is a concept about as confounding as the mating lives of sex-changing insects. Although it may seem that simply being chromosomically pre-disposed may qualify one for such an event, don’t be fooled… as with most other things in life, Americans like to complicate the logistics to the point of generating stress (an American favorite, as states of mind go. One just hasn’t arrived in life until one is stressed enough to beat it with yoga and transcendental meditation and thereafter pontificate about it). Much is made of whom to invite (as the pressure to ensure harmony in group dynamics are an important contribution to the stress that must be beat), and where to go. As most people living in North America will have been to one of these, or are likely to be invited at least once (or, God forbid, asked to arrange them), here are some pointers:

- Dinner is expected to be at a place a bit more upper echelon than any of the attendees would normally frequent, so as to trumpet one’s success through the ability to waste money on mediocre food and snobby service (this will later be referred to as being “an authentic Paris experience” or the like). A “risqué” touch, like cross-dressing waiters would pretty much immortalize the experience well into the set-in of Alzheimer’s.

- One is expected to dress well. As in: you can’t go as you normally would, with your normal set of friends. Girls nights out require showing some skin; guys are expected to play it cool, “hipster”, or sharp depending on the neighborhood & other attendees. Yes, deodorant is a must.

- The venue for après-food alcohol-induced obliteration cannot be the dive bar with 124 beers on tap where they know your name & preference. It has to be a glitzy spot (the newer the better, so the group can subsequently announce themselves as trendsetters) where one can be guaranteed that >60% of the population is not there for the music or the award-winning selection of alcohol, and that you will not escape without irreversible damage to your hearing.

More often than not, the ostensible point of a night out is to catch up with your friends (perplexingly, often people that you see every other week anyway), but don't let that side-track you. Very little conversation actually happens, as one is already deaf, and required to be constantly scanning the room for potential d/m-ating material. One might argue that attendees are normally individuals who already have a partner (“significant other” (SO), as Americans like to put it), possibly out on a similar night out, and cheating is one of the taboo things that today’s society seems somewhat agreed on, but the point is not that of an actual hook-up… the point is to treat the experience like a zoo visit as opposed to the wilderness. After the viewing hours are over, most will return home having felt the pleasing ego-stroke of validated hotness. Or a renewed appreciation for the snoring oaf in bed. Please note that should a member of the group be engaged by an unassociated party, one is required to stand there by their side to “support” them through the episode to the bitter end. Yawning, or attempting to bring an end to the conversation by bringing up the futility of this exchange because of current SO is an absolute no-no.
When invited to such an event, one must immediately feign extreme interest and express thanks for the invite with much enthusiasm. Follow all pointers, and at a later hour, agree with other members of the group that a particularly scruffy musician or unctuous waiter that you’d bet hadn’t showered in decades is the epitome of hotness.
For women, subsequent benefits of acquaintances acquired at such events include not being left alone at times of breakups or homesickness (blessing for some; curse for others), high attendance at bridal & baby showers (and expensive gifts to out-do each other), and potential entertainment from watching generally amusing behavior in random social settings.
Men may well acquire new wingmen, and potential helpers for the next move involving furniture.

Updating this blog

So... as I mentioned in a previous post, there were some snide comments directed towards yours truly recently regarding this blog...such as whether the blog was ever going to be updated again or it was "so 2007...". In my defense, I only just got back from Ireland (after a month) in the beginning of Jan, having eaten like a sumo wrestler readying herself for a famine during the Christmas season. By the time I digested all that food, something more punishing was around the corner: the last week and a half has been consumed by "hosting" the folks in town for our annual kickoff...these poor, mis-guided souls had to be escorted and steered away from the soul-sucking tourist traps, and who better for that daunting task than someone with such a strong sense of community and self-sacrifice? It was a job I took on with a legendary sense of responsibility, and my liver has since imploded. The economy, however, has been given a boost of unprecedented proportions, with hoards of Europeans tearing through shops, play money in hand (US$ for those subsisting in middle earth), buying everything in sight. The other evening, DB asked me if this indeed was my job or I actually did something for the company aside from this... har har...he's just the quintessence of Irish wit sometimes, that boy.
Truth be told, I'd been a bit of a wallowing-in-self-pity, moany bitch lately, what with the job situation and all. Then I caught up with a good friend recently with whom I hadn't exchanged 15 full sentences since I left for my Ireland assignment. His infant daughter (less than a year) has a tumor in her eye and is undergoing chemotherapy for the same. I can't even begin to imagine what this family is going through...now I feel like an over-privileged brat who has the luxury to complain about being granted one less company-paid perk and doesn't realize how lucky she is (and I'm the worst, really, because I often like to think I am far more evolved in these matters than I am :-) ). Hopefully, most of you reading this blog will take the time to do the same: appreciate our good fortune (till our parents stop sending the checks, anyway), and our health (and especially, by god, our industrial strength livers).
Right then...stay warm, and I'll update the blog with some recent happenings soon.

December 2007 - III

Christmas eve & Christmas

DB called over on Christmas eve with gifts (“so I wouldn’t feel left out over Christmas”), which was such an incredibly thoughtful thing to do that I was confused regarding his gender for a few seconds (didn’t last long, thankfully for us). What’s even better is the fact that these were all gifts that I just LOVED. We all know how it is with Christmas gifts… I mean, which one of us is really going to put that porcelain cat to use, hmm?... well, these have been used a lot since being received – the best gauge, in my opinion, for how much they are liked/ appreciated. Dinner was at TG’s place with a couple of his friends…Indian food (the preparation of which almost killed them with coughing fits… brave lot, these Irish, for being willing to ingest that very same food after that).

For Christmas, I guilted TG into inviting me to his family home for dinner and revelries with the family (I swear, CB has noted that I have acquired the guilt-inducing skills of a jewish mother (she’d know)). He is one of seven siblings, which in itself is stupefying to me. That they were all going to be there with families in tow was an epic event I could simply not have missed. As TG put it, “there’s always place for one more… noone’ll even notice you’re there”. The day started out with gifts being unwrapped by TG’s daughter, amid excited squeals and giggles. After a breakfast of eggs florentine whipped up by TG (this is the LIFE!), the young’un & I were bundled into the car and transported to the family home. After we had each consumed enough food for a small nation, we said our goodbyes, and off we went. It was an incredibly fun time, and I was invited back “anytime” (an invitation I totally intend to take them up on, little do they know!).

December 2007 - II

Business meeting in Germany

So off I go in Dec for a meeting in the back arse of nowhere in Germany. No, I mean it… this was no Berlin or Frankfurt. A fine time, nonetheless, because of the folks I was out to meet… they were great company, and I was brought around to a local winery (bought 12 bottles of good riesling… more on that later), the Mannheim Christmas market for what is possibly one of my favorite Christmas related things: gluhwein (mulled wine), a sumptuous meal in a non-tourist spot and loads of strong German beer.
But the excitement only begins after I crash face-down in the hotel. OF COURSE I don’t wake up when I intended to, because the alarm was set for 7 PM instead of AM. So there was a general rush to catch the train to get back to Frankfurt to catch the flight to Dublin. Now bear in mind that while I traveled very light TO Germany (1 small bag & 1 laptop), I now have an additional 12 bottles of wine (weighing 18 kgs) to take back. Basically, from now, pretty much every step, every stair, and every mini-sprint has that weight in addition to everything else and my own tubby self. And also keep in mind my fitness level (pathetic). In my haste, I get on the wrong train – this was not the fast ICE train that takes only 30 mins… this was the slow-ass local one that stops at EVERY damn podunk town on the way to Frankfurt. The ticket collector comes by and informs me that I am on the wrong train… this is not the ICE. Umm… no shit, Sherlock… I could've guessed that from the fact that the cows are keeping pace with us, for god’s sake. I ask him if I can make it in for my flight, which leaves in about 2 hours, and the man just freaks. He launches into a hysterical lecture of some sort in German, glancing at his watch repeatedly and gesturing in a rather maniacal fashion (all this makes him seem like the energizer bunny, but powered by stress instead of Ni-Cd or whatever... there was head clutching and hand wringing involved... truthfully, I hadn't thought Germans capable of such drama. Live and learn, eh?). Anyway, I gather from the hysterics that the answer is “no”. I imagine that in true German style, he simply cannot fathom how I'm not already at the airport, all checked hours in advance. By now he has managed to give me a panic attack as well… (normally not an easy feat when it comes to me & travel related matters)...I am having visions of spending days on this train as we go from village to village before getting to Frankfurt and having to eat my handbag with sauerkraut for meals, washing it down with lukewarm riesling. In the midst of this, I reckon he realizes that my blank stare could mean that I don’t speak German. He races off into the next compartment… at this time, I figure I’ll get there when I get there, and what’s the point in getting frown lines over this? But lo and behold, he’s back with a young lady in tow. She doesn’t speak very good English, but definitely enough to explain to me that I am screwed. He hands me off to her after explaining all my options to her. No, I won’t get to Frankfurt airport in time (1 hr in advance)… in fact, I won’t even get to Frankfurt city by then. Oh, and I have to change trains to get to the airport. Great.

This girl then proceeds to:
- sit with me throughout the journey in case I have any questions
- offer me the use of her phone to change tickets (Expedia is called and they mention it’s too late to change tickets if the flight is in less than 2 hours… I should do this at the airport…also keep this trivia in mind for later)
- give me her contact information in case I ever need help when I am in the area again!!!
- make me get off at the same stop as her, carries half my stuff, and deposits me on the right platform to catch the train to the airport. She asks another girl at the stop to make sure I make it to the airport, and the other girl agrees (!), picks up half my stuff as instructed by girl#1 and prods me to get off at the right stop.

This is just astounding to me… simply AMAZING… I am humbled by such genuine helpfulness!! Several other people offer to help carry things, but I am simply too embarrassed by now to put any more people through any trouble. I manage to run/walk/crawl to the Aer Lingus counter (miraculously, 30 mins before the flight) and choke out my destination. Imagine my surprise when the lady behind the counter says “you’re not on the 10:30 a.m. flight…you’re booked on the 8 p.m. flight. No, we don’t do standby, sorry. Next!” (HOW could Expedia not have told me this earlier??) So now I have half a day to hang around. I go to the company’s Frankfurt office to get some work done, or browse the internet. At the office, I meet some more interesting people… such as the IT manager, a super sweet guy who also happens to be an uber-geek. The following are the highlights of the interaction with him:

Him: please can I take a look at your laptop for a minute?
Me (thinking I had accidentally brought in a virus in or something) yes, of course
He simply looks at it and asked which one it is. I tell him the model number.
Him: "ah... you are a manager position? In the US?"
Me (thoroughly perplexed): "um.. yes"
Him: "I see"
He then goes on to tell me that they have different laptops for different position levels in that office!!!

He and I then have this awkward little chat about computers and why he thinks that IBM laptops suck now that Lenovo has bought them, etc – to the point of insisting that “ze plastic is not even feeling that good". That I was boggled by this attention to work laptop details would be an understatement. I felt inadequate that I had nothing to add to feed this passion… I could only manage to squeak out something about bad battery life… it seemed to work, and he went on to tell me AT LENGTH how to deal with it (including taking me to his office to show me a program used to manage battery power). Then he stopped by a bit later and said, "also you could change the battery". I could only blink vapidly in response, once again surprised at the fact that someone would actually care a whit about my petty woes. Friendly lot in that office...I may go back for a visit after all.