Not Deep

Insincere people
who live in north Virgina:
that's the shallow South.

Revolution?

Visiting Boston?
Heads up: the Revolution
Was a civil war.

Five for Deliquency / In the D.C. Metro

His shirt displayed words.
Big letters: "Free hugs" it read.
On both front and back.

I followed this kid
up the old escalator.
I climbed to his step.

"How much are hugs, man?"
"Huh?" He blinked, confused. Then, snap!
"Oh! They're free! All right!"

We hugged each other,
less awkwardly than you'd think.
Temporary friends.

(This moment of life
Is proudly brought to you by
Cotton-poly blend.)

Spaces

Outside of cities
There are spaces between things.
There's much more nothing.

Das Roter Stier

Guess where Red Bull's from.
You'd think America, right?
Nope. It's Austria.

Found in Translation - Part 3

There's nothing super-wrong about this, grammar-wise (which is more than I can say for this sentence), but the enterprising individual or individuals who decided to market this gold mine phrase forgot that idioms don't always survive translation.



At first I assumed that "angle" was a misspelling of 'angel', but since I don't know what treating someone "like potato" means (not "a potato", mind you, just "potato"), I'm willing to admit that calling someone your angle means something that I don't know about. Perhaps it is the antithesis of potato.

Found in Translation - Part 2 (T-Shirt Edition)

The next best thing to tattooing a foreign language upon your flesh is the less permanent option of wearing a shirt that bears said language. Bonus points if you know what the shirt says.

I'm pretty sure these people had no idea.

But they were usually happy to pose for a picture. Usually.*





These matching shirts read, "Harry Potter Wizard". Trying to connect with another culture via the hit book series, I held up my camera, pointed to their shirts, and said, "Harry Potter!" They did not know what I was talking about. Or if they did, they didn't act like it. Maybe the boy wizard pronounces his name differently in China.



Ah, the Union Jack. A symbol of Britain and a beacon of the English language the world over. Especially in New York.



These girls were nice and wanted to take a picture of/with us. So we returned the compliment. Except we sort of did it because of the taller girl's inspirational shirt, which I could only assume was meant to encourage the next generation of Picassos and Monets.



*It may seem odd that I have a bunch of pictures of Chinese people whom I don't know. It is not strange. In China, and especially when we were in Beijing - during a national holiday - it was not uncommon for people to ask to take our picture. Many of them were tourists themselves, not from big coastal cities and therefore not used to seeing Westerners. My height and Lindsay's blond hair were interesting enough to snap a photo. After a few hours, we became used to this. So it wasn't odd for me to start asking to take photos of people I found interesting. More on this in an upcoming post.

Found in Translation - Part 1

Please do not deny the following assumption:

You have at least one friend who has a tattoo of a Chinese and/or other Asian character.

Yes? Yes. Now, it might not just be a character. It might be two. Or it might even have the English "translation" underneath it. Something like honor, or power, or love, or some combination of characters that your friend insists mean harmony or balance or stoic warrior or something.

But does your friend speak or read or even understand Chinese? No, he does not. He just thinks it looks "fierce" on his arm.

I discovered that this phenomenon is not limited to Western culture. It exists in China, too. But not on skin. On t-shirts, mostly. And magnets and some bumper stickers.

When I was in China this fall, I took pictures of these things. I will post them until I run out. They are found in translation. Get it? Because I found them and they are translations? And it's like that movie but the opposite? Enjoy!

"It"

Victor Westbury
never left home without it.
(“It” being his gun.)

Desert Island

Are there any more
Desert islands in the world?
(I think they’re fiction.)

Ghost Hunters International: Spreading American Cultural Imperialism to the Dead

Channel surfing has become a dying art, I think. Rarely do I cycle through channels looking for something interesting. I just read the program titles after I press 'guide' on my remote. This is progress, but it comes with a price: it minimizes serendipitous discoveries. I don't really watch something accidentally anymore.

In my living room, anyway.

My bedroom TV doesn't have a cable box. It's just hard-wired to the cable. So the only way to find a show is by surfing through the channels, up and down until I find something interesting.

This is how I recently watched about four minutes of Ghost Hunters International. Apparently this is either a spinoff (like Fraiser) or a new take on the original show (like The Suite Life On Deck), which I think consisted of a group of American ghost hunters hunting ghosts in America. Now they've branched out beyond the borders of the U.S. of A. Who you gonna call? Not somebody without a passport, that's for sure.

The four minutes I caught saw the hunters in a castle in Italy. It was night (because why would a ghost be around during the day?). They had night vision and recording equipment. This is the kind of stuff they would say:

Guy: If there is a presence here, let us know. Make a noise or sound.

Then they would be quiet and listen. After a while, the microphones would pick up some tiny bump or something. And in a 500 year old castle in the middle of the night, what else could that be but a ghost?

This was when I started to suspect the title of the show was misleading. These people were not hunters. They had a bunch of recording stuff and cameras and night vision, but I saw zero traps or weapons of any kind. Hunting? At best they were catch-and-release hunters. And that's generous. They weren't really even trying to catch. They were trying to see or talk. Supernatural bird watchers. Or journalists. (But the interview would make for a pretty boring article. "Are you in here, Mr. Marconi?" asked seventeen times in a row with no response is not exactly a hard-hitting effort from the fourth estate.)

This was almost the end of my time on this channel. But then the show cut to another part of the castle. Two new people were "hunting" the ghost of a girl who had died there. Turns out she had refused to marry a man she did not love, so as punishment her wealthy family encased her in a wall and left her there to die, Cask of Amontillado-style. Intriguing.

So I watched. And this is what they said, almost prayer-like:

Guy: We know you're in here, Louisa.
Girl: We know you died a horrible death. And it wasn't your fault.
Guy: We know your love was so strong that your spirit is still here. Give us a sign, a noise, a sound. Something that tells us you're listening.

No response. It seemed a lost cause.

And then a thought occurred. Maybe these ghost "hunters" are good at their job. Maybe they're experts at finding and communicating with ghosts. Their only sin is stereotypical American ethnocentricity when traveling abroad. Think about it. Why would a ghost girl from 1500s Tuscany UNDERSTAND ENGLISH?!

I pictured her floating in the corner, watching these two imploring in a foreign tongue, longing for some human interaction. And just shaking her head, her arms held aloft. Non capisco! Non capisco! She was probably crying.

Let this be a lesson, non-American ghosts. If you really want to address your unfinished business, sign up for an ESL class.

The Calming Power of Music

I've talked about my trip to L.A. last December, but I didn't touch on how I felt when I arrived. Here's an account of how nervous I was, and how I was able to get over it.

---

I hopped off the plane at LAX. I had dressed in layers, because L.A.'s a desert and it can look warm but get pretty cool at night. So I was wearing a cardigan. Even in the airport I could see that my dream L.A., the L.A. I had built up in my head as this perfect marriage between art and commerce, wasn't meshing with the reality. Plastic women and suntanned guys everywhere. It seemed like everyone was obsessed with fame and excess. I have to say, I wasn't sure I'd fit in.

I jumped in a cab. We drove along for a while, and it felt like it was the first time I'd been to L.A. Sort of for no reason, I looked to my right. There, out the window on a familiar hillside was the Hollywood sign. It was all so crazy. Under the metaphorical shadow of that sign, everyone I saw seemed so famous.

By this time my stomach was in knots. I found myself homesick, which I never am. I was missing everywhere I'd ever lived. New York, Michigan, St. Louis. I'd never felt pressure in any of those places. Now I was feeling way too much pressure. I was so nervous. Then something happened that I wasn't ready for. The taxi man (that's what he called himself; he felt cabbie was demeaning) turned on the radio. And a Jay-Z song was on. On the radio, just like that. A Jay-Z song was on. A Jay-Z song. Was. On.

Well, that's just what I needed to hear. It was my song! The song I listen to whenever I feel stressed or pressured or actually when I just want to hear a good tune. The taxi man must have thought I was crazy: I put my hands up. Hey, they were playing my song! The butterflies in my stomach flew away. I was nodding my head. Moving my hips. (Which was hard to do while seated in the back of a cab.) But I had my hands up. And they were playing my song. I knew it was going to be okay. It felt like all those places I had ever lived in were sort of the same as this new strange place I was in. Sure, it was different, but anywhere I was, I could hear my song. These disparate places were all part of America. Wherever I was when I celebrated my song, it was always one thing: a party in the U.S.A. I'll say it again. A party in the U.S.A.

Well, when I actually got to the Disney offices for the meet and greet, I felt like everyone was looking at me. I imagined they were thinking something like, "Who's that guy with the rockin' tie? He's gotta be from out of town." In retrospect, they were right. Wearing a tie branded me as an outsider. But what could I do? It was hard without my friends around me. This definitely wasn't a New York party. I knew because all I saw were Top-Siders. I guess I never got the memo.

Because of this wardrobe disconnect, my stomach started its old nervous routine. Twisting in knots. To make matters worse, I started thinking about my couch and how nice it would be to just lounge around with Lindsay. I was homesick again. The pressure! I had to meet people and at the same time look competent and interesting. I was so nervous. But the DJ there must have read my mind. Just when I thought I couldn't feel any worse, he dropped my favorite tune! (Which is different from my song. My favorite tune is the one I would pick if I could only listen to one song for the rest of my life.) Yep! A Britney song was on! A Britney song was on. A Britney song was on!

So right there at the mixer, in front of everyone, I put my hands up. They were playing my (other) song! Those pesky butterflies flew away. I was nodding my head, like - yeah - like I was in the cab. And moving my hips like - yeah - like I was in the cab. (But it was easier here, because I was standing.) I wonder what the other people were thinking. But I had my hands up and they were playing my song, so I didn't care what anyone thought. I knew I was going to be okay. It didn't matter that it was an L.A. party. I imagined the same party was going on in New York at the same time. I imagined it spanned the whole country. It was a party in the U.S.A. Yeah! A party in the U.S.A.!

But sometimes that week, when I was alone and driving in my rental car, I felt like just giving up and heading home early. Like hopping on a flight back to my hometown that night. Something stopped me every time, though. Every time. I'd flick through the radio, and guess what? I'd find a DJ playing my song(s)! And I'd feel all right.

Just picture me, alone in my rental car with no one watching. I put my hands up! They're playing my song! The butterflies fly away. Nodding my head like, yeah. Moving my hips like, yeah. I put my hands up! They're playing my song, and I know I'm gonna be okay. Yeah! It's a party in the USA. Yeah, it's a party in the USA!

Monosyllabic

There is only one
monosyllabic state name.
Can you guess which? ______.

Foreign Food Roundup (3 of 3): McAdventures

Vincent Vega wasn’t just a-whistling Dixie when he expounded upon the virtues of a trip to another country’s McDonald's. But sometimes those little differences at De Gouden Bogen take a back seat to the bigger ones.

I’ll start little and work my way up.

1.

That big fella in the middle there is the NYCrispy, native to Spain. The crispy part comes from fried onion bits in the sandwich, fried onion specks on the bun, fried bacon strips in the sandwich, and tiny fried bacon cubes on the bun. What does the NYCrispy have to do with New York? I have no idea. But it doesn’t matter. Any time you can find a way to double-bacon your sandwich, you get a pass on what you name it. It could have been called the NYCrystalmeth for all I cared.

2.

This is a McFarm. Nestled snugly on a bed of soft bun and under a blanket of lettuce, tomato, onion, and cheese was a delicious patty of...meat. Because I don’t speak Greek (we found this edible mystery in Athens), I don’t know if what I ate was pig, lamb, goat, sheep, cow, chicken, or some unholy combination thereof. But anything goes well with fries (how are McDonald's fries so consistent everywhere?) and Coke, and if I could speak Greek I’d only have asked about the animal out of curiosity. It did what all McDonald's food is supposed to do: fill you with empty sustenance and a mild sense of regret.

3.

Forget retail marijuana and storefront prostitution. What Amsterdam should really start regulating is these crazy deep fried balls. What are they filled with? Sausage and gravy? Cheese and mushrooms? Some sort of snail? No one knows! Actually, I'm sure many people know what's in them. It's not hard to learn. All you have to do is speak or read Dutch. Which I don't. Sigh. That’s what I get for growing up in a giant country where you only need to speak one language.

Spanish.

Adios, amigos!

Foreign Food Roundup (2 of 3): Pulpo

We ordered this to be adventurous. Sort of like a dare. We didn’t expect it to be good. Grilled, the outside is like crispy chicken skin. The inside is firm, kind of like swordfish. I can't believe we ate the whole thing.









Next: McFarm and the NYCrispy

Foreign Food Roundup (1 of 3): Soft Drinks

Judging from my blog entries, it might seem like all I ate in Europe was potato chips and candy bars. And not very often, at that. Not true, friends. In fact I ate many other things. I’ll share a few highlights, for those of you who are into that sort of thing. Today we’ll have a look at all the different times I enjoyed Coca-Cola Classic (which is the easiest thing to order -- everyone everywhere calls it Coke). Also I'll throw in some non-Coke soft drinks for good measure.

Copenhagen:



On a Maltese bus:



On a Maltese beach:



Spanish soft drink (with the famous ham chips):



Tunisian Coca-Cola and Tunisian apple soft drink:



Next: pulpo.

Diamonds and Other Valuables

Diamonds are generally expensive. Also they’re the de facto official ring of marriage engagements (at least in America). It’s a good niche to have. Almost half the people in the U.S. get married, and many of them do it more than once. But why diamonds?

In my wholly unscientific process of guessing and armchair researching, I have arrived at two main reasons. First, compared to other rocks, diamonds are pretty rare. Second, people want them. A lot of people want them. (Because the diamonds look pretty and/or they have practical uses. Like for cat burglars to cut perfectly round holes in museum windows.) And these people will give a lot of money to other people in exchange for diamonds.

I doubt we’d care so much about diamonds if they were as common as granite or sandstone. If the gravel on the road to Grandma’s house were made of thousands of little diamonds, would you want to display one of them on your finger?

No, you would not. If say you would, you’re either a liar or a jerk or perhaps a practitioner of surrealist art. (All immediate grounds for ignoring.)

I have found something else that is both rare and in high demand. But it’s only rare in certain places. In other places, it’s quite ubiquitous.

Foreign candy.

Also foreign soft drinks.

I’m a big fan. I suspect I only like foreign candy and soft drinks because to me they are rare. Now, I don’t eat much candy at home. But something about sipping from a glass bottle of Coke in Italy or chewing on some crazy chili-strawberry gummi straw in Mexico (What?! It’s sweet and spicy?!) really gets me going. It’s a rare occurrence for me, so I value it more than I would if I could buy this junk Stateside. (In which case I’d probably never touch it. Unless I were some sort of surrealist.)

For the second half of September, I’ll be in Europe. But don’t worry. ELR will not go dark. I intend to post highlights of my two-week foray into basse cuisine. I’ll give the location and what I eat or drink. Keep an eye out for my selections at your local store. But if you find any of them, don’t tell me. If I know that a treat is easily obtained in my own country, I’ll stop sampling it abroad. Don’t ruin it for me.

Name Withheld

Lindsay returned to her hotel room in Spencer, Iowa, to find this note: