It's Time For The Gloves To Come Off

You can have too much of a good thing. Now that winter in Boston is entering its fifth month, I am convinced of that.

Did I say something recently about the cold, invigorating air? Sure it's invigorating. Just like dozens of small knives slicing into your face.

Winter is retreating, and it's downright ugly. The dense pile of snow that covered everything for months has now turned into treacherous slabs of ice. I risk a fracture with every step when I take the dog out for her walk. She, of course, continues to be blithely oblivious to her surroundings. She can only focus on one stimulus at a time, I think, and the scent of squirrel blots out the cold for her. I'm not so lucky. I am fully capable of noticing multiple stimuli, and so I feel the cold in every part of my body.

It's tiresome to wear layer on layer of clothes even to step outside for a few minutes. I long for summer, when outdoor wear will again mean t-shirts and shorts. I'm desperate to put away the fleece-lined gloves, the down-filled jacket, and the beanie hat. Especially the beanie hat. It's such a ghastly thing to wear. Beanies are great for women, they make them look willowy and graceful. But if you're male and you wear a beanie, all it does is make your head look round.

But it's not my fashion sense that's protesting, it's my common sense! This interminable winter is not what humans were designed to endure. I'm told I should be grateful that the Boston winter is bright and sunny, unlike the dreary grey that many other places experience. Well, that does not make me feel any better. Cold and bright is still cold, and Boston gives the word 'cold' a depth of bitter meaning that few other places can impart.

These were the thoughts that went through my mind this morning as I took the dog for a walk again. It was just a bit warmer than days past. The slanting rays of the rising sun glanced off the ice-plated ground, giving it a faint gold sheen. Once again I was arrested by how pretty it all looked.

Then, without warning, I started sliding slowly and helplessly down the sloping, iced-over path. And in that moment I knew a truth that would not be denied. Winter sucks!!!

Look Before You Hit The "Start" Button

Florida is a lucky state. The balmy weather here casts all things in a favourable light. Under a warm breeze, even the certifiably insane seems pleasantly eccentric.

And eccentricity is certainly abundant here. You can find it at the local laundromat. The other day I was about to toss some clothes into the dryer when I happened to read the instructions on the front of the machine:
Step 1: Open door
Step 2: Check for small children and animals
Step 3: Set temperature
.....

Check for small children and animals? In a tumble dryer!?!?!?!?

But perhaps that instruction does make sense. If you’re a small child trying to escape from an alligator, the dryer might well be the safest place to crawl into.

And if you are a small child in Florida, the idea that you might need to hide from an alligator is not very far-fetched. The biggest alligator on record in the state was a 24-foot monster, and it was found inside a lady’s kitchen. The authorities suspected that the lady had been feeding the reptile, so they put the animal down.

And you know what, I am fully prepared to believe that someone would be nutty enough to feed a 24-foot alligator as if it was just another fluffy household pet, like a guinea pig or a bunny rabbit. Earlier this week we were at the Everglades national park, when a fellow tourist decided to stroke a passing alligator on its tail. As if that’s not crazy enough, our tram driver told us of an incident when someone actually placed their baby on top of an alligator to pose for a photograph!

Now it is true that after a couple of hours in the national park you've seen so many alligators that they seem as commonplace as houseflies. If, that is, houseflies were armed with two feet of vicious teeth running down either side of their jaw. Alligators are said to have brains the size of a walnut, but even they know better than to leave their young to the mercies of their own kind.

But that’s Florida for you. Warm. Relaxed. Peopled with alligator-stroking weirdos who continually misplace children and small dogs inside household appliances.

And you know what? I could live here. If only they didn't have those pesky hurricanes...

Sun, Palms, and a Dash of Triple Sec

It wasn't exactly love at first sight. It took me an entire half-hour before I was smitten by Miami Beach.

It began in the morning when I looked out of my hotel window at acres of sand fronting endless miles of rich blue Atlantic Ocean. Soon afterwards I went down to get some coffee and breakfast pastries. I had walked a hundred yards or so when I abruptly realized that I was walking twice as fast as anyone else. I slowed down, looked around, and with a contented sigh I let myself slip back into island culture.

And make no mistake, Miami Beach is an island culture. It has the veneer of designer labels, plastic surgery and overdone suntans. But it also has the lilting sounds of Spanish, English and French, all spoken in Caribbean accents. We heard them all in good measure when we went for a stroll on the promenade at South Beach. And we obeyed their mingled subliminal message to relax, relax, relax.

Yes, we were at the South Beach, known for its bods and it's low-carb rival to the Atkins Diet. Sure enough, we saw plenty of bulked-up men with bare chests as they peacock-stepped with their very tiny dogs. It was just a little less camp than watching The Birdcage, but it was every bit as delightful. There were enough and more bikini-babes as well, and my wife and I soon tired of ticking off different kinds of plastic surgery.

We were rapidly catching the infectious feel of the place. How could we resist, when we were walking in front of the most beautiful buildings I've seen in America? We walked past one magnificent Art Deco building after another. Hints of Aztec motifs mingled with a Spanish aesthetic to create buildings with a delicate but casual grace. Palm trees set off their pastel colours to perfection. Looking at those buildings, it was only too easy to imagine them peopled with smiling, unselfconsciously stylish men and women who knew that life is meant to be savoured in the company of friends.

As we continued to explore it became clear that not all the dogs here are Hollywood miniatures. On the contrary, those not owned by the Liberace set seem genetically enhanced. I saw a Bassett Hound the size of a pig, and a Golden retriever as big as a little pony. I did not see any felines, but I bet a Miamese cat could eat a Siamese cat for breakfast and still have room left over for some empanadas and croquetas.

Perhaps the thing that I liked most of all, the thing that made me feel most at home, was the sound of music everywhere. From the cars cruising past broadcasting urban rhythms in English and Spanish, to the street musicians trying to parlay their talent into tips. This is a city that feels like it never forgot to disco. The songs of Donna Summer and Miami Sound Machine mingle on the streets. And at lunch we had to wait for several minutes for the waiter to take our credit card because he was busy dancing with one of the waitresses. We didn't mind; the Margharitas were exquisite.

Homecoming

I know, I've been very silent. I was on a 2-week business trip that ended today. As with all such trips, the days immediately preceding it were manic, to put it mildly. So for the past month there's been little time to think clear thoughts, let alone write them down.

But now I am back home. Mentally I roll the word 'home' over my tongue a few times. After 6 months of living here it seems that Boston has finally become home, if only for a time.

I felt it the moment I got off the plane. The smell of burnt Colombian coffee and freshly fried hash browns drifted through the corridors. I guess that is the smell of mornings now.

I stepped outside to get a taxi; this time I did not reel back at the exposure to the winter air, even though I had just returned from balmy Mumbai. There was a time when I would have said that my face was blasted by a gust of dry, freezing air. But now I would tell you that I felt invigorated by the sharp, robust breeze. Cold, but invigorated nontheless!

The grimy grey snowbanks by the roadsides seemed natural now, not regrettably ugly. And it was only natural that the taxi driver would have a vague African accent.

It's nice to sit on the staircase landing in my drawing room and munch on warm buttered toast. It's nice to look out at the sun shining on the deck outside, and to imagine how nice it will be sit out there again in a couple of months.

Most of all, it's nice to come home to the waiting hugs.

Say What?

I used to be fascinated by antagonyms because I thought they were extremely rare. An antagonym, in case you're wondering, is a word with 2 meanings which are the opposite of each other.

(An example is "cleave" which can mean "stick to" or it can mean "split apart". And in in case you were not wondering what an antagonym is then you either lack a sense of curiosity or you should be teaching post-graduate classes on the English language.)

I have now found that antagonyms are remarkably commonplace in the corporate world. I collected several in the course of a single seven-hour meeting on Monday.

"I may be wrong, but..."
While this seems to be a humble admission by the speaker that he is not omniscient, what it really means is this: "You would like to think that I am wrong. But I'm right. I am more right than you will ever be. I am more right than you ever dreamed of being. In fact I am so very right that I make Mussolini look like Marx. You on the other hand, are wrong. Live with it. Or not. I don't care, because you're wrong and you don't matter."

"I'm not saying this is wrong but..."
"... that is only because I have chosen to magnanimously care about your feelings for the next seven seconds. And then, after this decent pause, I will proceed to tell you in excruciating detail that you are more wrong than Britney Spears covering a Joan Jett song. The extent of your wrongness is an embarassment to you, your colleagues, your nation, and the entire ecosystem in which you occupy an insignificant yet excessive space."

"I don't know how I feel about that".
"I know exactly how I feel like that. I feel a nauseating mixture of contempt, impatience, profound dissatisfaction, and acid reflux. And by the way, you're an idiot".

"Thanks for your help."
"No thanks to your help."

"Have a good day."
"Don't."

Antagonym's are lovely, but like a spicy meal they are full of sensory stimulation and are best followed by the soothing dessert of a tortured metaphor. Luckily for me, my marathon meeting on Monday ended with an all-time classic. And I quote...

"I'm really happy that we got on the train that got us here, because now we know where our bus is going."

Amen.

It's All About The Mystery

The population of Cupertino, California reminds me of a five-star hotel in Bangalore. There are a few Asians. There are heaps of Indian software engineers. And there are a small number of caucasian Americans who look like they don't really belong here.

On weekends these Indians take turns bringing their families (or, in the case of my hosts, their college buddies) to The Mystery Spot. The primary attraction of this place is that they have a canteen (isn't the word "canteen" redolent with the smell of the British Raj?) which sells hot Indian food. For $1 you can pop a plate of dal-rice or a besan laddoo. A close second to the canteen in its power to draw in the Indian crowds is the Mystery Spot itself.

This is a tourist attraction crafted with delightful cleverness. The claim is that in this place space is warped and gravity works erratically. Strange forces push at you. Small round objects roll up a slope. Tall people shrink. And there is not a sngle mirror or smoke machine in sight. The enthusiastic tour guides demonstrate these unique phenomena and spin theories of carbon dioxide vents and magnetic field anomalies. The Indian software engineers take it all in silently with keen eyes and furrowed brows. If you strain very hard you can hear their brains humming gently as they try to work out the real secret that makes the magic trick work.

The Mystery Spot is a shining example of the American talent for infusing drama and fun into anything. Domestic air travel is a contrary instance of them sucking all the excitement out of an experience that used to be all about pleasure and adventure. I have remarked before about the bigness of the USA. The distance from Boston to San Francisco is about the same as that from Boston to London, and so the flight takes about the same amount of time. The resemblance ends there.

I don't like being asked to pay for every single bag I want to check in, regardless of weight. I hate undressing for the security checks. The whole ritual of removing my jacket, belt and shoes and then putting them back on is inconvenient and undignified. I'm thinking of buying a velcro traveling suit that I can unfasten with a single sweeping gesture, like one of the male dancers in The Full Monty.

I do like to get my meal served on a tray with each individual item of food clevely pacakaged in its own little receptacle; but on my US Airways flight I had to make do with a "buy your food on board" service. When in mid-flight a shaggy-haired and overweight guy in an indeterminate steel-grey uniform tapped me on the shoulder I was first startled and then baffled. I tried to work out whether he was a steward or a pilot while he made small talk about the t-shirt I was wearing. In my mind I was wondering whether we would not all be better off if he would just go back to flying a plane or selling pretzels to passengers.

I am convinced that the best way to travel in this country is by road. That way you can skid along a coastal highway and stop occasionally to look out over the Pacific. And you can bend down to gape at the seaweed washed up on a rocky beach. Giant, 15-foot stalks of seaweed as thick as a man's arm.

That's the thing that redeems this country for the traveler: they screw up their airlines like noone else but then they make up for it by nonchalantly tossing unique oddities at you when you least expect them. There's always the chance of something new just around the next bend in the road. Now if I could only find the store where they sell those velcro suits...

Point That Bottle Away From Me!

"Here, let me open that. Of course it's easy. I'll just..."
(pop!!!)
 "...Oh my eye! I'm blind!!!!"

How many champagne-swilling morons are there in the US? About 1500. I know that because the American Academy of Opthalmology recently announced that every year one and a half thousand people suffer cork-related eye injuries. You have to wonder about these people. What kind of jackass points a projectile weapon at themselves before pulling the trigger? And just how idle do you have to be to keep count of all these suicidal projectile-pointers?

I'm surprised that none of them have yet made it to the Darwin Awards.

For those who don't know, and can't be bothered to follow the link, the Darwin Awards are a celebration of those who did the human race a favour by removing themselves from the gene pool through sheer spectacular stupidity. Unfortunately for our species, the eye is not a reproductive organ, notwithstanding the fifteen hundred or so people who annually sheepishly confess "I accidentally %@^&ed my own eye with a cork". If it were, then their numbers would have steadily been culled at every Christmas party, every wedding, and at the end of every motor sports event. As it stands, though, they remain monocularly capable of perpetuating the existence of their own kind.

Our only hope is that one day they will all join the NRA and start cleaning their handguns.