Collective Biking

I stood waiting on a train platform a few years ago when another man walked up pushing a bike that he parked next to mine. I glanced at his Frankenstein of a bike, which was pieced together from many others. Nothing matched on it, the department store components showed their age, the tires had little tread, and the seat was split. I thought it would fall apart any moment.

My commuter bike, on the other hand, was less than a year old. I’d purchased it overseas and imported it myself. It wasn’t a high-end bike, but had decent components and a nice front suspension, hydraulic brakes, aluminum frame, and a good luggage rack. It worked great for my all-season commuting needs and I really liked it. I sort of wanted to scoot it away from this other low-life bike—like the rust spots might be contagious.

The bike’s owner wore shabby clothes, he had long hair and an unshaven face. And of course, he immediately started talking with me.

“Check out this new bike I just got.”

That raised my eyebrows a bit. I wondered where he’d stolen it from.

He continued. “I went over to the Fourth Street Clinic. They got doctors that volunteer there and one looked at my sore back. He said it’s not bad, I just need to do some exercises. Then when I told him I couldn’t find a job because I got no transportation, he wrote me a prescription for a new bike. Man, I didn’t even know they could do that.”

I hadn’t heard of that either.

“So I went down to the Bicycle Collective and they gave me this—for free! Can you believe that? They put these bikes together to help out people like me. Now I can get to the train easier and ride my bike to job interviews. Man, this whole day changed my life!”

I suddenly had a different appreciation for my new cycling buddy and his great bike. Rust spots, worn tires, a torn seat—none of that mattered. He now had a way to pick himself up, get to job sites, and turn his life around. And that was pretty cool.

I talked with him about the fun of riding around the city and how biking can keep you in shape. When the train arrived, we both moved to get our bikes onto the train car. As soon as I picked mine up, the back wheel fell off—apparently I’d forgotten to tighten the quick-release lever. And who knows how long it had been that way!

“Man, that’s dangerous,” the new cyclist told me. “You should take it down to the Collective and get it fixed.”

In reality, it was my own attitude that needed adjustment.

Don't Be A Hairist

The other day, my daughter Miara happily talked about how she wanted a new hairstyle and the various colors she might dye it. With my own hair quickly disappearing, I accused her of being a hairist and showing callous indifference to my condition. Hair-enabled people need to have a little more sensitivity for the follicle-challenged among us.

The subject of -ists, however, reminded me of an experience with her from many years earlier, where she taught me a little about diversity consciousness. When she was about four years old, we lived in a fairly multicultural neighborhood—at least by majority-white Utah standards. One child had a Latina mom and Caucasian dad. Another family had Polynesian and white parents. And of course my wife is Asian and I’m white. One neighbor, whose husband came from Fiji, called our group the “half-and-halves.”

One day Miara and her younger brother came home from playing with a group of these colorful kids, one of whom was African American. She started telling me about something silly this child did. I knew who she meant, but pretended I didn’t, to see how she’d describe him. I asked what he looked like, and she gave clever descriptions of his short hair, his height, his clothes, and where he lived. But as much as I pressed her, she never once said anything about his skin tone or described him as black. I envied her childlike colorblindness.

A couple years later, after we’d moved to a neighborhood with much less diversity and Miara had started first grade, she came home from school and related another cute experience. But this time, she described the boy in her story as “this black kid.” She obviously didn’t mean anything negative about it at all, but I realized she’d lost her colorblind innocence.

I’m not trying to put any kind of spin on this, or accuse our society of horrid atrocities. I just think it’s interesting how children can see other people as just people. But as we grow and find ourselves part of a bigger society, we start to see all the differences within that society.

By the way, Miara chose purple.

Anthropomorphizing Wonder Bread

When I was in third grade, our teachers planned a field trip to the Wonder Bread factory in Salt Lake City. The whole class looked forward to the wonder of this trip. (Sorry.) But more importantly, we also heard that at the end of the tour, we’d get a free mini-loaf of Wonder Bread. So we piled into old school buses and bounced our way downtown.

At the factory, the tour guide took us through the exciting world of bread-making. We watched flour and ingredients poured into giant kneading vats that, looking back, I now realize were just like the acid vat that the Joker fell into. Then we stood fascinated as the powerful kneading bars did their thing. Machines cut the finished dough into big blobs and plopped them into pans. We hurried to the end of the assembly line where loaves had already risen into plump bread-like shapes.

Then the conveyor belt widened and the pans spread out to begin their trip through the huge gas-fired oven. The bread cooked as it passed flaming burners along the sides, top, and bottom of the scorching oven.

And this is where I panicked.

See, the week before, we’d watched a documentary about the Holocaust, and learned about the gas chambers and saw photos of the crematoriums where so many people mercilessly met their end. I certainly don’t want to diminish in any way all the horrors of that period, but I was only seven years old when I saw that film. So when I witnessed the bread going into what—to me, anyway—seemed like a combination gas chamber/crematorium, I suddenly realized what we as a society were doing to innocent loaves. How could we let that happen?

I don’t recall much of the rest of the tour, but I do remember when they handed me my mini-loaf of Wonder, I cradled it carefully and refused to eat it. Even later, when my mom assured me that the loaves don’t feel anything when they’re cooked, it still didn’t seem right to me.

I guess I eventually got over it because now we make our own bread at home in a bread machine—electric, not gas.

Saving an Orphan

A few years ago, I went out to run errands on a cold, dreary Valentine’s day. It had snowed during the night, but not pretty, fluffy mid-winter snow. February snow is always wet and slushy. The clouds hanging low over the city still tried to drop more snow, but the air had warmed just enough to turn it all into sticky sleet that splattered on my window, and piles of dirty slush on the ground turned the world into grey boredom.

I stopped at a small intersection to wait for the light to change, and noticed the only item of color in the whole town—a red, mylar balloon that escaped from someone’s bouquet. It had once been shaped like a heart, but the cold had shrunk the helium and turned it into a shriveled, dying lump of coal. It floated just above the road, where it trudged sadly across the slush. I watched it struggle through the intersection until a tall black truck came by and drenched it with salty sludge.

The balloon sunk down onto the road, buried and defeated. But it refused to give up. It rose back out of the sloppy snow and continued trying to float until it stopped next to my car. This balloon had spunk. It wouldn't let the dirty world crush its spirit.

So I opened my door, stepped out into the drippy weather and saved the balloon from further humiliation. I took it home, washed off the salt and black water, and waited. As the helium warmed, the wilted balloon expanded back into a full heart, and rose off the bathroom counter up to the ceiling. It had resurrected! I felt so proud of that balloon.

Then I remembered it was Valentine’s day and I still hadn’t found a gift for my wife. So I went into our room and presented Stephanie with the greatest gift ever—a Rescue Balloon. I told her its story and she accepted it gratefully, mostly because I hadn’t wasted any money on a fancy purebred from the designer balloon store.

Artists of the World, Unite!

I wanted to create a photo essay of our trip in Taiwan, but who wants to see a bunch of pictures of me? So I decided to walk around the streets of Taipei, looking for average people doing their jobs.

When we think of the people in the world who have the most influence and power, we normally think of political leaders, business tycoons, and pop culture icons. But where would any of them be without people like you and me who staff their factories, construct their buildings, grow their food, and, of course, provide their entertainment? In fact, where would any of us be without the workers of the world, who take pride in their craft and create the products we use, the houses we live in, and help bring a little pleasure to our lives.

So I hope you enjoy . . .

The Artists of Taipei

A performance artist doing his best to earn tips. He's actually a world-renouned yoyo artist who's traveled the world performing.

The dumpling artists work late in the evening while a line of hungry students wait outside the door.

A very important artist—the surgical oncologist. He spent eight hours in the operating room with this special patient—my nephew.

The Red-Nosed Acrobatic Artists, providing some hair-raising entertainment.

A humanitarian artist wants to find homes for abandoned animals.

The biscuit artist is trying to convince us how fresh the biscuits are.

All the artwork in this shop was made by this porcelain artist.

A food artist, chopping chicken for a hungry customer.

A quartet of construction artists.

Tearing down a building for a new tenant requires the hard work of a deconstruction artist.

A washing artist might not think of her work as art, but would you want to eat on dirty dishes?

This man's family makes artful dried fruit and vegetables, which he sells in the traditional market.

The garbage artist? Sure, unless you want garbage everywhere.

This artist created a yummy blueberry yogurt work of art that gave me a mild brain freeze, but tasted great!

Art on a keychain. This one is a Totoro.

Making art out of magnolia flowers, which he sells in front of the Buddhist temple.

Pork artist. This man told me he'll lose his livelihood next year when open markets like this are no longer allowed. The young whippersnappers all like to shop in supermarkets these days.

Creating and selling artistic pork song—a type of dried, feathery jerky—is tiring. 

The recycling artist works for the city to collect plastic. He doesn't sell this—his job is to keep the streets clean for the rest of us to enjoy.

The restaurant hostess skillfully finds any remaining seats at the Evergreen Vegetarian restaurant. They claim the food is very healthy, which I think is true because I saw a lady at one table who looked at least 130 years old.

Mechanical artist taking care of a Yamaha. This was taken late in the evening and he still had several more scooters to finish.

A window washing artist keeps the front of the department store shiny and clean.

This spray paint artist creates works of art in ten minutes that he sells for about US$6.

This artist keeps the street in front of his house clean.

And this artist works in the park to wash the amphitheater where performers come on weekends.

Two window dressing artists preparing a new restaurant.

An artist that takes colored wire and wraps it into all sorts of beautiful creations.

Food Court City

Our family recently went looking for a well-known taco cart in Salt Lake City. Apparently the taco guy took a personal day, so we ended up at a food court downtown. It happened to be in a mall that's seen better days and is hard at work on its renaissance—but it's not quite there yet.

I've never really enjoyed American food court food, though an occasional gem can be found if one looks hard. And this particular food court is pretty bad. There are few food choices, the acoustics make it horribly noisy, and much of what we finally ordered that day turned out sub-par—except McDonald's and Subway, which basically tastes the same anywhere you go. I think the shrimp in my crispy sushi rolls were dredged out of the Great Salt Lake. The taste was reminiscent of the way our car smelled one time after we accidentally left a raw pot roast in it when parked in hundred-degree heat—for three days.

The day after our food court experience, Stephanie and I flew to Taiwan, though it wasn't because of the food court—or the recent election results. It was actually a planned trip to visit family. So here we are in Taipei, surrounded by wonderful-smelling food everywhere we go. It's like the entire city is a food court. Except this food is mostly good.

Fruits, vegetables, breads, treats, sweets, and meats surround us everywhere we turn.

We ran into a problem on our first day here, though, because we couldn't eat any of it—and it was by choice. We had a particular need to skip a few meals that day, and we soon discovered that you should NEVER walk around Taipei while fasting. The temptations are just too great. We basically lost all willpower. I'm happy (I guess) to say that we made it—we didn't eat until we got home that evening and had yummy homemade mother-in-law food.

I'm an inconsistent vegetarian and prefer spicy ethnic cuisine, or basically not the American food I grew up with. Stephanie is an omnivore that prefers the tastes of her East Asian homeland. So when in Utah, we often drive all over looking for something we both want to eat, then end up just going home and heating up leftovers. But here in cosmopolitan Taipei, we can both find anything we want.

It was worth skipping a couple meals—and flying thousands of miles—to get all of this.

9/11 – Stuff We Should Always Remember

Fifteen years ago today, on September 11, 2001, I was on my way to my office when NPR reported that a small plane may have hit one of the World Trade Center towers. That struck my interest, but it was just one piece of news among many, so I didn’t give it too much thought. By the time I arrived at my office, however, the reports made it clear that something big had happened.

I spent the rest of the day with my coworkers, searching for websites and broadcasts to get accurate information about what really happened. Apparently, the rest of the world had the same idea, and the entire Internet came to a standstill. It was the day that broke the Internet.

I could see the Salt Lake City International Airport from my office window, and watched as plane after plane landed, with none taking off. All flights in the entire U.S. were grounded, and the tarmac quickly filled with parked planes.

We watched online—via a foreign website that still worked—as the twin towers and surrounding buildings collapsed, and another plane crashed into the Pentagon, then a fourth plane crashed in a field in Pennsylvania. The events of that day are hard to forget, and it changed the world in big ways.

After listening to radio reports and attempting to watch online the whole day—and not getting any work done—I drove home thinking about what happened. At the time, my children were 10, 8, and 2-years old, and the youngest was only six months old. The older two were in school and had talked about what happened, but didn’t understand it. The younger two of course were too young to pay much attention. At dinner, I told my family what I knew about the events, then told them to always remember that day, because it would definitely signify a huge change in world affairs.

I explained to my family that nobody could predict the future, but that things would be very different from that time going forward. I thought we’d probably be going to war, and that our society would need to start getting used to constant surveillance and security checks. I thought there’d be a backlash against Muslims and encouraged my family to not give in to the hate we’d probably see others express. I went to bed that night, worried about the future my children would experience.

Several days later, after scenes of backlash against Muslims and others had already begun playing out nationwide, I had a sense of sadness for everything going on. I saw the hatred beginning to build and wondered why humans are so prone to lash out at an entire culture, based on the actions of a few. I even sent out a somewhat-self-righteous email to friends and family, reminding them of our commitment to not judge and condemn others. The initial terror attacks were nothing short of inexcusable evil, but what worried me most was the backlash we saw here in our own country. Otherwise reasonable people had become filled with loathing and hatred.

I was junior high age when the Iran Hostage Crisis played out, where Americans were taken hostage in Tehran by people supporting the Iranian Revolution. I was too young to understand the events, and I certainly didn’t know the history of America’s involvement in that part of the world. But I saw the hatred many in our country expressed toward the Iranians, such as teeshirts proclaiming “The Ayatollah in an a**ahollah.”

I’ve studied with interest the detainment of Japanese Americans during World War II. One of those internment camps—Topaz—is in western Utah and the scenes of American citizens locked up for no reason other than their ancestry has often haunted me.

During my college years, I occasionally volunteered to assist Amerasian refugees from Vietnam get settled in the U.S. These were children of American soldiers, fathered during the war and left in Vietnam after our country pulled out. Most of the children were post-high-school age by that time, but had little education or adequate heath care while growing up. They were forced into a marginalized existence in their own country, simply because of their heritage.

I’m not writing this to try and justify the horrific events of 9/11, or any terrorist activities before or since—and I should point out that I didn't lose any close loved ones during those events. Plus, I’m certainly not immune from the very things I’m writing about. Perhaps I’m just writing this to assuage my own societal guilt. In any case, having watched hatred play out in the wider world, and right in my own backyard, I guess I’m just worried that our future is even more tenuous when I see the same hate-filled rhetoric—from all sides—filling our screens with more of the same.

9/11 was supposed to be the day “we’d never forget.” But perhaps there are other things in the past and present that we should keep in mind as well.

Concert Report

One of my daughter Roro's more enjoyable homework assignments is to attend a symphony each school term. I often get to attend with her and since I love the symphony anyway, it's a great night out. She's required to turn in a short report of the concert for her grade, but even though I usually buy the tickets, I never get a grade. So I decided to write this report a couple years ago and I turned it in to  her teacher. I still didn't get a grade, but I'm pretty sure it was well received.

* * *

I attended a concert of the American West Symphony on October 11, 2013 at the Assembly Hall on Temple Square. When we arrived, the music had already started and I thought I was really in for a long evening because the performance didn't seem up to professional standards. In fact, I thought the musicians were each playing a different song. Then I realized they were still warming up. Soon, the first chair violinist stood up to get everyone's attention and make them stop goofing round. Then the oboist played a long A, which is one of my favorite notes. It must take a lot of practice for oboists to hold their breath that long. The rest of the orchestra joined in with their own A's and not long after that, the concert began.

The conductor, Joel Rosenberg, did a great job keeping all the musicians on task even though he wasn't wearing one of those tuxedos with long coat tails. At first, I had trouble taking him seriously because he bears a strong resemblance to Jerry Seinfeld's Uncle Leo. Then I remembered Uncle Leo had already died, so it couldn't have been him and I was better able to pay attention to the music. Mr. Rosenberg gave interesting background before each piece, which I really enjoyed. For example, he described how Hector Berlioz once dressed up as a woman, got some guns, and planned to murder his ex-fiancee, ex-fiancee's new suitor, and ex-future-mother-in-law. Thankfully, Berlioz didn't go through with it, or we wouldn't have been able to enjoy the Roman Carnival Overture, op. 9. This overture was a fun piece—not bad for a cross-dressing murderer wannabe—and really did have a carnival-like quality. It would be good background music to a Bugs Bunny cartoon. ("Kill the wabbit, kill the WAbbit . . .")

The Assembly Hall has interesting acoustics that made it sound like the horns were coming from the left side, even though they were on the right. Some of the music actually sounded like it was coming from behind us, which would have been difficult since we were in the back of the rear balcony. Maybe the acoustics were to blame for the violins sounding slightly out of tune during Franz Schubert's Overture to Rosamunde. Or perhaps it was because more people were sitting on the left side of the hall than the right which put everything out of balance. In any case, I still enjoyed Schubert's piece. I always thought he was a more relaxed piano playing type of composer. But this piece was actually pretty rockin' and kept me from getting too relaxed. Of course the relaxation issue might be due to the fact that the benches in the hall were designed for hobbits, or perhaps orangutans.

The musicians were all very well dressed and I have to compliment the tuba and the triangle players for remaining so patient while waiting their turn to perform. The third chair violinist was especially animated throughout the performance. Even when he only had one note to play, I thought he was going to fall off his chair. Fortunately, the chair survived, and he managed to avoid poking out the eye of the violist sitting next to him. The principal percussionist had several sets of drumsticks that all looked the same to me, but apparently they each had a separate purpose because he kept swapping them. He also had an awesome ponytail that complimented his high forehead and made it appear like his hair had all slipped backwards.

One of the more mesmerizing parts of the performance occurred when a large moth began flying around the hall. At times it seemed to be dancing to the beat of the music. I got real nervous when it flew dangerously close to the cymbals during Tchaikovsky's "Little Russian" Symphony no. 2 in C Minor, op. 17. At that point, all three percussionists AND the tuba player were going full speed. But despite all that racket, an older lady on the third row of the balcony still managed to fall asleep. I think if Tchaikovsky were still around today he'd be quite old, but more importantly he'd probably compose music similar to the progressive rock group Dream Theater: very technical and difficult to perform, but with lots of noises throughout each piece to keep listeners on their toes.

I really enjoyed this concert—it was very well received. I've always wanted to say something was "well received" because it makes me sound like a snooty frequenter of the fine arts. It's my goal in life to have people say that something I did was "well received."

I moved a rock . . . and a project happened

One day I went into my backyard and decided to move a rock to a new spot.

In order to do that, I needed to move a whole row of rocks that had migrated into my neighbor’s yard.

In order to do that, I needed to find a new place for a stand of bamboo that I’d put in a temporary location.

In order to do that, I needed to remove several small trees and bushes that I no longer wanted.

In order to do that, I needed to transplant several large lilac bushes.

In order to do that, I needed to take the swing set apart and move it.

In order to do that, I needed to realign my sprinkler pipes and decided to reroute all the sprinklers in the whole backyard.

In order to do that, I needed to change the configuration of all the sprinklers in the front and side yards.

In order to do that, I needed to move a fence in the side yard to a new location.

In order to do that, I needed to set up a new pad to park my trailer on.

Then, with the yard completely dug up and trenched and piled, the spring monsoons hit and we had about a month of rain while all the holes and trenches filled with water.

When everything dried out, I set up the trailer pad, moved the fence, configured the front and side sprinklers, realigned the back sprinklers, rebuilt the swing set, transplanted the lilacs, removed the trees and bushes, replanted the bamboo, and moved the row of rocks.

Finally done, I stood on my deck and admired three months of hard work, and I noticed that the rock I first wanted to move . . . was still in its original location.

My Dog is Cuter Than Yours

Everyone thinks their own dog is the cutest in the world, but I have actual proof that Autumn is the cutest.

Autumn is a Cavalier King Charles Spaniel, a very long name for a small dog. This breed is a little less common in the U.S., especially compared to all the Labs that everyone has. When we visited France last fall, we saw one in the port town of Honfleur and got really excited and took a picture of it—even though it was kind of a scraggly, unkempt specimen. Then we found out that they're all over the place there. You'd think King Charles was the king of France, not England.

Autumn's Epic Haircut

Autumn is a good house dog, despite all her shedding. She's quiet and trains well, but tends to snore while sleeping on the floor next to our bed. She's small enough to not be too annoying in the house, and just big enough to go running with me—as long as we don't go too far. It's amazing how loyal she is when jogging up to Elephant Rock, a popular mountain trail near our house. It's a steep 3.5 mile (5.6 km) climb to the rock that starts at about 5,200 feet (1,600 m) elevation. With her short legs, she struggles a little, especially on the fast run back down. But she never gives up, and loves to wade in the stream at the bottom.

So here’s my proof that she’s cuter than your dog. Last month, she and I went on a short jog around the University of Utah campus. As we came around the basketball arena, the entire Red Rocks gymnastics team had just emerged from a bus. This is a group of very nice-looking and very athletic young ladies that are currently ranked one of the top teams in the U.S.—and Autumn and I inadvertently ended up right in the middle of them.

They immediately went bonkers for Autumn.

“Aww!”

“How cute!”

“Adorable!”

"Cuuuuute!"

They couldn’t get enough of her. Autumn and I eventually emerged from our adoring fans and another college-aged guy happened to be standing there. He turned around to see what the girls were fawning over and only saw me—a skinny, middle-aged, balding dude.

I shrugged my shoulders. “I always have this affect on the ladies.”

Can you find Autumn?

Autumn at Bryce Canyon National Park

The Bunny Under the Mattress

Sometimes we do our best to take care of our children, but the worst of the world still seems to seep into our lives. Not unlike a Miley Cyrus song getting stuck in our heads.

During one summer a number of years ago, my wife babysat two young neighbor kids while their parents worked each day. Nick and Jenna were close to the same age as our own two children and the four kids enjoyed running around the house, water fights, jumping on the trampoline, and generally tormenting each other.

One evening, their father came over as I stood in the driveway. I offered a friendly greeting but he didn’t seem so happy to greet me back. I soon understood why.

He showed me a crayon drawing. “Your daughter Miara gave this to Jenna today.”

I looked at the cute picture of a lamb with a bunny family under the watchful care of a giant sun wearing sunglasses, and commented on Miara’s artistry.

“Turn it over and read what’s on the back,” he said to me.

I flipped it around and started reading a story that only took a few lines before I realized it was disgusting, x-rated erotica. As my face turned red, Miara happened to walk up from behind me.

I asked if she drew the picture.

“Yeah, I gave it to Jenna,” came the proud response. She couldn’t have been more happy that two dads were discussing her artful project.

I asked where she got the paper.

“From under your mattress!”

Well, that was awkward.

Our neighbor gave me an icy stare and said he preferred his kids not have access to that type of material. I certainly couldn’t blame him. I wished my own kids didn’t either. In fact, it would probably be better if adults didn’t.

Completely flummoxed about the paper’s origin, I muttered something about getting back with him. He left and I immediately retreated inside and headed to the small pile of used scratch paper under our bed that the kids used for their drawings. On the pile sat the rest of the story, printed out in fine, salacious detail.

At that point, I became really confused. And embarrassed. Where had it come from? I asked my wife who said she’d found the story in the garbage can in my brother’s room. Without reading it, she figured it would make good scratch paper for the kids. And apparently Miara felt the same.

So Jeremy—a recently returned Mormon missionary—was the culprit. He lived with us at the time while attending school. I waited in the living room for him to return home and immediately confronted him. That’s when we finally learned who the real pervert was. As it turned out, Jeremy got it from a fellow classmate in his creative writing class. He’d been assigned to read and critique it, but upon seeing the contents, thought it made better kindling than reading, and so threw it away, where Stephanie later found it.

And that’s how Miara’s cute bunny family became part of a porn novel and our neighbors totally lost respect for us. I wonder if Jenna’s dad ever really believed the whole explanation.

Honey Do’s

A few months after my wife and I were married, we discovered she was pregnant with our first child. We were still fairly young and newly married, but it was an exciting occasion. At the time, I worked a very early shift, so I usually went to bed early. After I’d already retired one night, she woke me up and made an announcement.

“I need a cantaloup,” she said.

“Right now?”

“Yes.” And she would probably die if she didn’t get it.

I glanced at the clock and reminded her it was January and there was a blizzard outside.

That didn’t matter, she needed a cantaloup.

So I got up, put my coat, hat, boots, and gloves on over my pajamas and trudged outside. I cleaned the snow off the car and drove to the nearest supermarket. I sloshed through the unplowed snow, into the store, to the produce section, and found a not-very-fresh cantaloup that was probably shipped from Mexico. And it cost $6 a pound.

But she needed that cantaloup.

I carried it up to the register and plopped it onto the scale. The check-out lady looked at me with squinty eyes.

“My wife’s pregnant,” I explained.

She nodded. “Aaah, you’re a good husband.”

Probably not, but she needed the cantaloup anyway.

I grumbled and carried my $12 cantaloup outside into the storm, dusted the snow off the car, and slid through the ice back home. I removed all my snow-covered clothes and found my way to the kitchen. I cut the precious fruit open, cleaned it out, carved it into small squares, and carefully arranged them onto a plate. I even included a small fork.

Finally ready, I walked into the bedroom and presented my culinary art piece.

She smiled and thanked me, then got a strange look on her face. “Oh wait, I meant honeydew, not cantaloup. You know, the green kind.”

By then, I’d already fallen back asleep.

What Happens in France . . .

Some more random experiences from our recent trip to France.

Prior to going to France, we didn't know if our apartments would have soap or not, so Stephanie decided to bring a little with us. Why buy more when you can save money using what you already have, right? Well maybe we sometimes go a little overboard with our efforts to conserve a few pennies. I don't think of us as cheapskates, it's just that if we save money on the little stuff—like darning holy socks—then we can afford the big stuff—like a night out at the Costco Food Court.

Rather than taking an entire soap bar, Stephanie instead found some decorative soap carved into a flower. What else are you going to use something like that for? Sure enough, our second apartment had no soap. I dutifully retrieved the flower and started lathering up in the shower. Unfortunately, I quickly learned that it wasn't regular soap. Instead it turned into Play Dough when wet. It instantly stuck to my skin like a plaster sarcophagus. It was like the spray-on shoes in Cloudy Without Meatballs, except I had it everywhere, and it pretty much took a putty knife to remove. But I did smell like flowers afterwards. Sometimes cheapness doesn't pay.

It's somewhat mandatory to see the Mona Lisa if you go to France. And that means a trip to the Louvre Museum—and of course getting there before the crowds do. We got up very early one morning to catch an early metro to the museum district. We entered the museum from the secret, hidden door in the underground metro stop. We rushed through the mall and after a few wrong turns, ended up about tenth in line at the security screening, ready for the doors to open. We'd done great so far, but still had to get through security, past the ticket checker, and find our way to the special hall dedicated to Mrs. Lisa.

As soon as the gates pulled open, we set off at full speed. We clawed our way upstairs and flashed our passes at the ticket station. I navigated with the map while Stephanie threw elbows. We finally made it to the Grand Gallery, dashed through the hall, and ended up in fourth place, standing in front of the most famous painting in the world.

Taking a picture of people taking pictures of a picture

And were we ever disappointed! She really isn't much to look at. Her colors are all faded, she's quite small, her smile looks forced, and she's behind a wall of reflective glass that makes it impossible to take a good photo. So we just started laughing that we'd basically just committed several crimes and got there first to see something so underwhelming. The others there all laughed with us. It was like we'd just scored a major victory and our prize was a pack of Pez. So we turned around and took pictures of everyone else taking photos of Mona. That was more entertaining.

As we headed towards the airport on our last day in France, a giant flying insect attacked our train car. Not from the outside—that would have been okay. Rather, it emerged from an A/C vent near Stephanie's head and flew around the inside. It was a bee, about two centimeters long. And it flew very fast. Each time it dive bombed towards a group of passengers, they'd all scream and duck, in that order. Thankfully, it headed towards the far end of the car. Within minutes, though, it swung back around for a second run.

It soared straight for Stephanie again, just missed her, then hid behind our chair. The only thing worse than a giant bee you can see is one you can't. We leaped from our chairs as the whole train watched with horror. The bee slowly crawled out from behind the bench and stared us down. Not wanting to lose the advantage, I switched to offense and pounced with my shoe. A collective gasp sounded throughout the car and everyone held their breath while I stood away to assess the damage. It was down, but not out. I had to squish twice more to complete the kill. Finally, it was finished. So we all pulled out our phones and took pictures of the valiant dead bee.

Ministry, Monarchy, and Military

I'm in the Latin Quarter of Paris right now, sitting in a two thousand-year-old Roman coliseum and watching kids play football in the same spot where gladiators fought lions in the first century A.D. I wonder if the kids know that. This is right across the street from our apartment, and was an unexpected find when we arrived.

We've spent the past few days wandering around Paris and visiting both the touristy and the "true Parisian" spots. I've come away with an interesting impression: the history of France is characterized by the power of ministry, monarchy, and military. I'm sure France is not alone in this.

A Notre Dame Gargoyle

The great Notre Dame Cathedral in Paris shows the power of the ministry. I'm absolutely awestruck by the incredible workmanship of a building that's withstood eight hundred fifty years of wars and weather. The architecture outside and the artwork inside are humbling. We climbed up to the bell tower and petted the very gargoyles from the Disney movie. I'm sure of it. But like the cathedral in Rouen, again I'm left wondering if the purpose of the building was to encourage piety and faith and bring people closer to God, or was it to inspire fear and awe of the clergy. I'm not being critical of the Catholic Church, because I think religion has always been used as a means to promulgate power around the world in many faiths and cultures. I just question the point of such a grand structure, while at the same time I greatly admire it.

But at least many in the ministry tried to help those in their care who needed it, whereas those in the monarchy just seemed to abuse the commoner. We visited the Palace of Versailles and saw the power of the crown. That's another building that shows the great ingenuity and artisanship of the French people. It's beautiful and HUGE. The whole thing was designed to enforce the idea of deifying King Louis XIV. After seeing the excess of this monstrosity, I can understand why it all led to a revolution. Now in France the commoner probably has TOO much power, with their daily strikes and demonstrations. Personally, though, I'm glad the everyday person has that ability now, as obnoxious as it sometimes can be.

Louis XIV Trampling His Enemies

Like most of the world, France has a bloody military history of war after war after war. In the Battle Room at the palace, there are large paintings depicting many of the battles France has fought, the first one in about 600 A.D. Most all the paintings show a victorious general on a horse, with dead or dying enemies at his feet. It's not a pretty sight. In the U.S., France has an undeserved reputation as a pacifist nation. After seeing all these terrible battles, I think I much prefer avoiding war, not jumping into one. Too bad more nations don't feel the same way.

Maybe we should bring the leaders of warring nations to this coliseum and have them battle it out themselves.

Living the Artist's Life

We spent the past few days in the charming port city of Honfleur, in Upper Normandy. Apparently, someone named Monet also spent time here and drew a few pictures. I don't know if Monet made the town famous or the the town made him famous. But I'm hoping the town has some magical effect on those pursuing a career in the creative arts. If I'm famous soon, we'll know it worked.

We stayed in a rustic, old apartment with a private courtyard. By rustic, I mean a little dusty with the occasional bug stopping in for a visit. But it was a nice place and despite its small size, I'm sure it will seem like a mansion once we check into the tiny flat we've reserved in Paris.

 

Honfleur is definitely worth the cost of a train ticket! The tiny, curved streets of narrow buildings with exposed timbers takes one back a few hundred years. I would have liked to live back then and apply for the job of town crier. That would be much better than plague body remover.

Unlike other places where you often look for a specific scenic attraction, in Honfleur the town itself is what you come to experience. Although some of it is certainly touristy, much is still traditional and welcoming. On Sunday morning, we hiked up to Côte de Grâce, which sits on a short hill with a good view of the town and the Seine River. There's a monument on the hill honoring Her Lady of Grace for her protection during the Normandy Invasion when many other towns were destroyed.

We also came across a small chapel on the hill, Notre-Dame de Grâce. It had no bell tower, and instead they built a bell rack next to the church. We happened to arrive at noon just as the bells began their concert. It was fun to actually see the bells rather than just hear them up in a distant tower.

We are very much tourists here. We take pictures of doorknobs and mailboxes. But it's still fun to be a part of the culture and meet new people. As we ate dinner one evening, a young man sitting next to us turned around with a look if curiosity on his face. He was of Chinese descent and surprised to hear Mandarin and American English spoken with native accents. His Chinese name has a great English translation—Iron Breaker. I think he's actually a super hero in disguise.

I'm a little sad to leave the peaceful countryside and head back to the noise and busyness of Paris. But we've reserved an apartment, so we're on our way. I'm just glad it's by train, not another claustrophobic plane.

A City Made Famous By Executing a Righteous Babe

Stephanie and I are celebrating our twenty-fifth anniversary this month, so we decided to do something extra special—we signed up with an outfitter to go on an archery moose hunt. You should see Stephanie all decked out in camo with her bow and knife, and her face painted green.

Actually, the outfitter was booked, so we got plane tickets to France instead. This weekend we're near the northern coast in the Normandy Region and right now we're on a train going through a rural area filled with cows and sheep and of course a chapel in every little town. Last night we stayed in the medieval city of Rouen. Growing up in a city where the oldest buildings are barely one hundred years old, it's pretty cool to see structures that have been around hundreds, and even a thousand years or more.

The Notre Dame Cathedral in Rouen is one of those. This isn't the one from the Disney show—we'll see that one next week. This is a different one without a famous bell-ringing resident. But even this one is a very impressive structure. The craftsmanship of the artisans and laborers that threw this thing together is awe-inspiring. The thing that struck me most though, was this: you gotta figure that in today's dollars, this edifice must have cost millions. And those millions were spent at a time when there was a lot of suffering in the world. I wonder if any nonbelievers back then—or believers, for that matter—pondered if the money and effort might be better spent on something else. In any case, it's a beautiful building.

In the evening, we heard about a light show at the cathedral. I figured at most we'd just see a few lasers painting designs on the walls. Boy, was I ever wrong. They had a fantastic display of light, music, and sound effects that went on for an hour.

They projected the images onto the facade and told the history of France with all its wars and one of the most awesome women of all time—Joan of Arc. Or as Bill (or was it Ted) described her: a totally triumphant babe. If we saw nothing else our whole time here, it was worth coming all the way to France just for that! Madame of Arc, by the way, was burned at the stake in that very town, down the street from the cathedral, apparently with the help of some clergy members.

I'm sure the original builders of the cathedral never had a computer-synchronized light show in mind when they stacked all those rocks together. Maybe it was worth the effort after all. Do you think Miss of Arc would approve?

Groovy Pop Music

Sometimes I worry maybe I get a little too didactic in my blogs. I guess I see a lot of bad in the world counteracted by a lot of good, and I hope the good will win. So in an effort to avoid preachiness, here’s a fun story from my youth.

As I walked home from school in the fourth grade with my friend Darin, he sang a song I hadn't heard.

“We had joy, we had fun, we had seasons in the sun…”

To his utter amazement, I asked what it was.

“You’ve never heard Seasons in the Sun? It’s only the most groovy tune in the world!”

See, I was raised by parents that didn’t pay much attention to pop music. My dad listened to jazz, classical, and the world renowned Mitch Miller’s Sing Along Band. If you’ve never heard Mitch Miller, you need to look him up on YouTube. I guarantee you full minutes of entertainment. Here’s a sample.


With that background, of course I hadn’t heard of Seasons in the Sun. So after school, I went to Darin's house and we waited at least eight minutes before it played on AM 1320 KCPX. And yes, it was groovy.

Now I had to be groovy, so I went immediately home and told my older sister about it. Wendy was in sixth grade and of course had already heard the song. She and her friend Debby immediately started singing it.

I’d finally joined the groovy crowd! I could walk around the house, our street, the school playground—anywhere—and not be ashamed I didn’t know the latest hit. Our dad even bought the 45 vinyl record for us.

In reality, it’s a pretty lame song with maybe only three chords. It’s about a guy who’s dying of some terrible disease and wants to say goodbye to everyone. But the flip side of the 45 was even worse—Put the Bone In. Before you comment on that title, it’s about a dog that died and they want to bury him with a bone from the butcher shop. Both songs are about on par with most songs The Partridge Family ever put out.


A couple weeks later, Wendy and Debby hung out in our living room talking about groovy stuff when Seasons in the Sun came on KCPX. Trying to maintain my grooviness, I ran in and told them to be quiet because their favorite song was on. They looked at me like I was a stink bug.

“That song is so old,” Wendy said. “We don’t like that anymore. Now we like Run Joey Run.”

Devastation! I’d instantly lost my hipness—I liked an old, outdated song from two weeks earlier. To make it worse, Run Joey Run told about a girl named Julie whose dad is upset because she and Joey got a little too friendly. The doctor told them they were in love and better get married quickly. Julie’s dad pulls out a gun and…well, I won’t spoil it. You can watch the tragic events unfold in this official video.

Anyway, as result of all that, I stopped liking pop music for many years. Decades, really. My music tastes now vary from Tuvan throat music, to prog rock, to Indonesian Gamelan, Irish punk, jazz, classical, and, on occasion, a good pop tune like this.