Wednesday, August 31, 2011

A question for scientists

Have you ever tried to convince yourself of something, even though you know it's wrong?
For example, that tomatoes really should go with peanut butter (why? because they're two of my favorite things!) but no, tomatoes and peanut butter don't like each other (except, actually, in the rare Thai dish, crap, bad example).

Well anyway. How do you possibly know how to describe why you know something? Are feelings and convictions even describable? If we can't use logic to defend a feeling or conviction, where does that leave us?

Being an engineer, my default is to look for logical support before drawing conclusions about anything. But that doesn't actually work for every situation.

For example: 68-88% of the world's population (and ~80% of the American population) adheres to some sort of religion. However, many logical arguments could be (and have been) made to "disprove" the existence of a higher God of some sort; that is, if each person has not had a record-able, unquestionable religious encounter, it is difficult to logically prove the logical truth of the belief system.

And yet, people believe nonetheless. Many logical scientists are believers, as well. Why do we take this one exception to our "logic rule"? When we spend so much time insisting that only tangible proof, and sometimes fourfold tangible proof, is sufficient in our scientific pursuits, why do we turn to something else to prove this?

And is this the only time when such an intangible proof is sufficient? If we can use a basic "gut feeling" or "just knowing" for trusting a higher being with control of the world, however that is, can we trust that same feeling sense for other decisions? And if we can, do we need more proof? Does it make sense to ask for more when the only proof we have is that knowledge that something just is a certain way?

I leave this question for you, scientists. Do we have a way to use that gut feeling (and it is surprisingly useful in directing our research)? Can it be enough proof on its own? If it is the basis of a decision, can it by definition logically need any more proof? If the basis is not logical, can we adhere the rules of logic to it?

Maybe I should return to my small bookshelf of philosophers for this one. Unfortunately, it seems most of them were Christian... or at least the ones I have (thanks Catholic school). hmm.

Tuesday, August 30, 2011

Serendipity

28 August 2011 01:20AM

Have you ever seen that movie? It's extremely cheesy and full of John Cusack's floppy hair, and I have no idea why, but for some reason that popped into my head tonight. Well, I suppose I was thinking about the word, but the movie? Not so appropriate. Thanks, brain.

So why was that in my brain?
Well.
I just enjoyed a lovely 28-hour trip home from Rome (it's 1am now, Berkeley time, Saturday night). I got to the Termini station in Roma at 6am Saturday morning, arriving at the international terminal at FCO at 8am, a full two and a half hours before my flight took off. I suppose there's something to be said for getting there early, but something tells me the 3-hr-beforehand limit isn't expected abroad like it is in the US. But no matter. I had my last Italian cappuccino (actually my first, as well, I realized- I've been drinking espresso), did some yoga, and read Belong to Me (I highly recommend this book) as my fellow passengers trickled in. After spending a week meeting random people, all I wanted to do was sit in my little bubble for a while and watch them all wander past, taking care of the little things they all cared about, the little rituals before flights. I took a heavy grip on my oh-so-sexy neck pillow and prepared myself for an 11-hour flight to Atlanta.

The flight was not interesting. I sat next to a kid from Penn who had spent the last month on an archaeological dig in Tuscany (poor guy) and, when we touched down in Atlanta, learned that his flight to Philly was canceled due to Irene (double poor guy). At the baggage claim, I conversed with a guy from Mississippi who, upon learning I was from Berkeley, sneered "Oh that's like the really liberal place. That's like your fight song, right? Are you a liberal?" my answer was insufficient, to say the least. Yes, dude, I think people should be able to live their lives in a way they choose and that we shouldn't be able to pass judgement on the choices they make. Thanks for making it sound like I'm killing puppies.

No, the insane thing that forced serendipity to arrive in my brain like flashing lights on Broadway was what happened in the Atlanta airport, 45min before my flight to SFO was to depart. I was headed toward the gate after a nice dinner of frozen yogurt (if you can't eat crap while traveling, when can you?), when a flash of orange appeared in my left peripheral. 

I overcame my lack of ability to turn left to find Brian stopping next to me in his Philadelphia Runner shirt.
[In my mind: duhhhhh WHAT JUST HAPPENED?????]

Exactly one week (almost to the hour... 8pm local time...) after we met on the Piazza di Santa Maria Maggiore, our paths crossed again, randomly, in an airport on a different continent.

He was on a trip to South America for work, and rather than heading to the international terminal, was sitting in the domestic terminal with some people he had met on his previous flight, having a few beers during the long layover they all had. I happened to walk by as he looked up. What kind of strange coincidence is that?

All in all, it was pretty amusing. I went to join them for a little while before getting on my flight, and we all exchanged contact info, and decided that Brian and the other guy needed to come out to Northern California to join Windee and myself (she's from Sonoma) and do a wine tour. Because heaven knows we'll all run into each other again, in some random airport, at some point. Why not make it on purpose?

I have no idea who or what controls the universe and things that seem to be extremely strange coincidences. But I'm grateful for this serendipity (now it feels like a 6th grade vocabulary word). For better or worse, it gives me a little more confidence that life isn't completely a waste of time, with no rhyme or reason. Or maybe it is. Who knows for sure?

The cantering horses of Leonardo da Vinci


27Aug2011,  01:43am

Well, a 3am bed-time after wandering around with the oceanographers meant a late beginning to my last day in Rome, 9:30am. I caught Audric on his way out to wander the city, and wished him and Julia a good trip to France. And then exploration began. I decided to not have a plan for the day, but to wander and meet people and talk to them. A random selection of the interesting people I met:
An old man, who owned a tiny leather goods shop, and whose family had run it for two generations. He was childless, and regretted not marrying for many reasons, not the least of which was to let the shop continue on after his death.

  • A newlywed couple from Pittsburgh on their one-year-delayed honeymoon. Their favorite part of Rome was the Spanish Steps; they had been there every day on their 4-days-so-far trip. 
  • Seventeen thousand people (or so it seemed) at the Trevi fountain, milling around, wishing they could clamber into the fountain because it was about 98degF, but knowing they can’t (which makes it so much worse and so much more tempting)
  • Clint Winant, whom I met out on the street as I was wandering in the evening; we had a lovely discussion about the need for a place to work away from the office; apparently he occasionally finds himself wandering outside and wondering why he wasn’t working.
  • A young man from Canada, who was kind enough to take a picture of me outside THE BEST gelato place EVER (l’Alberto del Cacao). I had a bit of chocolate smeared on my upper lip and was completely oblivious, so it took me a while to figure out why he was laughing the entire time… there are a couple of times it would be nice to have someone along to point things out and keep me from wandering around Rome looking like an idiot (fortunately I had a look at the picture immediately). Though truthfully, by definition I will always wander around looking like an idiot. Just gotta laugh at yourself, right?
  • A German family of three, with a young boy about eight years old, who was obsessively turning the crank on one of da Vinci’s flying machines. His parents just rolled their eyes at me and said, “he will not stop. We try to stop him, but he will not stop.” Fortunately, these magical contraptions were made for young girls and boys (and older ones too!) to try out. We spoke for several minutes about the nature of children, regardless of where they are or where they were raised, and how we all could learn a thing or two about creativity. Da Vinci was quite a genius, it’s true- I wish we could have made his utopian city, it was beautifully laid out. He did, in fact, invent something to walk on water (a la Ever After, for all of you girly movie fans out there), but it was more along the line of skis than the boat-shoes you might think of.
And those were just the people I interacted with directly. Most of the day was spent attempting to blend into the landscape. You can always tell if that goal is successful by the reaction of tourists, and locals, to your presence. If both groups steer clear of you, they know you have somewhere to go, and aren’t aimlessly wandering like a tourist. 

It’s an interesting feeling, realizing that you can be absorbed so easily into another country, another place. I thirst for it. I so dearly want  to return- or even just try out another new place. This has made me think I might just get up and go somewhere- even if it’s just another city in the US. Make no plans but a place to stay. Go out and meet people. Watch, listen, learn, and see. Maybe tomorrow. Or maybe in a year.  That would be a most fulfilling hobby.

Monday, August 29, 2011

The Swedes

August 26 2011, 22:15.

Sitting alone in a restaurant in Rome can be a very awkward thing.
I'm writing now in my notebook as the servers stare, and every other person at a table speaks with their party. I have been oddly placed directly in the middle of the walkway into the garden dining room, so there's no avoiding sticking out: tall blonde american alone = obvious freak show.

I ended up here, wherever here is, by chance; I had a list of six restaurants I wanted to try before leaving, and not one of them was open. So here I am, in a random little restaurant in the middle of nowhere. But as those tend to be the most interesting places, I'm actually not at all concerned.

I'm sitting at a table adjacent to a group of six older Swedish gentlemen and ladies.
[and how do I know this about them? when the server took their plates: "He say, 'you finish?', No, we Swedish". har har har har]
It turns out they're all neighbors in a small city in Southern Sweden, and they travel various places together. That sounds so lovely. This year is Roma, Madagascar, and Tunisia; next year will be California and Vegas.

We have had a very interesting conversation over the past couple of hours, a few plates of spaghetti pomodoro, and several glasses of vino tinto. Rather than describe everything about these guys, let me just state the particular things I learned from them:


  • Northern Sweden is very desolate. Never visit there.
  • Europeans are still very grateful for the American sacrifices in WWII, for "the sacrifice of young men, or else we would all be German or Italian".... so they don't harbor any hatred toward Americans, regardless of politics, for that reason alone.
  • There is always a war going on somewhere. Someone's fighting. Just right now America's involved and it's close to home [for you]. [You] are involved but that doesn't mean anything. Thus there's no reason for bad feelings.
  • There is no reason to hate anyone. At all. 

Not bad for two hours of discussion. And what life lessons I received in return for a little time and a map of Rome, directions, and a pen!

I again wonder at the fact that we are communicating in English. This city is such a strange collection of people from so many places, and yet, everyone knows some little bit of english, no matter where they hail from. So in this city in Italy, in the middle of Europe, with tourists out the wazoo, here we are, all trying to speak slightly different versions of English to understand each other.

I've known that was the case, but it never really hit home til today, when I was in the garden Quirinale. An old Italian man sat down next to me on a bench. I was sketching the statue in the middle of the garden, of a famous dude on a horse, with the late afternoon sun coming across. When I finished, he asked in broken English if I was an art student, and then whether I was English or American. I decided to go out on a limb because I didn't understand him well, and, as opposed to what I did all week, pretend I was German.

We proceeded to have a broken conversation in English, in which I almost copied his accent, thinking which words would be basic and building blocks for an ESL-speaker, which would allow us to communicate without one of us having "superior" grammar- that is always my least favorite part of speaking with a nonnative speaker, when one of the two has an upper hand by the mere fact that they spoke the language well. It's a strange power struggle, and seldomly does the nonnative speaker come out on top. But when neither knows it well, there is no such struggle, and all that is important is understanding and using body language (the most beautiful and expressive form of communication, in my opinion). I feel rather bad about pretending to be something I wasn't in my discussion with this guy, but to be fair, he was rather creepy in the way he approached me and decided to sit very close on the bench with me. It was half self-defense to avoid sharing too much information. But that's just an excuse. I was scared, a bit, and it also sounded interesting to try.

Net in net: try it. Put yourself in someone else's shoes sometimes. It's amazing what you'll learn. Especially if you have nothing to lose, and you can pretend without it hurting anyone.

Sunday, August 28, 2011

Party like it's 753 BC!


So I said I was going to the “social dinner” last night. 

Well, go I certainly did. I arrived at the Hydrology garden (wish we had one of those! Next to the Colosseum!) and ran into one of Mark’s contemporaries, who, surprisingly, somehow knew who I was. We had a chat for a while; he is now a professor at Iowa (doing more hydraulics than EFM, apparently they’re ridiculously good at that, who would have thought?).  But knowing me, I have completely forgotten his name. 

Regardless, after a ten-minute conversation about how I was going to tell Mark I saw him but not that he says hello because he was pretending to be miffed that Mark didn’t show up, we went our separate ways, him to join a group of older gentlemen, and me to join a couple of PhD students. As previously mentioned, I am ridiculously bad at remembering names, particularly those of whom it will be crucial to know their names at a later time (ie, five years down the road at the next ISSF). Alas, I do not have their names, but let’s call them Jean and Rolph. Jean was from France and Rolph from Germany but studying in the Netherlands (or something like that)… within the next fifteen minutes, we were joined by a guy from Germany studying in Canada, a guy from Korea studying in the UK,  the two girls from Jeff’s lab at Stanford, and one or two others. All in all, we had a very interesting discussion of how German would soon be the language everyone in the world was studying (as opposed to now- everyone must learn English! This hit me in a particular way last night… a large group of people from all over trying to convey important information in our different broken bits of English, the only language overlap we all have).  

They announced dinner, so being grad students we rushed up to the buffet and filled our plates with fresh ricotta, pancetta, bruschetta, little puffs of fried vegetable dough, eggplant, hunks of parmesan from a wheel, and slices of fresh braided mozzarella. And then we went back for seconds, because it was 1) ridiculously good 2) not all that filling because the plates were small and 3) free. 

On top of that, they had plopped a bottle of white wine on our table to begin, and came around filling up champagne glasses (we had a debate on which of the glasses was for wine, which for champagne, since none were quite right). In the following hour or so, our table probably went through about five or six bottles. And then dinner arrived, in multiple courses, much to our surprise: cannelloni filled with some sort of fish, followed by swordfish, and ladyfingers soaked in marsala wine with custard and fresh fruit. With every intervening course, the general surprise of the group was vivid; we had spent a week in Italy, but we weren’t familiar with the way a dinner like this would work; and none of us ever ordered beyond the primi on the menus at the restaurants, being cheap grad students who could easily deal with pasta for dinner, again. 

I apologize for the description of dinner; I’m being long-winded. 

At one point in the night, all of the senior research scientists, organizing and scientific committees gathered around one table; these people are the pillars of stratified fluid mechanics. I joined in and took a picture. How could you not? Okay, so maybe it was a little awkward. But I mean really.

The fathers (and mothers) of today's stratified fluid mechanics, aka scientific committee 2011.
After the main courses were finished, I was extremely amused to hear intense joy and perhaps drunkenness coming from the next table over, where J. Nash, Amy Waterhouse, some scared-looking Germans, an elderly Pole, and a couple of other Scripps scientists were. I decided they were having a lot of fun, so I picked up my chair and went over to join in. It was hilarious; we ended up moving our massive formal dining tables together, and generally being stupid and nerds of all ages, cracking jokes about (what else?) fluids.

Then they called for after-dinner drinks, and we all had to try limoncello (like a lemon drop, only alcoholic). Wandering around with Amy, the C. Winants, along with the other Scripps guys, we talked to most everyone (they know EVERYONE!). Larry Armi came back to say goodbye to Clint, and I just felt I couldn’t let him leave without introducing myself. And his reply “oh yes, I know your name, I was at your presentation, very nice! Good luck with your work.” WHA???? Really? He knows my name? This random old guy father-of-fluid-mechanics?

And then we decided to go dancing on the Island (in the middle of the Tiber). I ended up wandering around with the Scripps girls, a selection of European guys, and Jon through Rome to Trastavere, etc., until about 3AM. What an epic epic night. These scientists are people too. 

It was amazing to be in… my own shoes… this week. I’m not sure anyone else would feel quite the same shock and gratitude for this particular company and becoming part of it, but I awoke every morning (admittedly tired) with the knowledge that I was going to be learning and doing something important and meeting important and interesting people. How unbelievable and how fortunate I have been.

Friday, August 26, 2011

conclusione del congresso

okay, so I fudged this title too, thanks to the sign I saw outside the cloister today. BUT IT'S OVER!!!!
YAY.

I never thought I'd be so happy to see this wonderful thing end. But the truth is, I'm tired of thinking about 500,000 different kinds of stratified flows, and remembering everything I've ever tried to learn about the differences between the turbulent, gradient, flux, and stratification Richardson numbers, the convergence of vortices, and the appropriate Reynolds number at the transition from 2D to quasi-3D turbulence for Kelvin-Helmholtz billows. I'm over discussing SCAMP processing with every other person who has ever used one. I'm done with trying to sketch out code for derivation of vertical dissipation rate of TKE from ADCP measurements with Joe Schmo, and then realizing Joe wrote the definitive paper on internal wave steepening over continental shelves, so there is no reason to argue with him. Enough, enough, enough. phew.

Oh, and I'm ready to be done with the 100degF conference rooms and lack of oxygen... talk about feeling lightheaded. phew. If I haven't said it before, don't visit Rome in August, unless you have a portable ice box.

Cool thing I learned today: Chloe Winant and her dad, Clint, are in the same field (fluids). COOL. they're both at the conference. I guess fluids runs in families.

So. One more day in Rome. I'm not sure what I'm going to do. I've been invited on a biking trip with a couple of grad students and post-docs from Scripps, and a tour with a couple of people around the city. I think I might just head out on my own, though, even if it would be a great idea to "network". I have an intense desire to wander the city alone, though I'm not sure why. Maybe I'll find some more random people to talk to, maybe I'll be spat upon by another crazy lady, maybe I'll stumble upon the most beautiful little place in the city, or walk along the Tiber, or head out to the beach.

I don't care about the tourist places. Rome is lovely, but I think it's more lovely for the city it is now than the city it once was, 2000 years ago. History is wonderful, and I love how it is integrated into the very fabric of this place, every old building still lived in, frescoes randomly scattered among the posters for 'NUOVO CELLULARI' and 'Rent Scooter'. But the ruins... they're ruins. I'm glad they're preserved and still around for the world to appreciate, but what makes a city isn't its tourist destinations.

What makes a city, and what makes each city different from others, is the unique ways its citizens make it their own. No one ever thinks they can own a city. But everyone lays claim to a corner of it, from sheer familiarity if nothing else. And those people change the place while they're there, they change the feel and the use of the space, the decoration and the purpose and the reason it exists.

Even those who visit change a place. I've become familiar with this corner of Via Cavour in the last week, as it has become familiar with me. No longer do I have to think before choosing which side of the street I'll walk on. No longer do the cafe owners offer me 'ice cleam' and 'gelatopizzaflenchaflies' as I walk by. They know I'm not a first time tourist, they recognize me. The guy at the cafe downstairs who cat-called me the first night I was here now nods and smiles respectfully. It's amazing the change a single week can make.

But I won't have a lasting impact on this city. Only those who can claim it as home really will. There seems to be some sort of threshold of involvement, time spent in a place, signing a lease, or something... that decides if you will change it. I don't know what that threshold is. And I think it changes from city to city. But all I can do is sit and appreciate the people who make this city their own, who love the buildings as home, who take every day here as part of their lives, dealing with tourists and making it work.

Wednesday, August 24, 2011

In Honor of Fred Browand, who is Actually Still Alive and in the Front Row.

well, then.

Day 3 of conference: complete.
Since I've unfortunately been getting very little sleep while staying up writing these blog posts, I'm going to keep today's short and sweet in the hopes I sleep more than 6 hours (I'm all screwed up with jet lag still anyway, so it might not make a difference).
Today was LONG, though they actually managed to get the air conditioning working, which was SWEET. It's ridiculously hot here in the middle of the day. We have lunch out in the courtyard of the cloister, meaning we're in about 95degrees. Fortunately, though, they understand that and feed us random cold things (it's also a great way to keep people from eating very much and thus saving on catering, cha-ching!).

Highlights of today:
  • morning coffee break was spent with Lynn Gelhar in front of my poster, discussing AUVs and potential methods of calculating dispersal (turns out that was his niche of hydrology)
  • played Set during one of the lectures with a random guy I never learned the name of 
  • managed to catch Jon Nash and pick his brain for twenty minutes about how to identify internal wave packets in my data
  • learned that my data might be crap, or that our IW calcs might be advected fluid instead of mixing...
  • Larry Armi gave a ridiculously good lecture on the "touching case" of exchange flows 
Larry Armi giving a lecture on the "touching case" of stratified exchange flows *BRAIN CRUSH*
  • one of the Canadian professors dressed up as Jorgen Holmboe in honor of Fred Browand, who has heralded the importance of Holmboe instabilities since the 70s (part of a set of two lecture blocks in his honor, Audric thought the guy was dead until "Jorgen" walked in and started addressing a guy in the front row)
One of the Italian professors (bottom left) as Jorgen Holmboe, the colors didn't turn out, sorry.
  • visited St Peter's again, arriving 20min before closing, found that the cathedrals of California had sponsored a plate in the floor of the basilica (WHAT DOES THIS MEAN??), and saw the creche where Pope John Paul II is buried (is he a saint yet? I though I heard something about that)
inside St Peter's looking west. basilica panorama forthcoming.
  • had a delightful Neapolitan style pizza at the first restaurant we've actually found open that was mentioned in my Rough Guide
Recafe ovoline pizza nom nom nom
  • walked up the Spanish Steps (nothing next to Berkeley Hills!) and tried to convince one of the guys selling laser pointer things that we'd buy one only if he could catch the top of St Peter's from there with it (it was dark)
  • walked past the crazy stores on the upper part of Via del Corso, and learned that you can spend >900eu on a down jacket in the middle of 95degree heat, and that Hermes scarves will run you in the several hundred euro range (what?????)
  • walked along the Tiber and oggled the ridiculous summer restaurants on the banks (which must smell nasty, there's so much gunk and marsh), listening to a band pretend to be Simon and Garfunkel
  • got kicked off the bus and a 50euro ticket for not having stamped my bus ticket correctly
This last one deserves some explanation. We got out of the conference around 5:45, back to the hotel around 6ish, and decided to head to St Peter's before it closed at 7. Now, this is rush hour, so we ran to the Via Nazionale to catch the 64 bus over to Vatican City (else it would have been about 30min walk). The bus was crammed to the gills, and we split up to get on. On Roman buses, you have to get a ticket at a Tabaccheria (tobacco/lottery shop) and stick it in a machine in the middle of the bus when you get on, or else you risk getting thrown off by the occasional police that come on the bus. Well. There was no way to the middle of the bus when we got on because it was chock-filled with people, and in my hazy post-conference-day-staring-and-sleep-deprivation-mode, I forgot to punch said ticket on my way to being shoved into a seat by oncoming passengers. So when the guys came on the bus to check tickets, of course I hadn't managed to get mine stamped. The guy asked for my passport (!?!) and took it with him (!?!) to the front of the bus and made me get off at the next stop (!?!?!?!?!). Fortunately, Audric and Julia saw this and got off with me. The guy promptly gave me the option of paying him 50 euros or paying 100 euros later at a post shop. I assumed this was a sour deal, but it would be cheaper this way (probably?), so I handed him 50eu. I'm not unaccustomed to having to pay people off (in other countries...). He wrote me a ticket for 50eu, though, so maybe that wasn't all crap... anyway. that was the most expensive bus ride I've ever taken. And we didn't even get to our destination! Boo. Note to self: no more traveling while tired.

Overall, though, I'd say today was a success, despite my wallet being $70 lighter. :)

And the best part of the day: walking by a restaurant late tonight and seeing this beautiful tomato art:
yes, please. all you ever need on one plate.

Tuesday, August 23, 2011

liquidi stratificati meravigliosi

okay, yeah, I used babelfish for that one. Sorry. I wasn't about to try to find the word "stratified" in my Just Enough Italian: How to Get By and Be Understood. Not that I think it'd be in there, unless the reference was to a vinaigrette or something (nerd overload, I know, sorry).

Well, today started in an interesting manner, as I was awoken by a knock on my door that made me literally jump out of my bed. Fortunately, I did not hit anything on my way to answering it (not sure how I managed to find my keys to unlock it either, but apparently I was startled into a sixth sense... I can't usually even find them when I have my contacts in, for that matter). There was a shape leaned over in a hunchback-like manner, mumbling to me in broken it-english. I had no idea what it said until later, but nodded, hoping it would leave me alone to find my eyeballs. And the figure scurried off after five seconds of this, and I was left to slow my heartbeat and splash water on my face to wake up (as it was already about 85degF at 7:30am, I was ready to go jump in the Trevi Fountain NOW PLEASE). When I woke up enough to reprocess what the guy said, it occurred to me that he was the dude on duty at the front desk. I asked yesterday if I could borrow an alarm clock since my phone doesn't know what time it is (Verizon apparently doesn't travel to Europe, only to NZ). Unfortunately, no, they said, but we can call you in the morning to wake you up (my room has a TV and phone line and sink, but no clock or toilet or shower). But apparently the phone line in my room is broken (as is the mini-fridge), so he had to come knock on my door to wake me up. Phew. That gave me a fright.

Beyond that, it was the second day of the conference. Audric and I listened to a bunch of interesting presentations, a bunch of boring-as presentations, and a bunch of poor PhD students you just have feel extreme pity for because you can tell they've never given a presentation before. Jon Nash gave a wonderful keynote lecture about the unpredictability of internal wave behavior in the presence of inhomogeneous topography, essentially telling me that my PhD is going to be ridiculous and I won't be able to draw any real conclusions given the data I have, and then failed to answer my question regarding wave packet identification by telling me that they were identified by changes in the vertical velocity (no duh, but that doesn't define packets, just IWs). On the bright side, this prompted Sonya Legg one of the three or so female senior researchers in the conference, to introduce herself to me. That was nice. And I had lunch with Lynn Gelhar again, along with a discussion of the pros and cons of presentations and posters. I think he was just trying to make me feel better.

The poster session went well enough, though unfortunately Rocky Geyer didn't show up, though I really wished he had (he was signed up for a poster... and I wanted to plant a seed in his brain that I would love to do a postdoc with him in three years or so at Woods Hole). Actually, of about thirty posters, only about ten of us showed up. And only about five of us actually were with our posters during the session time (which happened to correspond with coffee hour in the afternoon). I was hoping that Larry Armi would come over, but he just stopped by and moved on. Christine (a Stanford student who had also made her poster the wrong way) and I stole one of the Nortek dude's easel boards to put up our posters, and it was a madhouse trying to keep them up. Unfortunately, not very productive... the most productive comments/questions came from Audric, though I did get a chance to talk to several other SCAMP users and find that my swinging velocity isn't abnormal... it appeared off the coast of France, as well.

It turns out there are some people from NZ here, so I'm going to try to get a chance to meet them tomorrow. The scene in the keynote lectures is hilarious: in the first row near the door sit about seven old men with white hair and beards. They are rowdy and talk over each other, even during the lecture, and you'd think they were graduate students. But if you were to read their nametags, you would find yourself in the presence of many of the fathers of modern fluid mechanics and oceanography, from Scripps to MIT to Woods Hole to Oregon State to Cambridge to U. Western Australia. It's a ridiculous bunch, but knowing there are such great minds in the room simply enthralls me.

After sweating through the poster session (both literally and figuratively, as the posters were outside), there were more lectures (including Audric's) and I finally had a chance to sketch a little more. The cloister the conference is being held in (the Faculty of Engineering) is ridiculously gorgeous. I wish O'Brien were this nice!
 Sangallo Cloister, Universita di Roma la Sapienza

But I guess that's what you get for being around since the 12th century. 

At 7:30pm, Julia, Audric and I headed out to roam and have dinner in the Trastevere neighborhood, across the Tiber from where we're staying (and a bit). It's supposed to be the best place for nightlife, and if the packed cafes were any indication, they were right.
Via Della Scala, 8:45pm
We ended up finding the place we wanted to go for dinner was closed (not surprising, really, as this is the time of year when lots of restaurants have vacations). We ended up somewhere that ended up being pretty dang good, even without knowing anything about it and despite the high tourist population. So now commenceth food blog: we shared mozzarella di bufala with shaved black truffles:




and then for dinner, risotto with porcini, sausage and ricotta salata (yes! meat! though now my stomach isn't happy):

AND a bottle of Montepulciano d'Abruzzo (nom nom), called "Ilius". Amazing.
And as we were walking back to the hotel (gotta love those nighttime city streets), there was a place selling ricotta granita. If you're familiar with granita, you will understand that is rather strange, as the creaminess isn't associated with granita much. It wasn't the best thing I've ever had, but hey, when in Rome, right?
What a day.

Monday, August 22, 2011

en Roma, Senatus Populusque Romanus

Thus commenceth ISSF2011, or, the 7th International Symposium on Stratified Flows. We have ridiculous backpacks (Audric managed to escape that fate) and four days of lectures to look forward to. Today was the 'master classes', meaning they broke up the grad students according to research topic (kinda) and had us present our work to each other. The main issue being, there was no real organization, so nobody really knew what to present. I threw together something last night, primarily from the presentation I gave to EFM in April (and heaven knows how things have progressed since then). By a horrible twist of fate, my presentation was eaten by PPT2003, and in a rush I had to convert it to a pdf (bye bye effects, hello confusing images). And about ten extra slides that I had hidden from the original presentation about Batchelor theory. gah. what a nightmare.

So something I learned today: when Larry Armi is going to be in the crowd, DON'T MESS UP. [dang.] That man doesn't like to listen to things he is bored by.. and he was bored by a lot of the presentations, and asked me to cross off which ones had been given already (he came in late). Fortunately, though, Clint Winant came over and introduced himself afterward, and said he liked my presentation (ha! yeah right). That was nice, at least.

I must say, I love the Italian way of doing things... rather slow, methodical... with lots of coffee breaks (though the accent isn't the same, I hear Andreas in my head every single time one of the organizers announces it). In the States it'd be.. well actually, it would probably be similar, except every coffee break would be accompanied by five-day-old pastries. At least here it's espresso and cookies.

So random list of memorable things that happened today: found a real Salumeria (this one); was spat upon by a signora pezzasca (crazy lady) in the Piazza Navona, who a minute later proceeded to start yelling across the square; had pizza bianca from Forno for lunch, on the east bank of the Tiber; was complimented in Italian on my tiny sketch of gothic windows, and tried (but failed) to have a conversation with him; realized that not only is my poster the wrong size, it is the wrong direction (is hamburger, not hot dog orientation), and found a solution (one of the Stanford students did the same thing, so we'll put them together on two boards); met Lynn Gelhar over pizza; wandered around the city for the night and watched traffic, and buses, go by the piazza.

I don't know why, but I've always loved cities at night. I'm not sure what it is about them, but somehow they feel more alive than during the day. All of the ugly bits become fuzzy, all of the stark sadness goes away. There is a special kind of energy, particularly on summer nights, particularly in cities where people stay out until all hours... eating at cafes on the street, wandering around with a gelato, or just wandering in general. You can feel the city's heartbeat in the background, thump-thump-thumping to an unknown band, a set of accordionists playing over each other to form a beautiful inharmonious symphony.

And a guy playing the accordion is sitting below my window right now, at the restaurant that closes at 1am. (he just struck up 'when the saints go marching in') Via Cavour is still busy, even now. But the shutters on my windows open up onto the corner, and all is well with the world.

To appease those not on facebook, here is one picture to go by so far:
yeah, Coloseo.

Sunday, August 21, 2011

Roma walkabout

After sleeping for 11 hours last night (with the time difference and -52hrs, I was zonked), I awoke to Julia knocking on my door. Surprise, surprise! Audric had told me she'd be arriving in the morning... I suppose I just didn't expect to get up so late. But Rome is an easy place to be lazy, especially when it's 90degF out and 80% humidity. That's why August is not a popular month to visit, and why my hotel room only cost 290Eu for seven nights (besides the fact that it's the exact shape and size of a closet).

Julia and I had a lovely time being mostly asleep, wandering around the city. It was hilarious, she kept mentioning that it all felt surreal, like she was in a dream. I had felt the same the day before, so I wasn't as comatose, though there were several times when I thought I'd lost her.

After lunch at a wee cafe, we sort of went searching for a skirt for me. Unfortunately, all I packed was business casual, so I've been panting like a dog for the past two days... hence skirt search-age. But alas, to no avail... it's hard to remember that I am simply freakishly huge, and the idea of a "tall" doesn't exist in Italy. Most of the sundresses wouldn't cover my derriere significantly. Such is life.

We found a couple of nice little back streets, as you are wont to do while roaming in Rome, and purposely avoided the most touristy places. And we fell in love with the misters- lots of outdoor cafes have fans that simultaneously blow and mist their customers under umbrellas. And as most cafes have outdoor seating in the street, it's easy enough to continue walking along the sidewalk to catch the edge of the mist plume.

After a nap, Audric arrived in town, and we headed out to dinner, via the Colosseum. The light was perfect for photos, so we had a good time with that... and then wandered around trying to find a place to have dinner. On the way we found one of Rome's famous public fountains- drinking fountains everywhere! with delicious cold water running! (this part scares me, env engr that I am). And beyond the typical fountain, this one had THREE spouts, so we all filled up simultaneously. It was hilarious, and I wish I had gotten a picture. And here we were, worrying about drinking tap water in Rome.

None of the places recommended in my Rough Guide were open, so we ended up at a little place called Restaurant Tempio di Mecenate, near the Vittorio Emanuele. The food was decent, prices about normal, though they had a heavy hand with the salt. Not too bad for walking in off the street. Dinner was followed by gelato at one of the oldest gelaterias in the city- Giovanni Fassi. It was actually a MASSIVE place, and filled with people (primarily tourists). But the gelato lived up to its name, so that's fortunate at least.

What a day. what a day.

Piazza di Santa Maria Maggiore

I'm really, really glad I felt compelled to sit at the base of an obelisk in the piazza last night as the sun was setting and sketch the interaction between the basilica and buildings on a side street [Had I a scanner, I'd show you what I mean].

I had been running around Termini station and Via Cavour, trying to find a place to make copies of my passport. In the meantime, I found myself a bottle of 2007 Chianti for 3eu and a mozzarella ball for dinner, which were safely tucked away in my bag. On the way back to enjoy my loot, the piazza caught my eye (not such a difficult feat, as it covers an entire block). But more importantly, as I looked up at the basilica, what popped in my head was there are no rules for you in Italy. Meaning, you can do whatever you like, and no one will know any different. So heck, I had my sketchbook! Why not go draw the basilica?

I sat down at the base of the obelisk in the piazza, and grabbed my sketchbook. Fading light from the sunset was casting a very slightly pink shroud over the square, and particularly on the western edge of the basilica. Buildings across the street, nondescript besides their heavy black shutters and harsh angles, reflected the light, and groups ate dinner at the base of them under awnings in black and white. It was perfect, one of those moments when you actually can feel the things you're seeing (forgive the lack of good working here, but you probably know what that is like).

And then, as I was packing up my sketchbook, the young man sitting near me, who had been reading a book (in English, I noticed), turned to me and said (something like) "mi scusi, para inglese?"
For a second, I just laughed, then answered 'yes, of course I do'. The entire day, I had tried to ask for things/directions in Italian, and I would be answered in English, or I would start saying something in Italian, and I would be cut off entirely in English. I thought I must have accidentally written "English only, please" on my face or something. And here I was, being asked if I spoke English. Awesome.

I'm not exactly sure how it happened, but we ended up talking for two hours at the base of the monument, as the sun set completely and the glow changed from pink to yellow-orange from streetlights around us. People strolled across the piazza with gelato, and then with beer; some got rowdy, buses roared by, traffic lights became a noticeable presence. And still we talked, and talked, and talked. About anything and everything, life and meaning and what it means to have goals and love, how little of our lives can really be planned. At one point we exchanged how we got to be at that specific spot in the world at that particular time... who we were, what we did, where we came from... it turns out he was American, and part of an installation sculpture in Venice for a week, because he was a runner...

I think the greatest part of this was the fact that our conversation was honest, no-holds-barred, why and how and where in the world. There was no expectation that we would meet ever again, necessarily... we went here, there and everywhere. So we both talked from our deep places and dreamed things. I learned quite a lot in those two hours that I'll never forget, about ambition, life plans, fear, knowledge, talent, and using what you know to better everyone around you. I learned more about myself by talking to him. That was an incredible gift.

Sometimes, just sometimes, chance things turn into absolutely wonderful things. And sometimes you have to just pry open the shutters of your mind and heart, and trust a stranger with it for a little while. You never know what you'll learn.

And Brian, if you read this, keep dancing.

mozzarella di bufala no. 1

[because I'm sure there will be another]

Well. What a 52-hour-long day it's been.
Or day, in general, regardless of length.

In the twelve hours I've been in Rome, I have visited enough palazzos that there's no way I'll ever be able to count them (Francese, Navona, Spada, Sant' Ignazio, Santa Maria Maggiore, and others).

I have seen more tourists thank I care to see for the rest of my life.

I've been mistaken on the street for exactly three people, the last of whom was "Christina", to a lady who stopped in her tracks with jaw hanging. Needless to say, I felt compelled to set her right, but my meager-fake-Italian-plus-jet lag-and-sleep deprivation only allowed a 'no', squeaked out as a mouse caught in the line of fire of a very hungry cat. Fortunately she didn't pursue it; as of that point I may very well have been easily convinced that I was, in fact, her long lost cousin Christina.

[As of 4pm] I was sitting on the steps of a monument to a dude I don't know and/or recognize, and I've grown tired of trying to translate Latin, which is, unfortunately, rather dead to me (though I wholeheartedly maintain it is NOT a dead language). I am in some piazza or another, which I would need to rise and walk the perimeter to find out, next to what appears to be the Irish consulate (unless the flag is just faded)  and a plaque stating "deipare virgini et S. Gregorio magno". Which, in my memory, translates to 'the beatific virgin and St. Gregory the Great.

I've had a lunch of mozzarella di bufala and violet artichokes and a glass of vino rosso at Obika, a mozzarella bar on the Campo de Fiori that actually just opened a branch in midtown (Manhattan). A lovely conversation with a British lady who lives in Paris, and her daughter, 13-ish, who goes to a bilingual school. It was great to overhear their conversation, as it drifted back and forth between French and English.

I made it to the Campo de Fiori just in time; after having dropped my bags and about fifty pounds of airplane dirt, I hiked it over there to make it before 2pm, when the stalls close. It's a big open-air market with fruits and vegetables, open Mon-Sat 8-2pm... just made it! The foods were exquisite, beautiful little berries and pesca, artichokes, lettuces, dried pomodori, peppers, and, since it was ridiculously hot, a granita stand.

Lounging in the shade of fountains seems to be a Roman pastime, and I can understand why- the heat simply won't go away, and even a breeze is seldomly cooler than hot and dripping.

Or perhaps it's just a pastime of  the Roman tourists. 

People are wandering around with 2L bottles of water and cones of gelato, cups of cold watermelon and granita. It's a glorious summer's day. I'm off to wander aimlessly, and see what I run into.

Since it's Rome, I'll probably run into quite a lot.

Friday, August 19, 2011

Chic-a-go, Chica-a-a-go, what a wonderful town... do do do do

Okay, another tip for the traveling masses: don’t fly internationally out of O’Hare. Or, if you plan on it, don’t get to the international terminal until the very last possible moment. There is absolutely nothing here, and it opens at 13:00. Ah, poor planning, me.

I am revisited by a similar group of travel-weary individuals… this time wandering aimlessly around, every single person doing a full lap of the terminal before realizing the duty-free and newsstand at the entrance were, indeed, the only shops/food/retail available after the hour-long security line. The indignation on people’s faces is obvious, and both pitiable and a bit hilarious.

I have to say, though, it is nice having the run of quite a large terminal. I never really understood the herd mentality of finding your gate and hovering around it with everyone else. They’re not liable to move the flight forward, only backward… all the same I’ve got a row of comfy seats with chargers in between all to myself and I’m juicing up. And I had plenty of privacy for chatting with the popski.
In a vain attempt at staying awake this morning (if I go to sleep at 5pm Chicago time/2pm Berkeley time, it’ll be midnight Rome time), I was serenaded by two young women conversing in Italian (on my ipod, an Italian language course). Not a whole lot stuck, of course, except that one sounded like Anne Hathaway; Italian is indeed very similar to Spanish; and the use of pronouns in Italian is ridiculously complicated. Though I did learn how to say one phrase that I’m guessing I’ll find will be very useful [forgive the spelling, it’s an audio lesson]: ‘mi piache mangare la pasta’… “I like to eat pasta”. Yes, this will be very useful. How did they know that of all of the useless stuff they told me about months and weather, the one they did give me about food would actually be something I’d use? Now if only I could figure out how to change that to “I like to eat cheese”, we’d be all set.

I also had a chance to catch up with the New York Times Dining section (I buy them every Wednesday, but rarely do I get a chance to finish reading them before the next week’s comes out). And the one from August 10 was RIDICULOUS. First off, there was a reference to a Henan province specialty called the “four treasures”- stuffed boned quail inside squab inside chicken inside a duck, at a place called Uncle Zhou (BOWEN???) – “think of it as the Henan forbear of the turducken”. AMAZING. Especially as someone stopped me the other night to ask the name of the pecumple we made last year for the CEE thanksgiving dinner. THE IRONY.

But wait, it gets better. In the same issue, there was an entire section about ways to prepare eggplant, which I will refer when I get a chance… which I know will be of great interest to one person I know (at least, if he’s reading this). 

There was also an entire article on ricotta and fresh cheeses in Italy. Thanks, New York Times, for reminding me what kinds of foods I should be seeking out when I’m on this trip, something I did not get a chance to do myself. 

AND TO TOP IT OFF… a full-page article about fishermen in PT. JUDITH, RI! What?? Is this like the NYT Dining section written specifically for me? (In case you didn’t know, I have very strong ties to Galilee… and it even mentions the Block Island Ferry). 

TBC… Gotta catch my plane.

When the boogie man comes out at SFO

Well, then.
It's now... oh... about 3:47am, Pacific Standard Time. I'm sitting here in the San Francisco airport, outside the security gate, as I have been for the last three hours or so. Note to my fellow travelers: apparently, no matter what, you cannot enter the terminal until the day you’re supposed to leave, and at SFO, the earliest possible time to enter is 04:30. 

And why, you may ask, am I sitting in SFO at 3:47 (now 3:52) in the morning? Well, dear friends, here is a lesson to the wise: don't ever decide it's a good idea to take a flight that leaves at 6am. It is worth the extra $100 to leave at 10am, believe you me. But unfortunately, the NSF was only so generous with their $$, and since my travel budget for the year was shot in about February, here we are at SFO at (now 3:57)am. And of course, I wasn't thinking about how much of a burden I would be putting on the poor soul who would be dragged into driving me to the airport. SO. It turned out Megan was going to SFO to pick up some friends at midnight anyway, so I thought I'd save Margaret the trouble of driving me there at... well, exactly this time, to tell the truth.

I have to say, we are a sad bunch, those fifty or so of us huddled outside the Delta security gate, waiting, trying to sleep curled up on the floor or across a row of four seats with dividers in-between. The metal between the seats is cold because they’ve kept the A/C on, and cars keep driving by the glass windows, their lights flashing in the faces of the travel-weary. 

It’s like a living graveyard of waiting; semi-comatose walking dead keep passing by, wondering what’s next and when they’ll be released from this pseudo-prison. There is a curious ad hoc culture here; beware of getting up to go to the bathroom, as your seat will be taken from you by a group currently huddled on the floor. Do not speak loudly, do not laugh, do not open bags within a 20ft radius of a curled up body. It is more a culture of trust than I have seen in recent times, at least in American airports; people sleep on the floor next to their bags, which could be stolen out from under their noses in an instant. 

On one of my walks along Terminal 3, I twice passed another rambler, carrying a poster tube much like my own. I felt I had to ask where he was headed- possibly to another conference? Our exchange was surprisingly terse, given the fact that neither of us had anywhere to be for an hour or two. But no, he was just headed home to the other coast. 

The intimacy that develops in such short periods of time always surprises me. In most situations, I would not think to stop a guy in an airport and engage him in conversation about a topic that only by the slightest chance could actually reveal a connection between us. And yet I was compelled to, by his mere proximity and the recognition that in a way, we were in exactly the same situation. I’ve also noticed this intimacy, the feeling that you begin to know and feel for everyone surrounding you, on long-haul flights. Even though that guy’s baby was crying half the night and the woman in front of you was making disgusting smells all twelve hours, by the time you leave you’re all joking together, and when you see them at the baggage claim you sincerely hope that they find their luggage quickly and get home safe; on most flights you wouldn’t even notice the people around you.
Or maybe it’s just me.

Looking forward to a good 18hrs more of travel, woohoo!

Thursday, August 18, 2011

Travelers

Yesterday at lunch, the various EFM members who weren't gone or working (we tend to have an interesting trickle in and out during the day) sat around the campfire and told ghost stories. Oh wait. No, that's what I was wishing had happened. We were actually sitting out at the green circle at Northgate, some of us on the handy concrete rim, and the rest perched uncomfortably on the chronically wet grass, switching butt cheeks every few minutes to as pants became increasingly saturated.

And we were talking about traveling.
More specifically, Lauren (henceforth referred to as "Skippy") was discussing the "fake" Great Wall she had just visited, as well as random traveling bits. Apparently you can't actually visit the real Great Wall, and on top of that, the only 'real' parts left are rather remote and local villagers tend to dismantle it in bits to build houses (B: "those bricks must be good, they've lasted this long already!") Who would think?

Margaret told a story about traveling in Morocco and almost being stabbed, which managed to capture the interest of everyone there, as well as the occasional passer-by (or at least the crow with a cough). It was harrowing, it was dark, and we all wanted to run home to mama... actually, I believe the full story, published after leaving Morocco for the express purpose of not scaring the crap out of parents and friends stateside, can be found here.

Well. Tomorrow I'm leaving for Rome, and I have to say, it's a little bit harrowing, though most likely because of the fact that I haven't given it much real thought. At the same time, I'm looking forward to the opportunity to be thrown alone into a culture and language I don't understand and immerse myself for a little while.

International travel is one of those things I'm incredibly grateful for. The more places I go, the more cultures and people I am rammed up against, the more sweaty packed subway rides, bargaining at market stands, and discussions with random old people in old run-down plazas, the more I realize that we're really all the same. And the more I realize that politics seem to do far more worse than good, because Jose Schmo living in Madrid and Jean Paul au Hasard in Montreal certainly don't care about the international strain between their nations (though perhaps Canada was a poor choice). If one were to visit the other's home town, and they met on the street, chances are they would try to interact in a polite manner, home-boy would certainly help out the foreigner if he was trying to find a cafe. We're all people, and we do all want a chance at life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness (well, I put it that way because I am American; otherwise, liberté, égalité, fraternité or one of numerous other freedom songs). It's only when our own country's political opinions are forced down our throats, or it becomes extremely personal for some reason, that layperson in country X begins to actually hate layperson in country R.

What a life we lead. At least the science is the same...

Well, as I'm off to go do this thing, I may not post anything for a day or two, but I'll certainly try! And pictures of gelato (for the random SCAMP/ PME CFO), and hopefully some lovely Italy! It turns out my hotel doesn't have wireless in the rooms, so it'll be a little interesting trying to get a place to do so... perhaps a cafe which I will be pointed to by Guiseppe Casuale even though I'm American. Or maybe I can pretend to be Canadian. That went over slightly better in NZ the first time...

In the meantime, to make your workday slightly happier, check out this ad from forever ago. It's pretty friggin ridiculous, and reminds me of the Crisco cookbook I found in a pile of old National Geographics from the 40s in our attic on BI, which claimed that "Crisco will give your children sweet dreams". Right, this one is about Cola.

Arrivederci et pace~

Wednesday, August 17, 2011

Randomosity No.1

After four hours of sleep for the last several nights, I am sitting at my desk in the EFM office, listening to the birds chirp in the trees as the sun spills over my hands happily typing away... oh wait, no, that's the grinding sound of the roofers on Hesse, and, my bad, the fluorescent light from the O'Brien lab basking its glow on this cold, foggy morning. I guess I'm a little confused. I'm not the young whippersnapper I used to be, and four hours will not quite do it (oh, how I long for the days of undergrad... one of the Top Ten Reasons I Came to Harvey Mudd College was "sleep deprivation is fun and easy"(number 3? 5? Mudders, some help here?)).
So... why?
This morning was uber eventful...
Amanda got in last night at 12:15am at the Downtown Berkeley BART station. After a reheated slice of Cheeseboard Pizza (henceforth referred to as 'chzbrd'), which had gotten very cold in the five hours the poor girl had to wait in Denver before finally getting here, a re-design of my blog bkgd and another hour of talking, we decided to go for the 4.5-hr sleep cycle, (our bodies sleep in 90-min chunks, [check it out]) though I don't think we actually made the 4.5-hr mark.

[side note: we had spent one morning on the way to Stanford discussing this topic, another one of the random things they taught us at Mudd (along with the importance of learning your personality type and how you interact with others (MBTI) [don't know yours?] disclaimer: no guarantee that this is a good test). And to be fair, the discussion was actually mostly me babbling trying to stay awake while Amanda dozed in the passenger seat, occasionally making small noncommittal sounds of assent. But she remembered enough to want to try it out.]

And after dropping her off at 6am, I took a nice long run to try to wake up since today was meant to be an early fieldwork day in the Delta with Wayne (he's trying to help the smelt). But we found out we can't actually tow the Golden Bear (the EFM Whaler) with Enterprise rental trucks, so... we're now sitting in the office as people randomly trickle in, waiting to hear back about whether we can use the Blue Beast... still waiting...

In the meantime, I'm playing with the background. Anyone who has read a post over the last few days will notice the random nature of the images... first wooden spoons, then a wave coming in on the beach at Clay Head on BI in the early morning, and now... well, now I think we've found a winner. The current background you see is actually SCAMP profiles of turbulent kinetic energy dissipation rate (ε) at 10cm resolution in a 20m water column over a period of about four hours on 20 October 2010. [To give proper credit, this work was supported by NSF Grant DGE 1106400]. aka, this is my research. 

I have also come to a conclusion: I'm not going to write anything else that's just blabbering to myself and wasting time. I will only write interesting-ish random things about topics you might want to read about. And I will try to avoid being cryptic. Because no one deserves to read boring crap about someone else's life. What a waste of time! That's why there are so many blogs out there.

Along that line, I will never write something boring... oh wait... I think this post qualifies... oh crap I'm drowning in the meta-ness of it!
I'm So Meta, Even This Acronym

PS Success! I have officially been added to Margaret's workday blocked websites list. Need it? I understand... Chrome Nanny LeechBlock

Tuesday, August 16, 2011

Solving global climate change one Trager at a time

If Jason Trager can't raise $30 million for sustainability fellowships in Berkeley, it simply cannot be done. Or so he explained thoroughly over coffee, an amazing cappuccino that made Margaret ridiculously happy so that she just wanted to get back to work, and a brownie, a part of which I found inexplicably placed in my hand, this afternoon at Nefeli.

And at the same time, if he cannot raise $30 million for sustainability fellowships, there's no way we're ever going to solve global climate change. 

You know what? I think he might be right about that. If he can't raise that kind of money for a cause so inextricably tied to the Berkeley ideal, both the local mentality and the national/international image of Berkeley, then there's no way we're ever going to be able to get enough people interested in making a difference in the way we live on this fragile earth. That's not to say the two are the same, or that the students who would be supported by said fellowships would solve the world climate crisis, but when it comes down to it, $30 million isn't very much money.

And if anyone can do it, Jason Trager can do it. This guy is so passionate about his ideals of sustainability that he really seems to embody the principles themselves. You listen to him talk about this, and there is no doubt in your mind that
1) he's 100% right
2) he genuinely thinks fixing these problems is possible (which is an attitude many scientists and engineers lack) and
3) he could certainly talk a Fortune 500 Chief Exec into directing oodles of (probably tax-deductible) dollars into his cause.

So good luck, Trager. I sincerely hope that we can, if not "solve" global climate change (this is not actually physically possible, at least not in the amount of time humans will walk the earth), at least we can begin to reign in our hugely negative impacts. The most important thing, though (as of right now), is to educate people about what's actually happening.

It's hard to imagine, but there are actually people out there still who think global climate change is a "theory" which a rational person can choose to believe in. If you happen to be one of these people, please, please, I beg of you, read the Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change report from 2007: [here's the summary]. Unfortunately, the powers that be in the international community (US, China, India, and other nations with manufacturing and oil interests) have put such hard restrictions on the IPCC that the strongest words they can use are high agreement and much evidence, rather than blatantly stating 'dude we're friggin killing the earth'. But everyone who considers themselves educated and in any way qualified to discuss the topic should at least read the report. And unless you're incredibly set in your opinion before considering evidence, it should be able to speak for itself.

And by the way, let's please stop calling it "global warming". It's actually incredibly misleading for all of those people (who won't read the report) who think a cold winter in a mid-Atlantic state disproves global climate change entirely. Thus, a plea: use the term "global climate change". kthanksbye.

So, kids, lessons for the day:

1) Reduce, Reuse, and Recycle, but most of all, REDUCE (why don't people remember this is the most important of the three?) [need help remembering it?]

2) Be super passionate about whatever you care about and a CFO from a Fortune 500 company might give you mad $ to support your cause [or maybe these guys]

3)Let's try to walk lightly upon this earth; it's the only one we've got.

Bring Upon Ye the Wrath of the Norse Gods [with the name of your IKEA furniture]

Well, so much for cooking Amerrrrican for dem Swedish fellas. We ended up going to an Indian place in North Berkeley (they'd had Thai for lunch, apparently the other logical option). They'll have to leave Amerrrica without tasting the true cuisine of this place. What a shame. Well, I suppose they have had several weeks in the States to taste real American food all around the West coast in their random travels from SoCal to Vegas to Yosemite to Napa... so I'm sure they've had their fill of Taco Bell and Value Menu Fried Animal Endings (let's be serious here, they're grad students too- granted, far better paid grad students, but grad students all the same). And who are we kidding, Berkeley isn't America. Can Berkeley even be considered part of America? I'm sure someone's tried to secede at one point or another... I wouldn't be surprised to find, somewhere in the deepest stacks of either the University or Public Library, Berkeley town ordinance 481.P.1 states, 'As of this 27th day of October 1978, the City of Berkeley has withdrawn all association with the greater State of California and United States of America, in order to form a more perfect union under the leadership of [enter name of distressed individual now living in People's Park] and [enter name of Happy Happy Happy man (don't believe me?)]'.

And Berkeley food isn't real American food. I mean really. In a two-block radius in North Berkeley, we have Chez Panisse (history), the Cheeseboard Collective and Cheeseboard Pizza, Cesar, Saul's, Gregoire, Cha Am, The French Hotel, Masse's, and Lo Coco's (a personal favorite);  four blocks away, Alice Waters' original Edible Schoolyard at Martin Luther King Jr. Middle School, near the Monterey Market, Pizzeria Gioia, the Hopkins St. Bakery, and Espresso Roma. There's a reason it's called the 'Gourmet Ghetto'.

So, no, instead of cooking Amerrrican, or Berkeley, we had Indian. I have to say, I am continually impressed by Swedish men (I know this is a generalization, but all those I have met in the last few years have been quite interesting and courteous, and I would like to pay a compliment to my new friends, so bear with me). Along with a wonderful conversation about the behavior of non-spherical particles in turbulence, internal waves, muesli vs. granola, experimental vs. observational science, how to make money in Vegas (blackjack), and just how difficult it is to pee off the side of a canoe, I learned that the names of more expensive types of Ikea furniture are actually curses used to invoke the wrath of Norse gods. Though that may not have been brought up by the Swedish gentlemen, it was confirmed; in addition, the ridiculous wealth of Ikea's owner is apparently a matter of contention, as he seems to claim he is poor (figure that one out). Also, I was reminded that politeness means something different in Europe than America; it would have been rude to ask for a box, as we all did tonight. Good thing to remember for Rome in four days!

All in all, less of a food adventure than expected, but intriguing nonetheless.
Tip for the day: find yourself an interesting Swede.

In the meantime, a line from a jaunty sea shanty:
Come along, come along, you jolly brave boys, there's lots of grog in the jar, we'll plough the briny ocean with the jolly roving tar!

and a random song/video that has been stuck in my head, if you haven't seen it yet, you should (those of you who know me will have seen this, I apologize): Someone like you
Cheers and goodnight.