Impetuous Translations

To blog or not to blog, that is the question.

A friend of mine wrote me a very nice email a few days back asking about this blog and why I hadn't been posting much as of late. It made me realize in fact that I hadn't been posting, although the truth is that I have been writing a lot - just not actually hitting that "publish" button. When I sat back and thought about why that was, it seemed like there were three main reasons at play.

First, as of late, I seem to be settling on topics that are very personal and to be quite frank, writing about them with a triteness that I suspect would do (only) a high school student proud. They leave me a bit embarrassed for myself after reading them, so much so that I can't imagine what other people would think. In the end, I simply erase the posts, thus explaining a pretty big portion of the blank space on IT these days. 

Second, I had this very odd experience a few months ago where someone I knew only casually but was hoping to know a lot better referred to something very personal that I had mentioned in my blog at least two years back. As I read through my previous posts, I realized that everything from my quirky to rote habits are so out there for everyone who's interested to see and know, which isn't always entirely good. While I certainly appreciate the opportunity for Internet stalking of a potential romantic interest when it benefits me, when the tables are turned, it seems intrusive and provides strange fodder for conversation. That experience has given me cause to think just what it is that I want people to know about me in the future who maybe already don't know me now.

Third, technology moves on and what has become somewhat evident to me is that 25 word status updates in Facebook seem to fill my need to know and make known pretty much everything that's worthy of comment in my world. Why write paragraphs when you can write a sentence? Of course that's not entirely true because I love my previous blog posts but it's just so easy to call it a day with those updates. 

So that leaves my future blogging and my past blogs in limbo right now. Reason 3 is a bit facetious, because blogging certainly has been and continues to be an outlet for writing that I enjoy. But when I enjoy it the most, it seems to lead to Reasons 1 and 2.  Dunno.

In the end, and to answer your question Nicole, I've decided I'm going to have to have a serious think about the pros and cons of keeping my blog up. As for your other request for juicy gossip as to what I've been up to as of late, I'll take the opportunity to answer that offline, at least for now.

Expectations

My brother and S-I-L are expecting. Whenever someone says that - as my S-I-L did today in her announcement to her friends on facebook - it makes me think of pizza. I think this is probably because before they were expecting the baby, the only thing I'd ever really associated with the word "expecting" was a pizza delivery.

Now that they're expecting another kind of delivery, though, I'm starting to realize that this might be even better and more exciting than a pizza. Man do I love pizza, but not nearly as much as I'm gonna love that little sprog.

Who knew the Marsh's were the babying kind?

The difference between literal and figurative, late on a Friday night

Crowded into a corner among the throngs of people catching the last train of the night from Bank to Queensway with my headphones on (M.Ward as my companion), this is where I go:

• To an early morning Thanksgiving Day swim just off the shores of Pemba's beach
• To the long, empty dirt road I trudged down with barely enough luggage to last me that first Brazilian summer
• To several meters beyond the right in a fork of the Wisconsin hiking path that we also mistakenly chose the summer before
• To the outside balcony after the last fight when I can't see any way forward, only the way out
• To the last mile stretch of my first century in Vidalia, Georgia
• To a long trail out to the edge of the Cape of Good Hope with nothing but that

Mo' Rockin' with the Gipsy Kings in London

Friends and I attended Kenwood House's Gipsy King's outdoor concert on Saturday night. 

For the occasion, which also included a pre-concert picnic (sadly but not unexpectedly held in the English wind and rain), I rustled up some Moroccan Carrot and Goat Cheese Sandwiches. It's been at least a year since I made these; just long enough to forget how perfect these sammies are for a hearty picnic feast. I'm writing this post as a reminder to myself to not wait another year before making them again.

I tend more-or-less to follow the recipe as written (below), although I add a bit more cayenne pepper and cinnamon to spice up the carrots and a little less olive oil to keep the bread from getting mushy. I also cheat and buy pre-made green olive tapenade, because as a rule, I don't knowingly touch or consume anchovies - a version of "what happens in vegas, stays in vegas" applied to my dietary world. For my non-vegetarian friends, I add in some thinly sliced paprika-seasoned chicken breast. Finally, I don't slice or parboil the carrots either. I just shred, shred, shred and then marinate them raw.  

The ingredients stack nicely together, seem to hold up well in the rain, and the carrot grating experience is oddly cathartic. Overall, a good return showing in the pre-concert picnic repertoire. 

Moroccan Carrot and Goat Cheese Sandwiches with Green Olive TapenadeGourmet | August 2002

Yield: Makes 6 sandwiches Active Time: 30 minutes Total Time: 4 1/2 hours For carrots 2 tablespoons sugar 1 tablespoon fresh lemon juice 2 teaspoons sweet paprika 1 teaspoon ground cumin 1/2 teaspoon cinnamon 1/4 teaspoon cayenne 1 teaspoon salt 1/4 cup olive oil 1 1/2 lb medium carrots (8) For tapenade 1 1/4 cups green olives (6 to 7 oz) such as Cerignola or picholine, pitted 3 tablespoons drained bottled capers, rinsed 1/4 cup chopped fresh flat-leaf parsley 1 flat anchovy fillet, chopped 1 teaspoon finely grated fresh lemon zest 1 1/2 tablespoons fresh lemon juice 1/2 teaspoon black pepper 1/4 cup olive oil For sandwiches 12 slices good-quality pumpernickel sandwich bread 6 oz soft mild goat cheese (3/4 cup) at room temperature Special equipment: an adjustable-blade slicer Prepare carrots: Whisk together sugar, lemon juice, spices, salt, and oil in a large bowl until sugar is dissolved. Halve carrots crosswise on a long diagonal, then, starting from diagonal ends, cut into 1/16-inch-thick slices using slicer. Cook carrots in a 4- to 5-quart pot of boiling salted water until crisp-tender, about 45 seconds. Drain well in a colander and immediately toss with dressing. Cool to room temperature, stirring occasionally, then marinate, covered and chilled, at least 4 hours. Make tapenade and assemble sandwiches: Pulse olives with capers, parsley, anchovy, zest, lemon juice, and pepper in a food processor until coarsely chopped, then scrape down side of bowl with a rubber spatula. Pulsing motor, add oil in a slow stream and continue to pulse until mixture is finely chopped (do not pulse to a paste). Spread tapenade on 6 slices of bread and goat cheese on remaining 6 slices, then make sandwiches with carrots.

https://www.epicurious.com/recipes/food/printerfriendly/Moroccan-Carrot-and-Goat-Cheese-Sandwiches-with-Green-Olive-Tapenade-106890

Sometimes last chances should be ignored

I am, unabashedly, a romantic at heart. I'm not so far gone as to believe in the existence of "a one and only" but I do believe in the existence of "a couple of ones." I also happen to believe that the universe is orchestrating a huge game of hide and seek between those ones and me, but nevermind.

I say all of this as context for the following: Every so often, I love me a good rom-com film. When I'm stuck on a plane, I really love me a good rom-com because, well, witty banter and a pleasant ending where two people fall in love is always appreciated when you're hurling through the air at 500 miles per hour.

So on my flight last week to Ethiopia, despite being delayed by nearly two hours on the runway, I happily tucked in to a late-night veggie pasta dinner and Dustin Hoffman and Emma Thompson's "Last Chance Harvey". This rom-com is set in London, which I reckon I should love even more since it's so easy to imagine that someday, maybe, I could be Dustin's Emma.

But no. What I have to say about this movie after two years of living in London is this: Finally, proof on the big screen that romantic meet-ups can't possibly happen in this city without a crazy suspension of reality, and on the rare chance that reality does get suspended, what results is enough to make me want to throw up. Here's my play-by-play of the movie to save you the time and disappointment.

Last Chance Harvey - a summary of three acts

Act 1- the coincidental first encounter at the airport where she asks him to fill out a survey. He says no and then stalks her at a bar later while she reads and he drinks too much. 

My commentary on this encounter: Reality check, anyone? In the London I know, you can't just meet in an airport bar, follow the potential love-interest onto the Heathrow Express from carriage to carriage, hop off at Paddington together, and then walk outside arm-in-arm into Trafalgar Square- as Dustin and Emma's alter egos do in the movie. As everyone knows, airport bars no longer exist, having been replaced by Gordon Ramsey gastropubs at Heathrow. Carriage doors and aisle-ways on the Express are always too jammed with luggage to carriage hop. Also, no one walks out of Paddington station and into Trafalgar Square in one screen shot. In reality, you have to take the decrepit Bakerloo Underground train or the very ripe-smelling No. 15 bus, which is not such a pleasurable journey for making googly eyes at someone I can assure.

Act 2 - The moment happens where he needs to be saved from himself and only she can do it by convincing him to make up for all the years he has let his daugter down by going to her wedding reception that is just about to start at a fancy hotel far away from Trafalgar Square. They dance and fall in love at the wedding.

My commentary: Point of fact, you and the new love of your life can't go shopping for the perfect dress for your daughter's perfect night time wedding reception at the Grosvenor Hotel just twenty minutes before the reception starts on a Friday night. Stores here close at 6 pm, sometimes 7pm if you're lucky, wherein after that hour, you will be forced to say... "Imagine, me here without my frock" and eat at KFC because you haven't made a reservation anywhere else. By the way, you can dance at KFC but people tend to look at you funny. 'Nuff said about magically transporting oneself from Trafalagar Square to Grosvenor Hotel.

Act 3 - Despite leaving the airport, the couple trip over previous relationship baggage when he stands her up for their next date and she refuses initially to see him again. Nevertheless, they both land on their feet just in time for the happily ever after moment. 

My commentary: Ahem... You can't just dump your briefcase/luggage into an airport rubbish bin located at the check-in counter in an attempt to quickly buy a ticket to anywhere to get past security so you can right some budding relationship wrong with the woman who works in the departure lounge area. You can't do this because there are no rubbish bins in the airports anymore due to bomb threats and leaving your luggage alone for more than a second will cause police to evacuate you and everyone else in the airport. Game over. The end. Try falling back in love with police-issued handcuffs and bullet-proof glass partitions is what I say.

So, as you can read, I wasn't much of a fan of Last Chance Harvey. On top of all of these incredibly unbelievable events that have to happen to bring these two people together, it's also worth noting that they also have to overcome the cheesiest dialogue ever written. At one point toward the end of the film, while Emma is monologuing at Dustin about how she's better off alone, better to not get hurt than to believe in elusive love, I and the old guy sitting next to me catch myself saying out loud "blah, blah, blah" over top of the dialogue. I spent the better part of the week in Ethiopia sick to my stomach, and in part, I blame this movie.

Last Chance Harvey. It gives rom-coms, reality and London a bad name. Sigh.

squish squash

To one of my squash partners,

You know who you are. How is it that you always just barely beat me in games that I should clearly be winning? Take today for example. I win the first two games easily. Then, I lose 8-10 after being up by 6. Six points! And then I fumble my way through two more close, but nonetheless, losses. Losses, I repeat. Losses.

And you're four months pregnant. And you're a girl. And you're so nice to me, even on the rare occasions when you lose and I win. So, for the record, I am getting beaten more often than not by a four-month nice pregnant girl.

I'm almost a little glad when you tell me your trousers no longer fit. Serves you right.

Your (overly) competitive and slightly frustrated squash partner who still can't wait for our next game,

Kim

Watch me run

Whoosh. Glad that long, awkward silence is over. 

There's just only so much fun a girl can have before she needs to rest. For me, that means spending the night alone, curled up on the couch, updating my blog, and thinking up excuses for why I was actively watching CSI Miami, lest someone catch me in the act. Sunday could very well be that night. In the interim, I'm throwing something up on my blog during the hours when I should be working, just for continuity's sake. 

Instead of vegging out in my home, I've been ludicrously on the run. I haven't seen the upstair's couch for ages. The TV is off, but on the same channel it was left weeks ago. And the book I'm supposed to be reading has remained expectantly creased by the side of my bed, seemingly for forever.

During the whirlwind interim since my last post, I've been a lady who lunches at Browns, the girl who tottered off to the Ascot races in heels, who doubled down at the Double Club and got a little crazy at Cow, who sang heartily thrice at the Troubadour and succumbed to her arty side at Shunt (this is a lie, I went there - true - only to find I have no arty-side). But best of all, I've tipsily giggled my way through many a fabulous garden party, champagne in one hand and fairy cakes in the other.

If only I had a dog to run around the park with and cuddle with me on the couch when I finally make it there, life would be very, very good. Until then, no more complaining about London, I promise. 

London is dead, long live London. 

Hi, my name is Kim and I'm annoyed with London.

I have been grumpy these last few weeks. I know it and I know the reasons why. In general, city living is getting to me. Here are my scattershot reasons why I'm not loving London this week. I figure they must be acknowledged - just like in AA's twelve-step program - so that I hopefully can learn to embrace London again.

Annoying thing #1. Ginormous outdoor dander - I don't have allergies to normal pollen, but seriously, when one breathes in very large and omnipresent pieces of floating tree castoff as I did this last week, one's body is eventually bound to say "enough". I consumed more dander than food on Wednesday I swear. My eyes and my stomach are in revolt.

Annoying thing #2. Pavement hoggers - I wonder what it must be like to be so in love with someone such that the idea of actually dropping your vice-gripped handhold to let someone else pass by you on the sidewalk is unthinkable. Isn't Paris the place where couples stroll? Please go there or stop hogging all the pavement and give other people a chance to walk.

Annoying thing #3. The Latvians - I'm entirely sure that Latvia is a lovely country with lovely people, but the Latvian house across the road from our flat has become football-loving hoodlum central for London's Latvian residents. Our once quiet evenings on the balcony are now interrupted by drunken, smoking young teens shouting, "Nah, Nah, Nah, Nan. Nah, Nah, Nah, Nah. Hey, Hey, Hey, Latvia." How so very, very clever you all are. I think there's a country with your name on it waiting for you. 

Annoying thing #4. Subway sandwich coupon books - I love Subway 6 inch turkey subs. I love bargains. So I should love the very thick Subway coupon book that I was handed yesterday, right? Wrong. Ten pages of coupons and not one of them for a sandwich that a normal, single person might eat. Coupons for 12 inch subs, coupons to buy one meal get one free, platter discounts, etc. Is one discount coupon on a sandwich I would like to consume asking for too much?

Annoying thing #5. Separate hot and cold water bathroom taps - Let's just say that as a public health person, I only verge on the edge of obsessiveness about washing my hands. They make it so hard in London to do it well though. At most sinks, you have to splash water back and forth between the two taps with your hands, ultimately deciding whether to scald your hands, freeze them, or - my current favorite - walk away with a soapy film. How hard can it really be, I wonder, to combine hot and cold water and then regulate the temperature?

When you get to be that age...

This is the scene a little past 10:30 tonight:

My good friend Wendy (visiting from Seattle) and I walking through the hippest part of SoHo. Very trendy, dread-locked guy walking past us on the street.

This is the dialogue:

Trendy guy to us "Club'n tonight, ladies?"

Wendy to the guy "I don't think so."

Trendy guy to Wendy "Well, that's good."

So I guess that's the end of that conversation.

Superheroes, tutus and bananas, oh my.

Today was a beautiful day in London for the marathon. So much so that some (and by that I mean at least five, maybe more) of the runners seemed to have woken up this morning and independently thought to themselves, "26.2 miles isn't so bad, maybe I should run it in a giant banana costume."

They weren't alone in their selection of unusual running wear. During the hour that I waited for my friend to finish, I observed many superheroes in tights with their underwear on the outside, a couple of barristers in full wigs, and a remarkable number of short bald men in tutus. The costumed runner that took the cake for me though was literally the guy in the cake (costume) - candle and all.

As if 26.2 miles isn't hard enough?

Evening update: View the BBC footage of some of the "fancy dress" people.

All the news that's fit to print - and some that's not.

I don't know about you but I love newspapers. I am a news junkie. I regularly check-in on-line at the New York Times, the Washington Post and the Guardian. I religiously buy the local "lefty" paper in whatever city I'm living in on Sundays. Now it's the Observer in London, but before it was the Mail and Guardian from Joberg and before that the New York Times in Atlanta and Baltimore.

I feel the pain of newspapers that are going under because sources of revenue from advertising are increasingly limited. I worry that with the decline of print news, so goes the decline in the number and quality of journalists that cover such news. I appreciate the content that I get on newspaper websites is for the most part free and that maybe it won't - or can't - always stay that way. The current and future state of journalism and possible reductions in public access to unbiased, non-commercial news is starting to concern me.

With these thoughts in mind, I wondered when I read the NYTimes today on-line whether this article (on how sports stars get their luxury cars from the city they play in to the city they live in) is a symptom or a cause of said declines. I'm being a little snarky in that there's likely always been these "general interest" features since newspapers began -  but they seem to be sneaking in more and more as "news". One set of quotes around the word news is almost starting to feel inadequate.

The newspaper is dead. Long live the "news"paper?, I'm afraid.

A message from our sponsor

Happy Easter! May you all be touched as I was this holiday season by Horne & Corden's BBC skit.

If you don't give a d*&!, we don't give a f#@!

It's my brother and S-I-L's fault. I have been running to the Girl Talk tracks for the last couple of months religiously, such that I now periodically find myself repeating the most inappropriate phrases from the mash up of his song lyrics, usually while singing along but sometimes even in every day conversation. Like the one from this entry's title and another that uses a word about woman's lower region that I would never ever dream of saying aloud before.

I'm sorry, really truly sorry, is all I have to say. Maybe it's time to find my inner Celine Dion.

Settling in

Despite having arrived back in London from holidays nearly two weeks ago, I'm really just now settling into a normal routine. Cereal upon awakening, reading and writing during the day punctuated by soup for lunch, gym or running in the evening, and some form of pasta with red sauce and a salad at dinner before crawling into bed.

Unexpectedly, I am loving this routine. I turned 36 last week and maybe my penchant for this roteness is a sign that I'm getting old. The other sign could be that even though I had a great time at my own birthday cocktail party, I was just as happy to leave it and my guests at 3am to get some much needed sleep.

Three cheers for settling in!

Look homeward angel (and into the abyss)

Contrary to Mr. Wolfe, you can go home again. But only for two days. And long enough for your mother to do your laundry. It doesn't get much better than that.  

Or maybe it can. The Grand Canyon and Sedona, AZ are our next destinations. The question for the trip is: will my mother and I still like each other after 6 days of my driving and her (questionable) map reading skills? Granted, the parenthetical provocation in the previous sentence is probably not a good way to start.

To be continued!

P.S. My mother, after reading this, said she brought a GPS so shut the hell up. Nice use of language, Mom.

1-800-SkyMall

As you might remember, it's somebody's birthday coming up soon, and while I'm not saying you need to buy me anything, here are my 5 most coveted SkyMall items. (Yes, it was a long flight from London to Chicago where the video system was down for at least half of it.)

1. Jumpin Jammerz - and I quote: "Until now 'Footed Pajamas' have been typically hard to find in adult sizes. Well your search is over!!!" Available styles: Penguins, Pink Ducks, Skulls, Stars, Blue ducks and planes among others.

2. Bigfoot, the Garden Yeti Sculpture - and I quote again: "With his characteristically big feet, our over two-foot-tall Garden Yeti will have guests doing a double-take as they admire your creative gardening style."

3. Aculife Therapist Deluxe - I couldn't say it better myself: "Be your own acupuncturist. Diagnose and heal yourself and your family. Warning: Do not use if pregnant, have a pacemaker or suffer from malignant tumors, excessive bleeding, or tuberculosis. Not to be used by children under the age of 3."

4. The NeckPro Traction Device - not making this up either: "Easy-to-use over-door cervical traction device that can be used at home or away... Break the muscle spasm/neck pain cycle."

5. King Tut Life-Sized Sarcophagus Cabinet - It's a real closer: "Measuring taller than most men, our replica opens to reveal 14 storage shelves. Curbside delivery. Also available our King Tut CD Cabinet: (not shown).

Note that you can purchase these and other gifts in dollars, euros or pounds and they ship to most countries, including the UK. Hint, hint.

Success!!!

Is the relief visible in my writing? Does the font look any different now that I'm past the half-way mark of my PhD?

Yeah, I didn't think so. Thanks to the somewhat odd British educational system, after the divisional seminar and the very short mini-viva, the post-doc colleague who sits next to me congratulated me on my new status... as a PhD student. Not exactly a significant accomplishment since for all intents and purposes, I've technically had that status since August 2007.

In reality, though, completing this hurdle translates into two important things. First, should I decide I've had enough, I can now walk away with another master's degree to show for my efforts. Second, I technically have no major deadlines for another two years when my dissertation is due. Aahhh... now the latter has a nice ring to it definitely.

To celebrate passing the half-way point, I have major vacations planned (and one already under my belt this last weekend to Finland.) I'll get around to posting pictures next week from last week's amazing trip when I'm on vacation in the States.

O-h-i-o here I come.

The real definition of "panic"

Events are swirling (not entirely downward I should say gratefully) in my life thanks to a little thing called my PhD upgrade. As a consequence of these events, postings at IT have been a little thin. This chaos all ends next Tuesday, however, and life and my blog hopefully resumes back to normal after a presentation to my Department and a two hour defense to two experts on the merits, or lack thereof, of my work. It's crunch time, pass or fail, do or die.

Speaking of crunch time, I was quickly catching up on Nate Silver's blog FiveThirtyEight.com at 4 AM about discretionary spending in the U.S. and the recession, which is brilliantly written. If there was ever a real cause for panic, I take away from his post that it shouldn't be silly things like PhD exams but rather things like this. What is the world coming too, I wonder?

The end of an era

Slate.com posted a pointed article yesterday describing the most recent, biggest, and perhaps definitively final federal court decision that concludes that autism and vaccines are not linked. To believe they are linked, Special Master Denise Vowell wrote is "to emulate Lewis Carroll's White Queen and be able to believe six impossible (or at least highly improbable) things before breakfast."

The end of this particular debate also got me thinking about the potential for junk science to be on the decline in other ways too, particularly in light of the end of the Bush era. Along those lines, here are a list of my top 5 Bush scientific "truths" that we, the public, should no longer be forced to swallow before actually getting to eat our breakfast:

1. the non-existence of global warming caused by humans
2. the availability of sufficient stem cell lines for research purposes
3. the irrefutable effectiveness of abstinence-only programs
4. the inability of condoms to prevent transmission of HIV
5. the purposelessness of wetlands in maintaining an ambient environment

I don't know about you but I'm feeling less nauseous already.

Caveat emptor

Welcome to my X-rated world. Overheard Saturday night in Harare at the Wild Date Bar in the Bronte (i.e., my) Hotel:

Prostitute: Why you call me on this cell? Why you looking for your money back after the fact?

Client: Explicatives, loud yelling over the speakerphone

Prostitute: A C-note is expensive but that's my job. That's what I do for money honey.  It’s not my fault your d*** wouldn't stand. You said show me the front, I showed you the front. You said show me the back, I showed you the back.  And nothing, maybe 40% top. What's a professional girl like me supposed to do with that?

Client: Explicatives, loud yelling.

Prostitute:  Hanging up now, dear. Love to hear from you again when you have more money. 

On the upshot, pockets of the Zim economy seem to still be functioning at the Bronte Hotel...  at least some parts better than others, anyways.

The last survivor standing... and other observations

Okay.

Well.

Yes.

It turns out it is difficult to find something nice to say about Zim these days. There's the weather, of course, but technically the weather is out of control of the government thus it's hard to picture how they could screw that up.

There's also the general niceness of the people I work with on our HIV/AIDS project, but having said that, even they are starting to flag a bit under the humanitarian crisis. The pressure is mounting to new levels to be sure and people are really suffering.

In line with that, here are some quick observations from my first week about the latest difficulties in Zim:

1. Water can be a mirage in the African bush too. Harare and the rural project area where I work, have no piped water anymore. In light of having no foreign currency to purchase anything to treat the water coupled with the cholera epidemic, the government has shut off the water supply. On the plus side, bottled water is expensive but at least it's available.

2. US currency is still valuable somewhere. As of this visit, Zimbabwe as a whole has adopted the U.S. dollar. Every food or personal item here now costs a dollar, unless it costs two dollars or eight dollars or $1.37. On one hand, the dollarization of the economy is good because there is much more food available in the shops. On the other hand, the dollarization is bad because there are very few actual dollars, let alone U.S. coins, circulating in the economy. At this point, the only currency value available is the 20 dollar bill. Ways of dealing with this are threefold. One, someone scurries off for non-existent change when you buy something for less than a twenty and eventually just disappears without bringing the change back. Two, having grown tired of the small-bill currency searching game, you buy things you do not need just to make it to the twenty dollars. Three, you get some kind of voucher for the remaining amount which for a foreigner is the equivalent of paying for twenty dollars worth of merchandise even if it's far less. In practice everything costs 20 bucks here. Also, if you don't have a way to get dollars (read: for everyone else except tourists or people with relatives in foreign countries), you are in no uncertain terms - screwed.

3. The last survivor standing in the Zimbabwe crisis could well be the cockroach. Cockroaches crawl everywhere in our rural staff house despite the fact that there is little food. They have also set up organized camps in my 80 dollar a night "luxury" hotel bathroom. They are everywhere. I'm starting to think that cockroaches have invaded Zimbabwe with the force and numbers that every other country concerned with human rights should have.

So, yes.

Well.

Okay.

Enough for now. This list to be continued next week, I fear.

My impending silence

The guy at Bank of America, who was concerned about potential fraud from my debit card use as of late, asked me twice where I was going tomorrow (answer x2: Zimbabwe), once how to spell that (answer: Z-I-M-B-A-B-W-E) and three times in series about where this place was located (answer: Yes, a country. in Africa. the continent). No wonder a ruthless politician with only his self-interest at heart can bring down an entire population's livelihood and get away with it. The Bank of America guy doesn't even know the country exists!

In case you couldn't guess, I'm gearing up for my next big trip to Zim tomorrow. It's a long one too. I'll be back on the 9th of February, but not before spending nearly two weeks of that time in the eastern province of rural Manicaland. I'll be saying goodbye to my mobile phone and email, which are worthless there, and hello to the old-fashioned hard copies of journal articles and other papers that require no electricity to read. My aim is to be productive as possible while I'm being forced off the grid, so to speak.

When I return, I'll be looking forward to finding something good to report about my trip in the next blog... or else I'll just blog about something new that is completely unrelated to Zimbabwe. If you don't have anything nice to say - my 94 year old grandfather always reminds me - say nothing at all. I should probably listen to my grandfather's advice more often.

Have a great couple of weeks!

Yeah, that's right.

President Obama is in the house.

Souvenirs (Part II)

On one hand, you have to laugh at the absurdity of it all - like 100 trillion dollar bills. On the other hand, the joke seems to be falling a little flat these days.

Bob Herbert's reality-check editorial in the NY times today is a good reminder why, sadly, the health care system in Zimbabwe would also make an excellent souvenir. The system has all of the trappings of the perfect memento: priceless because of its rarity and yet so practically tiny, the whole lot of it fits easily into one's suitcase back home.

My packing list for Zimbabwe at the request of colleagues living there:

1. Roach spray
2. Iodized salt
3. Writing paper
4. Chocolate
5. Iodine tablets
6. Flashlights
7. Antibiotics

That says it all, I suppose.

Souvenirs (Part I)

Ten to one odds that by the time my next trip to Zimbabwe ends on February 9th, the only thing the newest Zim$100 trillion dollar bill will be good for is a souvenir. But boy, oh, boy what a souvenir that will be.

Since I'll be able to afford it by then, one hundred trillion dollar bills for everyone. Don't say I never gave you anything.

Something is funny around here

There are a lot of things about living in Britain that give me pause. Two of the leading contenders are the stunning disregard for customer service in shops and restaurants and the social norm that requires you in a pub to buy a round of beers rather than just your own drink. Come to think of it, the lack of Skinny Cows and low-fat tortilla chips in the supermarkets are other real stunners too. I mean, seriously, I don't know how I survive here sometimes. 

The one thing about the UK that does not give me pause, though, is the British sense of humor. Unlike in the U.S., witty banter is considered an art form rather than a tic. Even the B-grade BBC TV shows here have proven to be outlandishly funny in that way. The Office and Coupling, which I had seen before, and newly discovered shows, like Top Gear, Ab Fab, Celebrity Ding Dong, QI, and even the now infamous Jonathan Ross Show (once his suspension is over of course) are pricelessly-hilarious TV.

For the last couple of nights, my flatmate and I have been catching up by DVD on Seasons' 1 and 2 of one such 'new-to-us' BBC TV show, Gavin and Stacey. The half-hour weekly series, which is just going into Season 3 this month, explores the marriage between two soul mates, an Essex bloke, Gavin, and a Welsh girl, Stacey. From the sounds of it, the Welsh to the Brits seem to be the equivalent of West Virginians to Ohioans. In other words, there's always a good joke to be had at their expense.

Inadvertently, the show has added a whole new vocabulary to our household, which results in us starting all our conversations with "I won't lie to you" and "What's occurring is" and concluding them with such complex summations as "crackin'" and "fair play." The two supporting actors, James Corden (Smithy) and Ruth Jones (Nessa), who are the writers as well, must seriously test the BBC censoring system. The first episode of Series 1 and the toliet brush incident is, well, I won't lie to you, crackin. 

Check out the series if you can find it where you live; otherwise, be sure to allocate an extra day on your next visit to our flat for some not-so-serious time with our new favorite friends. Fair play, indeed.  

This American Life by the Numbers

This American Life is one of my favorite radio podcasts. I wait every week for a new episode to be posted and I listen to it in the morning before I head out to work on the day that it's posted. The series is never not interesting, never makes a miss, so to speak. Ira Glass has even persuaded me to give him money to support the internet bandwidth in these difficult financial times. That's just how much I like the show.

All of this blatant advertisement aside for This American Life, what I wanted to say was how funny I found the last podcast, Numbers. The episode presents vignettes of people's stories about quantifying what shouldn't be or isn't usually quantified in life, like relationships and art. I guess it's not too surprising that I find this intriguing.

In the opening vignette, a single woman about my age is featured for having turned all of her dates, serious relationships, kisses with random men, anything that involved something other than a fantasy into a number per year. She then elaborately tracks this number on an Excel spreadsheet titled My Love Life: A Ten Year Span.

When looking at her past relationships in this way, she says she can think of those numbers and the trend as successes rather than failures, no matter how badly the experience with the person actually was. For a longstanding serial dater, I can sort of see how this might be a nice coping strategy.

The best part of the vignette is her analysis of the trends. She plots her rise over time in her teenage and college years. Then she explains away the big fat zero in the late 1990s to the six months she lived with her mother and the recovery time from that. A few years after that where her number for a brief time soars, she chalks it up to her slutty years abroad. One of the closing sentences of the story from her: "What can I say, me and David Hasslelhoff do better in Europe."  Classic, so succinctly stated and clearly true. That line has made me laugh for three days straight. 

Give it a listen. It's free until Ira Glass guilts you into paying for it.

What goes up

must come down (and preferably via the balcony).

Christmas is officially over. Happy Valentine's Day.

Penguins are pacing on my doorstep

It's apparently colder here in London than it is in Antartica right now. Fortunately, and even in spite of the complete and utter chaos in the country, there's only a few more weeks until I'll find myself back in warm sunny Zimbabwe. From the looks of my travel itinerary, the 18 days I'm planning to spend there should be just enough time to thaw out.

Choosing your words carefully

Listening to special prosecutor Patrick Fitzgerald read from the Rod Blagojevich taped phone conversations might have been one of my 2008 Top 10 "Happy to have witnessed that moments" even in what was a busy year of political gaffes. Fitzgerald's thoughtful substitution of the word "bleeping" for the word "fucking" while trying to accurately quote Governor Blagojevich apparently made a similar impression on William Saffire, who in this Sunday's New York Times, dedicated his weekly On Language column to an etiologic discourse on the words we use to categorize our own dirty words and deeds.

The Blagojevich reading, coupled with Saffire's column, also reminded me of the old Seinfeld episode where a love interest of George's summarily recounts her weekend plans with an ex by saying they had dinnner and then "yada, yada, yada. I'm very tired." This invocation of the girlfriend's "yada" placeholder differs in some respects from Fitzgerald's substitution game, in that the former leaves the juicy details open to the listener's interpretation while, in the latter, no self-respecting adult would be left wondering what Fitzgerald really meant.

The subtle but deliberate choice of words to both say and not say what we mean is a fascinating science - one that many people don't give much thought to. Jeremy Butterfield's book Damp Squid in layman's terms tries to help us think about just that. Since reading his book, I'm much more aware of the words I choose to use as a result. For example, a few nights ago, at dinner with a friend, I listened to myself attempt to answer the simple question - what will you do after your PhD ends? In Sarah Palin-esque like sentences, I jumped from stating the obvious, that at some point my studies here in the city will end, to a factual truth that in some fashion I will have to again get a job, to note that the job will undoubtedly have to have something to do with what I'm studying, that I could live anywhere I want to but London and Africa and the U.S. all of their draws, to a final thought that I am the type of person who has been lucky enough to know what she wants out of life.

In other words, I came to London, yada, yada, yada, and I still have no "bleeping" idea what I'm going to do next. Sadly, Butterfield's book doesn't seem to be of much help there. 

Cycles

BBC News last night showed a brief clip speculating on the negative effects we humans might have this year on the North American monarch butterfly population. As part of the story, the reporter detailed the amazing migration of these butterflies, which come from as far as Canada to the same small forest in Michoacan, Mexico in late fall every year. This year, and in previous five year intervals, the butterflies have done so in incredible numbers despite the best efforts of humans to systematically destroy their habitat. 

What's spectacular about the monarchs' annual return to the Michoacan forest is that their life cycle, on average, is two months. This means that the butterflies leading the migration home are operating on built-in instinct rather than familiarity with their destination. Though scientists know a lot about the migration patterns, the real questions of why they migrate and how they know where they are going remains a mystery.  The forest where they return every year is technically no more home to them than any of the thousands of miles in between their starting and final resting points.

I've spent more than 15 years tracking the monarchs from afar, and one year from close-by on a visit to the forest. I'd like to chalk up this longstanding fascination with their migration to the nerdy scientist in me, but in many ways, I think of it as being as close to a spiritual journey as I'll ever believe to have witnessed. The migration is my annual indulgence to question the power of destiny and fate as it battles out logic and fact. What better way to start the new year, really?

Who says Christmas doesn't come from a store?

Then the Grinch thought of something he hadn’t before!
“Maybe Christmas,” he thought, “doesn’t come from a store.”
“Maybe Christmas…perhaps…means a little bit more!”

The Grinch has obviously never been to High Street Kensington's Whole Foods Market the day before Christmas. Candy canes, Georgia pecan pie, and my favorite Napa Valley wine.

Glory be to the food god on High. Happy holidays to everyone else!

London on sale

With the pound falling precipitously against the Euro, the mainland continental conquerors, as they're affectionately know here, can be seen entering in droves into the most English of stores like Marks & Spencers and Fortnum & Mason this Christmas season. They buy, buy, buy while Londoners sell, sell, sell.

Not too long ago, this frenzy occurred across the pond and somewhat in reverse. Then, the English bought, bought, bought while the Americans sold, sold, sold. I'm not a very bitter person, but once in a while it's nice to see the UK citizenry finally get a taste of its own medicine. Misery loves company, I suppose.

 

An epilogue for yesterday

The First Day of Winter

On the first day of winter,
the earth awakens to the cold touch of itself.
Snow knows no other recourse except
this falling, this sudden letting go
over the small gnomed bushes, all the emptying trees.
Snow puts beauty back into the withered and malnourished,
into the death-wish of nature and the deliberate way
winter insists on nothing less than deference.
waiting all its life, snow says, "Let me cover you."

-   Laura Lush

Wherein...

My good friends and colleagues point out that the New Year is always a good time to start working on one's issues.

 

When the rhythm fades

I'm sure, like all proud fathers, my dad can remember exactly how old I was when I pitched this amazing no-hitter in one of the final games of my high-school championship softball tournaments. I might have been a sophomore, but maybe I was a senior.

It was a long time ago either way to still remember the incredible rhythm of that game; Of the step onto the mound over six innings, the feel of the dirt on my heel as I pivoted backwards, the wind as it whipped in my ear while my arm windmilled round, the exacting precision in the snap release of the ball, and the sound of the ball's slap against the catcher's glove seconds later. It was musical and I could hear the beat if only for that game. It's fair to say that while I was a decent pitcher, I wasn't destined to throw a no-hitter like that one again. The rhythm had come on quick and strong and then faded as if it never existed in the first place.

I think about that game and what followed after it a lot for two reasons. First, because I remember how great it was to be in that moment, to have the beat of the game seduce you. Second, I remember it for the feeling of dread after each pitch because I knew how tenuous that beat was.

The process of writing my dissertation, which I began a few months back in earnest, is starting to feel a lot like that game. From feedback on early drafts and other papers, the rhythm and the flow of words seem happily close to perfect, but like the next pitch, I wonder which good sentence or paragraph will be my last. Right now, much like I did some twenty years ago, I'm just praying I make it through the game before the rhythm fades.

Care to hazard a guess?

Just time for a brief post tonight as it's late here in London and I've had a long day writing SCIENTIFIC THINGS OF IMPORTANCE in preparation for submitting my PhD upgrade report at the end of this month.

As a result, will cut to the chase and ask whether anyone cares to hazard a guess what this environmental service company's founder could have possibly been thinking about when choosing the name Agent Orange to represent his business?

From the Agent Orange website (I kid you not):

Agent Orange Enterprises Ltd
https://www.aoe.uk.com/index.html

Agent Orange deals with all aspects of Environmental Services
in Greater London and the Home Counties

Why should you use Agent Orange?

» Free quotes delivered swiftly
» Photographic reports with every job
» Competitive pricing
» Fast response times
» Unrivalled work quality
» Affiliated professionalism
» Friendly, genuine client care
» Enthusiastic, trained staff
» Military organisation
» Extensive experience
» Legendary Health & Safety culture
» Glowing references
» Heroic dependability
» Olympic flexibility
» Titanic capability

 

For better or for worse, I guess Agent Orange has achieved some level of brand recognition among potential clients. I saw the company van roaming a back street on my way to work some 18 hours earlier and I'm still wondering, W.T.F. 

KRG Historical Revisionism

From this evening on, I will remember last night's field trip to KRG for its stunning venue, good-looking, fabulous and fun company, and rocking house music only.

To keep this vision intact, I will forget the number of seriously drunk women who, with one misplaced step, turned their shoes into weapons, that there are still men out there who try to pick up women by tossing out cheesy winks, and the lingering 'what was I thinking' feeling the morning after when contemplating my beverage intake of white wine, mulled wine, champagne, gin and tonic, and amaretto sour.

A perfect evening indeed. Starting now.

Practicing my pose

As many of you know, I'm looking forward tonight to what could be called my first real night of clubbing in London. A friend has invited a group (I call it his harem, but anyhow) to the Kensington Roof Gardens.

I'm geeky enough to have first heard about the Gardens because of, well, the gardens. Apparently though, after 10:30, the venue turns into a Richard Branson Virgin-sponsored member's only nightclub. I'm putting up the club promo material so you can see just what the evening might entail.

Work colleagues and I have been having a great time practicing the model's pose all day. Watch out folks, I'm about to become one of London's "beautiful elite." You can say you knew me when...

Would it, could it, ever be?

I would happily settle down in the suburbs, transform myself into a stay-at-home mom, and fix my husband a pre-dinner martini while massaging his feet, if only he'd ask...

My one, my only, my dashing and ever-so-clever, special prosecutor.

The christmas tree has been drinking

Come join us in London on December 18th for our first annual "As if we needed another excuse to drink" Christmas cocktail hour. Having just been topped off again tonight with its beverage of choice, the tree is gonna be in rare form come party time!

 

Go on, give a duck this year.

With the holiday season upon us, it can make one feel particularly - I don't know - "generous" toward those we care for the most. So, if you're out looking for a little sump'n sump'n to recognize and validate this special relationship, remember, nothing says I love you like a heifer. 

https://www.heifer.org/

It's in the details.

These are the things I notice on my way to work in the morning:

• The Shell gas station on the corner more often than not is waiting for a delivery of gasoline and therefore has none to sell.
• Minimal effort is required to get a whistle AND a catcall from the local construction guys who are restoring the facade of this beautiful old building.
• There are three shady-looking convenience stores in a row that always have drivers in sunglasses in black vans and Mercedes parked outside.
• The cafe I frequent for hot chocolate and gingerbread men has hand-printed signs on the outdoor rack containing umbrellas and newspapers that lets passer-bys know that they sell umbrellas and newspapers.
• The stretch of sidewalk along someone's backyard garden is just long enough for me to fulfill my urge to sing out loud to whatever song happens to be piped through my headphones at the moment without embarrassing myself in front of people standing in front of stores or hotels.
• The dog grooming shop, prior to opening at 9:00, always seems to have its fair share of frantic, ditsy-looking women waiting outside, each of whom looks like she might have forgotten to pick up her dog the day before.
• There is usually a 'Stuff We Acquired Gratis' (SWAG) plastic bag being handed out in front of Paddington Station that I accept with great delight, only to be disappointed later at what the carbon footprint of putting together such a useless SWAG must look like.
• People going into the McDonald's on Praed street in the morning really do look as if they deserve a break today.

Hell on earth

Let's, just for fun, catalog the really, really awful things that have happened to me over the course of my life. There was the appendectomy in rural Mexico under a local anesthetic; fairly painful, in retrospect. The 16 mile sprint up and down Georgia's Blood Mountain that left me in so much physical pain that I couldn't leave the house for days. And then there was the encounter between the drunken Nigerian soldier, his drawn pistol and my head, a frightening experience for everyone, I suppose.

Still, none of these terrible events can begin to rival my 45 minute visit today to the Westfield London Shopping Centre. That's all of the time in this, the newest and largest shopping mall in Europe, that I could spend before wishing for death by any other tortured means. Incredibly, there were lines to get into stores. There were lines to get out of stores. People pushed and they shoved for cashmere sweaters at 80% off. The kid's Santaland experience made Nigeria feel like a downright pleasant experience.

If there is a Hell on this earth, I reckon it must be the Westfield London Shopping Centre in December.

Christmas prep

London's river Thames, running its course along the city walls, is something to behold as the morning sun rises. So, too, is the day more generally here in London. Crisp air, sunshine, the pleasant smell of decomposing leaves. It's hard to believe it's almost Christmas and I was still able to sneak in an early morning run along the river.  

Christmas it is though, and this afternoon we're off from the Sarah Landis-Kim Marsh shared household flat to buy a fir pine Christmas tree from our local lot. Sarah has been wondering if we can strap the tree to a black cab to get it home. I'm wondering whether the cheap lights we bought from Woolworths will produce more than just a few holiday sparks. I'm a worrier, what can I say?

An early Merry Christmas to all, I guess, and to all a good Saturday night.

AFTERNOON UPDATE:

 

Growing consensus, it's bad.

BBC news, despite not actually being allowed to report from Zimbabwe, is doing a stellar job at covering the ongoing crisis in that country. For posterity's sake once their e-page moves on, today's lead section in "Africa | World" reports that Kenya's PM is calling for Mugabe's removal, the cholera epidemic has reached frightening levels even by African standards, and the riot police and soldiers are starting to smile at no one in particular as the bullets fly.

Let it be said that after six or so years of wondering how things could possibly get any worse in Zimbabwe, I'm left wondering no more.

Role reversal

I paused yesterday upon receipt of my mother's latest email, excerpted below, to fully take in the consequences of the communication.  (Sorry Mum, no expectation that emails are private, remember that.) 

---------- Message ----------
From: Carole Marsh
Date: Tue, Dec 2, 2008 at 1:16 AM
Subject: Re: Hi - I'm home.
To: Kimberly Marsh

Woo hop fantastic toy for the child in me
Sent from my iPod
_____________________

 

The iPod Touch that my mother recently bought herself and used to send this email (cute typo and all on the 'hop' instead of 'hoo') represents a significant change in our relationship, but it is one that is starting to concern me already. In my family, I was always the one on the bleeding edge of technological acquisitions, by Marsh standards anyways, but I don't own a Touch yet. That is until this upcoming weekend, I guess. 

 

In my family, I was the first to own one of those HP electronic word processors. I was the first to move from processed film to a digital camera with, count 'em, 2 mega pixels. I was also the first to get a brick-like cell phone and then the cool one that flipped open like a jack-knife. The first to own a really sweet Fujitsu laptop and the first to buy not one, not two but three iPods of varying sizes and statures in succession. The last was the little iPod shuffle that I can run with and, until today, has suited me just fine.

Only after carefully testing all of these products, learning the ins-and-outs of the hardware and software, would I in turn buy them for or pass them along to my mother. Now that the roles have been reversed with her buying the iPod Touch first (might I add that she bought it while I was in Africa without my consultation), I am struggling to cope. While my mother is capable of buying the Touch, my fear that she is not entirely able to use it without her child's help is already coming true.

 

Last night via Skype - which I installed for my mom on my old laptop and can now tell immediately despite her denial when she's turned up the volume too high by the whistling sound in the background - her first words were these:

"Now why do you suppose that sometimes it [the iPod] can find it [the wireless signal], and sometimes it [the iPod] can't. When it [the iPod] can't I wait for a while and then it [the iPod] magically [sic] can see it [the wireless]. I mean it doesn't matter, it's not like I need to use it [the internet feature of the iPod] like that so don't worry about it [the process of the iPod not picking up the wireless immediately] if you don't know what's wrong.  Do you know what might be wrong? Maybe when you come home, you can fix it [not sure which "it" is the problem here she's referring to]."

 

My mother's capacity to use the word "it" to cover any number of technological devices and their problems is astounding.

Now, I have never seen an iPod Touch before. I'm sure they have them here in London but I am in no way qualified to troubleshoot this device. And yet this is what I'm going to have to do and so I'm off to the store this weekend to simultaneously pick one up and restore order to the universe.

Ahh, the good old days when adult children were their aging parents' electronic keepers.

 

P.S. This post, all in good fun, right mom? LOVE you.

This annoying little aspect of my life, brought to you by me

Since I discovered the Aveda Shampure shampoo and conditioner line some eight years ago, it has been in heavy rotation in my morning shower routine. It has a distinctive and clean smell that my mother, ex-boyfriends, and just friends who are boys, have all remarked on (in a good way). Personally, I love it.

The Aveda Shampure line is not cheap. Like 800 count sheets, a lovely apartment in London, white Burgundy wine, real parmigiana reggiano cheese, and a visit from our cleaning woman once a week, I consider it a luxury worth the splurge, even in my current "austere" student days.

Despite my willingness to fork out for the Shampure brand, what I do not appreciate is watching my money figuratively go down the drain every morning. For this reason, I am BEGGING the Aveda people to stop making bottles that look exactly the same, minus the tiny little print that distinguishes Shampoo from Conditioner. If I had a dime for every time I reached for the shampoo and ended up with a gob of conditioner, and vice versa over the last eight years, I would have enough money to keep myself stocked with Shampure for the rest of my life.

Only you, Aveda, can make the madness stop.

Keep them coming...

Obama's cabinet, to put it quite simply (which is all I'm capable of doing after continent hopping back to London over the last 24 hours) is shaping up quite nicely. One could certainly argue whether he's getting the mix of the new and old-school balance right, but I am nonetheless thrilled in a "Can I hear a hallelujah and an amen" kind of way for the selection of Susan Rice as UN ambassador.

On top of having the good sense to pick someone who has a record of calling genocide like she sees it, Obama has also elevated the UN Ambassadorship back to a cabinet level position. It's easy to tell just how good of a move this is as former Bush-administration UN ambassador John Bolton proffers not one but two reasons why he disagrees with the change. Go, Obama, go.

A little slap and tickle

Saturday afternoon in Harare and we've been busy. My American colleague, who just recently joined the Zimbabwe study, is in Africa for the first time. As a long-time visitor to Africa, I normally avoid tourist traps at all costs. Still, everyone was eager to show the new girl a good time on her inaugaral trip, so we gave it our best effort.

It turns out that, entirely unknown to me on my 5 or 6 previous visits to Zimbabwe, there is a good time to be had at the Cheetah and Lion Park of Harare. The park is a private zoo-like reserve that barely skirts the charge of animal cruelty in my estimation. Trying to avoid paying the over-priced foreigners entrance fee of 20USD to see animals in small spaces, we claimed to be local residents and entered in on a Zimbabwe ticket worth about 5USD.

Despite the warning signs throughout the park reminding people these animals are wild, the interaction between the seemingly tame lions and their minders was pretty hilarious. In an attempt to put on a bit of a show for the tourists looking on from the car, the nearby attendant riled up the pride of male lions who were lounging in the sun by whistling to the female lionesses stretched out in the shade some 25 feet away. Taking the bait of the attendant's sexy whistle, one the female lionesses approached the male as he rolled over on his back, hind legs spread wide.

The excitement in the car built as we all discussed the likelihood of seeing a little lion porn for 5 bucks. As the lioness approached the male, she took one look at his crotch, made a quick but single lick of the area, and suddenly, with impeccable timing, chomped down hard. My male colleague in the group instinctively crossed his legs, the attendant backed away with his own hand carefully positioned in a protective cup, while the male lion himself let out a small whimper and flipped low onto all fours. The lionesses looked oddly satisfied, and we women all agreed that this interaction alone was worth even the foreign price of admission.

Back to London tomorrow. For now I'm posting from the Nairobi airport. Lots of folks from Mumbai camped out at the airport for the last two days waiting for previously cancelled flights. As if things weren't difficult enough for them already.