October 2004 Archives

Just a day or so ago, I came across the trailer for A Very Long Engagement, an upcoming movie starring Audrey Tautou, best known for Amelie. She and the director of Amelie, Jean-Pierre Jeunet, collaborated on this new film, based on a novel by French author, Sebastien Japrisot. The trailer prompted me to check the book out from the library and the first sixty pages of the book have me eagerly awaiting the movie, which opens in selected theaters on November 26th.

Perhaps because of its simplicity, Japrisot had me hooked from the first sentence of his novel...

Once upon a time, there were five French soldiers who had gone off to war, because that's the way of the world.

Once upon a time. I dig that opening phrase. It recalls memories of fairy tales and childhood stories told many years ago. It feels like the impending story will reveal a world of magic and possibilities, although it takes place against the backdrop of war. It gives me hope that the heroine will still find her true love (her Prince Charming) alive, for he was reportedly "killed in the line of duty".

Once upon a time. I think those will be the first four words of my NaNo-novel. The insanity begins in a little over two days.

This week's Photo Friday challenge is Still Life. Taken at the Kunsthistorisches Museum (Museum of Fine Arts) in Vienna.

I missed last night's lunar eclipse, which is sad because I enjoy gazing at moon. I heard it was a beautiful shade of orange and red, not necessarily Red Sox red, but it was close enough. More about them later.

While the eclipse was happening, I was bagging frozen corn at the Second Harvest Food Bank warehouse. Whenever we volunteer, we never know what task we'll be tackling. Usually, we're assigned to reclamation, where we inspect, categorize and repack various food items that grocery stores deem too damaged to put on the shelves. The packaging may look less than perfect, but the food is still good.

Last night's task involved corn. Lots and lots of corn. While bagging and boxing corn may not seem like an obvious source of fun, it was at least a ton of fun (once you got beyond all of the corny jokes). In the span of two hours, our team of eleven bagged and boxed roughly 6,870 ears of corn.

If well-oiled machines wore hair nets, aprons and latex gloves, then we were a well-oiled machine with numb hands. My bin of corn happened to be extra frozen. While other bins were relativitely easy to plow through, mine required some corn on corn chiseling (a.k.a. corn abuse) to break the ears loose.

Afterwards, after the clouds had moved in to obscure any evidence of the eclipsed moon, we went to BJ's Restaurant and Brewery, which was showing the World Series on every screen. We arrived just in time to watch the ninth inning as Boston attempted to finish off St. Louis.

One person from the bar cheered when Pujols led off with a hit, but the entire place went wild with cheers and applause when Renteria grounded back to the pitcher, Foulke, for the final out of the series. It was unreal and I was overjoyed.

For most Red Sox fans, they've been waiting a lifetime for yesterday's win. The wait was nicely expressed by a Nike commercial of all things. It showed two friends and lifelong Boston fans watching baseball from the front row of Fenway Park. As the years pass from 1919 up to 2004, we see the men grow from young boys to old men, the whole time rooting for their team to win and enduring many years of disappointment. It finishes on the happy note of this year's championship victory.

For San Francisco fans, like myself, I only hope we don't have to wait 36 more years to see the Giants accomplish the same feat.

Song on my mind... "Boulevard Of Broken Dreams" by Green Day

I walk a lonely road
The only one that I have ever known
Don't know where it goes
But it's home to me and I walk alone

I walk this empty street
On the boulevard of broken dreams
Where the city sleeps
And I'm the only one and I walk alone

My shadow's the only one that walks beside me
My shallow heart's the only thing that's beating
Sometimes I wish someone out there will find me
Till then I walk alone

Good morning! It's 7:22 AM and still dark outside. I used that exclamation point more to wake myself up than to sound bright and cheery, because really, I'm not that bright and cheery. I'm actually relieved and slightly amused.

Why? Because I'm riding the train to work. Twenty-eight minutes ago, I didn't think it was possible. Twenty-eight minutes ago, I was buried under a comforter, relishing my second seven-minute snooze. The world was wonderful.

Through my comforter, I could hear the traffic girl on TV talking about flooded highways and major delays. My plan was to take the bus and light rail in to avoid the entire mess. I rolled over and reveled in the softness of my pillow.

Suddenly, a paranoid thought crossed my mind, "Wait, the bus uses local roads. What if the roads were flooded, too?" It had happened before and wasn't pleasant.

"I should take the train. The last one leaves at 7:17, which means I have to be out of the house by 7:10. It's what time?" I peeked over the comforter and squinted at the clock. 6:54. I swore. Without warning, the comforter flew back and I fell out of bed.

There have been very few times when I've needed and succeeded in getting out of the house in sixteen minutes. Very few times is a euphemism for never. My body isn't trained for that type of speed.

Thirty is a better number. In thirty minutes, I can accomplish a lot: brush teeth, shave, wash face, wash hair, get dressed, fix bed, make coffee, make lunch and watch Katie and Matt while eating breakfast and drinking coffee. Everything is done at a steady and relaxed pace. People who feel compelled to label things would happily label it a "routine".

Subtract fourteen minutes and the routine falls apart. Clothing doesn't match, hair remains damp and coffee develops the nasty habit of spilling. After eight minutes of clumsily rushing around, I wished I was The Flash. Not the DC Comics version of the fastest man alive, with red tights and lightning bolts covering my ears, but more along the lines of Smallville, with a red hoodie and lightning bolt patch on my backpack.

I don't know how I managed to make it out of the house and catch the train in time. It's all a blur and when I think about it, it's slightly amusing how stressed out I was and how relieved I am to be sitting here right now.

In his book, No Plot? No Problem!, Chris Baty writes:

Once upon a time, I believed that you needed to have several things before you set out to write a novel. These were, in order of importance:

1. Heart-fibrillating amounts of coffee
2. Plot
3. Character
4. Setting

While coffee is the most important thing, I would insert just behind it: Bag full of Skittles. No literary endeavor should go without tasting the rainbow. I'd argue that if you're not going to snack on anything healthy, like fruit, then you should at least snack on the next best thing: candy artificially flavored to taste like fruit.

In addition to being "good" for you, Skittles make natural novel aides. Let's say you've reached a roadblock in your story. A villainous henchman needs to meet an untimely and imaginative end, but you can't decide which way to off him. What do you do? In your handy notebook, write down your top five favorite possibilities and assign them each a color. For example:

How does Henchman B perish?

yellow) He suffers a massive heart attack after seeing a picture of the NaNoWriMo bunny.
green) A speeding ambulance runs him over.
purple) A ton of safety manuals falls from the sky and crushes him.
orange) He drowns in a vat of Odwalla orange juice.
red) He is nearly struck by an ambulance driven by the NaNoWriMo bunny who is too busy drinking Odwalla orange juice and reading a safety manual. He jumps out of the way, but accidentally and fatally impales himself upon the sword of a kid dressed as a samurai for Halloween.

Reach into your Skittles bag, pull one out and write the demise that corresponds to the chosen color. It's an effective decision-making tool that removes an obstacle, keeps your word count rising and rewards you with a "healthy" snack at the same time.

I don't think I'll ever get enough of Yosemite. This weekend's trip was the fourth of the year. Considering how I missed out on this magical place for most of my life, I view this recent cluster of visits (four in five months) as making up for lost time. Every visit offers something new. This most recent one offered the beginning of fall colors, colder weather and snow.

Instead of lengthy hikes to higher elevations, we pottered around the valley floor and took in the glory of El Capitan, Half Dome and other snowcapped peaks from below. Due to recent snow and rain, waterfalls like Bridalveil and Upper Yosemite, dry only a month ago, were alive again.

One of my favorite places to grab breakfast in Yosemite is at Degnan's Deli. For $1.95, one can eat a Deg Muffin. It's a heated muffin sandwich with egg, melted cheese and a choice of turkey, ham, sausage, bacon or soy patty. It's delicious and a great way to start the morning.

On Saturday, we climbed the steps of the Yosemite Chapel. The glass-paned doors were closed, but we could see a wedding ceremony going on inside. As we peeked in, there was a man next to us, likely part of the wedding party, also watching the proceedings and gently bouncing a baby. "They're renewing their vows after fifty years of marriage," he volunteered. All I could utter was an unremarkable, "Wow!"

What would it be like to love and be with one person for that many years? What physical and mental condition would either of us be in after fifty autumns? Why did this couple choose Yosemite of all places to renew their vows? Was it where they first met? Were they married here fifty years ago? Or was it simply somewhere "nice" to celebrate their marriage?

We had barely retreated down the steps when the doors opened and the couple, vows renewed, stepped out of the church, led by the professional photographer. They were so happy. In that moment, questions faded and I looked upon them like I would Half Dome - in awe. For here was a love that had endured many seasons, sunny and stormy, like the granite mountain. Seeing them stirred something in me and made me smile.

Of three available urinals, use the one next to mine. Then, while doing your business, hum the theme song from Chariots of Fire.

Ah, another baseball entry that starts with only a title. This should be interesting and more meandering than usual. As I drove in this morning, my mind kept hearing the phrase, "Not the momma. Not the momma!" It's what the baby dinosaur always told the dad on Dinosaurs, a television comedy from the early 90s. I remember it for the same reason I remember Fran Drescher's distinctly nasal voice on The Nanny: it bugged me beyond belief.

Anyway, this post was to be about not wanting to be a copycat. Yesterday, so many blogs were raving about the Boston Red Sox and the greatest comeback in baseball history. I wanted to write about it, too, but was reluctant. What could I possibly say that wasn't said already? I'd simply be an echo. I sat and read many entries from everyday people and articles from professional sportswriters. So many voices, yet they all said the same thing. It reminded me of watching those large girl groups on the Japanese show, Hey! Hey! Hey! Music Champ. It's scary seeing seventeen teenaged girls sing a song in one-part harmony.

I really don't want to be one of the girls in the chorus. It's an ego thing. My ego says, "You need to be better. You need to be original." My ego is wrong, of course. I don't need to be either of those things. It would be nice, but it isn't necessary. If my ego has its way, this blog won't have a record of how I felt while watching Games 6 and 7 of the ALCS. If it happens that I feel the same way everybody else felt, then more power to the feeling.

Game 6 brought me sheer exhilaration. To watch Curt Schilling pitch seven innings of one-run baseball on an injured and bleeding ankle was incredible. His performance was redemption for a poor Game 1 showing. I loved the slogan on his shirt during the post-game interview, "Why not us?" There would be redemption for Mark Bellhorn, who hit a three-run homer to give Boston the lead.

The game also saw redemption for the umpires after reversing two incorrect calls. One involved declaring Bellhorn's hit a home run and the other calling Alex Rodriguez out at first. I'll forever have the memory of A-Rod blatantly slapping the ball from Bronson Arroyo's outstretched glove.

The slumping Johnny Damon redeemed himself in Game 7. Coming in, he had been hitting 3 for 29 in the series. That night, he went 3 for 6, with a single, a two-run dinger and a grand slam. Watching him swing in the slow motion replay and witnessing the way his hair moved as he made contact reminded me of a L'Oreal commercial. I half expected him to remove his helmet after the home run, toss his hair back and say to the camera, "Because I'm worth it."

The ALCS was the most dramatic and riveting sports event I've seen in a long time. It left me feeling drained, stunned, overjoyed and worried. Drained from the constant tension. Stunned that Boston won the series after being down three games. Overjoyed that they beat the smug Yankees in New York of all places. And worried that after this unbelievable display of never-say-die, they won't succeed in their ultimate redemption: winning the World Series.

The most difficult part of creating a character for, say, a NaNo-novel, isn't determining his or her age, hair color or hobbies. It's not deciding on his or her favorite music or patching together a plausible biography. No, it's coming up with a decent name.

A character's name is important. It can set the personality and perception of the individual before his or her first sentence of existence. Last year, I had such a tough time with names. Some included: Car, Cliff, Debb, Green, Jett, Kay, Max, Min, Road and Tigg. Notice a pattern? I apparently gravitate towards weird, monosyllabic names that relate to transportation, statistics or feature double consonants. If Agatha Christie struggled as I did, we would all be reading about the great Belgian detective, Slope Trukk, and not Hercule Poirot. We'd be in trouble.

For this year's effort, still unofficially titled SMiRK, I'm recycling characters from last year, but giving them improved monikers. "Improved" meaning "normal". The main character, Tigg Smoops, will return as Johnny "Tigg" Erikson. His sidekicks, Green White and Car Partsen, will rejoin him as Timothy "Green" Tealeaf and Ethan "Car" Vimes. Tigg's love interest, Kay Eliminopy, will become Katherine "Kay" Eliminopy. I still like that last name.

Even now, as I look over their new names, I'm not entirely satisfied. My tiny gray cells begin to wonder how authors decide. Do they pick names from a hat? A phone directory? Their favorite players on the Boston Red Sox? Do authors spend as much time and consideration naming their characters as people do naming their children, pets or cars?

These thoughts were triggered partly by an assignment for tonight's creative writing class and partly by NaNoWriMo's Bay Area Kick-Off Extravaganza at the Rickshaw Stop in San Francisco last night. The founder, Chris Baty, was there to sign copies of his new book, No Plot? No Problem! and give an inspirational speech. Also, some of the usual blogging suspects attended, returning for second go at a novel in November. It all begins in ten days!

I have a craving for a Starbucks Pumpkin Spice Latte, which is funny because before Monday, every time I saw an in-store promotion for the drink, I kept thinking, "Dang! Pumpkin and spice mixed into a latte? That must taste something nasty!" This paraphrased thought inevitably led to the following conversation...

Me: Have you tried the new Pumpkin Spice Latte at Starbucks?
Other Person: No.
Me: Oh.
OP: You?
Me: No.
OP: Huh.
Me: It must taste something nasty.
OP: Yeah.

Drained from the discourse, I decided to try the drink. So, on Monday, I ordered a sample sized tall Pumpkin Spice Latte. To my disappointment, it didn't taste nasty at all. It was simply a latte with a mild pumpkin pie flavor. Not as good as a peppermint mocha, but good enough to cause a craving.

The rain comes down steadily now. The sky has lost all definition and looks like a light gray sheet draped behind the trees, hiding the buildings beyond. The world seems smaller, feels colder.

I took the train in this morning, riding the rail to avoid the perils of slick highways and crazy commuters. As I stepped from the station and opened my umbrella, a gust of wind came and turned it inside out. I contemplated waiting for the bus, but it was running late due to the weather. I zipped up my jacket, raised my collar and went for a walk in the rain.

I skipped over puddles and kept away from the curb, where passing cars were likely to splash. As I strolled up to the block, I spotted the most inviting cafe and stepped inside. Sitting here, sipping coffee and scribbling away seems like the perfect way to spend the remaining minutes before the workday begins.

Less than two weeks ago, this journal marked its second anniversary. Many months and countless entries later, it still exists. As I sat on the train and wrote the baseball post, I grew nostalgic. It seems odd to say, but many of my early journal entries were born aboard trains or in cafes.

The rain has let up and I will have to walk swiftly if I hope to reach the office on time. Before I go, I wanted to end with a paragraph written a year ago.

"I have come across so many kind and cool people because of this journal. Some I've met in real life and some I've only contacted online, but hope to meet someday. Reading their journals has inspired me and exposed me to so many new and diverse perspectives and interests. I want to thank them for sharing and I want to thank you, dear readers, both known and anonymous, for visiting and skimming these words."

A year later and the sentiment still holds true.

As I was leaving work last night, Boston and New York were tied at four runs a piece in the bottom of the tenth inning of Game 5. The intensity of the game had been steadily growing, reaching a point where it was nearly too much to bear. Could I really handle the stress of yet another leadoff hit by a Yankee slugger? I missed the rest of the six-hour, fourteen-inning battle, but around midnight, I sneaked a peek on the web to discover Boston had eked out another win.

The last three games of the ALCS, in historical Fenway Park, have been epic. The Red Sox seemed doomed after Game 3, when the Yankees smacked them silly with nineteen runs and took a three-game lead in the best-of-seven series. The last two games have been dramatic extra-inning struggles where the underdogs have needed every ounce of fight to triumph over the favorites.

On Sunday, I missed the beginning of Desperate Housewives to watch Episode 4 of Desperate Red Sox. It was Boston's half of the ninth inning. They were down by a run and three outs from elimination. Dave Roberts, a pinch runner, was on first base with nobody out. Along with every fan in Fenway, I held my breath and hoped for a miracle.

Roberts stole second and then Billy Mueller, the former Giants third baseman, spanked a single through Mariano Rivera, the untouchable closer, to tie up the game. Hope and anxiety rose with every pitch. The Red Sox failed to score again in the inning. It would take three excruciating innings before David Ortiz hit a two-run homer to keep Boston alive another day. Ortiz has been the man to rescue the Red Sox from certain extinction the last two nights. His single drove in yesterday's winning run.

How long can the Red Sox elude elimination at the hands of the Evil Empire? Can the injured Curt Schilling, the seemingly only clean-shaven member of their team, return to his regular season form and save the day? Will Jon Lieber again shut down Boston's big bats and secure New York's umpteenth trip to the World Series? Will the wild-maned leadoff man, Johnny Damon, finally break out of his 2-for-24 slump? The series returns to Yankee Stadium for Game 6 tonight. I can't wait to see what happens.

After a teensy bit of traveling this year, I wanted to write down the traits I thought make someone a good travel companion. He or she:

• is an early riser and late sleeper, but doesn't mind sleeping in now and then.
• loves to explore, but isn't adverse to relaxing at a sidewalk cafe.
• prefers not to rush, but can rush when needed.
• knows what he or she wants.
• can compromise.
• can stand in awe for a moment before taking a photo.
• can sometimes just stand in awe.
• is curious, patient and trustworthy.
• is willing to try the local cuisine.
• can appreciate the architecture and landscape.
• can set aside an hour for napping when the other isn't feeling well.
• knows how to plan, but doesn't panic when the plan goes awry.
• doesn't mind getting lost.
• can think on his or her feet.
• has common sense and a sense of humor.

Certainly, it's an incomplete list, probably missing some crucial qualities, but it's a start. Sometimes, being a good travel companion is difficult. Sometimes, being one is the easiest thing in the world. Traveling, by its nature, is fun with a high potential for stress. There are places to be and things to see on a tight budget of time and money. The stress only increases when traveling with the wrong person.

During our first night in Vienna, my travel companion and I went on a dining expedition down Wipplingerstrasse, a street we would walk many times during our stay. Intent on finding restaurant signs and menus in windows, my eyes were blind to the streets and alleys we passed along the way. Four or five blocks into our journey, she stopped me and pointed down a narrow street off to our left. Tucked behind a row of buildings stood Maria am Gestade, the beautifully lit church in the photo. It was one of many occasions where, if not for her, such a sight would have gone unseen. A good companion spots what the other overlooks.

Through the bad times, they can make everything more tolerable. During the good times, they can make the experience that much better. If any the listed traits make someone a good travel companion, then mine was a good one indeed.

Of the various churches in Salzburg, the most impressive by far is the Dom or Cathedral, which sits in the heart of the pedestrian district. Construction was completed in 1628. Three of its sides face plazas: Residenzplatz to the north, Kapitelplatz to the south and Domplatz to the west, facing its front (photo). Four large statues made of light-colored marble stand at the cathedral entrance (photo). Beautiful chandeliers, richly painted frescos and stucco ornament adorn the interior of the Dom. According to my travel guide, it was built to accommodate a congregation of more than 10,000.

If the Dom was meant to awe those who lay eyes upon it, then it succeeded. In its scale and detail, I was amazed. It wouldn't be until we stepped foot in Stephansdom in Vienna that I would experience someplace manmade that felt so holy.

With the prospect of NaNoWriMo on the horizon and a few folks already discussing story ideas, I'm on the hunt for a few stray thoughts myself. As I was telling someone last night, if J.J. Abrams hadn't already created Lost, a show I'm head over heels about, that would have been the story I'd tell.

The current working title of my non-novel is "SMiLE", which is blatantly stolen from Brian Wilson's recent release. It took 37 years for SMiLE's completion, so I'm paying a small tribute to the masterpiece. I've listened to it repeatedly and it's hard to believe the musical soul of the album was created when the man was just 24-years-old.

Now that I'm thinking about it, I might revise my working title to "SMiRK" since whatever I accomplish won't be anywhere near "masterpiece" or "instant classic" status. And while I'm here, I might as well combine it with Abrams' show and retitle it something like "Lost in Your SMiRK". Hmm, I could then combine that with one of my favorite movies and call the whole thing "Raiders of the Lost SMiRK". Ah, the possibilities are endless. Don't mind me, just being a dork.

In the early stages of planning, I don't remember if we ever considered seeing Salzburg. We focused primarily on Vienna with a side trip to the lakeside town of Hallstatt. Salzburg was never mentioned until we tried to find a way to reach Hallstatt. As our plans solidified, the town by the lake faded from the picture and the city better known as the birthplace of Mozart came into view. With so much attention and anticipation placed on Vienna, little did I expect Salzburg to be the place that captured my imagination.

On Tuesday, we set out on foot to explore the town. We crossed one of many bridges connecting the banks of the River Salzach. Ever in sight, high on the hill, was the Hohensalzburg Fortress (photo upper left). On the right side of the river was a network of narrow cobblestone streets lined with tall shops and houses (photo), which were perfect for pedestrians and gave Salzburg much of its charm. Every so often, the narrow passages opened into spacious plazas where fountains or statues stood (photo).

As the day progressed, we tried to reach higher ground. One path leading up to the fortress provided a nice view of the Dom and town center (photo upper right). Continuing up the path and around the hill, just beyond the Nonnberg Priory, revealed a view of southern Salzburg (photo lower left).

Daylight was leaving when we finally made our way back across the river. In one last burst of adventure, we decided to climb a steep and narrow staircase tucked between two buildings on a tiny side street. The stairs wound their way up to the Church and Monastery of the Capuchins at the top of the hill. From there, we could see across the rooftops as the last of the light faded (photo lower right).

Tomorrow, I'll post photos of the Dom, which deserves an entry of its own.

In baseball, the only thing worse than the Trounce is the Re-Trounce. Both are defeats, but one is considerably more painful.

In the Trounce, the winning team, let's call them the Yankees, scores an insane number of runs against the losing team, let's call them the Red Sox. While it's a bad way to lose, it has the upside of unabashedly dashing all hope early. The losing team instantly gets the message they are losers.

The Re-Trounce delays this instant message. At first, it looks identical to the Trounce. The Yankees cream the Red Sox early on. Hope for salvaging the game seems squashed. Then, in the late innings, the Red Sox mount a miraculous rally. They come within a run of their opponents. Suddenly, hope reignites as momentum shifts and victory seems possible. But as quickly as it's sparked, the winning team snuffs it out. In a final show of force, they stomp out the losing team's hope like a discarded cigarette butt. Hope is crushed not once, but twice.

Last night, Boston suffered a Re-Trounce in New York. The Yankees took an early eight-run lead. The Red Sox mustered a late seven-run comeback only to have New York shut the door with two more runs in the bottom of the eighth. With any luck and some great pitching from Pedro, Boston can bounce back from the Re-Trounce and win Game 2 to tie up the series.

When you're far from home and eager to explore, things that were once considered critical (maybe even essential) for life, seem to lose some importance. Take the baseball playoffs, for example. I feared I'd be one of those guys desperately seeking scores from every possible news source (newspapers, cable television, pubs), but it turned out my fear was unfounded. This leads me to believe that either A) I'm not as big a baseball fan as I thought I was or B) I'm a big, but well-adjusted baseball fan. B is wishful thinking. A is more likely the case.

Last Tuesday afternoon was my first chance to call the family and let them know I had made it to Salzburg. I was calling from a phone booth across from the beautiful Residenz Fountain. The conversation went something like this (sort of)...

Me: We made it here safely.
Mom: That's good.
Me: It's beautiful here. The fountains and cathedrals and architecture. The hills are so green!
Mom: Your sister wants to know if you ran up a hill with your arms wide open singing "The hills are alive!"
Me: Um, no, not yet.
Mom: Did you hear? Both Bay Area teams lost.
Me: Oh, that sucks. By the way, they have amazing statues here. There's one of Mozart right around the corner.
Mom: Your sister says you have to find a hill and sing the song before you leave.
Me: (rolling eyes) Um, yeah.

Yesterday, I finally caught up with other baseball news:

• L.A. lost to St. Louis
• Boston will be facing New York in the ALCS
• Houston advanced after trouncing Atlanta
• Ken Caminiti passed away

Caminiti was a San Jose State alumnus and one of my favorite players while he was with the Astros and Padres. And in case anyone was wondering, I didn't find a hill or sing the song from The Sound of Music. It just didn't seem like the right thing to do.

Nine days away from the computer and internet can be traumatizing for some people. For me, it wasn't traumatic until the tenth day, when I booted up the computer and saw the huge pile of spam and tiny mound of email accumulated in my inbox. In that moment of intense anxiety, it dawned on me that I was also nine days behind on journal reading. After some deep breathing exercises and a cup of coffee, the anxiety passed and the calm returned. I know I'm behind, but I have to accept that it will take some time to catch up.

For one week in October, I was in Austria. As I sit here and type, it's hard to believe it ever happened. The whole thing is a memory now. Only photos, scribblings and souvenirs remain as evidence. It was my third trip out of the country and the first in fifteen years. Jeopardy Question #6,467: What is Vancouver and Hong Kong?

The trip began last Sunday. The itinerary called for us to fly from San Francisco to Vienna via London. From Vienna, we would travel by train to Salzburg where we would be staying two nights. If everything went as planned, we would leave San Francisco at 1 PM on Sunday and arrive in Salzburg by 5 PM on Monday (losing a day due to time change). However, nothing ever goes as planned.

Our flight from San Francisco left an hour late because of mechanical problems with one of the cargo doors. Everything on the ten-hour flight went fine, but once we reached London, our plane flew a holding pattern because there weren't any available gates. It was around the time our connecting flight was leaving that ground control allowed us land. Every gate was still occupied, so a shuttle took us to the terminal where we were booked on a new flight. Instead of flying directly from London to Vienna, there would be a transfer in Munich.

While in Heathrow, I purchased Terry Pratchett's Going Postal, the latest novel in his Discworld series. The main difference between the British and American versions is the cover art. To me, the British cover is much more appealing.

The remainder of our flight was uneventful. We arrived in Vienna safely, as did our luggage (thankfully). If you are ever in Vienna's airport, look at the ceilings. They are covered with murals (photo upper right).

We caught a bus to the train station (Westbahnhof) and were heading for Salzburg by 7:30 PM. Salzburg sits some 317 km (197 mi) west of Vienna, approximately three hours away by rail. We walked from the station (Hauptbahnhof) and reached our hotel, not far from the banks of the Salzach, around 11 PM. We had been up for nearly thirty hours. Having slept very little along the way, sleep came easily at the end of the day.

We walked from Curry Village to the Yosemite Falls Trail near the back of Camp 4's parking lot. That sounds short, but it's actually a two-mile hike before the hike. Pre-hike and post-hike hikes add invisible miles. They can transform an innocent 16.2-mile jaunt into a nasty 20.2-mile march. In the morning, when your feet are fresh and your coffee is hot, you think nothing of those hidden miles, but you really should.

The hike to El Capitan began with a steep climb up a series of switchbacks to Columbia Rock over rocky, dirt-covered steps. As we gained elevation, the dirt transitioned into sand. One ascends approximately 1,000 feet in the first mile. This was the most popular stretch of the trail since it provided a view of the valley with little exertion.

The trail descended as it approached Lower Yosemite Fall, but picked up its steep ascent to reach the overlook at Upper Yosemite Fall. Over this 2.4-mile stretch, one gains another 1,400 feet of elevation. The granite steps were no longer covered by dirt or sand, but remained odd-shaped and uneven. I stopped numerous times to take photos and sneak in rest breaks.

At this time of year, the waterfalls are nearly or completely dry, but one can see where water once tumbled over the ridge. At the overlook, there was a view of the channel and deep pools that line its bottom. There was also a breathtaking view of the Ahwahnee Hotel and Yosemite Lodge nearly half a mile below.

We continued along the trail heading to Eagle Peak. The path was relatively flat. Granite gave way to a lush green environment that eventually reverted to granite. The remaining 1,100 feet to El Cap extended over some 4.7 miles.

As we climbed, the temperature fell. We were chilled by the wind. Some folks had hiked in only t-shirts and shorts, suitable clothing on the valley floor, but inadequate atop El Cap. I had hiked in a t-shirt and convertible pants, but had a windbreaker and hat in my pack. They helped, but additional layers or gloves would've been nice.

Walking to the edge of El Capitan felt like walking to the edge of the world. That is, if the edge the world was a desolate, windy and uninviting place. The view of Half Dome, while still amazing, was essentially the same we had a thousand feet lower. It was somewhat disappointing. What wasn't disappointing was the number of people. Hiking Half Dome, one can come across hundreds of other hikers. Hiking El Cap, we came across six.

We made our way down at a faster pace, until we reached the upper fall. That's when the journey became more challenging. Those uneven steps that had made the ascent slightly easier made the descent slow and difficult. Slipping and sliding were inevitable. Thankfully, everybody made it down safely, without falling or twisting an ankle. Fully aware of the miles hidden in the post-hike, we hopped on the shuttle and returned to the village for a welcome shower and some grub.

This week's Photo Friday challenge is Speed. The crowd stood still as she sped by.