August 2005 Archives

Yesterday, while I celebrated the start of my second year as a thirtysomething, a city that had survived the wrath of a hurricane suffered the breach of two levees. As more water flowed in and filled the below-sea-level community, the breaches grew wider, allowing more water in and hampering the stopgap repair efforts. One wonders if New Orleans, Biloxi and other affected areas will be able to recover from such devastation. The news put a small thing, like a birthday, in perspective.

Even with videos, photos and accounts by journalists and "citizen journalists", it's hard to imagine the scope and scale of the disaster. Entire towns have washed away or been submerged. Half a million people were evacuated and will be unable to return for weeks, possibly months, to homes that may or may not be there. More than that, they may or may not have stores, offices, electricity, water or roads when they return.

Ten thousand refugees are housed in a damaged sports facility that is quickly running out of food and water. The headlines declare that hundreds are dead and thousands are stranded. When all is said and done, I'm sure the death toll will also be in the thousands.

The whole situation saddens me, but what angers me is the news about the looters. They're not only stealing goods from stores, but also stealing time and energy from police and National Guard units whose entire efforts should be focused on rescuing flood victims. The looters are only making a bad situation worse. One wishes that nature had a sense of justice and would simply wash away all that the thieves stole.

For a local view, one can check out the Sun Herald and their Katrina blog, which is maintained by two of their staff writers. Between the power outages and loss of their landline connection, they have been posting frequently since Sunday.

They began by posting shelter and evacuation information. They then provided up-to-the-minute updates and contact information for their "I'm OK Line". Now they are acting as a conduit, passing along emails and messages from those affected and those wanting to help. The more I read it, the more I appreciate their efforts.

The alarm goes off and my eyes open. It's 5:30 a.m. and time to begin another day. I jump out of bed and turn off the beeping clock. The television is still on and I shut that off, too. I pull a pair of socks from the dresser drawer and lope into the bathroom, turning on the light as I enter. As I shut the door, I glance at the bathroom clock on the counter. I stop abruptly and squint at the digital numbers to be sure I'm reading it correctly. When I'm groggy and not wearing my glasses, my eyes tend to play tricks on me. The clock claims it is 1:36 in the morning. "That can't be right," I whisper. I step out of the bathroom and squint at the bedroom clock. Now it also reads 1:36. Something weird is going on. I shut off the bathroom light and go over to the clock to check the alarm. I push the button and the green numbers change from 1:37 to 5:30. How odd, I think to myself, but that's as far my thinking goes so early in the morning. With a shrug, I reset the alarm and return to bed, half in confusion, half in relief that I still have another four hours of sleep before the day begins.

Not so long ago, Bay Area sportscasters were making much ado about the Giants getting their 10,000th victory. At the time, I thought San Francisco's PR machine was working overtime and scraping the bottom of the barrel for any random tidbit to bolster morale. I mean, considering the number of games franchises have played in the history of the sport (more than a century's worth), it would seem commonplace for teams to have five-digit win totals, right?

Not necessarily.

To verify my assumption, I donned my cap as part-time baseball statistics dork and trawled through the MLB database for answers. As the following table shows, I was wrong. Only San Francisco has reached the five-digit milestone so far.

Team	W	L	%	Games	Under
San Francisco Giants	10,019	8,533	.540	18,552	-
Chicago Cubs	9,876	9,339	.514	19,215	124
Atlanta Braves	9,742	9,600	.504	19,342	258
Los Angeles Dodgers	9,694	8,798	.524	18,492	306
St. Louis Cardinals	9,666	9,020	.517	18,686	334
Cincinnati Reds	9,509	9,183	.509	18,692	491
Pittsburgh Pirates	9,476	9,178	.508	18,654	524
New York Yankees	9,170	7,018	.566	16,188	830
Philadelphia Phillies	8,751	10,025	.466	18,776	1,249
Boston Red Sox	8,337	7,871	.514	16,208	1,663

Since all thirty teams have historical winning percentages hovering around .500, it only makes sense that the oldest teams would be closest to the 10,000-victory mark. This is true with the exception of the Yankees who have played 2,000 less games than the Giants. If the Evil Empire continue its winning ways, it is on pace to reach 10,000 faster than any other team in the league and by the year 2014.

Of the teams on the list, the next team likely to reach the meaningless milestone will be the Cubs sometime in 2007. The Giants' rivals, the L.A. Dodgers, are on pace to top 10,000 in the 2009 season. The other local team and the more successful of the two this season, the Oakland Athletics, will win their 10,000th game in 2032, when I'm 58, should I be so lucky to still be alive. By then, I would also hope the Giants had won at least one World Series title.

Of the older teams, Philadelphia has the longest way to go. No one seemed to celebrate the news that the Phillies reached the other 10,000 milestone this year. Then again, Philadelphia's PR machine probably didn't want word to spread about being the first team to 10,000 losses. They are 1,249 games away from 10,000 wins and 1,274 games under .500. Rich only has to wait 17 years for his beloved Phillies to accomplish the first milestone, but will probably have to bide his time a little longer before they break even.

Of course, if he needs something to brighten his day, he only has to think about the poor Tampa Bay fans. Their team not only has the worst historical winning percentage (.401), but the Devil Rays won't be anywhere near 10,000 wins for another 146 years. As some not-so-famous baseball commentator probably once said, "Sucks to be them."

"It is well that war is so terrible - lest we should grow too fond of it."
- Robert E. Lee

"War is cruelty. There's no use trying to reform it, the crueler it is the sooner it will be over."
- William T. Sherman

I've been delving into American history lately. I recently finished reading 1776 by David McCullough and His Excellency: George Washington by Joseph J. Ellis. Both were interesting and insightful, but the former was more pleasing to read than the latter. McCullough's style is fluid. His narrative flows smoothly with the numerous quotes he uses. A moment in history becomes a gripping story in his treatment. There was more suspense and drama in his work of nonfiction than in some pieces of fiction I've read.

Two week ago, I finished watching Ken Burns' The Civil War, an engaging, educational and moving documentary series that combined photos, first-person readings, narration and music to bring that period in the nation's history to life. I grew fond of listening to Shelby Foote's anecdotes and following the journey of individual soldiers like Elijah Hunt Rhodes (Union) and Sam Watkins (Confederate).

In watching the special features on the DVD, it was inspiring to hear Ken Burns speak so passionately about history. History may be so yesterday, but to Burns, history is right now. It's everything that has led to this very moment. His favorite quote, which he repeats at least four times on the disc, is by William Faulkner, "History is not was. History is." The past still affects us. More than a century later, America still feels the repercussions of the Revolution and the Reconstruction.

I can trace the cause for my renewed interest in history back to Benjamin Franklin's Autobiography, which I read a couple months ago. That led to 1776 and His Excellency. Those, in turn, led to the biographies of Alexander Hamilton and Tony Blair. I know Blair is not American, but due to recent events and England's ties with the U.S., I thought it would be interesting to learn more about him.

Naturally, I stopped about fifty pages into Blair because I discovered a historical mystery series by Owen Parry that has monopolized my reading time over the last week. He has written six books involving Major Abel Jones, a Union officer assigned to solve murder cases for the army during the Civil War. Parry is amazing with his historical accuracy and sense of action. His characters are crisp and authentic. His hero is flawed, but sympathetic. Jones isn't a modern day hero set in the past, but a man of his time who interacts with the fictional and historical figures of his time.

I don't know how long my enthusiasm for the past will last, but if I had my way at this moment, I would want it to be a lifelong interest.

Song on repeat... "The Race Is On" by Sawyer Brown

One day I ventured in love never once suspectin' what the final result would be
And how I lived in fear of waking up each morning finding that you're gone from me
There's ache and pain in my heart for today was the one that I hated to face
Somebody new came up to win her and I came out in second place

Now the race is on and here comes pride in the backstretch
Heartache's goin' to the inside
My tears are holdin' back
They're tryin' not to fall
My hearts out of the runnin'
True love's scratched for another's sake
The race is on and it looks like heartache's
And the winner loses all

Perusing the last few weeks of box office reports, the titles in the top ten haven't impressed me much. I think the major production companies could have saved some money if they had collaborated to make one monstrous movie called Bigalow, The 40-Year-Old Wedding Crasher of Hazzard.

Judging from recent trailers on television, it seems the only films out are brainless comedies and gory fright flicks. Maybe I'm mistaken. Maybe the companies producing the worthwhile movies are simply averse to advertising through mainstream media outlets. Maybe they simply can't afford it. Whatever the case may be, if they're out there, they're doing a fine job of hiding.

The only movie that looks anything close to appealing is March of the Penguins, but I'm of the opinion that a documentary, even a exceptional one with penguins and Morgan Freeman, isn't worth ten dollars. Don't get me wrong. I want to see it. I just don't need to the full "theater experience". I'm content to add it to my queue and watch it when it comes out on DVD.

Until then, either I can continue to rant about the slim pickings or I can be more positive and make a list of upcoming movies that have caught my eye. Let's go with the second option. Here are the Top 5 future features I want to see in the theaters.

1. The Chronicles of Narnia. The seven-book series by C.S. Lewis comes to life. I hear that it will be a trilogy, a la The Lord of the Rings, where Disney releases one installment each December.
2. Serenity. It's the movie adaptation of Joss Whedon's short-lived television sci-fi western. I hope the show translates well to the big screen.
3. Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire. I'm curious to see how much the actors have changed since the last one. The plan is to watch the first three again over a period of weeks to keep the interest burning, but at the same time, not burn out.
4. Wallace & Gromit: The Curse of the Were-Rabbit. They endeared themselves to me with their short films. Wallace is the wacky inventor who loves cheese. Gromit is his dog and the smarter of the two. They finally get their first full-length film.
5. King Kong. It has the potential to be campy and awful, but I'm hopeful that Peter Jackson will be as masterful with dinosaurs and a giant gorilla as he was with elves and orcs.

Picking up from where I left off, I spent a peaceful Saturday morning at Barnstormers, a cafe in Bedford that had an aviation theme. Old photographs and posters from air shows hung on the walls. The interior decorating gave one the sense of being in a tiny air hangar.

I ordered a large mint chocolate coffee. I had never had one, but I thought I'd be daring and chose the biggest size. The blend tasted wonderful for the first twelve ounces or so, just about the amount of a typical small drink. It tasted okay by the time I consumed the equivalent of a medium. By the time I finished all twenty ounces, it tasted plain nasty. I had obviously chosen poorly.

Anyway, when I left, I pulled out my camera and took a photo of the cafe's exterior. As soon as I did, one of the employees stormed out. She asked accusingly, "Did you just take a picture?"

Although I had done nothing wrong, guilt swept over me. It must have been the tone in the woman's voice. Since I was still holding the camera and couldn't very well deny it, I said, "Uh, yes?"

"Are you a reporter?" she questioned, hands on her hips.

"No, I'm a tourist," I replied.

"A tourist?" she repeated with a frown, as though I had just admitted to being a terrorist. I almost wondered if she misheard me.

She clearly thought I was up to no good, so I quickly clarified, "A tourist. A tourist from California. I'm just visiting and wanted to take a photo."

As comprehension sunk in, her demeanor suddenly changed. The frown became a smile and she let her arms relax in relief. "Oh, you like our place?"

I could have been stupid and said, "Well, I was leaning towards liking it until your coffee nearly made me sick and you came out and scared the bejeezus out of me, but now I 'm not so sure." But I decided to take the prudent route and said, "Oh, yes, I like it a lot. I just wanted a souvenir to remember it by. So, thanks and have a nice day!"

Later in the day, M & I walked along one of the neighborhood trails to The Great Road and had lunch at Whole Foods Market because it was there and we wanted something healthy to eat. As evening came around, we visited Cambridge, strolled through the Harvard campus and stopped for ice cream at Baskin Robbins. Before leaving, we browsed through the Harvard Book Store and I bought a copy of the 150th anniversary edition of Walt Whitman's Leaves of Grass.

Every year, the American Cancer Society has an event called Relay for Life. Its purpose is to raise awareness and money to help fight cancer. Thousands of communities across the country hold the event throughout the year. Families, friends and companies put together teams that participate by collecting donations with the promise that they will walk around a track for twenty-four hours straight.

A few places on the peninsula held the event over the weekend. At the one I attended, signs and cones on the field outlined the track, which distanced roughly an eighth of a mile. Team tents and tables stood at one end of the track, along with the dining canopy. Temporary restroom facilities stood at the other end. Between the tents and restrooms, organizers erected a stage for live music and special presentations.

Of the seven teams that collected donations, only four five had members walking and we seemed to be one of merely two that had somebody on the track the entire time. To be honest, I was only there for five of the twenty-four hours, but based on what I know of my team, I would wager we had every minute of the day and night covered.

For sustenance, the dining canopy had an assortment of fruits, snacks and energy bars available. They served pasta, salad and bread for dinner and IHOP sponsored the Sunday morning breakfast. Much to my delight, they had tea and coffee on hand in addition to bottled water and the usual assortment of sport drinks.

Our team had an eight-person tent, a card table, an assortment of chairs and a heat lamp. Our tiny camp must have been the most elaborate one there. If I could have stayed the night, I would have, but my back was unhappy after two and a half hours of walking and I didn't want to make it grumpier.

We stuck around long enough to see the luminarias lit around the track. A luminaria is a white bag that contains a candle and has the name of a loved one written on it. In the bleachers of the adjacent football field, they were arranged to spell hope, which may sound cheesy, but was rather moving as we watched the word glow brighter as the sun set.

I don't know how much money the event raised, since I couldn't find any articles about it online, but if I were to fathom a guess, I would put the figure between five and seven thousand dollars. Considering that it's the town's inaugural event, it's a respectable number and one that is bound to rise in the years to come.

On the edge of the little town of Beansville, there used to be a cafe that sold the best coffee in the entire county. People from near and far would come for a cup of joe. Some folks took such a liking to it that they named their firstborn Joe. It was that good.

To get a cup of coffee at The Old Cafe was an ordinary thing. All a person needed to do was walk in and order one. Joseph, who regulars called Old Joe to differentiate from other Joes, would pour the hot brew, give it to the customer, ring it up on the register and take payment, usually a quarter a cup. Customers who wanted to add milk or sugar (typically the ones not from around those parts) could help themselves. The process was simple and fast.

Then one day, Old Joe passed away and his brother, Aidan, took over. Now, Aidan knew nothing of the coffee business, but had an MBA and figured that those three letters would be enough to fill his brother's shoes. He had Big Ideas.

First, he moved The Old Cafe to a bigger space in the center of town. "It will revitalize Beansville by drawing in the crowds, which will bring more business," he said.

Then, he gave the place a bigger name. "It needs a name that means something. From this day forth, The Old Cafe will be known as Customer Service Cafe!"

Finally, to go with the new name, he revamped the whole ordering process. "The way people get their coffee is antiquated. I'm going to revolutionize the way folks get a cup of joe. And while I'm at it, from now on, I'm calling it a cup of aidan!"

To get a cup of aidan at Customer Service Cafe was no ordinary thing. A person had to stand in line to order one. Jacob, Aidan's son, would complete an electronic form specifying the cup size, whether or not to add milk and/or sugar and the cup number. The customer then took the printed order slip to a second line where Aidan would exchange the slip and payment (now a dollar a cup) for a receipt and an appropriately numbered cup. The person then stood in a third line to hand the receipt and cup to Madison, Aidan's wife, who would look up the cup number in the database and fill the order. It was most certainly a revolutionary process. Antiquated expediency gave way to innovative mistakes and slower service.

Word soon spread about the legendary lines at Customer Service Cafe, now referred to as Queue Cup by grumpy locals. Folks from all over the county flocked to see the spectacle. To drum up tourism, the chamber of commerce claimed the lines were "longer and livelier than the ones in Disneyland!" Of course, with the influx of onlookers, demand for services and items, namely coffee, rose.

Competing cafes and coffee carts started sprouting up like Starbucksia, a common weed found in most towns. Places like Instant Joe, Coffee Now! and The No Wait Bistro and Waffle House started drawing away customers from Aidan's lines and soon forced him to sell the shop to Emma, Old Joe's only daughter, who had recently graduated from college.

She gave Customer Service Cafe an extreme makeover, which mainly involved putting things back the way they were and taking a sledgehammer to the neon sign outside. With time and hard work, she restored the reputation of The Old Cafe for fast service and the best coffee in the county.

(Inspired by an actual "revolutionary" non-coffee-related event.)

Random and useless trivia (my favorite type): In 1880, Joseph and Emma were the sixth most popular names for babies. In 2004, Aidan and Madison were the second most popular names. Emma topped the girls' list, but Joseph had fallen to 24th for the boys.

The Idea: Read a book in one day.

The Inspiration: Idea #25 on this list.

The Book: A Redbird Christmas by Fannie Flagg, a classic case of judging a library book by its cover. It featured a painting of a cardinal perched on a chair by an open mailbox on one of the docks lining a quiet river. I was looking for something sweet and simple and the cover caught my eye.

The Result: Failure. I finished the book four hours after the deadline. I might have succeeded if not for the unplanned nap attacks. I must have been channeling Garfield last Friday.

The Review: The characters were quirky, but underdeveloped. The promising plot wrapped up too neatly and much too quickly. While the charm and feel of a small town came through in spots, it wasn't enough to keep me engaged. On an odd note, it's the first book I've read that had a section listing recipes for the dishes mentioned in the story. As soon as I saw that, I should've guessed the book might not be my slice of pie. Then again, how would I have known unless I tried?

As of today, I'm searching for a good book that I can read in a day.

Someday, I will come to believe that running to catch a train isn't worth the effort. Apathy will have won and I'll have fewer tales to tell. Until that day, here is another story involving a mad dash and a plan gone awry.

On the first day of August, the light rail (LRT) extension known as the Vasona Line opened. Currently, it runs as far as the Diridon station in San Jose, which happens to be a transfer point for Caltrain. When completed, it will provide service between Mountain View and Campbell. Yesterday, random curiosity got the better of me and I decided to try it.

After putting in my eight hours at work, I left the office around 4:20 and walked two blocks to my stop. The schedule said the Vasona LRT would arrive at 4:28 and reach Diridon by 4:38, giving me seven minutes, more than enough time, to transfer trains.

I stood on the platform, obsessively checking my watch and the track. At 4:28, the LRT pulled up, but it was the wrong one. It was a Santa Teresa-bound train running a few minutes behind schedule. In the distance, I could see a second train approaching.

The Santa Teresa LRT pulled out and I expected the Vasona to come in immediately behind it. Instead, it didn't pull in for another three minutes. The train was practically empty, only three passengers were onboard.

We reached the next two stops quickly and I began to think we could still reach Diridon with time to spare. I played it out in my head. I would get off the LRT, validate my ticket, walk briskly to the Caltrain platform and be on my way. It would work perfectly.

That's when I realized we still hadn't left the station. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, we started moving again. Instead of making its usual left turn (south) towards the Children's Discovery Museum, the LRT went north. We passed under Highway 87, traveled parallel with it for a stretch, branched west along San Fernando and stopped at the station of the same name.

While under construction, I had walked by the station a hundred times, often filled with anticipation, wondering when it would open. Now that it was operational, I was stoked. I don't know if people normally to get this excited about public transportation, but I do, and that worries me.

The LRT stopped briefly to let two women off before accelerating towards the best part of the ride: the tunnel. The tracks began their descent after crossing Autumn Street and reached their full depth under Montgomery. They swept gently to the right, under the Caltrain parking lot, and then turned tightly to the left, resurfacing on the other side of the train station, parallel with the Southern Pacific lines.

While in the tunnel, I almost forgot about the time and it didn't occur to me to check my watch until I stepped off the LRT. It was 4:43. I had two minutes to transfer trains.

I looked around the new platform for the ticket-validating machine, but all I saw was a red sign that read, "Ticket Validator coming soon!" I suddenly found myself in a footrace with the last passenger, a thirty-something salesman. We ran the length of the platform, crossed the LRT tracks and ran down the ramp, through the underground walkway and up the other ramp to the station's validator. Somewhere in the walkway, I ditched my backpack to build a lead on the sprinting salesman.

As soon as I stamped my ticket, I charged back down the ramp, barely missing him as he came the other way. I grabbed my backpack, raced up to the platform and jumped into the first available car. About fifteen seconds later, the salesman made a heroic leap through the doors and the train left the station.

From now on, I think I'll take the 4:13 LRT. I can't wait for the rest of the Vasona Line to open. When it does, I'll be able to make it to downtown Campbell and back in an hour and still have enough time for a twenty-minute meal or coffee break. I hope that it'll be feasible without having to include mad dashes in the plan.

On our second day in Massachusetts, a Friday, we visited the Cape Cod area. We piled people and beach gear into the SUV and were on the road by nine. To save time, we had breakfast as we drove. My morning meal consisted of two chocolate glazed donuts, four munchkins and a cup of coffee from Dunkin' Donuts. It was one of the tastiest breakfasts I have ever eaten and one I have no intention of repeating.

Along the way, I enjoyed my first experience with rotaries, those big asphalt circles that suck cars in from one direction and spit them out in another. How vehicles are able to enter and exit without colliding or accidentally ending up on the wrong road is a mystery to me. As I watched the interweaving motion of metal and rubber, I was suddenly very glad that I was a passenger and not the driver. We successfully negotiated the rotary and made it to the mid-Cape town of Dennis.

We were searching for Eden Hand Arts, a hard-to-find jewelry store that is most famous for its unique bracelet. The place was so hard to find that we passed it twice before locating the hidden gravel parking lot, which had enough room for six cars. Although warned about the store's popularity, I was still stunned to see the line of people stretched out the front door of the tiny cottage.

Afterwards, we drove south to Dennisport for lunch at Clancy's Restaurant. We took advantage of the good weather and ate on the patio. I tried the Guinness-battered haddock, which had some flavor, but wasn't extraordinary.

We continued up the Cape to one of Wellfleet's ocean beaches. From the parking lot, it was a steep descent to the sand and surf. I sat and wrote for a bit, trying to jot down the details of the previous day before I forgot them. Then, at some point, I walked towards the water and let the waves wash over my feet. It was an exhilarating feeling.

Evening was approaching, so we left Wellfleet and made a quick stop at Nauset Light Beach so that I could get my lighthouse fix. It wasn't open, but we were able to roam around and take pictures of it. We then decided to visit the town the Orleans to watch a baseball game.

The Cape Cod League recruits players from colleges across the country to play ball every summer. The games are free and played at local high school baseball fields. Families attend and set up lawn chairs or blankets to watch the game. A roach coach in the parking lot serves hot dogs and sodas, while kids chase foul balls into the street despite the PA system warnings not to.

The game we saw featured the Brewster White Caps and the Orleans Cardinals. They must be popular teams because it seemed as if the entire town had come out to see them play. (Random fact: The White Caps' caps are black.) Since we had a long drive home, we ate some pizza at the park and left before the game ended. If the score held, then the Cardinals won 1-0.

Traffic getting to Carmel was terrible yesterday. Highway 101 through Gilroy was a virtual parking lot, so we tried to reach Highway 1 using 152 through Watsonville. It wasn't much better, but on the bright side, we saw lots of guys wearing cowboy hats as we moseyed through the center of town. As time goes on, I hope we learn the best times to leave and return to make the coastal escape easier. When there isn't a jam, the beautiful beach and downtown area is only forty-five minutes away.

Carmel was busy as usual, which made parking a hassle, but once we were on foot and walking around town, I was able to relax and enjoy myself.

Did you read in recent news about Carmel's latest woes? Apparently, the town has too many art galleries. I bet most communities wish they had that type of trouble instead of the typical problems of traffic, crime and unemployment. I wonder if a moratorium on galleries will really bring about the reemergence of more useful retail stores and services. It does seem absurd that residents only have to walk a block to purchase a painting, but have to cross a busy highway to buy food, clothing and gas.

After getting home last night, I turned on the television and caught the breaking news of Peter Jennings' passing. I sat in disbelief as I watched ABC's tribute to its longtime anchor. (He spent 41 of his 67 years at the network.) I suppose I thought he would somehow make a miraculous recovery from lung cancer and return to report the news again. Jennings always struck me as the most approachable and most credible of the Big Three (Brokaw, Jennings and Rather). My perception of the first quality probably affected my perception of the second. Yes, he was a stranger in a box, talking about things happening in far away places, but he was also a familiar face that kept me informed about world events (when newspapers and the net were inaccessible). I will miss him.

Last Thursday, we woke up early to catch a flight from San Francisco (SFO) to Providence (PVD) by way of Chicago (ORD). Our ride dropped us off an hour before departure at Terminal 1, just outside the check-in counters of our carrier, Acme Swift Skies. As soon as we walked inside, the fun began.

We had only carry-on bags, so we entered the long line for express self check-in. I think there were four airline personnel working. One helped people understand the concept of a line, one attempted to assist confused passengers with the touch screen system, one stood behind the counter in case anyone actually required customer service and one supervised. When it was finally our turn to check in, I stepped up to the screen.

The computer asked me to insert the credit card I used to purchase the ticket. Once I did, the computer processed the information and told me that it would need my flight number, so I unfolded my printed confirmation, found the number and entered it. Again, the computer processed the information. I glanced over at M, who seemed to be a few steps ahead of me. She shook her head and said, "It's not working." I grew concerned.

My screen suddenly prompted me for the 13-digit ticket number. I scanned the page and carefully inputted each number. Almost instantly, the computer informed me that no such flight or ticket existed. This couldn't be right, I thought.

I read my confirmation paper again. I was almost certain I was in the correct place and had entered the correct information. Almost. I inserted my card again and gave the whole process another try. The second attempt failed as well. I suddenly realized why the line was so long. It was because of people like me.

Fortunately, we were standing in front of the employee providing customer service. He scanned our confirmations and said, "Oh, this flight isn't actually with ASS. It's with our codeshare partner, Chapter 11 Airlines. They're in Terminal 3."

With a sigh, we heaved our bags onto our shoulders and trudged through empty Terminal 2, past the crowds at Another Airline and to the deserted counters of Chapter 11 at the end of Terminal 3. We were able to check in on their computers and pass through security easily. We then dragged our bags through the long corridors and moving sidewalks to our gate where we received our seat assignments.

The flight to Chicago went smoothly. After they served us beverages and pretzels, they showed the unoriginal and unfunny Guess Who starring Bernie Mac and Ashton Kutcher. When we landed, we learned our connecting flight was a mere four gates away. With only a short distance to walk and time to spare, I grabbed a grande coffee from Starbucks. It cost $1.97 and I nursed it all the way to Providence.

While we waited for M's friend, C, to pick us up, I took a photo of this statue at the airport. I believe the piece of art suggests either the uncontrollable and destructive force of Mother Nature or the crunchy goodness of an ice cream cone.

The drive from the airport to Bedford took nearly ninety minutes due to rush hour traffic. That evening, I met the rest of C's family, watched some television and, some time after midnight, finished the sixth Harry Potter book. It would have probably been smarter to get to bed earlier, but the Half-Blood Prince was just too good to put down.

Traffic was light as he drove north one cloudy weekday morning. He cruised along the highway in his tan sedan and listened to classical music on the radio to ease the tension that built whenever he sat behind the wheel. He lost himself in the sounds of a string quartet.

As the scenery and miles flowed by, he found himself creeping up on a cherry red Mini in the fast lane, one lane to his left. On this day, "fast" meant five miles below the speed limit. It was as though the Mini was a bright red fish on the end of an invisible line that he was reeling in slowly.

His sedan and the Mini were soon side by side. He was sailing by when the Mini began drifting into his lane. He checked his mirror and veered to the right, barely avoiding the collision. The Mini corrected abruptly and angled back to its own lane. He lifted his foot off the accelerator and allowed the Mini to pass him. As it did, he glanced over at the driver.

Staring back at him was the oldest, tiniest, most startled Asian woman he had ever seen. She looked frail and wore glasses with frames the size of her car's headlights. The bottom rims were barely clearing the steering wheel. Considering her white hair and wrinkles, he guessed she was nearly 75, but with his tendency to guess low, she was probably closer to 125. If his great-grandmother had ever driven a vehicle, he imagined she would look very similar to the shocked woman looking his direction.

The vision of it all made him laugh and he was still playing the close collision in his head as the Mini pulled ahead and began drifting into his lane again. With the lane change nearly complete, it occurred to her to signal. She allowed her flasher to blink twice before turning it off.

He shook his head and turned up the soothing voice of Hoyt Smith announcing the next orchestral piece. He couldn't wait for tomorrow when he could be back on the train and free from the madness.

Last week, we experienced the first Spare the Air day of the year in the Bay Area. From the site, here is a brief definition:

"A Spare the Air day is a day forecast to have ozone levels high enough to exceed federal health-based standards... Area residents are asked to modify their behavior to help minimize pollution, and people who are sensitive to unhealthy air are advised to limit their time outdoors, particularly in the afternoon hours. Because ozone is a preventable pollutant, doing things like cutting back on driving and the use of other gasoline powered equipment can make a substantial difference in the amount of pollution that occurs."

To help reduce the number of folks driving to work, local public transit systems offer free transportation from four to nine in the morning for the first five Spare the Air days of the year. I took them up on their offer and rode Caltrain to work (a $5 value) last week. If I'm able to take full advantage of the "free ride" days, I'll save $25, which is approximately seven grande green tea frappuccinos.

Unfortunately, I didn't notice an increase in ridership, which was rather disappointing, but I hope the word spreads before the next Spare the Air day. It would be nice to see more people using mass transit. Of course, if that happens, they will probably discontinue the incentive program. But until that happens, count me in.

If I had written this yesterday, I could have started with the generic, "Greetings from Massachusetts!" But since I didn't write this yesterday, this will have to do...

Greetings from (yawn) California.

M & I just spent a week on the East Coast, leaving last Thursday and returning last night. To most people (and that was but a handful), I said I was in Boston, but we were only in the city for a day. We were in small towns, like Bedford, Dennis, Marblehead and Rockport, the rest of the time.

Thanks to the generosity of M's friends, C & S, we had a nice place to stay in Bedford. The only tradeoff was spending parts of our trip with a 3-year-old and a 16-month-old, which is not a bad tradeoff at all. Toddlers are amazing creatures (and I use that term because calling them human hardly seems sufficient). They have the ability to change from angels to monsters and back to angels in the blink of an eye, before you can call for help. They can melt your heart with a giggle and drive you up the wall with a wail. Now I have even more respect and appreciation for people who are parents. They are incredible.

Once I get home, I'll upload the photos and write in detail, but for right now, here's a quick rundown of some firsts from this trip. It was the first time I:

• flew to Providence, Rhode Island.
• took the T.
• ate at Dunkin' Donuts.
• drank a Sam Adams at Cheers (the Bull & Finch Pub).
• was keenly aware of how difficult it is to find television shows suitable for young children.
• thought, "Too many lighthouses! Too many lighthouses!"
• put my feet in the Atlantic Ocean.
• did not shave for a week. (I now look like a survivor from Lost.)

I'm a few days late, but Happy August!