Clueless Americans, Faux Pas, or "Guess Who's Lost As Shit?"

This is the first in a series of posts on the MCLU (Megan, Matt, Me) trip to Europe.

Being sophisticated international travelers (I'd never been outside North America), we opted to start our travels off in London, where the locals at least speak English, and we wouldn't have any trouble understanding them. Sure, there are foreign peculiarities that arise in British English, but having read Bill Bryson's Notes from a Small Island, I at least knew that a counterpane was a bedspread. Which is why I was mildly perturbed when I had some trouble ordering in restaurants.

(at a diner)
Me: Is this cheese sandwich hot?
Waitress: No, it's cold.
Me: Could we make it hot? Like grilled cheese?
Waitress: ...Grilled?
Me: Um, toasted? On both sides? With cheese in the middle?

(at an Irish pub)
Bartender: Would yeh liek ennehthang else?
Me: Would I like an L? [confused stare]
Bartender: Would you. Like. Ennehthang. Else?
Me: Would I...oh! No, thanks. [hastily hands over a colorful non-green bill]
Bartender: Erm...we don't take euros.
Me: Oh, so sorry!
Bartender: Yeh just stepped off the plane, didn't yeh?
Megan: [whispers] Fresh off the plane!

For the most part though, I navigated the British mangling of the English language just fine. Matt, on the other hand, couldn't seem to get people to understand his New Jersey.

Matt: Could I get the mint chocolate chip?
Ice cream vendor: You wanted strawberry?

Matt: Can I get two one-pound lemonades?
Vendor: [hands him two cans of lemonade]

Pity. Well, so long as we don't open our mouths, we blend in perfectly, yes? This is why we were constantly offered unsolicited help. Be it at Barbican Hall for a London Symphony concert or at the Eurostar station, an attendant would approach our friendly flock and proceed to give directions to the American newbs. I was most impressed with the speed at which we were singled out at King's Cross. "Looking for Platform 9 and 3/4?" asked a conductor. "Right this way around the corner!"


Then there were the times when we were actually lost. For one afternoon, we decided to have an independent exploration period, since Matt wanted to see the London Zoo, Megan wanted to see the Freud Museum, and I had no interest in seeing either of those and planned to look for kayaking in Regent Park instead. I was a tad concerned about Megan's lack of directional sense, but she seemed confident enough. So, armed with a book of maps, Megan gamely set off on her half-hour walk to the Freud Museum. Matt and I browsed a record store, took a leak, then began strolling toward Regent Park, whereupon we found a frustrated Megan standing on the corner, fuming "Guess who's lost as shit??" I literally began to ROFL. Several passerbyers began to rubberneck.

All this, however, was topped by our scenic excursion to the East End. We wanted to check out Brick Lane, the Indian-Bangladeshi district on the outskirts of Central London, located in what might be called a more adventurous terrain for tourists. According to the Fodor's guidebook, the Bethnal Green tube stop alighted right at Brick Lane. After surfacing though, a second glance at the map revealed that two Bethnal Green stops were marked on the map, and we were a ways away from the correct one. No matter, it was a fine day for a promenade through the East End, and we had no qualms about taking pictures as a couple BMWs driven by Pakistani drug warlords passed us by.

Later, we noticed that Fodor's warned against traveling through the Bethnal Green and Whitechapel neighborhoods, warning that "muggings are a frequent occurence in daytime" and "tourists should be on their guard." It is a good thing that Matt (toting a camera bag) looks like he'd be tough in a fight.

Less you think we were completely helpless, I shall point out that I managed to give directions in Paris to a tourist looking for Hemmingway's old cafe. And, while looking for the train to Versailles, we inadvertently ended up leading a small group of Indonesian tourists to the correct train.

Hopefully these contributions helped make up for the time that we were admonished with "Silence, silence!" while in our Paris hotel room. I swear, these were the thinnest walls I've ever seen.

Hey, Remember that Time...?

My mom and I did some cleaning today, sorting through old files and trying to throw things out and mostly failing. Amidst the detritus of yellowed receipts and cobwebs, Mom uncovered things like my hospital bill from 1985 and my dad's journal from his first few years in America. The segment that most neatly wraps up my dad: "1979. We are living in a boarding house with 6 other families, and it is always terribly noisy. More than anything else, I wish I had my own study so that I can read in peace. I am determined to make enough money so that my kids can have rooms of their own."

Elsewhere in the department of things I had no idea about: apparently, my dad used to be a champion ping-pong player back in high school. Sadly, I have yet to see him demonstrate this prowess at ping-pong.

Upon reflection, I myself was a pack rat/budding archivist from an early age. I'm not sure if this is normal, but I kept meticulous files all throughout childhood with stuff that I thought was interesting or significant: 1st grade report cards, math awards, ticket stubs, my sticker collection, a long Starburst wrapper chain, a Jigglypuff gummy snack from a crush, a piece of the wall from Meyzeek Middle School that I took when I graduated...I have at least 5 boxes in the basement simply labeled "Memories."

Today, I rediscovered a few old photo albums that I'd stored and completely forgotten about once digital cameras came into fashion. Since digitization is FTW, I started scanning some of the photos for kicks and giggles. Here are the fruits of my labour:

Me, blissfully unaware at age 3 that this outfit is totally stereotypical

Chester and me, circa 1994. At this point, I hated dresses, lace and anything pink. I assure you, my smile here cloaks a simmering rage at the domination of adults.

Standing in front of the White House in 6th grade or so

Chester, cracking a lot of eggs

8th grade--Is it bad that I still have this shirt?

As much as I hated having my picture taken while growing up, I have to say that looking at old family photos was hilarious.

Quote of the day:
"I was talking to my tai chi master, and he asked if I was religious. I said, well I believe religion is best suited for extremely wise people, or extremely stupid people. I fall somewhere in the middle, so no." -Mom

Reason #238 Why Being Home Rocks

I consider myself a pretty good home cook, but there's nothing like getting home and being welcomed by a ginormous bowl of bún riêu, or rice vermicelli with crab. This is usually done with a spicy seafood broth, and my mom shelled a dozen crabs for this, so it's extremely flavorful. In this cannot-be-bought-in-restaurants rendition, you can see huge hunks of crab meat, accompanied by tomato, bean sprouts, lettuce, mint and thai basil.

Cantate, Latin Edition

Ten rehearsals and two concerts later, another whirlwind season of Cantate is over. This time, the theme of our program was Latin, meaning we had a hodgepodge of classical Latin pieces, Latin American folk songs, and Latin jazz numbers. Saxophonist and band leader Greg Ward accompanied us on several pieces, then his band led the second half of the program with Latin jazz numbers. When I read the program notes, I realized that Ward had been born in 1982, meaning he's only 3 years older than me. Considering that Ward travels, composes and performs all over the world (he just got back from Spain), I was immediately hit with a sense that I Have Accomplished Nothing With My Life. But I digress.

This program was stylistically more diverse and overall less challenging for audiences. Don't get me wrong, I love the lush, warm traditional choral works we performed last fall, but as with any piece with depth, it takes repeated exposure to fully grasp the motivation behind the pieces. We had a couple stunningly beautiful Latin pieces at the beginning of the concert, one dedicated to the passing of one of our own members from cancer, and I was happy to hear people comment that these were gorgeous. However, the most accessible piece was undoubtedly "Chili con Carne," a Latin jazz piece ironically written by Swedes. This is a fun, whimsical piece that is actually a recipe, with directives like "don't forget the Mexican spices/without them you won't get the flavor of Mexican sunshine" and "when your mouth gets full of fire/you might need something to drink/one or two or three or four or/seven beers will be enough."

Much to my relief, only two of our pieces were in Spanish; the rest were either in Latin or were some sort of nonsensical scat singing. Having studied French and Latin, I know just enough about romance languages to royally butcher the rules of pronunciation for Spanish. Conclusion: I will take the rapid-fire rhythmic challenge of "wa p t ba da da t ba ba chi ki ba tsao" over the trimmed diphthongs of Spanish any day.

On another note, the recessionary economy has damaged the finances of many groups, including performing arts organizations. Nowhere is this more evident than in the conservative programming that many groups have planned for the next year. In good years, ensembles are able to take risks, plan challenging programs, commission pieces and premiere new works. For next year, Chicago Acappella will be rehashing old standards (Beatles, "Holiday Favorites") in an effort to draw audience members and cut down on rehearsal time. Grant Park Orchestra will be performing Beethoven 9 and a lot of material you have probably already heard. Oh, and the Chicago Symphony Orchestra is performing Beethoven 9 too, the third time in 5 years that they've ended their season with the piece.

Cantate has always been entirely self-financed, depending on its members for publicity and to drum up an audience. When all is said and done, we usually clear about $100 in the bank when all the bills are paid. For this concert, we had enough saved up that we were able to take a chance and veer sharply away from recognizable names and pieces. It remains to be seen whether the gamble paid off, but I am extremely grateful for everyone that did come out to support us.

Anyway, I strongly encourage you all to continue supporting live music and the arts.

Quote of the Day

"Critical Mass is like 4chan on bikes...they do it for the lulz." -Phil

Indiana Dunes

It is a universally recognized fact that Indiana is the backwoods armpit of the United States, where casseroles go to die. So when the idea of daytripping to the Indiana dunes came up, I admit to feeling some trepidation. Wait, we're leaving Chicago? To go to...the Midwest?? I also wasn't quite sure how to handle the thought of dunes in Indiana. I mean, don't those belong in deserts? The only image that came to mind was that scene in Spaceballs when they're wandering the dunes, combing the desert.

After a 45 minute drive, we began seeing signs for various beaches and dunes. Spying an arrow for the Indiana Dunes State Park, we pulled in toward the gatehouse. "That'll be $5 for parking," said the trooper. "Wait, are you Indiana residents?" No, we responded. "Then it'll be $10." We supressed some grumbling and handed him the money, while asking for directions on how to get to the Cowles Bog Trail (the only trail marked as "moderately arduous.") "Oh, actually that's outside of here, in Indiana Dunes National Park. They're entirely separate from us," said the trooper. "Uh, well then can we get a refund?" we asked. "Nope, sorry. I can't just give refunds like that," the trooper responded, as he pocketed our still-warm Hamilton. We looked at him agape. "Well, it's up to this guy." He waved at another guy wearing a blue t-shirt. "It's your call, do you want to give them a refund?" Luckily, the guy in the blue shirt was reasonable and said, "Sure, why not? Why pay if you don't want to be here?" He handed us a lengthy form to fill out. Under "reason for refund request," Katherine wrote, "Don't want to be here." On our way out of the parking lot, I may have loudly called the trooper a douchebag.

Take two: we made our way (down the street) to Dune Acres, which is part of Indiana Dunes National Park. Here, there was ample parking for free, even though the trooper assured us that we'd have to pay anywhere else we went. The sun was shining, the water was frigid, and we spread out our wares and began picnicking on the beach.

Adam, Shani and Leah smile for the camera as Melissa displays her lip-framed sunglasses.

Our picnic included many interesting contributions, including this lovely cherry & chocolate chip studded emerald-green cake with blue frosting. I think my teeth hurt after eating a piece of this.

Katherine taking a picture of me as I take a picture of her

A sand dune, covered with small grasses, trees, and intrepid explorers. If a dune is not anchored with grass and other plants, it is considered a "living" dune since it moves.

After spending a couple hours on the beach, watching white people get comically sunburned, we went to the Cowles Bog trailhead. This was billed as a 5 mile loop with three types of terrain. I was excited for my first real hike in the Midwest, since the last attempt in Madison was fairly lame (it turns out the prairie is flat). The first mile or so was relaxing, a scenic tour of forest and wetlands, but nothing particularly novel. Then, as if Nature had read my mind and wanted to up the ante, we came to the Bridge of Branches. A large expanse of water stood between us and the other side, and the only way across was to walk over a haphazard series of branches. No railings, no solid planks, just pure balance. "I bet there are crocodiles in these waters," I joked. "Probably not, but there are definitely leeches." said Adam. I wrinkled my nose in dismay. For some reason, the lava theme from Donkey Kong 2 came to mind.

Leah leads the way, boldly testing which of the branches are the most stable.

Melissa officially wins for having the most grace and balance. I blame the dance lessons.

With abated breath, we all successfully stayed dry. Once we made it across, the terrain gradually shifted from boggy to sandy. The dirt trail underfoot morphed into sand, and we found ourselves climbing in elevation. If you think hiking uphill is hard, try doing it as the ground gives way underneath and you slide backwards. Suddenly, we reached the summit and were rewarded with a gorgeous view of the beach and Lake Michigan below us.

Adam takes in the not-quite-ocean vista.

The amount of vegetation that manages to grow and thrive in these sands is amazing.

Coming down the dune, we decided to take off our shoes, since we were plunging in past our ankles with each step.

The view from the bottom, on the beach with "singing sands"

That's right, the sand makes noises in Indiana, particularly if you drag your toes through it. I would liken the phenomena to the sound a seal makes. According to Wikipedia, for singing sand to occur, the sand grains must be round and between 0.1 and 0.5 mm in diameter, must contain silica, and the sand needs a certain humidity.

Katherine demonstrates the singing sand

I was highly amused by the name of this boat.

And of course, this being Northwest Indiana, there are plants sprinkled amidst the other plants.

Rather than building a sand castle, I decided to build a sandy rendition of McGraw Tower.

On the way back, we spotted a few frogs, and Katherine managed to pick one up. Several warts promptly developed afterwards.

All in all, I must say that this was one of the best hikes of my life. I hereby revise my opinion of Indiana's suckitude; there are select parts of Indiana that are awesome. Also, I will never take solid ground for granted again.

Blood is Thicker than Water

Last Sunday, I checked my phone to find three voicemails in the span of an hour. The first was my mom, frantically telling me that my cousin Fong was in town, and that we should hang out and could I please make sure my apartment was clean if he came over. The second was my aunt, telling me that my cousin Fong was in town, and that we should spend some time together. The third was (surprise!) my cousin Fong, who said that he was in town and we should get together. All right, all right...

To provide some background knowledge, Fong is one of the cousins on my mom's side that we don't particularly keep in touch with. I hadn't seen him since about 6th grade. I didn't know what he was doing job-wise, or where he was living. I couldn't remember how old he was. Hell, I didn't even know his (English) name. This was pretty much like a blind date except for that sharing genetics part. Hesitantly, I picked up the phone and tried to tease out what he liked to do, so I could get a better sense of what form this hang-out would take. After all, this is Chicago, so we could have done anything from seeing Jersey Boys to jeering in the bleachers at a Cubs game.

I threw out the idea of a brewpub, and Fong was on that like white on rice. (Go figure, beer is almost always a sure-fire common denominator.) Since I've been meaning to go back to the Publican, I billed the restaurant as the ultimate anti-Semitic temple to pork, oysters and beer and Fong readily agreed to meet me there. He also said that he would eat anything. So far, so good.

On Monday, Fong gave me a call to find out what time I would be free. "Well, I'm about to go to a lecture by Michael Pollan right now, but that should only last an hour. Um, he's an activist who supports sustainable agriculture and eco-conscious eating. He wrote Omnivore's Dilemma, if you've heard of that...Actually, you don't need to give me a ride to the restaurant because I'm going to bike."

At the restaurant, I waited and nervously scanned the incoming crowd for Asian guys. Finally, there was a tap on my shoulder. "Fong, what's up? It's been forever!" I hugged Fong and looked him over. A little shorter than I remembered (or maybe I had simply grown), but still a recognizable fit with my hazy memories. Fong took a look at me and said, "Ok, so how much of a hippie are you?" I cringed inwardly and tried to explain that I wasn't that much of a hippie, just environmentally conscious. (Oh boy, has Ithaca done a number on me...)

The rest of the conversation proceeded smoothly. Fong has always been the self-proclaimed black sheep of the family, and the most prominent story about him in the family is the time he went to the wedding reception for Terri (my oldest cousin) and got ridiculously drunk. I wasn't actually there, but I've definitely heard about this from several relatives. In his defense, Fong simply said, "Well, I was 19, and there was free alcohol, and oh yeah, I spent most of my time hitting on one of Maggie's friends...yeahhh."

As you might expect, Fong's antics tended to raise eyebrows amongst my conservative Chinese relatives. In contrast, I was always upholding the "perfect" child, academic superstar mantle. Hence, I was somewhat relieved when Fong sized me up and said, "Well, I'm glad you turned out cool. You drink beer."

Fong went on to say that while he may have experimented lots in college, he was much less adventurous these days and mostly just stuck to smoking. Besides, while he may not be considered a role model by his Chinese relatives, compared to the Cambodian side of his family, he was a friggin' genius. Most of his cousins on that half of the family were working blue-collar jobs and didn't have college degrees. So really, he was doing quite all right for himself, thank you very much, Judgmental Chinese Relatives. Then, he may have strongly advised trying mushrooms just once in my life, so long as I was in a safe environment with people I trust. Say, how about a family vacation in Amsterdam?? I giggled as I pictured traipsing through Europe with my cousins on the ultimate family-unfriendly vacay.

Hedonism aside, Fong shored up his nerd cred and cemented my respect for him when he mentioned that he'd set up an FTP server at his parents' house, since they were one of the first households to get access to Verizon FiOS, and so he gets insanely fast download and upload speeds. "There's 1.2 T of space on that computer! I'll make you an account when I get home and you can check out all the media that's on there." He went on to describe his extensive collection of jazz, french rap, indian music and anime. "Wait, French rap?" I questioned. "Oh, I'm fluent in French. I even spent a few months in a Bhuddist temple in France one summer."

It's funny to think that I really don't know many of my cousins. For a variety of reasons, we never meet as a group. We're geographically dispersed across the country, and there's never been a tradition of getting together around the holidays. Also, since there are 8 siblings on my mom's side of the family, various factions are always feuding with each other at one point or another. In fact, every year when I send out Christmas cards, I ask my mom if there's anyone we're currently not talking to.

My mom is known informally as 老六, or Number Six, and she is closest to her younger siblings (#7-8). Fong's mom is 三姨, or Aunt Three, and since she left Vietnam to study abroad when my mom was pretty young, they were never very close. Thus, we've had little contact with Fong over the years, but I know my youngest cousins pretty well (e.g. we're Facebook friends). Fong, on the other hand, couldn't name any of the younger cousins, and drew a blank when I mentioned Chester. "Who's Chester?" he asked. "Um, my brother?" I replied. "Ohh shit. Don't tell your mom I said that."

We went through the list and tried to figure out everyone's ages. I was shocked to hear that Terri now has two kids (I haven't seen her since I was maybe 3.) For the record, here are all the cousins on my mom's side of the family: Terri (36?), Maggie (34?), Al (31), Jun (30?), Fong (28), Choy (28?), Chris (26?), Yogi (26?), Me (23), Jenny (21), Chester (17), Steven (17), Stanley (14), Evelyn (15), Marilyn (12?), Dino (10?)

I mentioned that for the most part, I disliked talking on the phone but was logged into some form of instant messenger 24/7. In a classic dork moment, Fong said, "Oh, me too! What's your screenname, what platform(s) do you use?" Then we bonded over our mutual use of Pidgin. Perhaps it will be another decade before I meet up with Fong (legal name: Sornak) again, but at least we will keep hanging out on the internets. Or maybe Amsterdam.