So, to prevent any confusion - no, I'm not currently traveling. So why would I update my travel blog? While I'm not physically boarding a plane any time soon, my mind has been doing it all the time. Looking back, I find it hard to believe that at about this time last year I had just learned that I would be going to São Paulo. I had no idea what to expect and even less of an idea how incredible my times would be.
It's great being home, with long-time friends, and in a place where I can understand 100 percent of the stimuli coming my way - no confusion over what, exactly, someone means in conversation or how I should act to look the most 'local'. Nevertheless, life is in many ways much more dull without those situations, without constantly learning and growing to become more adept and aware not only of a culture and place I'm living in but also of myself.
I find that not a day passes where I don't think about being back in Sevilla or São Paulo - particularly São Paulo. People told me that once you go to Brazil, a piece of you remains there. Based on my experience, I'd say it's true. It's tough really to describe in words, because my thoughts of each place are so intertwined with so many experiences I had. Conversations with friends and my host family, learning cultural norms, new foods, smells, and sensations, waking every day to a place that increasingly felt like home. And still does. Just as an example, yesterday I was reading an article online at goal.com, and there was a link to a clip from a news station short on Ronaldo, the Brazilian soccer player. I clicked the clip, and the reporter started talking. Just hearing him speak and the sounds of Portuguese took me back in so many ways. I could close my eyes and be standing there at the counter by the table in the kitchen, trying to understand the newscast on the tiny television as my host mom cooked dinner and I talked with both parents and they bantered about their days. It's as simple as that - a tiny shred of something from my time can bring it all back in an instant. In some ways, I'm far removed from my two other lives in two other places. In other ways, I'll never be removed at all.
Monday, April 19, 2010
Monday, January 18, 2010
So, Whoops
Well, my lies about updating more regularly were absolutely false, as we can all see now. I just completely lacked motivation (and the requisite memory) to update while in Spain; I wasn't bitten by the Write-a-blog-entry bug in quite the same way as when I was in Brazil. Nevertheless, I feel it necessary to finish up my Spain adventures and cap-off that stage of my journeys.
While my memories of various events in Spain since October are quite muddled, I do however have a good recollection of my interesting journey home. What follows is basically a word-for-word copy from what I scribbled down during my hours spent waiting in Heathrow and on the flight, the night of December 22nd...:
"This whole travel debacle began back a week or so ago, was it? Everyone in API was abuzz with the news that British Airways unioners were planning a strike and had officially declared a date - December 22. This, of course, caused much talk as people with flights then or after ripped their hair out as they frantically rescheduled. The rest of us chuckled outwardly at our good fortune (like mine, of scheduling for the day before the strike), but on the inside we were nervous too that trickle-down effects would occur or that the strike could actually commence early. We debated back and forth about our level of immunity, finally coming to the conclusion/abdication that 1) we'd hopefully be okay and 2) there was nothing to be done anyway. BA was nearly shut down with rebooking requests so no change was possible, and capitalism showed its ugly side as other airlines raised ticket prices into the thousands. So my roommate, Chris, and I in particular (as we both had flights on Dec. 21) crossed our fingers and hoped. Fast-forward a few days, nearly our last in Sevilla, I believe, to our learning that the British courts had handed BA a temporary injunction on the strike on the basis that it would hurt consumers too greatly around the holiday travel season. We gave a huge sigh of relief. It seemed our problems had been resolved. Not so. I then learned that the Northeastern US was about to be decked by a semi record-setting storm, casting snow, ice, and winds about with reckless abandon. Lady Luck was conspiring with various sources against me, it seems. This storm system was due to occupy the essential airspace - Philadelphia - from sometime Friday through early Sunday. After hearing this and reassuring myself that we in PA, unlike Spain, know how to clear snow (snow in Spain had been the main news headline in the past week), I repeated the process of chuckling at all those silly people with Saturday and Sunday flights. I proceeded to give myself another pat on the back for picking the 21st - no strike, no snow. Yet inside I was slightly concerned that my white, fluffy friend would interfere.
Friday night at the Pablo de Olavide foreign students' dinner, stories were traded over tapas and drinks about the headaches. Flights were preparing for delays; family members stateside had called with horror stories of this winter weather. Saturday, as I did my packing, more students passed along word of problems. I held on to the hope that the storm would end when originally planned.
Train time, Saturday evening. After our host mother's teary-eyed goodbye and killing two hours in the station, I dragged my luggage onto Spain's one apparent tech advantage over the US - the high-speed Ave trains, which would carry me to Madrid in two and a half hours versus the eight on a bus. While economy class is no first, it certainly beats Amtrak, and that's before you factor in the coolness of traveling well over one hundred miles per hour. We arrived at the Madrid train station a little before Midnight. The three of us on the train looked for cabs, but were unsure how cab-sharing would go with three people. Some Madrid-based American students said it'd be far too pricey and we were better off catching the metro. One member of our group, being in a tag-a-long position and worried about not fitting in a cab (and declaring that she wasn't willing to pony up the dough) made the decision to take the other students' advice. So we dragged our bags back through and across to the other end of the station. A good 15 or so minutes were spent stressfully trying to figure out our subway route and how to get to the hotel after disembarking. Finally, I determined that we needed to ride the green line all the way to the end and then either luckily encounter a taxi or wander aimlessly in search of our lodging. The subway ride was a good 40 plus minutes. Thankfully, I guess it was after midnight and sitting room was obtained for the journey. This didn't do much to alleviate my extreme heat problem resulting from dragging about 100 pounds total of stuff up and down staircases during our subway line transfer. Unlike you might think in a very progressive country, elevators to aid the handicapped do not exist in many of the metro stations in Spain's capital.
When we finally arrived at the end of the line, a place I've never before had the privilege of reaching on a subway, we were fortunate to encounter a jolly metro help desk clerk who instructed us how to reach the hotel. This involved lugging that luggage around on a tiny sidewalk that zig-zagged to accommodate car parking. I was lucky it was only 30 or degrees outside. Upon arriving at our hotel, Tryp Diana, I had to wait about 45 minutes at the check-in desk. The place was flooded with travelers. Most, I'm guessing by the quantity and the fact that it was one in the morning, were stranded by various flights-canceled. After that process, we collapsed to sleep, but not before paying a brief visit to haggard friend Mark, who was stuck in Madrid since his flight from Sevilla was delayed and cost him his connection. He was now due to leave Monday, too.
The next, and not last, travel casualty we'd meet in Madrid called Mark from Barajas airport at 5am after his flight to Philadelphia on Sunday morning was canceled. Mark went to the airport to bring Matt in.
Sunday was spent visiting Madrid, particularly the Reina Sofia museum, but there is nothing too noteworthy. Post-lunch, we learned that a third API-er had been caught in Madrid and would be joining us for the night. John was on the same Philly flight as Matt, but unlike Matt he probably wouldn't be able to get back home until Christmas Eve. So Matt, Mark, and I traveled back to the hotel to find John. That night, we all shared our collective miseries over pizza and a movie and enjoyed our last moments of our abroad experience. The night wore on rather late, given that I had to rise at about 4am in order to catch the airport shuttle. I debated not sleeping, and the three of us staying in my room talked 'til nearly 3:30. I then fell asleep until my alarm rang, but I shut it off and failed to wake until Emily asked me what time I had to get my shuttle. It was 4:35, and the shuttle I needed departed at 4:45. I am lucky my bags were packed and I only needed to put on the same clothes I wore the day before. I gave hurried goodbyes to Chris and Emily and bolted downstairs. I was almost the last one on the shuttle. But there was no time to be embarrassed, as one of my fears was confirmed: the weather reports had been right, and it had snowed over two inches. Crap. I quickly learned both the depth of the snow and Spain's inability to handle it, as the roads had not seen any plowing nor salt. After being delayed from leaving because an old couple came out of the hotel at the last minute, we set about at a snail's pace to the terminals. I am thankful for the minibus shuttle, because in the airport I heard many complain that the taxis could barely handle the driving conditions.
Check-in was smooth enough in the airport, because no one is there at 5:30. My time was spent sitting around the gate watching as the snow fell and as the flight info screen refused to provide any information on the flight status even 25 minutes before our scheduled departure time of 7:10am. We finally did board, and were mostly ready by 7:10. But then the problems began. Our captain told us that there would be a delay because none of the runways was suitable enough for takeoff. Fair enough, if this had been a real snow. Three inches probably wouldn't cause too many headaches to a JFK or Philly or O'Hare. So we waited. And waited. And waited. Over an our ticked by as my fears increased that I would miss my connection. Still the runways were too bad. Still we sat. I was temporarily reassured by the remembrance that London is an hour behind Madrid, but those good endorphins stopped flowing while we remained docked. The captain allowed people to leave the aircraft to pursue other flights. After over two hours of waiting, we were cleared to reach the recently de-iced runway. But no takeoff could occur until we were de-iced ourselves, a ten to fifteen minute process that came after waiting about 45 minutes for three other planes to undergo it ahead of us. When we were done and as we prepared for liftoff, it was slightly past 10am, 9am in the UK, and the realization that this two-and-a-half hour flight would not get me to Heathrow in time for my 11:20 connection slowly sank in. Ironic that the snow and cold I had long dremt of since arriving in Sevilla would be the thing that does me in.
Part of me was OK, given the circumstances. After all, Heathrow is infinitely better to be stuck in than Barajas - more international flights, and they speak English. Yet I also had an acute fear that there would be no other flight for me, given the East Coast's recent storm backup, BA's halted strike, and the resulting re-booking backup those two caused. I landed in Heathrow at 11:30 - ten minutes after my Philly flight was supposed to have taken off (I later learned it was delayed for a little while). As soon as I was off the plane, I bolted for the BA desks in the connections terminal, knowing most other passengers would be there, too.
It was packed. Not just the Madrid flight had been delayed, but flights all over. I entered the huge customer service desk queue and waited for about 30 minutes before being approached by one of the roving BA help clerks brought in to aid re-booking. After he made some phone calls, he told me that the soonest I could leave would be the next day on the 7:45pm flight to JFK. But, he assured me, I'd get all my luggage tonight and an airport hotel stay courtesy of British Airways. So not all seemed lost. I felt alright - annoyed of Madrid's airport but somewhat comforted. I got directions from another attendant on where to head in the terminal to get things sorted out. I got to the luggage reclamation zone, but had to wait at another customer service desk to get them to call up my baggage to a certain belt. After waiting at the desk, I then waited half an hour by the belt and was nearly ready to give up and return to the desk when I saw my first suitcase coming around, soon after followed by my larger bag. Sometimes, small victories bring such relief.
The next task was to receive my complimentary hotel stay. For that I had to trudge from arrivals to departures and wait at the main BA ticketing/customer service desk. There, the wait was an hour or an hour and a half, as there were hundreds of people needing to re-book their delayed/missed/canceled flights. The man at the desk, like other BA staff I've dealt with, was kind and helpful. He set me up with the hotel and sent me on my merry way.
The hotel that BA used was the Marriott Renaissance Hall, a pretty nice joint. Rooms normally run about £210 a night, whatever that is in dollars. Around $350, I guess. The bed was a queen and had a super soft mattress and six down pillows. My anger/sadness was mitigated in part by that and the included breakfast/lunch/dinner buffet. Slightly annoying was paying £15 for a day's internet, but they had instant coffee and tea in the room (which I drank all of), so at least I "got" something in return.
Next day, I left the hotel around 3pm to catch a shuttle back to terminal five. I had some fears about my booking, because I had tried to use the BA online check-in that morning and my flight was listed as being on the 21st - apparently, a flight that shared the same number with my flight on the 22nd. When I got to terminal five, I tried the rapid check-in kiosk to print my boarding pass. It promptly denied me, saying my flight's check-in time had passed. Now I was really worried.
I thus returned to the same huge queue line, today composed of many canceled flights to other destinations in Europe rather than the eastern US. I am glad I arrived to the terminal four hours early, because the wait in line took nearly two hours. When I got to the desk attendant, she began to look up my details. Yeah, somehow I was put on an overflow flight the day before, which shared the same number and destination, rather than today's flight at 7:50pm as I was told. "What a nightmare," she said to me. Tell me about it... Apparently my situation was confusing, because she flip-flopped about me being on the flight I wanted until finally deciding that I was only put on it in some sort of "option/want" purgatory, whatever that was. No idea how I was to be on yesterday's flight, either. She proceeded to find me an American Airlines, with nearly the same departure time, at 8pm. I was super happy. A potential second night in Heathrow was averted. But, since the flight departed at 8:00 and it was already slightly past 6:00, I had to hurry. "Terminal four," she told me.
Now my concern partly returned. After all, airlines recommend being at check-in at least two hours early. Now, with slightly less that time, I'd have to get to the terminal in the first place. So I lugged my crap down, down, down to the Heathrow Express subway system. Time: probably about 6:10pm. After waiting and riding, I got out of the car at the central hub station to await a terminal four-specific train. Next train to terminal four? Nine minutes. After boarding and more riding, I took the elevator up to departures. I began walking around, looking desperately for the American Airlines desks. I checked each corner, and was becoming confused at the high percentage of Middle Eastern/Asian airlines. Finally, I spotted what looked like the AA desk in the back. Pulling my suitcases as fast as I could, I came closer to the desk. Then I reread the TV screen signs above. Singapore Airlines or something. Really? I was in a rush - it was nearly 6:30 and I needed to check in. I moved back to the center of the terminal and asked a help desk guy. "American Airlines? Yeah, you're in the wrong terminal." WHAT?! Apparently, terminal three was what I wanted. How had the lady told me wrong? I chuckled at the man's answer, and threw in a 'whoops' or two. This showed my exhaustion - I couldn't respond in a serious, distressed manner. I was in shock. It was 6:30, I had been granted an 8pm flight after all the previous mishaps, and here I was possibly about to miss it. Not on my watch. I yanked my bags and strained to move faster, heading back towards the trains to the terminals. The disbelief at the situation - being told the wrong terminal, having been at the correct connect station at Heathrow Central earlier, and the possibility of missing my flight and those implications combined in my head. Perfect storm, eh? I turned some heads running back to the metro. Next train back to the main station? 25 minutes. This is bad. 25 minutes would put me at 7pm before transportation even began.Who knows when I'd reached the terminal after then walking from Heathrow Central. I hemmed and hawed: to wait, take the London Underground and try and figure out that system, or take a cab? Cab it is. I grabbed everything and went to arrivals and got a cab. I'm sure British cabs are more enchanting when one isn't sweating like a waterfall and facing the prospect of another day in Heathrow and the headaches of a missed flight due to one's own fault. Every yield the cabbie did, every turn in the road, every time I saw a terminal three sign and it wasn't just right around the bend, I died a little. Finally, around 7:00 we pulled up to departures, I flew in the door and to the AA desks, which were line-free. Probably panting and looking like I'd run a marathon, the super unenthusiastic AA employee told me, "Sir, are you aware that the flight is delayed until 1:00am?" 'THAT'S GREAT!' I said, more or less. Life went from uncertainty to guaranteed in a matter of seconds. I was so happy. After the clerk asked some more questions and in general acted like he'd rather die than work at that time, I made my way up to security. The "highlight" was going through the x-ray machine and having to take off my coat, thus exposing my drenched shirt. Thank God I didn't set off the metal detector and require a pat-down.
From here, my travel story becomes markedly less interesting. Normal, in fact. Besides the nearly six hour wait 'til take off, nothing happened. I bought some magazines, sat alone in a pub, and missed a little of Spain already when the servers told me they were closing at 10:00! Way too early. At 10:00, you've just finished dinner a few minutes ago.
Now I sit, somewhere south of Iceland, heading for a 3:30am New York landing. My parents might grumble, but I couldn't care less. After everything, I'm finally coming home."
-Dan
While my memories of various events in Spain since October are quite muddled, I do however have a good recollection of my interesting journey home. What follows is basically a word-for-word copy from what I scribbled down during my hours spent waiting in Heathrow and on the flight, the night of December 22nd...:
"This whole travel debacle began back a week or so ago, was it? Everyone in API was abuzz with the news that British Airways unioners were planning a strike and had officially declared a date - December 22. This, of course, caused much talk as people with flights then or after ripped their hair out as they frantically rescheduled. The rest of us chuckled outwardly at our good fortune (like mine, of scheduling for the day before the strike), but on the inside we were nervous too that trickle-down effects would occur or that the strike could actually commence early. We debated back and forth about our level of immunity, finally coming to the conclusion/abdication that 1) we'd hopefully be okay and 2) there was nothing to be done anyway. BA was nearly shut down with rebooking requests so no change was possible, and capitalism showed its ugly side as other airlines raised ticket prices into the thousands. So my roommate, Chris, and I in particular (as we both had flights on Dec. 21) crossed our fingers and hoped. Fast-forward a few days, nearly our last in Sevilla, I believe, to our learning that the British courts had handed BA a temporary injunction on the strike on the basis that it would hurt consumers too greatly around the holiday travel season. We gave a huge sigh of relief. It seemed our problems had been resolved. Not so. I then learned that the Northeastern US was about to be decked by a semi record-setting storm, casting snow, ice, and winds about with reckless abandon. Lady Luck was conspiring with various sources against me, it seems. This storm system was due to occupy the essential airspace - Philadelphia - from sometime Friday through early Sunday. After hearing this and reassuring myself that we in PA, unlike Spain, know how to clear snow (snow in Spain had been the main news headline in the past week), I repeated the process of chuckling at all those silly people with Saturday and Sunday flights. I proceeded to give myself another pat on the back for picking the 21st - no strike, no snow. Yet inside I was slightly concerned that my white, fluffy friend would interfere.
Friday night at the Pablo de Olavide foreign students' dinner, stories were traded over tapas and drinks about the headaches. Flights were preparing for delays; family members stateside had called with horror stories of this winter weather. Saturday, as I did my packing, more students passed along word of problems. I held on to the hope that the storm would end when originally planned.
Train time, Saturday evening. After our host mother's teary-eyed goodbye and killing two hours in the station, I dragged my luggage onto Spain's one apparent tech advantage over the US - the high-speed Ave trains, which would carry me to Madrid in two and a half hours versus the eight on a bus. While economy class is no first, it certainly beats Amtrak, and that's before you factor in the coolness of traveling well over one hundred miles per hour. We arrived at the Madrid train station a little before Midnight. The three of us on the train looked for cabs, but were unsure how cab-sharing would go with three people. Some Madrid-based American students said it'd be far too pricey and we were better off catching the metro. One member of our group, being in a tag-a-long position and worried about not fitting in a cab (and declaring that she wasn't willing to pony up the dough) made the decision to take the other students' advice. So we dragged our bags back through and across to the other end of the station. A good 15 or so minutes were spent stressfully trying to figure out our subway route and how to get to the hotel after disembarking. Finally, I determined that we needed to ride the green line all the way to the end and then either luckily encounter a taxi or wander aimlessly in search of our lodging. The subway ride was a good 40 plus minutes. Thankfully, I guess it was after midnight and sitting room was obtained for the journey. This didn't do much to alleviate my extreme heat problem resulting from dragging about 100 pounds total of stuff up and down staircases during our subway line transfer. Unlike you might think in a very progressive country, elevators to aid the handicapped do not exist in many of the metro stations in Spain's capital.
When we finally arrived at the end of the line, a place I've never before had the privilege of reaching on a subway, we were fortunate to encounter a jolly metro help desk clerk who instructed us how to reach the hotel. This involved lugging that luggage around on a tiny sidewalk that zig-zagged to accommodate car parking. I was lucky it was only 30 or degrees outside. Upon arriving at our hotel, Tryp Diana, I had to wait about 45 minutes at the check-in desk. The place was flooded with travelers. Most, I'm guessing by the quantity and the fact that it was one in the morning, were stranded by various flights-canceled. After that process, we collapsed to sleep, but not before paying a brief visit to haggard friend Mark, who was stuck in Madrid since his flight from Sevilla was delayed and cost him his connection. He was now due to leave Monday, too.
The next, and not last, travel casualty we'd meet in Madrid called Mark from Barajas airport at 5am after his flight to Philadelphia on Sunday morning was canceled. Mark went to the airport to bring Matt in.
Sunday was spent visiting Madrid, particularly the Reina Sofia museum, but there is nothing too noteworthy. Post-lunch, we learned that a third API-er had been caught in Madrid and would be joining us for the night. John was on the same Philly flight as Matt, but unlike Matt he probably wouldn't be able to get back home until Christmas Eve. So Matt, Mark, and I traveled back to the hotel to find John. That night, we all shared our collective miseries over pizza and a movie and enjoyed our last moments of our abroad experience. The night wore on rather late, given that I had to rise at about 4am in order to catch the airport shuttle. I debated not sleeping, and the three of us staying in my room talked 'til nearly 3:30. I then fell asleep until my alarm rang, but I shut it off and failed to wake until Emily asked me what time I had to get my shuttle. It was 4:35, and the shuttle I needed departed at 4:45. I am lucky my bags were packed and I only needed to put on the same clothes I wore the day before. I gave hurried goodbyes to Chris and Emily and bolted downstairs. I was almost the last one on the shuttle. But there was no time to be embarrassed, as one of my fears was confirmed: the weather reports had been right, and it had snowed over two inches. Crap. I quickly learned both the depth of the snow and Spain's inability to handle it, as the roads had not seen any plowing nor salt. After being delayed from leaving because an old couple came out of the hotel at the last minute, we set about at a snail's pace to the terminals. I am thankful for the minibus shuttle, because in the airport I heard many complain that the taxis could barely handle the driving conditions.
Check-in was smooth enough in the airport, because no one is there at 5:30. My time was spent sitting around the gate watching as the snow fell and as the flight info screen refused to provide any information on the flight status even 25 minutes before our scheduled departure time of 7:10am. We finally did board, and were mostly ready by 7:10. But then the problems began. Our captain told us that there would be a delay because none of the runways was suitable enough for takeoff. Fair enough, if this had been a real snow. Three inches probably wouldn't cause too many headaches to a JFK or Philly or O'Hare. So we waited. And waited. And waited. Over an our ticked by as my fears increased that I would miss my connection. Still the runways were too bad. Still we sat. I was temporarily reassured by the remembrance that London is an hour behind Madrid, but those good endorphins stopped flowing while we remained docked. The captain allowed people to leave the aircraft to pursue other flights. After over two hours of waiting, we were cleared to reach the recently de-iced runway. But no takeoff could occur until we were de-iced ourselves, a ten to fifteen minute process that came after waiting about 45 minutes for three other planes to undergo it ahead of us. When we were done and as we prepared for liftoff, it was slightly past 10am, 9am in the UK, and the realization that this two-and-a-half hour flight would not get me to Heathrow in time for my 11:20 connection slowly sank in. Ironic that the snow and cold I had long dremt of since arriving in Sevilla would be the thing that does me in.
Part of me was OK, given the circumstances. After all, Heathrow is infinitely better to be stuck in than Barajas - more international flights, and they speak English. Yet I also had an acute fear that there would be no other flight for me, given the East Coast's recent storm backup, BA's halted strike, and the resulting re-booking backup those two caused. I landed in Heathrow at 11:30 - ten minutes after my Philly flight was supposed to have taken off (I later learned it was delayed for a little while). As soon as I was off the plane, I bolted for the BA desks in the connections terminal, knowing most other passengers would be there, too.
It was packed. Not just the Madrid flight had been delayed, but flights all over. I entered the huge customer service desk queue and waited for about 30 minutes before being approached by one of the roving BA help clerks brought in to aid re-booking. After he made some phone calls, he told me that the soonest I could leave would be the next day on the 7:45pm flight to JFK. But, he assured me, I'd get all my luggage tonight and an airport hotel stay courtesy of British Airways. So not all seemed lost. I felt alright - annoyed of Madrid's airport but somewhat comforted. I got directions from another attendant on where to head in the terminal to get things sorted out. I got to the luggage reclamation zone, but had to wait at another customer service desk to get them to call up my baggage to a certain belt. After waiting at the desk, I then waited half an hour by the belt and was nearly ready to give up and return to the desk when I saw my first suitcase coming around, soon after followed by my larger bag. Sometimes, small victories bring such relief.
The next task was to receive my complimentary hotel stay. For that I had to trudge from arrivals to departures and wait at the main BA ticketing/customer service desk. There, the wait was an hour or an hour and a half, as there were hundreds of people needing to re-book their delayed/missed/canceled flights. The man at the desk, like other BA staff I've dealt with, was kind and helpful. He set me up with the hotel and sent me on my merry way.
The hotel that BA used was the Marriott Renaissance Hall, a pretty nice joint. Rooms normally run about £210 a night, whatever that is in dollars. Around $350, I guess. The bed was a queen and had a super soft mattress and six down pillows. My anger/sadness was mitigated in part by that and the included breakfast/lunch/dinner buffet. Slightly annoying was paying £15 for a day's internet, but they had instant coffee and tea in the room (which I drank all of), so at least I "got" something in return.
Next day, I left the hotel around 3pm to catch a shuttle back to terminal five. I had some fears about my booking, because I had tried to use the BA online check-in that morning and my flight was listed as being on the 21st - apparently, a flight that shared the same number with my flight on the 22nd. When I got to terminal five, I tried the rapid check-in kiosk to print my boarding pass. It promptly denied me, saying my flight's check-in time had passed. Now I was really worried.
I thus returned to the same huge queue line, today composed of many canceled flights to other destinations in Europe rather than the eastern US. I am glad I arrived to the terminal four hours early, because the wait in line took nearly two hours. When I got to the desk attendant, she began to look up my details. Yeah, somehow I was put on an overflow flight the day before, which shared the same number and destination, rather than today's flight at 7:50pm as I was told. "What a nightmare," she said to me. Tell me about it... Apparently my situation was confusing, because she flip-flopped about me being on the flight I wanted until finally deciding that I was only put on it in some sort of "option/want" purgatory, whatever that was. No idea how I was to be on yesterday's flight, either. She proceeded to find me an American Airlines, with nearly the same departure time, at 8pm. I was super happy. A potential second night in Heathrow was averted. But, since the flight departed at 8:00 and it was already slightly past 6:00, I had to hurry. "Terminal four," she told me.
Now my concern partly returned. After all, airlines recommend being at check-in at least two hours early. Now, with slightly less that time, I'd have to get to the terminal in the first place. So I lugged my crap down, down, down to the Heathrow Express subway system. Time: probably about 6:10pm. After waiting and riding, I got out of the car at the central hub station to await a terminal four-specific train. Next train to terminal four? Nine minutes. After boarding and more riding, I took the elevator up to departures. I began walking around, looking desperately for the American Airlines desks. I checked each corner, and was becoming confused at the high percentage of Middle Eastern/Asian airlines. Finally, I spotted what looked like the AA desk in the back. Pulling my suitcases as fast as I could, I came closer to the desk. Then I reread the TV screen signs above. Singapore Airlines or something. Really? I was in a rush - it was nearly 6:30 and I needed to check in. I moved back to the center of the terminal and asked a help desk guy. "American Airlines? Yeah, you're in the wrong terminal." WHAT?! Apparently, terminal three was what I wanted. How had the lady told me wrong? I chuckled at the man's answer, and threw in a 'whoops' or two. This showed my exhaustion - I couldn't respond in a serious, distressed manner. I was in shock. It was 6:30, I had been granted an 8pm flight after all the previous mishaps, and here I was possibly about to miss it. Not on my watch. I yanked my bags and strained to move faster, heading back towards the trains to the terminals. The disbelief at the situation - being told the wrong terminal, having been at the correct connect station at Heathrow Central earlier, and the possibility of missing my flight and those implications combined in my head. Perfect storm, eh? I turned some heads running back to the metro. Next train back to the main station? 25 minutes. This is bad. 25 minutes would put me at 7pm before transportation even began.Who knows when I'd reached the terminal after then walking from Heathrow Central. I hemmed and hawed: to wait, take the London Underground and try and figure out that system, or take a cab? Cab it is. I grabbed everything and went to arrivals and got a cab. I'm sure British cabs are more enchanting when one isn't sweating like a waterfall and facing the prospect of another day in Heathrow and the headaches of a missed flight due to one's own fault. Every yield the cabbie did, every turn in the road, every time I saw a terminal three sign and it wasn't just right around the bend, I died a little. Finally, around 7:00 we pulled up to departures, I flew in the door and to the AA desks, which were line-free. Probably panting and looking like I'd run a marathon, the super unenthusiastic AA employee told me, "Sir, are you aware that the flight is delayed until 1:00am?" 'THAT'S GREAT!' I said, more or less. Life went from uncertainty to guaranteed in a matter of seconds. I was so happy. After the clerk asked some more questions and in general acted like he'd rather die than work at that time, I made my way up to security. The "highlight" was going through the x-ray machine and having to take off my coat, thus exposing my drenched shirt. Thank God I didn't set off the metal detector and require a pat-down.
From here, my travel story becomes markedly less interesting. Normal, in fact. Besides the nearly six hour wait 'til take off, nothing happened. I bought some magazines, sat alone in a pub, and missed a little of Spain already when the servers told me they were closing at 10:00! Way too early. At 10:00, you've just finished dinner a few minutes ago.
Now I sit, somewhere south of Iceland, heading for a 3:30am New York landing. My parents might grumble, but I couldn't care less. After everything, I'm finally coming home."
-Dan
Sunday, October 11, 2009
Mudejar Mixin'
So, in order to find out who all my true friends are I secretly put a hit counter here to count the number of times each of you revisited waiting for me to finally stinking update. Those of you who did not check the minimum number of times will never be talked to again.
Just kidding.
But finally I have found somewhere deep within me the motivation to write in here again. Somehow I just haven't been inspired to jot down my thoughts as I was inspired in Brazil. Maybe it's because this feels more like a normal life back in the states, with school and all. Who knows.
A lot has transpired since last time (well, obviously, it's been over a month), so buckle up, grab some trail mix, and say goodbye to family and friends, 'cause this could be a long one.
I last left off right before school started, no? Classes aren't too bad. I wanted four originally but got five. We study at Universidad Pablo de Olavide (UPO), which is a really hideous looking thing. For you Pitt people, let's just say that Posvar or Hillman might win beauty queen contests for their architecture. I might cry for joy when I see the Cathedral of Learning again. The place is set up in what could be a good format, perhaps. A central, two story, covered pathway leads down the middle with buildings hanging off the sides like ugly pastel ribs. The downstairs is open to the air and is obviously used for walking to classes, whereas the upper floor features many tables and air conditioning, for studying and eating purposes (although the WiFi up there gets pretty dodgy).
Anyway, my classes aren't too bad. They should be pretty easy, all things considered. Mondays/Wednesdays are the long ones, with four classes.
Things get started with international marketing. This class is taught by a Spaniard who prefers to be called Nano, and a lot of the class involves him rambling off on strange tangents tinged by his slightly off-kilter views of the world we live in. Women, you won't have babies until you're older than forty. People my age now will live to 130. Milk kills you (but his diet of beer doesn't). Soon, 80% of the US population will fall into the dependent category (as in non income earners), saving money and planning for the future is dumb. So is being in a relationship. Basically, I think that he is secretly a bit disappointed with how his life has turned out and sneaks those bizarre "recommendations" into his rants. This makes it hard to take anything he says seriously, and I've gone through many grains of salt listening to him talk.
Next up is Español de Negocios. This class isn't too bad and seems like it may be somewhat useful. Besides learning the common business lingo in Spanish, we also talk about other subjects such as CVs, the structure of Spanish companies, etc. The professor, Jaime, is a nice guy, too, without Nano's chip off his shoulder.
Then comes the European Union with Jonathan Pass, my first British prof. I find it quite enjoyable hearing the different idioms, sayings and whatnot that he uses, along with hearing tiny bits of their humor and opinions on the world thrown in. It's kind of surprising how many students in the class secretly complain and snicker about his accent, as well as display an inability to understand the random British English word or two thrown in his sentences. I mean, you need to be pretty sheltered from life if you don't know what a "john" or a "bloke" are. Geez. Sadly, this class is the fifth class, the one tacked on, and it won't eliminate a requirement back at Pitt, just give me credits. Although Español de Negocios is the same situation.
Next in my schedule comes lunch, at three in the afternoon. I head to the aforementioned upstairs hallway to meet some friends and partake of my bocadillo (basically, sandwich). Some people get these nice little sandwiches with lettuce, cheese, meat, and perhaps even a little bit of sauce of some sort. I get a loaf as long as my elbow to fingertips, with some olive oil and one of either meat or cheese. A good day includes both. Along with that I also get an apple and orange, typically. But it is what it is.
Then comes my final class of the day, the Global Economy, again with Jonathan. The class itself isn't bad, but coming at 4pm right after I ingest an alligator-size sandwich means it can be hard to focus.
Tuesdays/Thursdays see only one class grace my schedule, La Historia del Arte de España, with Rafa, the grad-student aged prof who likes throat beards. And statues/paintings about sexo and rape (Ganymede and Zeus, anyone?). Despite his strange choices for favorite works of art, the architecture parts of the class have been interesting so far, and I have learned a few things about the design or reason behind certain styles of painting or construction. We'll see how the whole project thing goes though. And his Spanish is much tougher to follow than Jaime; Rafa's a mutterer.
So that's about all my involvement with UPO.
Lemme also try to summarize up the various trips I've done, if I can remember them all.
There have been various little excursions around the south of Spain, mainly to see a lot of the Muslim/Mudejar (Christian built, borrowing Muslim elements) architecture around here. The cathedral in Sevilla and the mosque in Córdoba are two good examples (especially the mosque) of the mixing and reuse of architecture and purpose. In both cases, the building was a mosque before its conversion into a cathedral. In Córdoba's case, the mosque was built on a Visigoth church. In turn, when Córdoba was conquered, a cathedral was built smack dab in the middle. The mosque is filled with hundreds of arches and columns, all recycled from older buildings that were in the city prior to construction. So you're walking along with these relatively low ceilings, and then BOOM! You're suddenly in a cathedral. In Sevilla, the cathedral gives you a taste of architecture changes over time, varying from Gothic to Baroque, depending when parts were constructed. We also went to Granada to see La Alhambra, typically considered the must-see architectural piece in Spain, as well as the best example of Islamic and later mudejar construction. It is quite a stunning place, with very detailed interior work and exterior features (ceilings, walls, lettering, patterns, gardens, and much more).
We also went to Lagos for a weekend, to see the nice grottos and cliff beaches. Other than that it's really a tourist town. Plus the Portuguese there sounds awful compared to what I learned in São Paulo, although Old Worlders will say otherwise...
I'm sure there are things I've forgotten, and it's only my fault since I neglected to update for so long. I'll try a little better in the future. And perhaps someday I'll get pictures up to Picassa or Flickr, so non Facebookers and everyone can see them in their full glory. Who knows.
Until next time, and sooner than last........
Just kidding.
But finally I have found somewhere deep within me the motivation to write in here again. Somehow I just haven't been inspired to jot down my thoughts as I was inspired in Brazil. Maybe it's because this feels more like a normal life back in the states, with school and all. Who knows.
A lot has transpired since last time (well, obviously, it's been over a month), so buckle up, grab some trail mix, and say goodbye to family and friends, 'cause this could be a long one.
I last left off right before school started, no? Classes aren't too bad. I wanted four originally but got five. We study at Universidad Pablo de Olavide (UPO), which is a really hideous looking thing. For you Pitt people, let's just say that Posvar or Hillman might win beauty queen contests for their architecture. I might cry for joy when I see the Cathedral of Learning again. The place is set up in what could be a good format, perhaps. A central, two story, covered pathway leads down the middle with buildings hanging off the sides like ugly pastel ribs. The downstairs is open to the air and is obviously used for walking to classes, whereas the upper floor features many tables and air conditioning, for studying and eating purposes (although the WiFi up there gets pretty dodgy).
Anyway, my classes aren't too bad. They should be pretty easy, all things considered. Mondays/Wednesdays are the long ones, with four classes.
Things get started with international marketing. This class is taught by a Spaniard who prefers to be called Nano, and a lot of the class involves him rambling off on strange tangents tinged by his slightly off-kilter views of the world we live in. Women, you won't have babies until you're older than forty. People my age now will live to 130. Milk kills you (but his diet of beer doesn't). Soon, 80% of the US population will fall into the dependent category (as in non income earners), saving money and planning for the future is dumb. So is being in a relationship. Basically, I think that he is secretly a bit disappointed with how his life has turned out and sneaks those bizarre "recommendations" into his rants. This makes it hard to take anything he says seriously, and I've gone through many grains of salt listening to him talk.
Next up is Español de Negocios. This class isn't too bad and seems like it may be somewhat useful. Besides learning the common business lingo in Spanish, we also talk about other subjects such as CVs, the structure of Spanish companies, etc. The professor, Jaime, is a nice guy, too, without Nano's chip off his shoulder.
Then comes the European Union with Jonathan Pass, my first British prof. I find it quite enjoyable hearing the different idioms, sayings and whatnot that he uses, along with hearing tiny bits of their humor and opinions on the world thrown in. It's kind of surprising how many students in the class secretly complain and snicker about his accent, as well as display an inability to understand the random British English word or two thrown in his sentences. I mean, you need to be pretty sheltered from life if you don't know what a "john" or a "bloke" are. Geez. Sadly, this class is the fifth class, the one tacked on, and it won't eliminate a requirement back at Pitt, just give me credits. Although Español de Negocios is the same situation.
Next in my schedule comes lunch, at three in the afternoon. I head to the aforementioned upstairs hallway to meet some friends and partake of my bocadillo (basically, sandwich). Some people get these nice little sandwiches with lettuce, cheese, meat, and perhaps even a little bit of sauce of some sort. I get a loaf as long as my elbow to fingertips, with some olive oil and one of either meat or cheese. A good day includes both. Along with that I also get an apple and orange, typically. But it is what it is.
Then comes my final class of the day, the Global Economy, again with Jonathan. The class itself isn't bad, but coming at 4pm right after I ingest an alligator-size sandwich means it can be hard to focus.
Tuesdays/Thursdays see only one class grace my schedule, La Historia del Arte de España, with Rafa, the grad-student aged prof who likes throat beards. And statues/paintings about sexo and rape (Ganymede and Zeus, anyone?). Despite his strange choices for favorite works of art, the architecture parts of the class have been interesting so far, and I have learned a few things about the design or reason behind certain styles of painting or construction. We'll see how the whole project thing goes though. And his Spanish is much tougher to follow than Jaime; Rafa's a mutterer.
So that's about all my involvement with UPO.
Lemme also try to summarize up the various trips I've done, if I can remember them all.
There have been various little excursions around the south of Spain, mainly to see a lot of the Muslim/Mudejar (Christian built, borrowing Muslim elements) architecture around here. The cathedral in Sevilla and the mosque in Córdoba are two good examples (especially the mosque) of the mixing and reuse of architecture and purpose. In both cases, the building was a mosque before its conversion into a cathedral. In Córdoba's case, the mosque was built on a Visigoth church. In turn, when Córdoba was conquered, a cathedral was built smack dab in the middle. The mosque is filled with hundreds of arches and columns, all recycled from older buildings that were in the city prior to construction. So you're walking along with these relatively low ceilings, and then BOOM! You're suddenly in a cathedral. In Sevilla, the cathedral gives you a taste of architecture changes over time, varying from Gothic to Baroque, depending when parts were constructed. We also went to Granada to see La Alhambra, typically considered the must-see architectural piece in Spain, as well as the best example of Islamic and later mudejar construction. It is quite a stunning place, with very detailed interior work and exterior features (ceilings, walls, lettering, patterns, gardens, and much more).
We also went to Lagos for a weekend, to see the nice grottos and cliff beaches. Other than that it's really a tourist town. Plus the Portuguese there sounds awful compared to what I learned in São Paulo, although Old Worlders will say otherwise...
I'm sure there are things I've forgotten, and it's only my fault since I neglected to update for so long. I'll try a little better in the future. And perhaps someday I'll get pictures up to Picassa or Flickr, so non Facebookers and everyone can see them in their full glory. Who knows.
Until next time, and sooner than last........
Sunday, September 6, 2009
Three Continents, Two Weeks
Okay, so it's time to get back in the swing of this blogging thing. Like the internal rhyme? My two weeks in the USA were a bit hectic and weird. And happy and sad. And sunny and hot. I think I mentioned in the previous post, albeit briefly, how strange it felt to be back in my house of 20 years after spending the two and a half months in Brazil. The feeling that a part of me was missing and that my sojourn in Brazil almost didn't occur. Although I am kept busy by the hustle and bustle of orientation, tours, and learning a new everything here in Spain, at times I still have that feeling. Brazil certainly has not left me, even though I left it.
But enough of that. I don't want people to get teary eyed unless it results in them sending me money. So if you are predisposed to writing random checks, email me and I'll give you a super emotional entry that will make you want to clear out your bank account for me.
So, what has transpired here in Spain so far? Let's begin, shall we?
Everything commenced with my flight out of Philly. The flight departed on time, and I was treated to seeing a 777. I don't know if it was more comfy than the Delta 767 I took to Brazil (and somehow I had to go to the bathroom like twice on a six hour flight, but never on the 10 hour flight to Brazil), but British Airways does have a nice little touch to the headrests - tiny protrusions on the sides of your head so that when you doze off you're not flopping around like a flounder on shore. And it was pretty cool hearing all the flight attendants and captain speak in their nice British accents. The two hour layover at Heathrow was mostly spent getting to the other terminal, and the flight from London to Madrid was uneventful. I was in the window seat though, so I got a decent view of the ground. It's interesting to see the stark contrast between American and Spanish development of the land. In America, things go up pretty much wherever, taking on amoeba-like forms when viewed from above. Here, clumps of buildings in squares or rectangles are surrounded by a sea of dry, Mediterranean climate earth.
Barajas airport wasn't too hard to get around, although to get to your bags one must go up and down about ten billion escalators. I'm pretty sure that some famed architect designed the place; all of the ceilings are in this wavy pattern of wood and yellow-painted steel - visually entertaining, but it makes you feel like you are inside a mega log cabin erector set type thing...I dunno. While waiting at the designated API meeting point, I met some other students from the program who would then go on to be my travel companions and tolerators of my lame jokes.
We had three nights in Madrid, and those days were filled with a lot of stuff. Taking walking tours of the city, traveling to El Escorial, wandering around at night soaking up all the tapas bars, clubs, and the feel of a city and country that operate differently than our own. Let me say that tapas bars are probably the best invention since the other invention I claimed was the best invention since sliced bread. Cheap food in small portions that allows you to try many different local flavors. All good, as well.
Being surrounded by old buildings and tiny streets and everything made of stone is quite nice, and obviously a bit different than other cities I've visited, with perhaps the exception of Quebec (not to say that Madrid and Quebec have a ton of similarities). Of course, all this rock means that when the inevitable construction is underway, jackhammers and tons of noise are mandatory. And there is work going on everywhere, goodness.
Thursday morning we visited Toledo and walked around the city. It's also very old, with many many winding little streets where cars and people try to coexist in places where two people side by side with arms extended would just fit, maybe. Toledo is home to many cathedrals, some quite fascinating to look at.
Next up was the quite long and boring 6.5 hour bus ride to Sevilla. Upon arrival, my roommate Chris and I met our host mother, a nice but soft spoken woman of about sixty. She talks enough and tells stories, but much of the time it is ridiculously hard to hear her over random ambient noises (said construction, cars, loud voices in the street, etc) or the television, which plays pretty loudly during dinner and in general when here and her daughter are in the living/dining room. We are living in Triana, one of the older neighborhoods in the city and host to many hopping spots, including various flamenco clubs. We're also a block from the river, which is kind of nice. The apartment is older and, I suppose, somewhat traditional. One AC unit in the living room, small beds with not so soft mattresses and pillows. A small washing machine on the porch off the kitchen, which sits outside in the central courtyard where all the laundry lines of the various tenants hang, waiting for clothes. Tile floors in our bedroom. Windows with no screens, but large wooden slats that are pulled down or up to help regulate heat and light. There is a Chinese restaurant below us, two floors down, on the ground level, and a flamenco joint across the street. Two other students, from William and Mary, are also staying in the house. The daughter apparently works online (although I've only witnessed her on MSN messenger and Facebook).
Yesterday we went to a beach near Cádiz. It wasn't too different from a beach somewhere in the USA, really. The water was a nicer hue than the North Atlantic, though. And I managed to avoid melting my face off, though my back did get a little burnt.
Classes begin Wednesday, after a placement exam on Monday and orientation Tuesday. I'm sure I'll have much more to comment on once a more routine schedule picks up.
But enough of that. I don't want people to get teary eyed unless it results in them sending me money. So if you are predisposed to writing random checks, email me and I'll give you a super emotional entry that will make you want to clear out your bank account for me.
So, what has transpired here in Spain so far? Let's begin, shall we?
Everything commenced with my flight out of Philly. The flight departed on time, and I was treated to seeing a 777. I don't know if it was more comfy than the Delta 767 I took to Brazil (and somehow I had to go to the bathroom like twice on a six hour flight, but never on the 10 hour flight to Brazil), but British Airways does have a nice little touch to the headrests - tiny protrusions on the sides of your head so that when you doze off you're not flopping around like a flounder on shore. And it was pretty cool hearing all the flight attendants and captain speak in their nice British accents. The two hour layover at Heathrow was mostly spent getting to the other terminal, and the flight from London to Madrid was uneventful. I was in the window seat though, so I got a decent view of the ground. It's interesting to see the stark contrast between American and Spanish development of the land. In America, things go up pretty much wherever, taking on amoeba-like forms when viewed from above. Here, clumps of buildings in squares or rectangles are surrounded by a sea of dry, Mediterranean climate earth.
Barajas airport wasn't too hard to get around, although to get to your bags one must go up and down about ten billion escalators. I'm pretty sure that some famed architect designed the place; all of the ceilings are in this wavy pattern of wood and yellow-painted steel - visually entertaining, but it makes you feel like you are inside a mega log cabin erector set type thing...I dunno. While waiting at the designated API meeting point, I met some other students from the program who would then go on to be my travel companions and tolerators of my lame jokes.
We had three nights in Madrid, and those days were filled with a lot of stuff. Taking walking tours of the city, traveling to El Escorial, wandering around at night soaking up all the tapas bars, clubs, and the feel of a city and country that operate differently than our own. Let me say that tapas bars are probably the best invention since the other invention I claimed was the best invention since sliced bread. Cheap food in small portions that allows you to try many different local flavors. All good, as well.
Being surrounded by old buildings and tiny streets and everything made of stone is quite nice, and obviously a bit different than other cities I've visited, with perhaps the exception of Quebec (not to say that Madrid and Quebec have a ton of similarities). Of course, all this rock means that when the inevitable construction is underway, jackhammers and tons of noise are mandatory. And there is work going on everywhere, goodness.
Thursday morning we visited Toledo and walked around the city. It's also very old, with many many winding little streets where cars and people try to coexist in places where two people side by side with arms extended would just fit, maybe. Toledo is home to many cathedrals, some quite fascinating to look at.
Next up was the quite long and boring 6.5 hour bus ride to Sevilla. Upon arrival, my roommate Chris and I met our host mother, a nice but soft spoken woman of about sixty. She talks enough and tells stories, but much of the time it is ridiculously hard to hear her over random ambient noises (said construction, cars, loud voices in the street, etc) or the television, which plays pretty loudly during dinner and in general when here and her daughter are in the living/dining room. We are living in Triana, one of the older neighborhoods in the city and host to many hopping spots, including various flamenco clubs. We're also a block from the river, which is kind of nice. The apartment is older and, I suppose, somewhat traditional. One AC unit in the living room, small beds with not so soft mattresses and pillows. A small washing machine on the porch off the kitchen, which sits outside in the central courtyard where all the laundry lines of the various tenants hang, waiting for clothes. Tile floors in our bedroom. Windows with no screens, but large wooden slats that are pulled down or up to help regulate heat and light. There is a Chinese restaurant below us, two floors down, on the ground level, and a flamenco joint across the street. Two other students, from William and Mary, are also staying in the house. The daughter apparently works online (although I've only witnessed her on MSN messenger and Facebook).
Yesterday we went to a beach near Cádiz. It wasn't too different from a beach somewhere in the USA, really. The water was a nicer hue than the North Atlantic, though. And I managed to avoid melting my face off, though my back did get a little burnt.
Classes begin Wednesday, after a placement exam on Monday and orientation Tuesday. I'm sure I'll have much more to comment on once a more routine schedule picks up.
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
Intervalo
So, if you haven't guessed, I'm back here stateside. Hence the lack of new entries, and hence the brevity of this one.
Let me just say that returning from Brazil and being back in my family's house is the weirdest feeling. It's like Brazil was some extremely vivid dream, and it seems almost impossible to believe that mere days ago I had a completely different life, of sorts, thousands of miles away.
I am eager to see everyone and catch up on the summer I didn't have here in the US, and soon the realization that I'll be in Spain in under two weeks will also hit. Yet I would return to Brazil in a heartbeat, were it possible.
Ah, well, I'll stop this sentimental stuff. I bet it through all you sarcasm-watchers off a bit, right?
This next week and a half before I fly to Spain will be busy with a trip to secure my visa and the hassles and joys of moving things into the house in Pittsburgh, all laced with packing galore.
Until the next journey...
Let me just say that returning from Brazil and being back in my family's house is the weirdest feeling. It's like Brazil was some extremely vivid dream, and it seems almost impossible to believe that mere days ago I had a completely different life, of sorts, thousands of miles away.
I am eager to see everyone and catch up on the summer I didn't have here in the US, and soon the realization that I'll be in Spain in under two weeks will also hit. Yet I would return to Brazil in a heartbeat, were it possible.
Ah, well, I'll stop this sentimental stuff. I bet it through all you sarcasm-watchers off a bit, right?
This next week and a half before I fly to Spain will be busy with a trip to secure my visa and the hassles and joys of moving things into the house in Pittsburgh, all laced with packing galore.
Until the next journey...
Saturday, August 1, 2009
Twee Twee Hee Hee Hee
Rats...Since it's been two weeks since I last thought about thinking about what you're all probably thinking should go in my blog, I'm going to have to think. Two weeks is a lot to remember. I mean, normally right after a class I purge all the content from my mind, so to recall two weeks of life is like some sort of final exam. Speaking of one final exam, recall is harder than recognition, said my cognitive psych professor. I got that question right, if I recall correctly.
Okay, enough - I'm boring even my stoic old self.
After all the events of the last entry, I resumed work at AMCHAM. Similar stuff...although it's interesting to note that my boss there was probably at some times about two hundred feet away from you Pittsburgh subscribers near campus, while I remained here. It was tempting to ask her to carry a cardboard cut-out of my head around for the paparazzi, but I resisted the urge.
One of the days that week, I visited Wittel, a telecom company with headquarters in Rio and the office I saw in São Paulo. During that day, besides meeting various departments and aurally ingesting a million facts in Portuguese, I got to sit in on two meetings. Meetings are probably the best way to illustrate differences in business practices between cultures. The first was to renegotiate a deal for the price of something-or-another when someone-or-something orders whatchamacallit. And the next was to determine terms of a five million dollar deal. They asked my opinion once, about my perception of the difference between "upgrade" and "update" (Portuguese conveniently borrows these words from English). So that's how I left my mark on a Brazilian company! Ha. Obviously, it's very hard for a foreigner to pick out a lot of details from a fast-paced conversation. It's like playing that arcade game - you know, where the light spins around and you have to hit the button at the right time. Except these little lights represent all sorts of words and slang, and in this case, when I time it just right, instead of getting a mountain of tickets to buy some sticky ball prize, I merely gain a few words with which I have to infer what the heck the other 200 meant. But all in all it's still very enlightening.
[Quick note on those sticky flame balls: according to the website, they cannot be shipped or resold to NJ or IL due to state regulations. Now that's a government protecting its citizens!] Everyone at Wittel was very nice and open, and I enjoyed the fresh experience of a different business environment.
Another day that week I bought a newspaper, in Portuguese of course, to read while I lunched alone (don't worry, I was only alone for one lunch. In fact, normally I am too busy signing autographs to eat). Of course, I suppose it might be a tad ironic that all I read was the global business section, and even then just the articles about US business. But whatever, I felt more like a proper businessman, and it probably significantly reduced the large contingent of xenophobic birds that follow me chirping "extrangeiro! extrangeiro! twee twee hee hee hee!".
That weekend, I didn't do anything. People were still away with families or whatnot because of winter break, and pigs with bursting thermometers ran all around the south of Brazil as swine flu continued to take the news.
The next week, as in, the one ending now, I spent with Tallard. How is it that all the companies I'm visiting have such un-Brazilian names? Next week: Dixie Toga. Anyway, Tallard is a vendor of technology...the middleman in the food chain. They sell various hardwares and softwares, but no silverware. Okay, bad joke.
So, on the menu for this week was visiting the various departments to get a general sense of how things work. So I saw areas like marketing, IBM sales, support, supplier research, finance, etc. The structure is very similar to the equivalent type company in the USA (here's a fact to nibble: Tallard is actually headquartered in Miami, where the office apparently speaks Spanish nearly exclusively). But, to use yet another food analogy, the meat of the company isn't the setup; it's the people. Not to imply cannibalism. This week further demonstrated the differences in business conduct. I mean, sure, the bottom line is still money, but the way there takes a different road. I attended more meetings, including Tallard's annual business review with IBM, at IBM's Brazilian headquarters. The meeting was set for 10am, and due to end at noon. So, we arrived to the room around 10:10. Again, I could understand very little, most of the time, so I'm assuming that what I type was what was said. The meetings always start with small talk - about other matters, how business is going in general, non business stuff, all that jazz. The actual topic of the meeting, in this case the Power Point presentations of current affairs, are always eased into. I wanted to use the example of easing into a chair when you have a sunburn on your back, but it's not that slow, red, or painful. And no one else on Earth is cursed with my ability to incur the wrath of the sun. Contrast this to how a review Stateside would go, where not only would a 10:10 arrive receive icy eyes of death from the host, but business would commence almost before you know the names of people in the room.
Things aren't rigidly set, either. Instead of a point by point agenda to be followed, the various topics are discussed as they flow by. Oooh - another analogy. It's that magnet-in-the-fishes'-mouths-game, like at state fairs. You've got the fishing pole with the magnet at the end - the conversation, see? And the little fishes, the topics, bobbing around in the circular flow occasionally open their mouths and you pluck them out of the water. Sometimes they fall back in and you recover them later. And at the end, hopefully everyone wins that one goldfish out of the hundred that doesn't die before you get to your car.
Another difference is that everyone can be talking at the same time, to the same person or to different people, and details aren't missed and people aren't angry. Sometimes there were three conversations going on around me, all about different things and with different people, all at full volume. Speaking of full volume, the conversations might sound heated and somewhat angry, at times, to the uninformed, but instead it's because there is much more emotion throw into the way people talk. A "no" isn't the simple monotone answer like we give in English. Instead it could be a drawn out naaaaãaaaoooo with some changing pitch thrown in. I like it - it's much more entertaining. And I needed entertainment, since at the most passionate parts of the meeting, I could only make sense of some words. "Nós concordamos asddofjdflfdpo sdkjf sdfosdf que adsfoi fvldldo sdo quanto asdf yuyu sid odl maisqu discos lodfi csasixi somate ouid dnos que ele sdfser iosduf come loçoi sdoi awoiu quanto djosdiu mais dsf ois choverá." ...So, you are in agreement...that the more disks...that he eats....the more....it will rain? What?
Other times though, it wasn't so bad. Really, I could probably write an equation to calculate my level of understanding. Something like: my knowledge of the conversation is inversely proportional to the quantity of people involved in the convo multiplied by some factorial based on their current level of interest in the subject area, taken to the power of the number of cubic centimeters of cafezinho they just drank...and so on and so on. Red, if you're reading this, I need you to work out the math bits for me.
Another great thing about this company I visited was that all the people knew each other pretty well, even if they were in different departments. This added to the overall light and fluffy atmosphere around the office. Again this all adds support to my idea that the best part about Brazil is the people.
What else to say? I mean, I could talk in more detail about my week at Tallard, but at the moment I'm not feeling any connection to my inner sarcasm, so I don't want to keep beating a dead horse unless that horse will make people laugh in its postmortem state.
Oh, Pittsburgh visited me this week. It rained for five days straight, basically. Thanks, Pittsburgh. It's not like I missed your sunny side more.
Okay, enough - I'm boring even my stoic old self.
After all the events of the last entry, I resumed work at AMCHAM. Similar stuff...although it's interesting to note that my boss there was probably at some times about two hundred feet away from you Pittsburgh subscribers near campus, while I remained here. It was tempting to ask her to carry a cardboard cut-out of my head around for the paparazzi, but I resisted the urge.
One of the days that week, I visited Wittel, a telecom company with headquarters in Rio and the office I saw in São Paulo. During that day, besides meeting various departments and aurally ingesting a million facts in Portuguese, I got to sit in on two meetings. Meetings are probably the best way to illustrate differences in business practices between cultures. The first was to renegotiate a deal for the price of something-or-another when someone-or-something orders whatchamacallit. And the next was to determine terms of a five million dollar deal. They asked my opinion once, about my perception of the difference between "upgrade" and "update" (Portuguese conveniently borrows these words from English). So that's how I left my mark on a Brazilian company! Ha. Obviously, it's very hard for a foreigner to pick out a lot of details from a fast-paced conversation. It's like playing that arcade game - you know, where the light spins around and you have to hit the button at the right time. Except these little lights represent all sorts of words and slang, and in this case, when I time it just right, instead of getting a mountain of tickets to buy some sticky ball prize, I merely gain a few words with which I have to infer what the heck the other 200 meant. But all in all it's still very enlightening.
[Quick note on those sticky flame balls: according to the website, they cannot be shipped or resold to NJ or IL due to state regulations. Now that's a government protecting its citizens!] Everyone at Wittel was very nice and open, and I enjoyed the fresh experience of a different business environment.
Another day that week I bought a newspaper, in Portuguese of course, to read while I lunched alone (don't worry, I was only alone for one lunch. In fact, normally I am too busy signing autographs to eat). Of course, I suppose it might be a tad ironic that all I read was the global business section, and even then just the articles about US business. But whatever, I felt more like a proper businessman, and it probably significantly reduced the large contingent of xenophobic birds that follow me chirping "extrangeiro! extrangeiro! twee twee hee hee hee!".
That weekend, I didn't do anything. People were still away with families or whatnot because of winter break, and pigs with bursting thermometers ran all around the south of Brazil as swine flu continued to take the news.
The next week, as in, the one ending now, I spent with Tallard. How is it that all the companies I'm visiting have such un-Brazilian names? Next week: Dixie Toga. Anyway, Tallard is a vendor of technology...the middleman in the food chain. They sell various hardwares and softwares, but no silverware. Okay, bad joke.
So, on the menu for this week was visiting the various departments to get a general sense of how things work. So I saw areas like marketing, IBM sales, support, supplier research, finance, etc. The structure is very similar to the equivalent type company in the USA (here's a fact to nibble: Tallard is actually headquartered in Miami, where the office apparently speaks Spanish nearly exclusively). But, to use yet another food analogy, the meat of the company isn't the setup; it's the people. Not to imply cannibalism. This week further demonstrated the differences in business conduct. I mean, sure, the bottom line is still money, but the way there takes a different road. I attended more meetings, including Tallard's annual business review with IBM, at IBM's Brazilian headquarters. The meeting was set for 10am, and due to end at noon. So, we arrived to the room around 10:10. Again, I could understand very little, most of the time, so I'm assuming that what I type was what was said. The meetings always start with small talk - about other matters, how business is going in general, non business stuff, all that jazz. The actual topic of the meeting, in this case the Power Point presentations of current affairs, are always eased into. I wanted to use the example of easing into a chair when you have a sunburn on your back, but it's not that slow, red, or painful. And no one else on Earth is cursed with my ability to incur the wrath of the sun. Contrast this to how a review Stateside would go, where not only would a 10:10 arrive receive icy eyes of death from the host, but business would commence almost before you know the names of people in the room.
Things aren't rigidly set, either. Instead of a point by point agenda to be followed, the various topics are discussed as they flow by. Oooh - another analogy. It's that magnet-in-the-fishes'-mouths-game, like at state fairs. You've got the fishing pole with the magnet at the end - the conversation, see? And the little fishes, the topics, bobbing around in the circular flow occasionally open their mouths and you pluck them out of the water. Sometimes they fall back in and you recover them later. And at the end, hopefully everyone wins that one goldfish out of the hundred that doesn't die before you get to your car.
Another difference is that everyone can be talking at the same time, to the same person or to different people, and details aren't missed and people aren't angry. Sometimes there were three conversations going on around me, all about different things and with different people, all at full volume. Speaking of full volume, the conversations might sound heated and somewhat angry, at times, to the uninformed, but instead it's because there is much more emotion throw into the way people talk. A "no" isn't the simple monotone answer like we give in English. Instead it could be a drawn out naaaaãaaaoooo with some changing pitch thrown in. I like it - it's much more entertaining. And I needed entertainment, since at the most passionate parts of the meeting, I could only make sense of some words. "Nós concordamos asddofjdflfdpo sdkjf sdfosdf que adsfoi fvldldo sdo quanto asdf yuyu sid odl maisqu discos lodfi csasixi somate ouid dnos que ele sdfser iosduf come loçoi sdoi awoiu quanto djosdiu mais dsf ois choverá." ...So, you are in agreement...that the more disks...that he eats....the more....it will rain? What?
Other times though, it wasn't so bad. Really, I could probably write an equation to calculate my level of understanding. Something like: my knowledge of the conversation is inversely proportional to the quantity of people involved in the convo multiplied by some factorial based on their current level of interest in the subject area, taken to the power of the number of cubic centimeters of cafezinho they just drank...and so on and so on. Red, if you're reading this, I need you to work out the math bits for me.
Another great thing about this company I visited was that all the people knew each other pretty well, even if they were in different departments. This added to the overall light and fluffy atmosphere around the office. Again this all adds support to my idea that the best part about Brazil is the people.
What else to say? I mean, I could talk in more detail about my week at Tallard, but at the moment I'm not feeling any connection to my inner sarcasm, so I don't want to keep beating a dead horse unless that horse will make people laugh in its postmortem state.
Oh, Pittsburgh visited me this week. It rained for five days straight, basically. Thanks, Pittsburgh. It's not like I missed your sunny side more.
Monday, July 20, 2009
Happy News Nonsense
Hello world. Hello sunshine. Hello happiness.
I received minute criticism, of sorts, for my apparently negative previous post. Contrary to what it might appear, everything is peachy. But let me introduce you all to something called the News Media Effect (my name): no one wants to read happy, positive news. I mean, think about it, the news networks discuss what will draw viewers, so why shouldn't I? Here, let's test out my theory with some happy stuff:
Today, I woke up after hitting snooze only three times! A record. There was sunshine on Friday. Yesterday's dinner of small, lightly-fried beef steaks was delish.
Look! You're falling asleep already! I bet my readership was just cut in half, to one. You see, I could ramble on and on about how two of the pillows on my bed are nice and soft, or how I saw a yellow, plump little woodpecker-like bird outside my window on Saturday, or how the bus driver this morning looked kind-of like Barack Obama...but no one cares. Instead, people want to read that now, instead of Michael Jackson's doctor poisoning him, aliens actually stole his soul so they could replicate the Eighties, or that I have swine flu (which I don't). Just by typing those words, those billions of little Google spiders are going to discover that content and pretty soon I'll have millions of hits to this site.
But don't worry. Things are good. Work's not bad (although I could still use a window...I mean, I've only got one month left to look out of an office window and see palm trees). But let's try a tiny bit of this happy news nonsense.
It's been cool to see my improvement over the last month and a half in speaking and understanding the language. Recall back to one of my first posts, when I mentioned that first lunch I had with the Portuguese professor and how I was as talkative as a wall. Compare that to the last day of the class before winter break, where I could talk with him and classmates rather freely. Picking out words in rapid conversations between native speakers is slowly becoming easier, too, and it's a good feeling when one has an "a-ha!"moment upon finally realizing what a certain sentence or phrase means. This, of course, does not mean I'm fluent; there are still moments when I am as effective in understanding or communicating as a five year old, but all in all I'm pleased with the progress I'm making. Of course, the real challenge will be to avoid losing the language skills once I cease using it every day. That, and my Spanish for the first week or so in Spain will be a horrendous mash-up of the two languages. I can't even think or read in Spanish without pronouncing or using a Portuguese word every other sentence. But I guess that's a good sign, because when I arrived my problem was the opposite.
Hmm. Ooh. So one night I was watching that X-Files: I Want to Believe nonsense (actually, it's not nearly as far-fetched as the TV show) at about 11 o'clock. The house is quiet, I'm slumped peacefully on the couch, with the cat Manuel laying there on the cushion. Everything is nice, peaceful, etc, save for a little wind and rain outside. Suddenly, little Manuel jolts out of his sleep and sits straight up, ears perked and eyes looking out of the TV room. Not one second later, the power goes out. He stays alert, peering out into the rest of the house, as though something is there. After about thirty seconds or so, the power comes back, but he's still looking around. About 10 minutes later, Carol, the professor's oldest daughter, comes down to ask me if my window is locked, because open windows are an invitation for burglary (which is uncommon in the housing complex, but not unheard of). Of course my window was locked, and there was no incident of any sort, but it was all a very bizarre and coincidental set of events. That, or the cable packages down here include interactive TV to enhance the movies.
Another positive - I haven't run into any more talkative janitors in the bathroom, but last week there were two guys speaking English. Ah, such foreigners...
This past weekend, I went out with some friends. Being that Morumbi is so far removed from a lot of things in the city (although, São Paulo is so big that technically every part is so far from a lot of things), I had to take a bus at 10 at night and another, to return home, at 5:30. In Pittsburgh, yeah, whatever. Easy. But here in SP everyone hypes up nighttime buses to be hotbeds of crime and death. Alright, not quite that, but I had enough people warn me to be careful in the streets and bus stops. But actually, it was quite simple and trouble free. I had nary an evil eye nor a mugging for all my cash and gold tooth fillings (of which I fortunately have none. Do people even steal those?). I place my success and safety solely on my beard, which makes me look rugged and dangerous. Kind-of like the Brawny guy if he had a beard, except instead of selling the competitor to the Quilted-Quicker-Picker-Upper, I sell iron punches and lightning-fast drop kicks. So back off. The biggest risk on the ride home was me falling asleep in the very rear middle seat, open to the aisle, and flying out of it when the bus stopped. Although walking to the bus stop the night before, I was honked at and screamed at by a little car full of guys. I'm not sure what that was about. Maybe they thought I'd give out free paper towels.
For breakfast that morning, we ate at this chain called Black Dog, which sells hot dogs (say it like hotchi doggis). Except these aren't the lame, American dogs, oh no. These dogs are manly. Or, at least my Original dog was. They take a hot dog bun bread, except larger, and wrap it around two hot dogs, mashed potatoes, cheese, corn, and onion, then put it in a press just like everyone's favorite health food, the Grilled Stuft Burrito. It was an incredible, and edible, hot dog experience.
It's nuts how many bars, cafés, and lanches (basically somewhere between a café and restaurant) are packed full of people at five in the morning.
Besides my language skills improving, so have my bus riding skills. Americans don't really have to learn this ability; maybe that's why so many of our children are out of shape and wearing über-strong eyeglasses. You see, to effectively survive a bus, one needs a combination of strength, endurance, and lightning fast eagle eyes.
My ride home starts on a relatively unfilled bus, meaning that just about every seat is taken. But okay, no worries, the aisle is open, one can still breath, etc, etc. 20 minutes later, whoah, it's another story. There are these capacity limits posted at the front of the bus, but I seriously doubt the drivers know those limits exist. By the time my bus passes Shopping Morumbi, every last inch of space is filled. It's ridiculous. So, about 10-15 minutes before my stop (the first of two stops - I catch two buses home) I have to force my way up and out of my seat, and then begin the process of moving toward the door. Obviously the strength is needed to wedge your way through the bodies, and I recommend taking calcium supplements so the ribcage can withstand extreme pressures. The eyesight comes into play as people slowly shift: you've got to be vigilant and ready to make a move at any second. When a gap opens, I quickly turn sideways and throw myself between people and then squirm out the other side. Repeat, repeat, repeat. All this while the manual bus rockets around curves and slams on the brakes before each stop. Port Authority of Allegheny County? Child's play.
That's all for now; go eat a cow (unless you're vegetarian - then you must eat whatever plant rhymes with now).
I received minute criticism, of sorts, for my apparently negative previous post. Contrary to what it might appear, everything is peachy. But let me introduce you all to something called the News Media Effect (my name): no one wants to read happy, positive news. I mean, think about it, the news networks discuss what will draw viewers, so why shouldn't I? Here, let's test out my theory with some happy stuff:
Today, I woke up after hitting snooze only three times! A record. There was sunshine on Friday. Yesterday's dinner of small, lightly-fried beef steaks was delish.
Look! You're falling asleep already! I bet my readership was just cut in half, to one. You see, I could ramble on and on about how two of the pillows on my bed are nice and soft, or how I saw a yellow, plump little woodpecker-like bird outside my window on Saturday, or how the bus driver this morning looked kind-of like Barack Obama...but no one cares. Instead, people want to read that now, instead of Michael Jackson's doctor poisoning him, aliens actually stole his soul so they could replicate the Eighties, or that I have swine flu (which I don't). Just by typing those words, those billions of little Google spiders are going to discover that content and pretty soon I'll have millions of hits to this site.
But don't worry. Things are good. Work's not bad (although I could still use a window...I mean, I've only got one month left to look out of an office window and see palm trees). But let's try a tiny bit of this happy news nonsense.
It's been cool to see my improvement over the last month and a half in speaking and understanding the language. Recall back to one of my first posts, when I mentioned that first lunch I had with the Portuguese professor and how I was as talkative as a wall. Compare that to the last day of the class before winter break, where I could talk with him and classmates rather freely. Picking out words in rapid conversations between native speakers is slowly becoming easier, too, and it's a good feeling when one has an "a-ha!"moment upon finally realizing what a certain sentence or phrase means. This, of course, does not mean I'm fluent; there are still moments when I am as effective in understanding or communicating as a five year old, but all in all I'm pleased with the progress I'm making. Of course, the real challenge will be to avoid losing the language skills once I cease using it every day. That, and my Spanish for the first week or so in Spain will be a horrendous mash-up of the two languages. I can't even think or read in Spanish without pronouncing or using a Portuguese word every other sentence. But I guess that's a good sign, because when I arrived my problem was the opposite.
Hmm. Ooh. So one night I was watching that X-Files: I Want to Believe nonsense (actually, it's not nearly as far-fetched as the TV show) at about 11 o'clock. The house is quiet, I'm slumped peacefully on the couch, with the cat Manuel laying there on the cushion. Everything is nice, peaceful, etc, save for a little wind and rain outside. Suddenly, little Manuel jolts out of his sleep and sits straight up, ears perked and eyes looking out of the TV room. Not one second later, the power goes out. He stays alert, peering out into the rest of the house, as though something is there. After about thirty seconds or so, the power comes back, but he's still looking around. About 10 minutes later, Carol, the professor's oldest daughter, comes down to ask me if my window is locked, because open windows are an invitation for burglary (which is uncommon in the housing complex, but not unheard of). Of course my window was locked, and there was no incident of any sort, but it was all a very bizarre and coincidental set of events. That, or the cable packages down here include interactive TV to enhance the movies.
Another positive - I haven't run into any more talkative janitors in the bathroom, but last week there were two guys speaking English. Ah, such foreigners...
This past weekend, I went out with some friends. Being that Morumbi is so far removed from a lot of things in the city (although, São Paulo is so big that technically every part is so far from a lot of things), I had to take a bus at 10 at night and another, to return home, at 5:30. In Pittsburgh, yeah, whatever. Easy. But here in SP everyone hypes up nighttime buses to be hotbeds of crime and death. Alright, not quite that, but I had enough people warn me to be careful in the streets and bus stops. But actually, it was quite simple and trouble free. I had nary an evil eye nor a mugging for all my cash and gold tooth fillings (of which I fortunately have none. Do people even steal those?). I place my success and safety solely on my beard, which makes me look rugged and dangerous. Kind-of like the Brawny guy if he had a beard, except instead of selling the competitor to the Quilted-Quicker-Picker-Upper, I sell iron punches and lightning-fast drop kicks. So back off. The biggest risk on the ride home was me falling asleep in the very rear middle seat, open to the aisle, and flying out of it when the bus stopped. Although walking to the bus stop the night before, I was honked at and screamed at by a little car full of guys. I'm not sure what that was about. Maybe they thought I'd give out free paper towels.
For breakfast that morning, we ate at this chain called Black Dog, which sells hot dogs (say it like hotchi doggis). Except these aren't the lame, American dogs, oh no. These dogs are manly. Or, at least my Original dog was. They take a hot dog bun bread, except larger, and wrap it around two hot dogs, mashed potatoes, cheese, corn, and onion, then put it in a press just like everyone's favorite health food, the Grilled Stuft Burrito. It was an incredible, and edible, hot dog experience.
It's nuts how many bars, cafés, and lanches (basically somewhere between a café and restaurant) are packed full of people at five in the morning.
Besides my language skills improving, so have my bus riding skills. Americans don't really have to learn this ability; maybe that's why so many of our children are out of shape and wearing über-strong eyeglasses. You see, to effectively survive a bus, one needs a combination of strength, endurance, and lightning fast eagle eyes.
My ride home starts on a relatively unfilled bus, meaning that just about every seat is taken. But okay, no worries, the aisle is open, one can still breath, etc, etc. 20 minutes later, whoah, it's another story. There are these capacity limits posted at the front of the bus, but I seriously doubt the drivers know those limits exist. By the time my bus passes Shopping Morumbi, every last inch of space is filled. It's ridiculous. So, about 10-15 minutes before my stop (the first of two stops - I catch two buses home) I have to force my way up and out of my seat, and then begin the process of moving toward the door. Obviously the strength is needed to wedge your way through the bodies, and I recommend taking calcium supplements so the ribcage can withstand extreme pressures. The eyesight comes into play as people slowly shift: you've got to be vigilant and ready to make a move at any second. When a gap opens, I quickly turn sideways and throw myself between people and then squirm out the other side. Repeat, repeat, repeat. All this while the manual bus rockets around curves and slams on the brakes before each stop. Port Authority of Allegheny County? Child's play.
That's all for now; go eat a cow (unless you're vegetarian - then you must eat whatever plant rhymes with now).
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)