Florida 2009: Some Notes

Photos

One thing that doesn't go wrong in Tampa this time of the year is the weather. It rained twice during our six weeks there. Otherwise, it was sunny and 27-29 degrees everyday.

Over the years, I've come to the conclusion that, for a city to have decent Chinese food, there must exist a significant Cantonese population. The Tampa area has lots of Asian people, but only a small percentage of them are Cantonese. Consequently, the Chinese food there is lousy. Almost every Chinese restaurant does buffet, and the one across the street from us even sells dishes by weight. Not a good sign.

We bought the whole package of Blue Jays Spring Training games this year, and ended up attending most of them. Unlike regular season games at the Sky Dome, Spring Training games in Dunedin are very loosey-goosey. It was fun watching the players warm up before the games. Some of the friendlier ones would come over to sign autographs for fans. Having no use for an autograph, Jeff usually shook their hands and wished them "good luck" instead. One day, he decided to ask Aaron Hill, the second baseman, for a photo together. The affable Mr Hill gladly agreed. So I quickly whipped out my iPhone. The result was a nice picture of the two of them.

The World Baseball Classic was taking place while we were in Florida. The games were very exciting, but judging by the empty stadiums, not too many Americans thought so. It seems that the concept of countries going head to head for national glory is not an attractive one to Americans. I felt badly for the Cuban team. The draw was obviously rigged so that they were grouped with the Japanese and the Koreans, fighting for one of only two spots in the final round. Those three teams were in fact the three best teams in the tourney. The double-elimination format is also unfair when the pool is small because the team that gets to play a weak team first has a big advantage over the rest of the field. Evidently, nobody cares about fairness in this whole business.

We also watched many hours of March Madness. One thing I love about the college game is that the college kids make mistakes that NBA players never make. The other day, one player stepped on the line while trying to inbound the ball when there were only a few seconds left in the game. Oh, the look on the coach's face! You just don't see that in the NBA.

Aside from playing lots of tennis as we always do in Florida, I played what is for me a great deal of golf. This is a game that has tormented me for years. I first started swinging a club in my early twenties, and over the years, I've said many times that I give up --- the game is too tough, and I'm not having any fun. Jeff kept on telling me that I only needed to play more regularly to get better, but I was convinced that I'd never get anywhere. This time, we managed to play twice a week. Amazingly, I got noticeably better. As a result, the game became much more enjoyable. The courses in Florida are very flat, so they may well be fell-good courses. Let's see what happens when I go back to play in Toronto.

The Tampa area at the time bore many visible scars of the recession. Everywhere one sees for-sale signs on front lawns and for-lease signs on shop windows. Restaurants which required reservations last year were half empty. In the bright sunshine, everything still looks cheery and carefree. Surrounded by the blue ocean and tall palms, one would be hard-pressed to have gloomy thoughts.

The condo we rented is inside a gated complex. There is a lovely big swimming pool which we never used, but we did take advantage of the indoor basket court. I'd never played basketball, so Jeff had to teach me the basic rules and techniques. Shooting a hoop is quite addictive, and I longed to hear the nice swish sound. I have no gift though. When we played one-on-one, I couldn't even get a shot off.

Portnoy's Complaint by Philip Roth

This book, even now, forty years after it was first published, is still hilarious. I thought Mordecai Richler was funny; Philip Roth is funnier. There is no story in this novel, only a ceaseless stream of complaints by the protagonist. Hence the title. So the book reads like a one-man stand-up comedy routine. Mr Roth is merciless. Ouch. No wonder Jeff says some people were quite offended by the book.

A Year in the Life of William Shakespeare: 1599 by James Shapiro

This is an interesting concept: focusing on one year of Shakespeare's life. After all, books written on Shakespeare can fill up several rooms, so one has to find a new angle. 1599 isn't just any year. It was during this time Shakespeare supposedly wrote Henry the Fifth, Julius Caesar, As You Like It, and Hamlet.

I say "supposedly" because the fact is, we don't know exactly when Shakespeare wrote his plays. Mr Shapiro needs to write with confidence that Hamlet was written in 1599, otherwise his book would appear to have been built on sand. In reality, it's a whole lot of guesswork when it comes to dating Shakespeare's plays.

If that's all there is in terms of shaky facts, I would have loved the book still. It is full of rich historical details, and scholarly insights. I've read Julius Caesar, and studied As You Like It, and Hamlet in high school (in Toronto), so it's quite interesting to learn what was behind their creation. Unfortunately, there are a few other problems which prevented me from fully enjoying the book.

One is that, reading the analysis on Shakespeare's text, I was reminded of all that I hated about literature classes in school. While reading is a pure pleasure, the exercise of finding double, triple meanings in a particular choice of words, meanings that the author himself mostly likely never dreamt of, is ridiculous. In the case of Shakespeare, it is even more absurd to dwell and dig since his plays were published years later by people who worked with him; who knows how accurate the final result was.

Another problem is I came upon a small mistake made by Mr Shapiro regarding English history. On page 90 (Harper Perennial Edition 2006), second paragraph, the part about Cambridge being unfairly passed over is all wrong. Now, one can argue that Mr Shapiro specializes in literature, not history. Fine. I'm not saying that the whole book is worthless because of one mistake. It's just that if I noticed this mistake because I happen to have an interest in English history, how many other inaccuracies are there in areas that I'm ignorant of?

Ah well. I know it's foolish of me to use maths standards on an arts book. I'm not, actually. The fact is, the arts world has no standards at all, which brings me back to John Carey's book What Good Are the Arts?...

The Elementary Particles by Michel Houellebecq

I believe I came across the name Michel Houellebecq in a book review somewhere, but it wasn't even M. Houellebecq's book the reviewer was talking about, so it's somewhat of a mystery how I ended up with this novel.

The book was apparently highly popular in France. I read the English translation, of course. Unless a great deal was lost in the translation process, which I don't think is the case, I yet again find the French incomprehensible. Put it simply, this is the most unpleasant book I've ever read in my life. Repetitive pornographic descriptions of sex and violence take up most of the book. Three female characters in the story end up committing suicide and we are supposed to think this is what happens to all women: loss of youth and beauty leads to disease and death by one's own hand. What is the point of the Bruno character? Or Michel? Or the whole book? I see printed on the jacket glowing praises, and I say to myself, It's the Emperor's New Clothes again. There are no ideas here, only total nonsense.

Well, I felt somewhat vindicated when I read later that M. Houellebecq had spent time in a mental institution. Hey, the dude is crazy! I knew it! There were also two negative reviews of the book in the New York Times. Now, it is not impossible that someone boring like me can never understand how twisted or messed up some people are, especially if they are a product of the '60s. But this book, far from providing analysis, is a piece of junk.

Atonement by Ian McEwan

I didn't see the movie so I thought I'd read the book. As always, Mr McEwan writes with a gorgeous style that seems to come entirely effortlessly to him. He also manages to rattle me like no other writer. This time, perhaps in his attempt to write from a female --- and a novelist's --- perspective, he spends much of the book on minute detail descriptions instead of discussions on ideas. The book is beautifully crafted, yet it's also a suffocating read. I wonder what the movie is like...

Cary Grant: A Class Apart, by Graham McCann

Biographies are not usually my thing. While history is always a fun topic, I find personal details surrounding a famous figure uninteresting and unreliable. Basically, I'm far more interested in what someone did with respect to history than that person's background, temperament, marriages, children, etc. This book on Cary Grant came highly recommended, and Mr Grant was in several of my favourite movies (The Philadelphia Story, North by Northwest, and Charade), so I thought I'd give the biography a try.

I'm afraid I don't change enough: I still don't really like biographies for the same old reasons. A book on the film industry from the 30's to the 60's would have been far more interesting to me. Instead, I got too much about Mr Grant outside of his film career. Worse yet, this not very thick book is one third filmography, notes and index. Oh, it's an enjoyable book. I had no difficulty finishing it. It's just that now I know --- biographies are still not for me.

Riviera Maya, Mexico

January, 2009

We had a perfect holiday (photos).

It was two weeks of heaven at a resort on Riviera Maya in the Yucatan in Mexico. The resort was laid out on a property the size of a small town, amidst dense jungles and the ocean. The food was terrific and the service, first-rate. Beautifully landscaped gardens surrounded winding corridors and footpaths. Low-rise guest rooms scattered inconspicuously apart. Our suite had a "swim-up" pool in front of it. Jeff wet his feet in there once or twice. He preferred the giant main pool and the beach.

Each morning we woke up to the sound of birds chirping. After showering and dressing at a leisurely pace, we walked to one of the main dining rooms for a drawn out breakfast. Sauntering back to the room to put on bathing suits, and it was time for the beach. Everyday at 11, I joined other players in a game of beach volleyball, hoping that an hour of running in the sand would make it easier to justify my eating so much good food.

Now that I was dead tired, I ran over to join Jeff for a little quiet reading on the beach. From time to time, a waiter came over to take orders for drinks. They made a wonderful fruit punch, my favourite. As I read my book, I kept an eye on the Hobies sailing from the beach out into the ocean. I thought I'd be able to sail the catamaran, but was a little nervous about taking Jeff with me. Maybe next year.

At some point, we rose from our beach chairs and walked over to the restaurant off the beach for a slow lunch. The turquoise water sparkled in the bright hot sun. Iguanas crawled out of their caves to soak in the heat, their little heads turning this way and that. Sometimes we would decide to move to the side of the main pool. More reading. More fruit punch. A swim. Maybe a little nap.

When the air cooled off somewhat in the late afternoon, we changed into our tennis clothes and played tennis. After the game and a quick shower, it was time to put on something respectable and go to dinner. There were seven excellent restaurants severing different styles of cuisine, each one decorated in the most tasteful way. At night, different shows were staged, but too often by then, I was too exhausted to stay up, and only wanted to read and fall asleep.

The next morning, we would do it all over again.

The only disruptions to our routine were the days when we went outside of the resort. Once, we spent half a day in Playa del Carmen. Another time, we hired a driver to take us to Tulum and Coba, two Mayan ruins in the area. Tulum was beautiful but completely swamped with tourists. Coba, being mostly unrestored and physically much larger, was blissfully deserted. We rented two bikes and went from pyramid to ball court to ceremonial hall. I climbed the tallest pyramid, feeling my legs shaking from exhaustion and fear, but the view from the top, of jungles stretching as far as the eye could see, made it all worthwhile. On the way back, we stopped at a "cenote" where I snorkeled in the fresh water running through the caves. Yet another time, I went on a snorkeling trip to Isla Maujeres. While the fish and the reef were wonderful, it was slightly annoying that most of the day was wasted getting to the spot.

So it was with much regret that we left our tropical paradise. I hope it won't be long before we return.

Skellig, by David Almond

This is a kids' book. It's about kids and for kids. The little story contained in the slim volume of under 200 pages (counting the large font and the generous spacing) could have been summed up in one page. However, it is really a poem. A moving poem full of imagination and tenderness. So even though I haven't been a kid for a very long time, I was mesmerized by the story, and will recommend it to anyone of any age.

The Reader, by Bernhard Schlink

I picked up this book because the movie based on it has garnered several film award nominations. But I did it in the wrong order, of course; I should have gone to see the movie first. Once I've read the book, the film adaptation is bound to disappoint.

Since Bernhard Schlink's novel was written in German, I was faced with yet another translated book. The prose was rather dreamy. Was it the author's intention, or was it because the translator was a woman? What else is missing in the translated version? I couldn't get these nagging thoughts out of my mind.

[Spoiler warning!]

In the meantime, the story conjures up a sense of surreality. In fact, which part of the story is even remotely realistic? A deeply felt relationship between a 15-year-old boy and a 36-year-old woman? Someone who would rather be exposed as a heartless murderer of defenceless women than an illiterate? I suppose I am to take things as metaphors and allegories, not as absurdity and contrivance. When I did manage to do that, the novel became absolutely beautiful.

Snowboarding at Blue Mountain

Once a year, I go snowboarding for a week in the mountains somewhere in western US. This winter, with us spending less than a month at home, and many social engagements during that month, my usual week of snowboarding got squeezed out. Seeing that I only had a couple of days to spare, I decided to just go to Blue Mountain up in Collingwood.

Blue Mountain is not what they would call a mountain in Colorado. It is the largest ski resort in Ontario, which only emphasizes the utter state of flatness in Ontario. However, since Intrawest took over a few years ago, Blue Mountain has undergone a transformation which made the hills ski a lot "bigger." A pretty "village", modelled after Swiss and Austrian ski towns, like all those others that Intrawest had built at Whistler and Mt Tremblant, was added at the foot of the main chair lift. The village has three main lodges and many shops and restaurants. It was in one of the lodges that I spent the night.

The two days of riding was actually surprisingly good. It was a treat to stay only steps away from the chair lift. The snow was very good this season because of the many major snow storms. The first day was particularly fine: clear blue skies, brilliant sunshine, and Georgian Bay sparkling down below. Every year, I harbour this fear that I'd forgotten all about how to snowboard. And when I first go down a trail, even a gentle green one, my body needs a few minutes before it remembers how to move. After that, it was relief followed by the sheer joy of coming down the hills.

One annoying thing about Blue Mountain is that, being the biggest fish in a tiny pond, it attracts skiers from all over Ontario and parts of the US. Consequently, one never gets the kind of deserted slopes one enjoys in the Rockies. My second day there was overcast with a few flurries. The crowd thinned noticeably, which made everything much better. I went down just about every trail, even going into the glades a few times. At one point, as I sat in the lift chair alone, my face mask pulled up to keep out the cold wind, I suddenly became aware of the blanket of silence all around me. Three snowboarders were sitting in the chair just ahead of me, their snowboards dangling on an angle, their bodies crouched low. Everything was truly frozen in space. For that brief moment, I felt a surge of that wonderful feeling of solitude. That is the state I crave, and what I love most about snowboarding.

The Ancient Ship, by Zhang Wei

I saw this book at our local Costco. Someone had placed it on top of laundry detergents. The description on the back cover intrigued me. Although I'm fluent in Chinese, over the years, having read no Chinese books, I have left myself at a point where I can no longer absorb literary Chinese writing. My eyes would glaze over "fancy" words and expressions, while my brain registered no meaning. Perhaps, I thought, I could give an English translation a try.

So far, the experiment has been a failure. The main reason is actually an old problem of mine. Due to my lack of imagination, I tend to have a difficult time relating to people with whom I have nothing in common. When I was young, I loved novels about high school students or university life, that was the environment familiar to me. As for stories about the countryside, they might as well have taken place on Jupiter. I thought I had grown out of this limitation, now that I was older and more worldly. Unfortunately, no, I'm as uninterested in peasant life as ever. And The Ancient Ship is all about the countryside.

The second problem is to be expected: too much is lost in the translation. The names, when not in their native Chinese form, are awkward and impossible to remember. The sentences are stiff. The story line seems to jump around in a semi-random fashion. I soldiered on for about a hundred pages, but found myself exhausted. Maybe I'll go back to it later when I'm desperate for reading material...

Persepolis: The Story Of A Childhood, by Marjane Strapi

I brought this book with me to Mexico along with the other three, but when I was stretched out on a white sandy beach, I asked myself, Do I want to open a book about life in Iran during the Islamic Revolution? Why did I even bring such a book to this paradise? So Marjane Strapi's memoir in the form of a graphics novel flew from Toronto to Cancun and back untouched.

Once I was home and thrown back into snow storms and temperatures at below -15 degrees Celsius, I had no problems finishing the book. It's very funny, very sad, and very interesting. Iran is not a country that I know much about, so I'm happy to learn new things. Their Islamic Revolution reminds me of China's Cultural Revolution, yet they are also quite different. Such a strange and fascinating land.

Shakespeare: The World as Stage, by Bill Bryson

This is yet another book I brought with me to Mexico. As it stands, I'll read anything written by Bill Bryson; and if he happens to write about something of interest to me, all the better. Such is the case with this slim book.

Really, what's there left to say about William Shakespeare that hasn't been said already? Nevertheless, it's still fun to have everything put together by Mr Bryson who can breathe humour into a restaurant menu. The book is slim because we know scarcely anything about the greatest writer in English literature. The verifiable facts on Shakespeare will probably amount to fewer than ten pages, so Mr Bryson's volume also includes stories on Shakespearean scholars, experiences of Shakespeare's contemporaries, and the theatre life in Elizabethan days. It's a highly enjoyable and informative read.

There are those among us who wish they had been born to a different era, one filled with romance, adventure and creativity, unlike the dreary materialistic one in which we find ourselves. Perhaps a reality check is in order from time to time. When a talented playwright such as Christopher Marlowe could be charged of being "a blasphemer and atheist" and faced, "at the very least, having his ears cut off---that was if things went well", I'm afraid it wasn't all romance and adventure in the old days. Not to mention that the Elizabethan era is generally considered to be the golden age in English history...

A Prisoner of Birth, by Jeffrey Archer

This was another book I read in Mexico. A perfect book for the beach. About a quarter of the way through, I said to Jeff that Jeffrey Archer's novel is a copycat of Alexandre Dumas, père's The Count of Monte Cristo. Sure enough, soon afterward, references to Dumas's count appeared in Mr Archer's story. Let's say the imitation is even less plausible than the original, but just as much fun. I'd hate to believe that class still matters so much in today's Britain though...

Slam, by Nick Hornby

Nick Hornby is one of my favourite writers, even though his characters are typically so outrageous in my eyes that I have a hard time believing such people actually exist in real life. Slam is along those lines.

Note: spoilers coming up!

The story is simple. A regular 16-year-old boy finds out that his ex-girlfriend is pregnant with his child. We get to see how he deals with this news before, during and after the pregnancy.

Now, you can see why I find such characters outrageous. Things like teen pregnancy plainly don't happen in my world. Granted, Mr Hornby quoted the stat that says Britain has the highest teen pregnancy rate among rich countries. Still, high school kids who want to become parents are as strange to me as junkies who stick needles into their own veins. So, while sitting on a white sandy beach in the Riviera Maya in Mexico, I read Mr Hornby's usual humorous writing with many a chuckle and an occasional head shake, firm in my belief that the story is too outlandish to be plausible.

Well, guess what. Truth is indeed stranger than Fiction. I saw on the news ticker yesterday (Feb 15, 2009) a story in Britain where a 13-year-old boy is claiming to be the father of a baby born to a 15-year-old girl. His joy may be short-lived, as eight other teens are considered possible fathers to the baby. I think I owe Mr Hornby an apology.

Outliers, by Malcolm Gladwell

Malcolm Gladwell's third book is all the rage at the moment, especially among young mothers. It proclaims to unveil the secrets behind extraordinarily successful people, the likes of Bill Gates and the Beatles. Well, who wouldn't want to know that?!

Alas, such secrets do not exist. As he usually does, Mr Gladwell offers marvellous insights, and challenges conventional wisdom, but ultimately, I'm afraid he's stating the obvious. Nonetheless, Mr Gladwell is a very clever writer, and his book is easy to read and highly entertaining.

A World Without End, by Ken Follett

Sometime in the mid-90's, I read Ken Follett's thoroughly engrossing novel Pillars of the Earth. Then out of the blue in 2007, Oprah picked it for her Book Club. As luck would have it, Mr Follett had a sequel coming out just at that time. I wasn't going to buy the hardcover edition of the sequel at the height of its popularity. Even if it's as good as the original, it's not worth keeping around. So I waited until a few months ago when the paperback version of A World Without End come to our local bookstore.

In the meantime, words came out that this sequel is more like "a book without end." In my case, I had no difficulty finishing it, but I must say, it was a lame story, an almost exact copy of the original except this time around, the freshness is gone. There is a close to one-to-one correspondence of characters, except that instead of trying to build a cathedral, our hero is building a bridge. However, a bridge is not nearly as exciting as a cathedral, so other things are thrown in there as fillers.

Mr Follett had said he wrote Pillars because he had a keen interest in medieval England and its magnificent cathedrals. I can completely understand, as I find the topic fascinating myself, hence my enjoyment of his novel. However, the sequel seems more an attempt at capitalizing on the success of the original than a worthwhile story on its own.

Europe 2008

Trip Photos:
- Part 1
- Part 2

In late September and early October, Jeff and I spent three weeks in Zurich, Budapest, Prague and parts of Austria. Instead of writing a tedious log detailing in chronological order all the things we did, I'll just jot down some notes and impressions.

The Flights

I don't have a fear of flying, but it seems that as I get older, I dread more and more the cramped space on a plane. As a result, we've been taking business class for long-haul flights the last few years. It's still miserable to be stuck in a seat for hours, but what can you do.

This year, our transatlantic flight took the route of Toronto-Newark-Zurich-Vienna, with a one-day layover in Zurich both on the way there and back. The Newark landscape and airport were both unattractive, but I wasn't surprised---it is New Jersey, after all. One small thing left an impression on me. At the Newark airport checkpoints, there were more than a dozen security members standing around two open lines. Four or five of them were actually doing some work---how diligently I didn't know, while the rest talked loudly with each other, telling jokes, horsing around---in other words, being completely unprofessional. I understand it's not the most stimulating job in the world, that men of quality are not drawn to such positions. However, you would think they'd at least put up the appearance of taking what they do seriously.

On the way back, when I again saw these jokers play-acting as security personnel at the Newark airport, I compared them to the serious and professional guards and customs officers in Switzerland and Austria. The contrast was stark to say the least.

The flight from Newark to Zurich was an interesting one. It was listed under Swiss International Air, but was in fact operated by Private Air, and the entire plane had only business class seats, about sixty altogether. With so few passengers, boarding took very little time. The polite and efficient attendants buzzed around in constant motion, and in less than ten minutes, the plane was moving out of the gate. The whole flight was impressively run. The return trip was the same story. Swiss efficiency on full display, I suppose.

Zurich

The main reason for our detour to Zurich---we could have flown directly to Vienna---was to see Stefan and his wife Claudia. Stefan and I became friends in our undergraduate days. Since then, we've both moved around, so it's not easy to meet up. In Zurich, Stefan and Claudia took Jeff and me to dinner on top of Uetliberg. The restaurant offered a splendid view of the city, especially after dark. Three weeks later, on our way back to Toronto, we saw them again and had dinner at their flat. Claudia was expecting twins very soon, and we celebrated by drinking an old bottle of wine Jeff selected from his wine cellar. (The babies were born shortly afterwards, two adorable little girls.) It was wonderful to see old friends and discuss everything under the sun.

Zurich the city is beautiful and clean. We stayed in a hotel in Hirschenplatz in Altstadt, on the west bank of the Limmat River. Boutique shops and small restaurants lined the cobbled narrow streets. People were nicely dressed in conservative styles. Expensive cars zoomed around. Everything was orderly. Everyone was polite. Prices were double those at home. But that's Switzerland.

Bratislava

We had a little more than half a day in Bratislava. My friend Peter and his wife Klaudia are from there, and Peter had warned me that Bratislava is small compared to Vienna and Prague. It was most certainly the case, but the old part of the city was delightful. We strolled around, taking in pretty old buildings and churches. It had been drizzling all morning, and when it suddenly started to rain heavily, we rushed into the first nice-looking restaurant we saw, Caffe Ristorante KOGO on Hviezdoslavovo nam. It turned out to be a pricey place that catered mainly to people working in the foreign embassies nearby. After sitting down, I noticed we were surrounded by men and women in expensive suits wining and dining on other people's money. Our tourist garb definitely didn't fit. Jeff was particularly envious of the four gentlemen next to us who had a "very good bottle" (Jeff's words) of red wine brought to their table in a decanter. Lunch turned out to be a lot fancier than planned, but we did avoid the rain.

Budapest

My friend Isabel had told me that she liked Budapest more than Prague, and I must say, it is a beautiful city. The Pest side, where we stayed, was more built-up and more commercial. It was delightful walking on Andrassy utca, a tree-lined boulevard guarded by grandiose buildings. On the Buda side is the imposing castle area. In this corner of Europe, every city had a castle because the people were constantly warring on each other. Sadly for Hungary (and the Czech Republic), which has not been on too many winning sides in recent history, its castles have been stripped bare, and lesser paintings hung on the walls of the galleries. When the harsh wind blew, I shivered at the thought of how much blood must have been shed on these lands, how cruelty used to rule almost every part of the world.

The Hungarians are a proud people. Considering how many world-class mathematicians, musicians, artists, etc. have emerged out of this relatively small population, they have a reason to be. The citizens of Budapest appeared polite and fashionable. Their language though, is downright impossible. I dared not pronounce the words because they never sound the way they look. Fortunately, most people, especially the young ones, spoke English rather well.

Prague

Prague is a city on a different scale. It was absolutely gorgeous, of course. Strangely, it was filled with regular people as well as suspicious-looking riffraff. Jeff says Prague is popular with backpackers. Maybe too popular. The city was also brimming with tourists: Asians who travelled in packs, Europeans in shabby clothes, the whole world has come to Prague. Consequently, prices were much higher than elsewhere, and every touristy place---churches, synagogues, castles---cost a considerable amount, with additional charges for a photo permit, the washroom, etc. Even the washroom at McDonald's cost money, albeit a trivial amount. People spoke English very well---another sign of their having had to deal with too many visitors. One notable thing was the phenomenon of old grannies in museums. In every room of every museum, grumpy old women stood on guard, eyes throwing daggers at visitors who dared to trespass onto their territory. I suppose they were there to make sure nobody put his paws on the precious exhibits, but they certainly made my time in the museums very uncomfortable.

The city tells too many sad stories, from Jan Hus who was burnt at the stake, to the Jews who were mistreated throughout the years, to King Wenceslas who was murdered by his brother---the list goes on, not to mention all the local saints who met their end in gruesome ways. Alfons Mucha, whose lovely murals adorned the walls and ceilings of the Mayor's Hall in the Municipal House, died shortly after being interrogated by the Gestapo. He was only a painter, for crying out loud! But that's the way history goes in Europe. And in all other parts of the world, really.

Driving in Austria

When possible, Jeff and I prefer the freedom of driving our own car. In crowded big cities, there is no point; a car is more a pain than a convenience. Outside the cities, driving is much more fun. In Austria, it was a no-brainer: we must rent a car to fully enjoy the country.

We had booked a modest little Opel, but the Avis people surprised us by giving us a Mercedes B150. (A few years back in England, we'd booked a Mercedes but ended up with a Saab. Maybe if we asked for a Fiat next time, we'd get a Maserati---or vice versa.) However, this being a European Mercedes, the car had no luxury features, nor any acceleration. I kept wanting to rub at the Mercedes logo, wondering if it would come off and reveal a Ford logo underneath. The car did have a big trunk for our suitcases, and on the autobahn, once it reached 130km or 140, it didn't struggle much. (And everybody else was doing at least 150, which drove Jeff crazy since he's usually the one leaving other cars behind.)

I had brought with me digital European maps for my Garmin GPS device. It worked out amazingly well. How did we manage in the dark ages before all these digital toys?

The Austrian roads are clearly signed and in excellent condition. My limited German came in handy a few times, but any English speaker can get by without any problem. The drivers are competent and law-abiding. Sure, they speed, but no one sits in the left lane unless he is passing. All in all, driving in Austria was a sheer joy.

Salzburg

Jeff had been to Salzburg once before when he was still an undergrad. He has vague recollections of going to a concert in a church but nothing else. I was in Salzburg in the summer of 1991. That was the bicentennial death anniversary year for Mozart. There were open-air concerts in every city square. My mum and I had driven in from Vienna for a day trip, and found so much to do in the city that we wanted to stay for another day. However, not a single room was available at the height of the tourist season in a special year. Having stopped at every inn and hotel without success, we gave up after reaching Linz. This time, I decided to do it right by staying for three days.

People say in Austria, time stands still. It is true. Salzburg looked exactly the same as I remembered it. Oh sure, a few small things have changed here and there. One sees a few more immigrant faces among the lily-white populace. Tourist sights offer audio guides, a gadget they didn't have seventeen years ago. People yap on cellphones. Many of the independent local shops on Getreidegasse have been replaced by boring international chains such as Zara. But the essence of the city hasn't changed a bit. As we sat at a café table outside Mozart's birthplace, surrounded by mountains, the Salzach River, and the ancient fortress atop the hill, I was glad to find the city as lovely as ever.

The Austrian Alps

From Salzburg, we took one day to drive to the Alpine ski towns of Bad Gastein and Bad Hofgastein. The scenery was breathtaking. Majestic mountains covered in snow, pretty chalets with neatly arranged flowers at every window, narrow streets lined with boutique shops, folks in capes and Alpine hats zipping by on bicycles; it was straight out of a postcard. We walked around town, and also took a few hikes along rivers and waterfalls. There were hikers everywhere, serious ones with hiking sticks and boots. They all looked like they'd live to a hundred.

At lunch time, we found a small restaurant attached to a hotel in Bad Hofgastein. A funny thing happened: for the first time on the trip, we ran into someone in the hospitality industry who could not speak any English---the waitress, a friendly lady in her fifties. After much guessing, I managed to order the food. It was amusing, and actually added to the charm of the place. I thought I would have no difficulty spending a month in this area, hiking, biking and playing tennis. And wouldn't it be nice to come here to ski! I had picked up a ski trail map from the tourism office. Jeff didn't want me to see the map for fear that I'd feel bad about not being able to ski here. I didn't listen to him. Now, in the brilliant Alpine sunshine, I spread the map out in front of me, and started to visualize myself shredding the slopes...

From Salzburg to Vienna

We took a leisurely drive back to Vienna. Along the way, we made stops at several towns: Hallstatt (a quaint village set in the mountains on Hallstätter See), Steyr (where we managed to get a parking ticket that cost us 25 euro---very stupid), Krems, etc. As much as possible, we drove on the more scenic north bank of the Danube. Pretty towns and villages flashed by. Every few minutes, a glorious castle or palace or church high in the hills would emerge into view. Austria obviously has too many of them. Maybe they could share a few with us poor folks in North America...

In Bad Ischl, we had lunch at Café Zaunder, a pastry shop made famous by the Emperor Franz Josef's daily visit when he summered in Ischl every year. Here we encountered more waitresses who didn't speak English. Luckily, finger-pointing is a universal language.

Sankt Florian and Melk became a bit mixed up in my mind. Both have an astonishingly lavish palace referred to as an "abbey" (yeah, right). Both "abbeys" have gruesome stories associated with their patron saints. Both abbeys have precious paintings by famous artists who were skilled in depicting blood and gore. Not for the first time, I found myself speechless at the opulence.

The two hours at Mauthausen Concentration Camp was depressing to say the least. At the time of the trip, I was reading Ian McEwan's novel Black Dogs, in which he discussed the topic of visiting a concentration camp. It is one of those things that one must do once, but many of us don't have the heart to face too many reminders of such human depravity.

Dürnstein was my favourite stop along the way. We arrived in the early evening. I happened to be the one at the wheel, and let's just say that driving in streets barely wider than the width of our car with legions of tourists looking on was no cakewalk. We didn't have a choice though as our inn was smack in the middle of the town. After putting down our suitcases, we went out for a walk along the Danube, through the vines laden with grapes, and in the old streets. By that time, all the tourists had left for the day. The entire town became suddenly quiet and peaceful. At the top of the hill loomed the ruins of the castle where Richard the Lionheart was imprisoned in the 12th Century. Dürnstein has its majestic abbey too. Had we not seen Melk and St Florian earlier, we would have found it extremely impressive. Instead, we yawned and said, Oh well, just another extravagant old church.

The next morning, we got up early to climb to the castle ruins. It was a steep and arduous walk, but we were rewarded with a fine view from the top, and no one else in sight. Down below, a river cruise was gliding on the Danube. One shudders at the thought of all the history that has taken place here. Our moment of peace and quiet didn't last. By the time we came down, the town was once again thumping with groups of tourists being herded around by their guides.

Vienna

There is no need for me to describe how glorious Vienna is. It is simply impossible for anyone not to love the city. Like the rest of Austria, Vienna lives in the past. To my eyes, nothing seemed to have changed in seventeen years, and I would have been disappointed if anything did. We had chosen a hotel in the centre of the city near Schwedenplatz, within walking distance to Stephansdom. For the next few days, we had a fabulous time ambling around this old European jewel. The museums were first-rate. The food was marvellous. It was too bad that we had to leave.

Concerts

Because our trip included several major music capitals in Europe, we had the opportunity to attend a few concerts.

In Budapest, we were lured into buying tickets to the Danube Concert from a young lady---a music student from further east, perhaps? I believe Jeff felt sorry for her and couldn't bring himself to say "no." The concert was held in a small theatre decorated with ornate statues and wall paintings. The program was exclusively designed for tourists; it was a best-of list of popular pieces by famous composers. The familiar upbeat tunes were infectious. The problem was, as soon as I got into a piece, the orchestra hopped onto something else, which left me quite unsatisfied.

In Prague we went to two entirely different kinds of concerts. The first was a chamber ensemble in an old 12th century church, called the Church of St Martin in the Wall (kostel sv. Martina ve zdi). The inside of the church was bare and grim; simple folding chairs were placed in rows in front of a stage; the whole atmosphere was casual and intimate, and the music, warm and enchanting. It was a string quartet: two violins, a viola and a cello. The program included beloved pieces by Bach, Pachelbel, Vivaldi, Schuber, et al---who wouldn't enjoy that? It was a rare occasion for me to sit only a few feet away from the musicians. Their concentration and nimble fingers were mesmerizing.

Our other concert in Prague was at the stately Dvorak Hall inside the glittering Rudolfinum. The Czech Philharmonic Orchestra performed Rachmaninov's Concerto No. 3 for piano and orchestra, with Alexander Toradze at the piano. He was a heavyset man who would breathe audibly when he really got into the music. It was a strangely moving sight. In the second half, the orchestra performed Tchaikovsky's Symphony No. 3. It is not a favourite of mine, but nothing by Tchaikovsky is unbearable. Both the concerto and the symphony have a deeply sorrowful feel to them, a very Eastern, melancholy sound, accentuated by the fact that both were written in D minor. Being dumb tourists, we managed to throw on something other than jeans, but around us, many people showed up in tuxedos and formal dresses. There were no empty seats in sight.

When I was in Vienna in 1991, the famous opera house was closed due to renovation. This time, I made sure of things by getting tickets to the Staatsoper in advance on the Internet. I would have preferred to see an opera, but didn't find the opera on offer enticing. As a result, we went there for the ballet Onegin. I must confess I'm not a ballet fan as I find dancing repetitive and therefore boring. However, if the music is good, I'm willing to put up with the frivolity of moving legs and spinning bodies. The music for Onegin was arranged from various pieces by Tchaikovsky. One can't go wrong with good ol' Peter Ilyich.

The façade of the Opera House is as grand as any fine European theatre house. The inside, described as "simple" by the guide books because of the bombings during the war and the hasty repairs afterwards when Austria was short on funds, would not be called simple in North America. In fact, we should be so lucky to have such a "simple" opera house.

There were five levels of private boxes surrounding the floor seats. Our tickets placed us in one of those boxes that they call "loges" above the ground level to the left of the stage. Eight red satin chairs stood in our loge, with the front four occupied by respectable-looking ladies, and Jeff and me, two impostors who must have appeared to have stumbled upon the place by a huge mistake, sitting behind. During the intermissions, I noticed many people in tuxedos, even tails, and floor-length gowns. The Viennese take a trip to the Oper seriously.

Our tickets were actually ridiculously cheap because the seats were "partially obstructed." That was an understatement; I'd say our view was mostly obstructed. I stretched my neck as far out as I could without infringing upon the elderly lady in front of me, but half the time I couldn't see the dancers. The upside was that we were sitting directly above the orchestra. I would rather watch them anyway. It was very entertaining observing the conductor's every move. At the climatic moment of the story, his face was full of emotions as he waved his baton dreamily, urging on his musicians. I became rather touched myself because of him, not because of the dance. It was the most memorable night of our trip.

Churches and Museums

Going to Europe means an endless parade of old churches and museums. Especially in predominantly Catholic cities, church spires crowd the city skylines. I often wonder about the relative cost of constructing such incredibly extravagant structures at a time when most common folks were poor beyond belief. When a whole family of eight or ten starved and lived in a one-room hovel with straws covering the mud floor, gold-gilded statues and brilliant stained-glass windows adorned the walls of cathedrals whose soaring ceilings reached for the heavens. On the one hand, it was a grotesquely twisted sense of priorities. On the other, such religious devotion left us with some of the finest examples of human ingenuity in the form of architecture, art and music.

Budapest and Prague also have quite a few synagogues remaining. While they don't compare in scale to the churches and cathedrals, they draw tourist hordes nowadays like nothing else, even though the insides are usually plain, and most have been turned into museums.

I like museums of all sorts. In Zurich, we went to the Landesmuseum which gave the history of the city and of Switzerland; and the Kunsthaus Zurich, a small but rich museum of fine arts. In Budapest, we visited the House of Terror which was where the Nazis and the communist secret police set up their headquarters. The castle area housed several museums, one of them the Budapest History Museum, which we walked through. In Prague, we went to the slightly tacky but informative Museum of Communism. Several galleries are located in the Castle District. However, this is not the part of world where one finds too many master pieces.

In Salzburg, we toured the Baroque Museum and the Salzburg Museum, but Vienna is where the finest museums and art galleries are. Belvedere Palace focuses mainly on Austrian paintings. At the time of our visit, a special Gustav Klimt exhibit was on at Lower Belvedere. My mum is a Klimt fan. I personally find his style unique but unattractive. Nevertheless, it was interesting to see so many of his works in one exhibit. The Albertina houses many Impressionist paintings. There, we saw the special Van Gogh exhibit which was terribly crowded. The main gallery is titled "Monet to Picasso." Anyone can see the beauty in a Monet painting. But Picasso? I must profess a total lack of joy or understanding upon seeing most of his paintings.

The highlight in Vienna was the Kunsthistorischmuseum. Besides the fantastic collection, the museum itself is a marvel. It was an absolute pleasure to stroll through the exhibit halls. Even the café must be one of the most resplendent in a museum anywhere in the world. When I got tired, I took a seat in one of the antique chairs. There were no grim old grannies here to bother me. The only annoyance was the occasional noisy tour group which congregated in front of the more famous paintings, thus blocking them from the rest of us. I personally prefer the more secular pieces as I find too many of the religious ones, with their penchant for violence, disturbing. The pictures from the Flemish school are my favourite. To me, their subject matter and their more sophisticated use of light and colour, make the pictures far more attractive.

Hotels and Inns

We stayed at different types of hotels on the trip. Aside from the fact that almost all of them were a tad too enthusiastic at turning up the heaters, which, combined with the heavy comforters that the Europeans use, made the rooms too hot at night, there was nothing to complain about. In Switzerland, we got Swiss cleanness and efficiency. In Budapest, we got a suite big enough to hold a party for twenty but provided little shelf space for our things. The hotel in Prague was decorated like a palace, and offered embarrassingly attentive service. More of the same was in Vienna.

However, two places stood out. First was the Bloberger Hof in Salzburg. It was a little inn run by Frau Inge and her daughter Silvia, who were polite, pleasant, efficient and professional in the most perfect way. The breakfast was incredible, and we had dinner at the inn twice in three nights because the food was so good. From the bedroom window, I could see snow-capped mountains and dairy cows grazing in the green fields. Normally not the sociable type, I nevertheless found myself having light conversations with the other guests at the inn. There was an American family of three generations; the grandparents from Oregon were visiting the son and his family in Stuttgart. We also chatted with an English couple who were working in Germany, but had lived outside of Toronto for years, and wanted very much to return to Canada with their two little kids. The inn exuded a relaxing and neighbourly atmosphere that made everyone mellow.

The second memorable place, the Gasthof Sänger Blondel in Dürnstein, was in fact very similar to the Bloberger Hof. This time, a couple and their grown son were behind the smooth-running machine. The inn was right next to the abbey, in the centre of the town. It was named after Richard the Lionheart's faithful minstrel Blondel, who, legend has it, searched around Europe singing a love song that he and his lord composed together (huh?), eventually finding the foolish king at Dürnstein castle. (Sänger is "singer" in German. Blondel was the troubadour's name which apparently came from his long blond hair. Gentlemen prefer blonds, indeed.)

Later, when we got back to Zurich, Stefan and Claudia told me that the inns in Austria are considered to be of such high quality that even the Swiss go there for the incomparable service. This is a compliment indeed.

Food

One thing we don't need to worry about food-wise in continental Europe is the breakfast. I remember vividly the ones we had ten years ago in Rome, Florence, Sitges, ... The same goes for this part of Europe. Cold meats, cheeses, smoked salmon, homemade yogurt, a variety of fruits and juices, bread and rolls fresh out of the oven, local jams, eggs in different styles, honey, cereal, nuts, ... and at some places, crepes and omelets of your design. (On our return trip when we had to spend a night in Newark, the lousy breakfast the next morning, and the lousier service that went with it, made it clear that I was not in Europe anymore.)

Hungarian food is hearty and uncomplicated: goulash, potatoes, more goulash and more potatoes. Since I'm a simple Chinese peasant, I can eat that stuff everyday. But Jeff, a foodie, got bored quickly, and longed for something other than overcooked meat. In Prague, we saw pizzerias in every street, offering simple Italian fare. There were also many fancy places. Our most memorable dinner in Prague was in a restaurant at the top of Petřín Hill. As well as fine food, it offered a magnificent night view of Prague Castle bathing in a flood of light.

In Austria, outside of Vienna, we stayed with local fare---in other words, schnitzel, schnitzel and schnitzel. There was the Wiener variety, the Salzburger variety, and everything in between. I enjoyed them all. The sound of the chef beating the meat in the kitchen provided such an old comfort.

Vienna is the most sophisticated culinary city on the trip. Everything we had there was excellent. They also love their pastries here. I have no idea how the Viennese stay so thin when they consume desserts so decadent. We paid our respects at Demel, the city's famous pastry shop. If I lived in Vienna, I'd balloon to 300 pounds in no time.

I also tried to have bratwurst as much as I could. I know it's silly, but I love bratwurst!

Many times, we found ourselves walking under old chestnut trees, stepping over nuts fallen to the ground. Every once a while, a vendor roasted chestnuts on the street, attracting small children and me. They call them "maroni" in Austria. I gobbled down mine in no time. Delicious!

According to our in-house wine connoisseur Jeff, the red wines in the whole area, including those from the established Wachau wine region in Austria, are not too exciting. After trying reds once or twice in each city, he usually stuck to whites which are much more pleasant in his opinion. In Hungary, we looked inside a wine store, and saw some expensive Tokaji bottles. Not being a fan of dessert wines, Jeff didn't go out of his way to try a Tokaji. He did once make the mistake of trying a "hot wine" in Prague, and hated it so much that he didn't finish it. I think he was betraying his wine-snob nature. I've had hot wine before; it's not Chateau Haut-Brion, but nor is it as awful as Jeff made it sound.

There is one cute food story to tell. On our way from Salzburg to Vienna, we arrived in town late one evening, and ended up driving blindly in a suburb of Linz searching for a place to eat. When we saw a pub, we went in. The front section of the place was packed with customers, while the large back section was empty but for a table of four young men and a second table of nine middle-aged fellows. After we sat down, the waiter came to warn us in German that the back section was for non-smokers only. It took me a few seconds to understand what he said, at which point I assured him that we didn't smoke.

Trying to decipher the German menu and place the order required some effort, but we managed. Judging from the surprised looks we drew, the place was not used to having outsiders. As we ate our meal, the middle-aged guys left at the end of their happy drinking session, and the four young men also left at some point to move to the front section so they could smoke. It was amusing. Over the years, Europe has adopted tougher anti-smoking laws, but it appeared that they still had a lot more smokers that we do in Canada.

At the end of our dinner, the friendly waiter came with the bill. Jeff gave him some money, gesturing for him to keep the change as a tip. The chap shook his head vigorously, and insisted on giving Jeff back two euro---he thought the tip was too much!

To Summarize... We had a wonderful three weeks. I wish we had time for Poland, Croatia, southern Austria, Slovenia, ... but the world is too big. Maybe on another trip.

This Boy's Life, by Tobias Wolff

I am torn over Tobias Wolff. He writes so beautifully, and the stories are enthralling, but duplicity seems to be the main feature shared by his characters. Of course, everyone lies, in ways big and small. I just find it difficult to sympathize with those who are habitual liars. Then again, what some call lies, others call imagination. This is probably why Mr Wolff is a first-rate writer while I've never exhibited any creativity in a literary sense.

This Boy's Life is a memoir of Mr Wolff's boyhood in the 1950's. His family is dysfunctional to say the least. As I turned the pages, I was filled at once with admiration for his survival skills, and with abhorrence for his natural-born dishonest ways. How on earth could the boy in the book someday become one of the best writers of his generation? How much of the book, even if called a memoir, is true? We're talking about someone with an off-the-charts amount of imagination here. It wouldn't be the first time a writer embellishes a supposedly true story.

Ultimately, the book is still fantastic, well worth reading irrespective of how much it stretches the truth.

Playing for Pizza, by John Grisham

Years ago when John Grisham took the top seller list by storm, I read and enjoyed a few of his books like everyone else. However, it wasn't long before I got bored with his formula. Jeff had to convince me that Playing for Pizza is not the usual product of the Grisham factory.

There are no lawyers, southern cities or conspiracies in this book. It's about a washed-out NFL quarterback's experience of playing a season of semi-pro American football in Parma, Italy. Mr Grisham captures the lovable naivete of the American, and presents it in a humorous light. The detailed descriptions of football games grew tedious, but the overall story is light-hearted and not entirely unbelievable.

What Good Are the Arts? by John Carey

In Part One of his book, John Carey attempts to answer the following questions: What is a work of art? Is 'high' art superior? Can science help (in defining art)? Do the arts make us better? and Can Art be a religion?

Most of us have been brought up to think that the arts hold a special place in our society. We put artists, musicians and writers on a pedestal. We protest if the government cuts funding to the arts. We gladly make donations to the museums and the symphony. I do all of these things, yet over the years, I've often wondered, What is the point?

Mr Carey argues convincingly that a work of art is anything that is considered art by anybody. This is actually rather depressing. Talks of the timelessness of a painting, or the universal attraction of a piece of music, are nonsense. Just look at how unappreciated so many of the artists and musicians were in their lifetime.

The other answers provided by Mr Carey are equally dispiriting. Some of the greatest artists and writers are the least charitable among us. Adolf Hitler was one of the fiercest champions of fine art and classical music. Totalitarian regimes the world over have been the strongest supporters of the arts, far more so than democracies. The conclusion is, not only do the arts not make us better beings, they turn us into elitists who over time can lose all humanity.

Part Two of the book is rather odd. In it, Mr Carey argues that literature is the highest form of art. To me, it make no sense to rank art forms. They appeal to our different senses. Of course, if I were forced to, I'd choose books over paintings and music, but we need all of them.

Four Seasons Harp Quartet

Howard and Susan's daughter Jennifer is in town to do a concert at the Royal Conservatory of Music. Jennifer is Principal Harpist with the Montreal Symphony. We have attended her concerts before -- they are always wonderful. Tonight's program highlights Vivaldi's The Four Seasons. It is a well-known piece that all of us have heard countless times, but I have never heard it done in the form of a harp quartet. Naturally, I was curious.

The performance started with Mozart's Quartet in Bb, K.589, transcribed by Caroline Lizotte, one of the harpists performing with Jennifer. It is a typical Mozart piece, joyful, delicate, and a bit on the fluffy side. I particularly liked the second movement (Larghetto). Next, before the intermission, we heard a short and lovely piece from Lecuona's Spanish Suite.

Finally, it was Vivaldi's The Four Seasons. Everybody loves this violin concerto; I personally also have a special fondness for Baroque music because of its complexity. But if I close my eyes and think of The Four Seasons, I hear the sound of a violin, not a harp. Can the harp, a gentle instrument, convey the energy and vivacity of the music? Astonishingly, the answer is Yes. The range of the sound from the harp is incredible, going from forceful to whispery, perfect for this expressive piece of music. In an orchestra, the harp can be easily overwhelmed by other more powerful instruments; but here in an intimate setting, every small sound is heard clearly. The effect was simply beautiful, almost magical.

Black Dogs, by Ian McEwan

I brought four books with me to Europe, but managed to finish only two: Melissa Bank's The Wonder Spot and Ian McEwan's Black Dogs -- we had a busy trip that left little time for reading.

Black Dogs is not one of the more acclaimed works from this literary master of our time. Nor does it contain one of his extremely disturbing tales. Nevertheless, this being a McEwan novel, it left me unsettled in the end. One would be hard-pressed to find a central plot. Instead, we are presented with a series of loosely connected stories and a whole lot of philosophical musings on Communism, Fascism, the roles that parents and children play, ... It may sound boring, but it is not at all. In fact, it is terribly thought-provoking, perhaps too much so. McEwan's well-wrought prose is also a joy to behold. It has been a long time since a novel has left such an impression on me.

The Wonder Spot, by Melissa Bank

A few years back, I had read Bank's top seller debut, The Girs' Guide to Hunting and Fishing. It has a thin plot but is very funny; Bank has a wonderful sense of humour. The Wonder Spot is in essence a remake of, not even a sequel to, Bank's first novel. Consequently, while it still has numerous hilarious lines, I found it frustrating to read something that exhibits no growth from an obviously talented writer. We are back to the topic of relationships, of a young woman who is, well, out of it when it comes to just about every relationship in her life: with her parents, with her friends, with her boss, with her co-workers, and most of all, with the men in her life. Just as The Girs' Guide, The Wonder Spot is obviously autobiographical. It is almost impossible to believe someone with Bank's talent could have been such a loser (there is no nicer way of putting it) in life. I did finish the book, but Bank's style and subject matter have lost their freshness and attraction.

Devil May Care, by Sebastian Faulks

Devil May Care, The New James Bond Novel by Sebastian Faulks

I took advantage of the couple of days of free time to read a light book before the trip to Europe. Like most people, I am a fan of the 007 movies. When it comes to the novels, I've only read, many years ago, Goldfinger by Ian Fleming.

One can see that Sebastian Faulks wants to maintain Fleming's style of simple writing and exciting story-telling. The absurdity of the main villain seems more pronounced in a book than in a movie: somehow, one can easily treat a Bond movie as science fiction or a cartoon, but it's harder to gloss over the belief-defying plot when it is written down on paper. I remember enjoying the book while reading it, but now, five weeks later, I have only the vaguest recollection of the story, which means I can safely read the book again in a few months and enjoy it all over.

The Logic of Life, by Tim Harford

The Logic of Life by Tim Harford

Tim Harford's first book, The Undercover Economist, was the sort of book on economics that I like: precise, logical, and full of sharp observations backed up by facts. So when I read a positive review in the Economist on Mr. Harford's latest work, I bought it promptly.

I'm afraid I'm not quite as enthusiastic as the Economist about The Logic of Life. In fact, I'm contemplating on writing Mr. Harford a long letter arguing about some of the points he made which are, in my humble opinion, illogical. After reading The Undercover Economist, I learnt many useful and eye-opening things in everyday life. While reading The Logic of Life, I found myself saying either, Hey, this is not true, or, Well, tell me something I didn't know. Also, it is unsatisfying to read that, Situation A and Situation B are different because A is caused by X while B is caused by Y, but the author has no explanation on why one group arrived at X while another arrived at Y. I know it is not easy to explain human beings. One would have to write a separate book for each of the topics touched by Mr. Harford. That is the biggest problem with The Logic of Life. It is supposed to be on economics, but it strays too far into social issues, a minefield best left untouched by anyone who really wants to use scientific methods and logic.

Battle Creek, by Scott Lasser

Battle Creek by Scott Lasser

Years ago when I was living in San Francisco, my friend Paolo loaned me this book. I enjoyed it so much that I had to get my own copy, even if all I could find was a paperback, nothing like Paolo's hardcover -- even autographed by the author.

While playing couch potato the last few weeks, watching first the Olympics, then the US Open tennis, I thought I'd read an easy book during all those commercial breaks. It also seemed appropriate to read one related to sports, in this case, baseball.

Lasser's book is about the coaches and players on an amateur baseball team trying to win the national championship. I'm a baseball junkie, but when it comes to playing, baseball is one of the few sports that I'm hopeless at. However, I've played organized tennis for nearly twenty years, including the years in California when friends of mine were on teams that made it to the nationals, so I'm familiar with how seriously some people take amateur sports. It can get silly, really; Jeff jokes all the time about writing a TV series called Desperate Tennis Players. Winning -- or perhaps more important, not losing -- seems to mean so much to some people.

If Lasser's book were only about how people can become obsessed with winning even at amateur levels, it would be a boring story. Battle Creek is really about life -- not in the hopelessly sentimental way that the likes of Kinsella usually bring into baseball-themed novels, no, not at all. This is a very sad story whose on-field happy ending was achieved at tragically high prices. In the end, it was about choices that all of us have had to make at some point in life. Baseball is but a backdrop to the real story of life.

Ciao America! by Beppe Severgnini

Ciao America! An Italian Discovers the U.S. by Beppe Severgnini

According to its cover, this book is "a delightful look at America through the eyes of a fiercely funny guest -- one of Italy's favorite authors who spent a year in Washington, D.C." It captured my attention because I myself was once a "guest" in the U.S. Perhaps Signore Severgnini's experiences bear some resemblance to mine. Years ago, while still living in San Francisco, I'd read Bill Bryson's I'm a Stranger Here Myself, which described his returning to America after twenty years away in England. I found it a hilarious read, even though it was mystifying to me why I should find much in common with Mr. Bryson. After all, I was not returning home to America; rather the opposite. Nevertheless, the way he looked at the U.S. from a quasi-outsider's point of view resonated with my own feelings.

Signore Severgnini is very funny in his own right. My guess is that he's even funnier in his native tongue. Unfortunately, I can't read Italian, so I have to settle for a translated version, which always leaves me with a sense of having been cheated somehow. In fact, considering that Signore Severgnini lived in England before crossing the Pond, I'm sure he could have written his book in English. Presumably, he didn't because his main target audience is in Italy.

The various stories are believable, and the little comments interesting. The overall tone is good-natured. One year is an awfully short time to really get to know a country though, especially one as large and diverse as the United States. Too often, I find Signore Severgnini drawing conclusions based on too small a sample space. Oh well, that's the way it goes with this genre. Even if one were to extend one's stay to, say, ten years, would one know everything? Even a native-born American only knows what his little world allows him to know about his own country and fellow countrymen.

My personal American Experience was filled with some interesting discoveries, too. Here is one small example. Somewhere along my stay in California, I noticed that I could name all of the U.S. Supreme Court justices. I never consciously tried to memorize the names, but American news items focus so much on the Supreme Court that one would have to bury one's head in the sand to not learn something. It's a unique country that can effortlessly draw a non-political visitor into its web.

Multiple Wi-Fi Routers

When I moved back to Toronto in 2003, the first thing I did was to set up a wireless network at home. It was out of necessity: the house is too big; we have too many computers; it would be an ugly mess to pull wires across hallways and down the stairs. Wi-Fi was the perfect solution.

Since then, more devices have been added to the network without any problems. That was until the arrival of the Nintendo Wii. It appears that when the Wii has been in use for a while, it takes over the wireless router, and will not allow any new device to join the network, at which point the only solution is to reboot the wireless router. This, to me, is unacceptable.

A quick search on-line shows that other people are having similar problems, and Nintendo has not provided a fix. I could get a new wireless router and hope that it can handle the Wii, but I then remembered that I had a spare wireless router sitting in storage doing nothing. It was replaced a couple of years back by a more powerful one, but there is nothing wrong with it otherwise. I could make this second Wi-Fi router a dedicated one for the Wii. This way, the Wii's bully behaviour will not affect the other devices.

Our house, like most homes, has one high-speed service. How do I create two (or more) wireless networks? I looked around on-line, but couldn't find any useful help. So I closed my eyes and thought about it. Well, it really isn't that complicated. Here's what I did:



Using the same daisy-chain setup, one can easily insert a third wireless router, a fourth, etc. The only constraint is that all the routers must be within close proximity to each other.

In theory, this new setup should fix the problem caused by the Nintendo Wii.

One last note of interest is I need to connect a computer to each wireless router to configure it. There are a number of ways to establish the connection. In the above diagram, I already have a device connected to Router #1 via an Ethernet cable, so I used that device to configure the router. For Router #2, I took an Ethernet cable, plugged one end into one of the router's LAN ports, and the other end into my laptop, and configured the router using the laptop. Alternately, as I know the default factory-set Wi-Fi SSID of Router #2, I can also connect my laptop wirelessly to Router #2. Once a connection to the router is established, I can configure the router from the web browser of the device, and set up the usual functions (e.g. SSID, encryption methods, firewall, passwords, etc.).

Free iPhone Ringtones

One very cool thing I figured out recently is a way to make free ringtones for my iPhone from any song I own.

Currently, to get a ringtone for the iPhone, you need to first check if the song of your choice exists in Apple's iTunes Store in the ringtone format. Most songs don't, so that's problem number one. Also, even if the song you want is there, you don't get to choose which part of the song you'd like to have as your ringtone. Finally, if the song is indeed available as a ringtone, you must purchase the song for 99 cents, and then, pay another 99 cents for the ringtone.

I know some of you may say, Gee, she's really counting pennies. Jeff couldn't stop laughing when he heard I worked hard for a couple of hours just to save $1.98 plus taxes. It's not the money, people; it's the principle involved. Why should I pay for a song I already own legally, and then pay extra just to make a segment of it into a ringtone? This is robbery.

So here's how it's done on Mac OS X Leopard, using iTunes Version 7.7.1 (11), for iPhone G3.

Part I: Splice Your MP3 File

First of all, you need to splice your legally obtained song so that you will have ready the segment you want as your ringtone. If you already know how to do this, skip ahead to Part II.

There are sound file editor programs out there that do splicing, e.g. cdparanoia on Linux. Because applications on the Mac are not nearly as abundant and free as on Linux, we're better off using existing programs. iTunes can accomplish the goal. Go ahead and start iTunes. Go to Preferences / Advanced / Importing, and change format to AAC.

Outside of iTunes, using Finder, locate your song file in the iTunes Music Library. Ctrl-click on the file and choose Duplicate. A new file is created in the same directory.

Back in iTunes, you'll see a duplicate of your chosen song in the iTunes Library. Ctrl-click on the duplicate and choose Get Info. In the new window, under Options, change the Start Time and Stop Time values so as to retain the segment you want to use as your ringtone. Make sure the segment is less than 40 seconds in length. Close the window. Next, ctrl-click on the MP3 file again, and choose Convert into AAC this time. As only the segment from Start Time to Stop Time will be converted, your duplicate copy of the song will become a segment in AAC format.

Part II: Rename File to m4r

The newly created AAC file has extension m4a. You need to change it to m4r.

Go back to the Finder program where you're already inside the directory where the new AAC file is. Ctrl-click on the AAC file and choose Get Info. In the new window, under the section Name & extension, change the extension to m4r. Close the window. A dialog box will pop up, asking you if that's what you really want to do. Choose "Use m4r".

Part III: Import File into iTunes

Go back to your iTunes program. Ctrl-click on the segment song, and choose Delete. When the dialogue box pops up, choose "Keep the file". This is very important because, while you want to delete the song from iTunes Library, you do not want to delete the physical file. Next, go to File / Import... and select the m4r file for importing. You'll notice in Finder that the physical file is removed, but in iTunes, the song appears under Library / Ringtones.

When you next sync your iPhone, you'll see that inside the sync page Ringtones, the new ringtone is listed there, ready to be synced. Unfortunately, the iPhone holds only one custom ringtone at a time. Nevertheless, now you've got your ringtone made out of your favourite song for free!

Unknown Quantity, by John Derbyshire

Unknown Quantity, A Real and Imaginary History of Algebra, by John Derbyshire

I haven't submitted a book entry in nearly a month because it's taken me this long to finish this book even though it has a mere 320 pages.

Derbyshire's book is about the history of algebra, and also the stories of algebraists. The first few chapters are easy: how systems of expressing numbers evolved over the centuries; how Diophantus and al-Khwarizmi paved the roads for the development of algebra; etc. I remember in my childhood working on Diophantus's famous riddle (it's really just a simple one equation with one unknown that any Grade Six kid can do). What's interesting is how concepts that small children nowadays take for granted were completely rejected by the most learned men in ancient days. Zero came into being long after the natural numbers. Negative numbers were discarded because they didn't make any sense. Imaginary numbers were again ignored for as long as possible. It's so intuitive now to use letters, in particular, the letter x, to represent unknowns, but the ancients had to use cumbersome language to refer to any unknown quantity. Simplicity and clarity of presentation are paramount in mathematics. Imagine having to do arithmetic using Roman numerals, or calculus using Newton's notations. Ugly!

The rest of Part I of the book describes the quest to find general solutions to quadratic, cubic and quartic equations. Everyone knows the importance of quadratic equations. The cubic, a reluctant nod. But the quartic? Really, who cares about formulas for solving the quartic? For higher degree polynomial equations, numerical methods are sufficient in most cases. However, as an intellectual exercise, it is still something challenging to work on.

Part II of the book deals with more advanced topics in algebra developed from the late 16th century to the early 18th. The Fundamental Theorem of Algebra was stated by Descartes, and proven by Gauss. Euler worked on the problem of the general quintic, and Abel proved its unsolvability. The study of n-dimensional spaces was developed. Now we're into first- and second-year university algebra. Since I remember my vector spaces, basis, and matrices well, I'm still doing OK.

The last part of the book gets really hairy. Some of the topics are taught in first-year algebra classes: rings, fields, groups, and modular arithmetic. I remember finding those things a challenge back then. Reading about them again has clarified things. Also, since my first year in university, I've read a lot more on rings and fields, so it's natural that I should understand them better. Same with non-Euclidean geometry. When I took a third-year course on non-Euclidean geometry, I could do the problems but my mind rebelled against the concepts. Over the years, the theorems of non-Euclidean geometry started to make more sense in my head. However, when it comes to Galois Theory, Noetherian Rings, and topology, I'm as lost as I've always been. This, I've come to realize, is my personal limit of understanding abstract mathematical ideas.

At the end of the book, there is a nice little summary on the distance between algebra and the practical world:

"The very earliest algebra arose ... from practical problems of measurement, timekeeping, and land surveying.

"From the invention of modern literal symbolism in the decades around 1600 to the late 18th-century assault on the general quintic equation, the new symbolism was widely used to tackle practical problems.

"The growth of pure algebra in the 19th century, however, was so abundant that the subject raced ahead of any practical applications to dwell almost alone in a realm of perfect uselessness.

"The 20th century, for all its trend to yet higher abstraction, saw the gap close somewhat. All the new mathematical objects discovered in the 19th century have found some scientific application, if only in speculative theories."

iPhone 3G

When Apple released the original iPhone last June, I was disappointed to hear that we wouldn't be getting one in Canada. Since then, rumours had it that we'd get it at Christmas time, then spring time, but all turned out to be false. Some of the more hardcore Canadian geeks, like my friend Mel, went over to Buffalo to buy the iPhone, and then have the phone unlocked, therefrom losing the warranty. Being a conservative kind of person, I wasn't about to do that.

Now I'm rather glad at the delay because the new iPhone 3G is better and cheaper. Friday, July 11 was the release date. Some geeks camped outside Rogers and Fido stores at 2 a.m. the night before. Well, I wasn't about to do that, either. So I waited out the weekend, and ordered my 16GB White iPhone on Monday, the 14th. The Fido salesperson said that, due to high demand, the iPhone wouldn't be delivered "until August 1" -- a two-and-half-week wait. Oh well.

So imagine my surprise when a UPS guy knocked on the door yesterday (Friday, the 19th), with my shiny new iPhone. It took only four days. I'm wondering whether all this "out of stock", "high demand" talk is just hype.

I carefully unpacked My Precious and spent the next few hours setting it up. It was straightforward. I took out the SIM card from my cellphone, and inserted it into the iPhone. Syncing is done through iTunes, which is fine. I had to first export my addresses and date book from the Palm OS Desktop, and then import them into the corresponding Mac OS X programs, which are Contacts and iCal. There was a small glitch when iCal entries were synced to the iPhone Calendar due to the fact that the factory default timezone is set to US West. Once I changed my timezone to East, everything was good. Getting Wi-Fi to work was a breeze. One other crucial program I needed was SplashID, which I purchased from Apple Apps Store, installed on the iPhone and on the iMac, and synced without any problems.

Today when we were out, I tried out the iPhone Maps program which uses GPS, Wi-Fi Hotspots and cell towers to locate the current position. It worked very well. The initial triangulation process is much faster than my Garmin GPS, and the graphics much better too.

So far, the iPhone has lived up to my high expectations. I do, however, have a few small complaints.

One is that the soft-keyboard is rather small for typing with thumbs. Maybe I'll get more used to it down the road.

A more serious problem has to do with the Notes program on the iPhone -- it does not offer the sync functionality. What is the point of a PIM program that doesn't sync? Also, a todo program is missing on the iPhone. These tools are not mere bells and whistles. They are the heart and soul of a PDA. I noticed in the Apple Apps Store a slew of Todo- and Notes- clones are out there. I suppose I can always write my own.

Finally, a major grievance: where is the string search tool, like the one offered by every Palm Pilot, which allows one to search for a calendar entry or a contact by supplying a string? Without this functionality, the Calendar program is next to useless, and the Contact program a pain to use.

A Death in Vienna, by Frank Tallis

A Death in Vienna by Frank Tallis

This is a whodunit murder mystery written by a real-life psychiatrist. In the story, a detective and his doctor friend try to solve a seemingly impossible murder using psycho analysis as well as old-fashion detective methods. The story took place in Vienna in 1902, so predictably, Sigmund Freud made a few appearances.

I spent a week in Vienna in the summer of 1991, and have vivid memories of that gorgeous city. Jeff and I will be there this coming fall. That was how this Vienna-based novel caught my eye. Tallis writes in a pleasant prose; the story is absorbing; and I was happy to read about the familiar places in Vienna. However, I have never been one to have a great deal of faith in the psychiatry profession. Some of the described symptoms in the book, such as multiple personalities, repressed memories, are so passé. And am I to believe that hypnosis can be used to solve crimes? Please. Nevertheless, it was a fun read, and a harmless diversion.

Hard Rain, by Tony Hoagland

Hard Rain by Tony Hoagland

I loved the poems in What Narcissism Means to Me, Tony Hoagland's last collection of poetry. Recently, I bought his latest one, Hard Rain.

What hasn't changed is Hoagland's sharp wit, keen observation, and fearlessness. The poems in Hard Rain are as biting and dark as ever, except that, compared to those in What Narcissism Mean to Me, the language is more, hmm, profane?, and these poems have taken on a more political tone, presumably because they were written after 9/11. While reading, I was in turn laughing, fidgeting and shaking my head. Ultimately, I am deeply envious of a man who has such a way with words. Here is a snippet from the mildest of the bunch, Forty-Year Old Wine -- naturally, I'm not keen on quoting profanity here:

On tv a guy named Franklin Meriwether is opening
a bottle of two-hundred dollar, forty-year old Bordeaux
to see if it's still good.
[...]
"How much did it cost?" asks Ryan,
who just came into the room.
"Three hundred dollars," says Shiela, and Mike says, "Be quiet,"
as if there was something to hear
as the camera zooms in and we all grow silent
to watch the smallest muscles of Franklin's face
flicker with joy or disapproval
at the moment the wine steps onto his tongue
like a pilgrim entering the holy city
where the story ends
and the judgment begins.

Android SDK

Having just installed Apple's iPhone SDK, I thought I'd get Google's Android, which is "an Open Handset Alliance project" and branded to be "the first complete, open, and free mobile platform." Here is a log of what I had to do to install the Android SDK version m5-rc15 on Linux (kernel 2.6.24-19, Ubuntu Hardy 8.04).

I used the installation instructions at http://code.google.com/android/intro/installing.html as my main reference. Downloading the SDK from the Google site was a breeze. I unzipped the ZIP file into /opt, and added /opt/$AndroidDir/tools to my PATH environment variable.

First, I tried to run the Android Emulator on its own, and got a nasty error about the program not being able to read some file. It turned out that two files in /opt/$AndroidDir/tools/lib/images, system.img & userdata.img, needed to have read-access-for-others added. After that, the emulator program started successfully. (What an ugly-looking device though. Oh well, not the most important thing...)

Although an IDE is not necessary, and I personally prefer the terminal window and the command line, it's not a bad idea to have an IDE around for GUI programming. Google recommends Eclipse. Why not? I went to Ubuntu's Synaptic Package Manager, and installed Eclipse 3.2 from there. Afterwards, with some difficulty, I installed the Android Development Tools plugin in Eclipse.

Next, I created a test program by following the instructions at http://code.google.com/android/intro/hello-android.html. No problem with the files, etc., but when I tried to run the test program, I got an error in Eclipse: "Could not find /bin/HelloAndroid.apk!".

After much digging on the Net, I learnt that I must (1) install Sun's Java JDK first; and (2) install Eclipse from www.eclipse.org because the one from Ubuntu is no good. There is a nice little Howto at http://flurdy.com/docs/eclipse/install.html. Note that the part about installing Apache Tomcat can be ignored. I ended up installing Sun's Java JDK 6, and the latest version of Eclipse, Ganymede 3.4. As an aside, for some strange reason, the Eclipse installation package does not contain an icon file, so I found one on Google Images, and used it during the Ubuntu application menu setup.

After all this, I tried to run my test program HelloAndroid, again. This time, everything worked!

iPhone SDK

The iPhone will be released on July 11 in Canada. I'm getting one, of course. In the meantime, I thought I'd get the iPhone SDK first.

Downloading the latest iPhone SDK beta was straightforward. Installing the package appeared to be easy too, except that the installation program would not allow me to install the iPhone components, without which nothing works. This is because the SDK ostensibly only supports Intel-based Macs whereas mine runs on a PowerPC processor. There is no reason for the restriction from the technical angle. My only guess is that Apple wants to force people to buy new Macs.

Fortunately, clever people on the Net have discovered ways to get around this evil hurdle. Thanks to tips by Mike Rundle at http://3by9.com/85/, I was able to install the iPhone-related tools manually from the installation package. Now, all the useful things: header files, lib files, compiler, linker, the iPhone Emulator, etc., are all in place for Xcode.

Next, when I tried to compile a test program, I got this error: "No architectures to compile for (ARCHS=ppc, VALID_ARCHS=i386)." To fix this nasty bit -- another hurdle thrown at PowerPC-based Macs, I must do the following (thanks to Tom Bradford's instructions at http://www.tbradford.org/2008/03/iphone-sdk-beta-2-possible-ppc-fix.html):

- Go to /Developer/Platforms/iPhoneSimulator.platform/Developer/Library/Xcode/Specifications/.

- Find a file called "iPhone Simulator Architectures.xcspec"; make a backup of it and open the original.

- Notice in this file that the 'RealArchitectures' variable only defines i386 as a valid architecture; change that to "(i386, ppc)".

- Add the following just before the Intel section:

// G3
{ Type = Architecture;
Identifier = ppc;
Name = "Minimal (32-bit PowerPC only)";
Description = "32-bit PowerPC";
PerArchBuildSettingName = "PowerPC";
ByteOrder= big;
ListInEnum = No;
SortNumber = 201;
},

// G4
{ Type = Architecture;
Identifier = ppc7400;
Name = "PowerPC G4";
Description = "32-bit PowerPC for G4 processor";
ByteOrder= big;
ListInEnum = NO;
SortNumber = 202;
},

// G5 32-bit
{ Type = Architecture;
Identifier = ppc970;
Name = "PowerPC G5 32-bit";
Description = "32-bit PowerPC for G5 processor";
ByteOrder= big;
ListInEnum = NO;
SortNumber = 203;
},

- Restart Xcode.

Now I've got Xcode on my iMac to compile programs to run on the iPhone SDK. All I need next is an actual program that does something useful or fun!

Summer of Sports

I don't know too many people who are bigger sports fanatics than me. It's weird, I know, my being a Chinese female and all. Part of it is that I grew up with sports: my mum did gymnastics all through high school, university and grad school, I dabbled in volleyball, track and field, and shooting (not at humans) in high school, and played on the varsity tennis team in university. At IBM and Oracle, I did softball, ultimate Frisbee, volleyball, beach volleyball, and tennis. Nowadays, I stick to individual sports such as tennis, golf, and snowboarding. There is nothing special here. Loads of women, maybe even Chinese women, participate in sports, some more involved than me. However, I personally know none who loves to watch sports as much as I do. If not for live sports, I wouldn't own a TV. Baseball, tennis, basketball, golf, soccer, Formula One, hockey, football, downhill skiing, cycling, track and field, cricket, ... You name it (just don't bring up figure skating). Come Olympics time, Winter or Summer, I'm glued to the TV.

So this summer is a bonanza for a sport junkie like me. Since May, we've had Roland Garros (French Open tennis where Nadal won, again), the NBA finals, and the US Open of golf (where Tiger won, again). Currently, the European soccer championship is about to culminate in an exciting final between Germany and Spain. It was a sad day when my beloved Team Oranje lost inexplicably in the quarter-finals; they've been my team since my undergrad days. But, I'm afraid they do that every time: looking so good only to falter when it counts.

Coming up, Wimbledon is about to kick into a higher gear. Tour de France starts in early July -- if they have any riders left. My Blue Jays will continue to torment me with their lacklustre offence. And in August, of course, the biggest event of them all, the Olympics. In recent years, the trend in Olympics coverage drives me up the wall. I don't give a hoot about how some poor sod, overcoming unimaginable hardship, wins gold. Just show me the action, please! Alas, NBC or CBC -- it really doesn't matter which North American network it is -- is bent on appealing to casual fans who haven't a clue about steeple chases or luge runs. Now, I'm not a snob. Once upon a time, I was clueless too. However, I was lucky enough to be watching Chinese TV where the commentators explained things: the techniques involved in running a curve on the track, what to watch in a gymnastics or diving competition, how the different styles of high jump compare, not stories about so-and-so not having shoes as a child, or such-and-such dated everybody on her skating team. If you want mush, please tune to Desperate Housewives or The Young and the Restless. Sports is for people who only care about results!

Phew! Now I feel better. Anyway, last but not least, this time, we actually have an Olympian in the family -- the extended family anyway. My step-brother's wife (my step-sister-in-law?) is on the Canadian Olympics team. She's the reigning World Champion in her discipline, has already qualified for the Olympics, and has a great chance of making it onto the podium. Go Karen!!

Hopes and Fears, by Keane

Hopes and Fears by Keane

I bought this first album of Keane's a few weeks ago. It's pleasant enough. After listening to it a few times, I find my self humming with the music. There is nothing offensive, that's for sure. There is also nothing particularly moving, either. The lyrics are forgettable. The music seems to be lacking in some way. Is it because it's the piano, rather than the guitar, that dominants? Tom Chaplin's voice is full of emotions, but it sounds forced since I detect no emotions in the music or the lyrics. I don't hate the album by any means. I just don't love it.

Gödel, Escher, Bach: an Eternal Golden Braid, by Douglas R. Hofstadter

Gödel, Escher, Bach: an Eternal Golden Braid by Douglas R. Hofstadter

On the surface, this book contains all the topics in which I have a strong interest: mathematical logic, theories of computation, artificial intelligence, programming, music, art, etc. As an undergraduate student, some of my favourite courses were in those fields. Strangely, I found this Pulitzer Prize-winning book hard to take. I am so used to reading theorems and proofs in the form of a technical paper that I found metaphors tedious. Why not state facts in the plain and concise language of mathematics, instead of using characters and stories?

The discussions on artificial intelligence seem rather dated. The sad fact is, the whole field of AI has made very little progress in terms of algorithm design; whatever advances we have seen in the last few decades are a result of improvements in hardware. The concept of a Turing Test, which once seemed so reasonable to me, now appears so inadequate. In fact, what is the point, even, of building machines that imitate humans? What kind of humans do we try to imitate?

It turned out that my mistake was in making the assumption that Hofstadter was a computer scientist. But he's not. His interest has always been in cognitive science. Coming from that angle, one does not look at the biological or mechanical functioning of the brain, or attempt to create algorithms to imitate human thinking patterns. One studies how humans think purely in a theoretical way. No wonder nothing comes out of it -- the whole point about being human is that each one of us is utterly impossible to predict!

Hiroshige: The 53 Stations of the Tokaido

Hiroshige: The 53 Stations of the Tokaido by Muneshige Narazaki

The Tokaido is featured prominently in both of James Clavell's novels on Japan, Shogun and Gai-Jin. When Jeff and I were in the Hakone area of Japan in 2007, we had come upon a stretch of tree-lined road that was supposed to be a section of the old Tokaido. At the Edo Tokyo Museum, I had read about the extravagant daimyo processions on the Tokaido in feudal times. Countless books, poems and art work have been produced about the Tokaido, with the most famous being Hiroshige's "The 53 Stations of the Tokaido" in woodblock prints. As I have no knowledge of Japanese, these prints are the only ones that I can appreciate.

A third of the book is an introduction, with the rest being full-colour reproductions of the prints. A brief description is provided for each picture. Some of the familiar names that I encountered in Japan made me smile: Nihonbashi, Shinagawa, Odawara, Hakone, ...

While classical Japanese paintings were chiefly influenced by Tang dynasty Chinese painting techniques and subject matters, the woodblock prints of the nineteenth century were entirely original. Hiroshige's pictures leap off the pages with their vibrant colours, elegant composition, and lively human figures. The understanding of perspective being a uniquely European invention, Hiroshige's representation of buildings, trees and mountains often appears a bit awkward. However, he excelled at drawing marvellously natural, realistic, and creative human figures. Another strength of Hiroshige's was his ability to convey emotions. His pictures effortlessly exude loneliness, joy, melancholy, humour, sadness, fear, ... It is fascinating to think about the lives depicted, of that bygone era...

The distance between Tokyo and Kyoto is just over 500 kilometres. In the olden days, a trip from Edo to Kyoto on the Tokaido required two weeks on average, twice as long when the weather did not cooperate. Today, our train ride on the Shinkansen Hikari took a mere two hours and forty-five minutes without any worries about the elements. The Nozomi covers the distance in an even shorter interval of two hours and twenty minutes. Times have definitely changed.