Attention British Airways and British Airport Authority: Rant to Follow

D.C. Rush Hour is proud to introduce Dr. Lala--a good friend of mine who works for an ABC NGO and who travels. A lot.

This is her report about dealing with flight delays at Heathrow on her way back to her post in Continental Europe. Please note, as you read this, that Dr. Lala's job is to find and implement solutions to complex problems--like how to eradicate measles and improve immunization globally. In other words, she puts a lot of thought into things, and this piece is no exception.

Have you had similar experiences? If you have, you should know that more and more airlines monitor blogs, especially those written by travelers, and many of them respond to complaints they read in the blogosphere.

So, without further ado, here is Dr. Lala and her report to British Airways and the British Airports Authority.

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As a (very) frequent traveller, it was inevitable that one day I would get caught up in an incident of some sort. At least it's not of my own making, this time (knock wood... although I'm still missing one of my bags after 5 days, but I'm having trouble seeing how Ouidad hair products, cheesy Utah DVDs, and my dirty laundry could have been the cause of a security threat... of course, the bag smells a bit musty, but really?)

I'll start with the good news first: my BA flight from LAX to LHR (Heathrow) was delayed by two hours, which meant that I'd been moved from flight BA 730 to BA 732 out of Heathrow. Why is this good news? Well, the unfortunate souls "lucky" enough to board BA 730 apparently also got to spend a happy 8 hours sitting on the tarmac in Heathrow, before being unloaded off the plane (presumably, to, like the rest of us, fend for themselves in finding food, shelter, and toilets, before being able to get out either via Gatwick or the Eurostar... or, if brave and/or stupid, via Heathrow the next day).

I fared better (since, eventually, I got home a mere 12 hours later than planned). I had just comfortably ensconsed myself in the BA Terminal 4 lounge (after enduring Heathrow's ridiculous security procedures, re-screening passengers who had just gotten off of arriving flights - procedures which, by the way, for the 100th time since 9-11, did not catch the pen-knife in my ONE measly carry-on bag, but did gripe over the three tiny tubes of liquids I had leftover from my long-haul amenities kit) when the announcement came over the PA to evacuate Terminal 4. Nobody seemed to be in a huge rush, so I (I note with self-congratulatory smugness) used the potty, grabbed a few diet cokes, and calmy made my way into the main terminal... to discover the most horrible bottlenecked traffic jam ever seen.

At this point in my diatribe/monologue/lecture, I will start to point out the first of the many flaws in the British Airport Authority's (BAA, to be carefully distinguished from BA, which is British Airways) grandiose evacuation plans.

FLAW #1: If you are going to evacuate an airport, you've got to have more than one way out. Otherwise, lock people down where they are (at gates, in lounges, etc) and take them out in a systematic fashion. But crowds milling around, pushing and shoving to get through the funnel... it's not pretty. It leaves everybody unhappy and stressed out. EVERYBODY. And think about the poor people with kids, who were having trouble not LOSING their kids in the pressured mass of humanity.

FLAW #2: Um, you know that people in Terminal 4 haven't been through Immigration, right, since it's a transit terminal for international flights? You do remember this? So letting all these people just loose in the parking lot...where many of them made their way, no questions asked, to the trains, easily paying cash for a ticket to Central London, with no records of their ever having entered the UK? I'm just sayin'... if I were a terrorist mastermind (which I am not), and I wanted to get a bunch of my people into the UK without any records, lesson learned - just have one of them drop a bag somewhere in Terminal 4 and watch the chaos ensue.

Now, we all figured out that they were possibly looking for somebody as we exited... the funnel approach to the exit, plus the fact that you had to walk a gauntlet of 15 security guys with machine guns to get out who all gave you "the stare", and that they let us out in small groups of 20 so they could peer more intensely, was a giveaway. You'd think they might've checked boarding passes and passports as we left...but no. Didn't happen.

So then, there you are, outside. And they are trying (with very limited staff) to herd everybody onto the 4-story parking structure. The 4-story, unsecured parking structure. The 4-story, unsecured parking structure, that we don't know if it can take all that weight. Good plan!

FLAW #3: So, again, let's pretend I'm a terrorist mastermind. (I'M NOT, OK?). Hmmm... not only have I managed to disrupt air traffic across Europe (actually, probably worldwide), but now, the authorities have (MWA-HA-HA-HA-HA) nicely herded the thousands of people scattered over the W-I-D-E expanse of the 25 gates at Terminal 4 (it can take 30 minutes to get from one of that terminal to the other), into a 4-story structure that has the footprint of a football stadium. And has no security. So all my victims are nicely positioned for the BIG car bomb that can be set off by remote control (as opposed to a little tiny thing I might be able to get into a bag and sneak past airport authorities but probably can't get too far away from). Nice. Really Nice. Thanks guys!

(Needless to say, I kind of stayed on the airport side of the bridge of the parking structure for quite some time, to see if my theory was going to play out. I was aware, however, that I'm probably several IQ points ahead of the average terrorist, and they might not have plotted
this one out).

So everybody's milling around outside Terminal 4 at the Departures level. Nobody is saying anything. At some point, they start forcing everybody who wasn't already on the parking structure over there. They call back the flight crews. It starts to rain. People are getting tired/thirsty/hungry/wet/needing toilets. They hand out (some) plastic rain covers (but I never got one...I just saw other people with them). It starts to hail. They announce that everybody should head for level 3 of the parking (which is covered) but provide no instructions on HOW THE HELL TO GET DOWN TO LEVEL THREE. (It wasn't obvious, especially since the line for the stairs and elevators was clearly at least 45 minutes long).

FLAW #4: If you are going to consider evacuating the airport a valid control measure, HAVE A PLAN, PEOPLE. It was abundantly clear there was none. There were no megaphones; no real attempts to get people information. Total lack of coordination! And it would be SO EASY!!!

Let me explain: (1) Have a box outside the airport with megaphones and whiteboards and sticks in it, plus walkie-talkies. (Markers, too, since I need to be explicit here). (2) Have all airport and flight crews automatically report to the location of the box in the event of an evacuation. (3) Use the staff, the whiteboards, the megaphones, to organize the evacuated passengers by flight and/or destination. This has several merits: (a) people are less likely to be anxious if they feel some semblance of a plan and that somebody is thinking; (b) when you have to start bringing passengers back in, you can bring them in by flights and get planes off the ground faster instead of having to wait for all the passengers to get back inside...plus, you'll know who has given up because they can tell their group leader, so the flights don't have to wait for them; (c) If (as was the case on 3 July) a decision is made, even before re-opening the airport to cancel flights, the passengers can be informed as soon as possible, and taken over to other terminals at Heathrow to make alternate arrangements, reducing the strain on the (limited) remaining services at Terminal 4. But all of this is apparently too logical for BA or BAA.

Because what happened to me? Well, during the hailstorm, I made my way over to the third floor. From the view that I ended up with, I realized (they had not told us this) that Arrivals was still open. So I made my way down there, waded through the morass of people, found the BA Arrivals lounge (closed, of course, because the BA lounge staff from the Departures level of course, would not think that maybe they should open it up??? Hello?), but also found a plug... where I was able to charge my cell phone... and called the BA Service Center in Switzerland. Where, they were able to tell me that they had known - for hours already - that all European flights in or out of Terminal 4 were cancelled. (This, they told me at the same time that the PA systems was announcing that they were still securing the Departures level and that passengers would be informed about their flight status only AFTER that was completed. Can we say "lying through your teeth?"). I got rebooked out of Gatwick - I had to take the train to Terminal 3 and shell out $40 for a bus ticket over to Gatwick, but I eventually got there.

The flight from Gatwick to Continental Europe was late, and there was no meal service (they had to hurry to make it to my European city before the airport there closed for the night). I got there, and filed my bag claim. That was Tuesday. One of my bags made it home by Wednesday
night, but they never told me ("Airport policy is to not contact the passenger until ALL bags have arrived"). I finally called Saturday and found out my one bag was there (a bit pilfered!) and went to retrieve it. Bag #2 is apparently somewhere at Heathrow, and they cannot tell me when to expect if (if ever).

So what's the moral of my lessons?

(1) THERE IS NO PLAN. The airports have no idea what to do in a real emergency.

(2) If you have to transit through Heathrow, bring warm clothes, food, socks, a charged cell phone, and the phone numbers of your travel agent and the airline service centers.

Oh, and you wanted to know what caused all this hubbub? I don't really know. While at the airport, I heard different stories - one is that a guy ran off with his bag at security control, when they wanted to search it, and it took a while for the (intimidated) guard to inform a supervisor, and by then the guy was loose in the airport (and may have boarded a flight). A second story is that somebody dropped a bag somewhere in Terminal 4 and they wanted to find the guy (this doesn't entirely wash... shutting down an entire Terminal because of a suspect bag? Just take the bag and blow the thing up). A third story is that there was a bomb (again, unbelievable... they would've evacuated people much faster).

The real story? We probably won't ever know. My personal opinion? The whole thing happened because of poorly trained, poorly educated security staff, and a lack of a plan for how to deal with incidents. Ultimately, people's characters are far more important than what they managed to have with them in their bags. Haven't any of these guys ever watched MacGyver?

Sunday Morning Sighting

So this morning, I went out to the C&O Canal to walk. I usually park at Angler's Inn and then head up the trail toward the Great Falls Visitor's Center. On my way back to the parking lot near the inn, I passed this couple heading in the opposite direction. Can you guess who the man is?

None other than ousted World Bank President, Paul Wolfowitz. And the woman he was with definitely did not look like his girlfriend--the one who was part of the controversy that resulted in his dismissal.

I would have done a U-turn and run ahead to take a picture of him full on (if he was someone worth fawning over), but when you're on a tranquil path like the C&O, you don't expect to see celebrities like this. And, I didn't want to appear to be gushing, especially since I group him in with Donald Rumsfeld and Dick Cheney as three of the worst war criminals and violators of human rights our country has ever seen.

Oh, by the way, this isn't the first time I've seen Wolfowitz. I saw him once in Gettysburg, PA, too.

One Happy Meal for The Queen, Please

As many of your may know, Her Majesty, the Queen of England, was in town this week. It's been a flurry of fanfare and formality all over the place.

She's been from Jamestown in the Commonwealth of Virginia to NASA's Goddard Space Flight Center in the State of Maryland. In between, there's been a derby, a white-tie state dinner, a garden reception, and an embassy fête, as well as a wreath-laying at the World War II Memorial. (P.S. Is it just me or does the jacket on the First Lady's exclusive de la Renta gown make her look like she has post-menopausal, droopy boobs? Did she forget to wear a bra Monday evening?)

At most of the events, her hosts have fed her. And fed her artfully and well. Of course, this only seems proper. I mean, it is the Queen of England. This isn't your garden variety diplomatic visit we're talking about here. The food must be, well, fit for a queen.

Now don't misunderstand. I enjoy a lovely, high-brow meal along with the rest of gourmand America. I've even been known to try my hand a time or two at crafting a pièce de résistance of my own (I'm still trying.) But it was the artfulness of the food served at a reception hosted by Governor Tim Kaine (D-VA) in Richmond that takes the cake. Prepared by Chef Patrick O'Connell of the Inn at Little Washington, the food described seemed so high brow that the brows of the truly high brow likely registered off their foreheads, it was beyond hoity toity.

Which then made me wonder...

Does the Queen retire in the evening and wish for a simple burger from room service?

Or maybe a nice dish of basic vanilla ice cream with maybe a standard fudge sauce on the side?

Perhaps she gets to the end of these trips and dreams of beans and toast?

Because, truly, there's only so much rich, artful food a soul can eat before ones insides would start to feel schlampig. (That's German for messy, by the way.)

What they should have served the Queen was some good ol' comfort food. If the Queen had visited my house, I would have made PB&J with a side of potato chips and a tall glass of whole milk.

Of course, I wouldn't have called it that. It would have been something like this.

Groundnut Legumes
with Confit of Early Spring Raspberries
on Brioche Platters

Delicate Crisps of Solanum Tuberosum
Seasoned with Hints of Cape Hatteras Sea-salt

Free-range Milk of Domesticated Bovinae

Now what's high-brow about that?


Photo copyrights: The Washington Post (Camera Works), The Washington Post (Style section), and FotoStock.com.

Smoke Hallmark

You know Hallmark Cards, right? When You Care Enough to Send the Very Best?? The folks who've brought us Valentine's Day and National Adminstrative Professionals Day and Belly-Button Lint Collection Day in all its commercial, card-saturated glory? Well, I was on their site today looking for an appropriate e-Card to send my sister for her birthday, since I couldn't find an appropriate print card. (It has to be a fine balance of sentiment and humor. None of that schmarmy, sacchriny stuff for us, folks. And nothing too toilet. This year's selection of cards at the store were disappointing. Crass and crude, to be precise. Only funny as you read them, but then immediately followed by an "Oh my gosh. I can't send that.")

While I was on the U.S. site, I noticed a link for Hallmark UK and figured I'd poke around, since American sentiment and humor can be quite different from British sentiment and humor.

This is what the Hallmark (U.S.) site looks like. You'll notice the navbar on the left that let's you select from a variety of cards.


The one category that is so American is the "Support Our Troops" card selection. Nothing wrong with that. Just sayin'.... Sort of. I'm about to set up a compare and contrast here.


On the other side of the pond is the Hallmark UK site. It looks like this.

Again, you'll notice on the left a navbar that provides a selection of e-card options. But here's where the U.K. site and the U.S. site are so very different.

Only anywhere but the U.S. would you be able to find a card that congratulates and encourages your closest friends and family members in their efforts to quit smoking!

And this is why I love the Brits! We suppose ourselves to be too polite for such things over here. Over here, we talk behind people's backs.

"Did you notice that Nicole is giving up smoking?"

"No? Really?"

"Yes. Isn't it wonderful? I mean, it's just such a disgusting habit. Of course, don't get me wrong. It's her right to smoke, but still...."

Over there, they just come right out with it.

"Oy, matey! 'Bout time ya gave up that bloody, stinkin' 'abit. 'Ere, 'ave a pint!"

"Tanks, mate."

Ah, Hallmark.

Ocean, Ocean, Ocean

Mendocino Coast, Mendocino County

One of the things I really, really, really miss about California is the ocean. The sound of the waves crashing on the shore, the wind blowing through my hair, the feel of sand between my toes, the sunsets, tide pooling... There's something healing and rejuvenating about the ocean. It's the one place I've found that is consistently capable of clearing the cobwebs out of my mind and restoring a sense of calm and serenity such that I can make it for days and weeks without overly stressing or feeling overwhelmed.

When I lived in the Golden State, I lived about an hour from the beach--depending on which beach I'd choose and what time of day or day of the week I'd go. Some of my favorite beaches in California are Stinson, Limontour, Glass, Pismo, Morro Rock, San Gregorio, Patrick's Point, Trinidad, and Bean Hollow.

Stinson is the beach my dad always use to take us to when we were little kids and we'd go to visit his parents. We only went three or four times when I was a kid, but it was enough to get the ocean under my skin. Limantour is a lovely stretch of beach in Peyes Reyes National Seashore that is reminiscent of Dover, England.

I can't remember the name of this specific beach,
but it's just around the bend from Glass Beach, Fort Bragg, Mendocino County

If you like seaglass, Glass Beach is your best bet. It's in the old logging town of Fort Bragg, about four hours north of San Francisco and just above the picturesque town of Mendocino. You can cull glass off the shore of what was once the city dump. Believe it or not, there was a less enlightened time when municipalities would actually drive their trash trucks to the edge of the ocean and just dump the garbage!

Morro Bay with Morro Rock in the background, San Luis Obispo County

Pismo Beach is down on the central coast near San Luis Obispo, about three hours north of Santa Barbara. Morro Rock, just north of Pismo and right outside SLO, is a lovely outcropping that is stunning. The only blight on Morro is PG&E built a power station right in front of it, so it's impossible to take an unobstructed photo of it from the east looking west. Still, it's a pretty cool spot!

Bean Hollow, just below Pescadero, San Mateo County

San Gregorio and Bean Hollow are both just below Half Moon Bay. Patrick's Point and Trinidad are up in Humboldt County in what is truly northern California. In addition to the spectacular beaches, you can see some pretty stunning redwoods.

Trinidad State Beach, Trinidad, Humboldt County

All that to say, the beach and the ocean are it for me. It's one of the things about living in D.C. that has been hard, because getting to any beach around these parts isn't a cake walk, it's a death march. And the beaches on the East Coast--at least the ones I been to between Delaware and Florida--are only worth visiting in the off-season. During the season, they're nothing but wall-to-wall bodies of folks who obviously don't give a flip about the health and welfare of their epidermal layers. There's nothing quite as unattractive as 70 year-old men and women in leather skin, thongs and/or Speedos, walking up and down the beach. There's not much that's attractive about 20 or 30 somethings in similar scanty attire either, for that matter. Ick! Just ick.

Serenisea, not far from the Gualala River, Mendocino County

A beach is a beach, I suppose, and I shouldn't complain too much. Still, I try not to go in the summer. Case in point, I was just in Rehoboth Beach, Delaware, this weekend and, despite the inclement weather, managed to get in a couple of hours on the sand, hunting for agates and seashells. I stupidly forgot my sunscreen and managed to get a little sunburn on my face. Dumb, dumb, dumb. But, I had a grand and glorious time! The cobwebs have been dusted out of my brain and I'm good to go for a few weeks. What I'll do after that, who knows?

Meanwhile, here's a postcard from Rehoboth. It's a picture of a coastal defense tower from World War II.



And here's someone's YouTube video with the sights and sounds of the ocean on some beach in Hawaii.

Photo copyrights: Janet Kincaid, 2003, 2004, 2005, 2006

Video: Courtesy of YouTube

When Bloggers Meet

Tuesday evening, after work, I zipped over to Woodley Park to meet up with Sideon—a fellow blogger from the Bloggernacle. This was, once again, a meeting of two total strangers who knew nothing more about each other than what we’ve read on one another’s blogs. And yet, I felt like I was meeting an old friend!

First of all, let me say, if you ever have a chance to meet Sideon, run! Don’t walk. Aside from my dad, my brother, the Gunfighter, the Legislative Fellow, and my grad school advisor, I don’t think I’ve ever met a nicer guy. And funny! At one point, I was in peril of choking on my pad thai, I was laughing so hard. (More on the pad thai in a moment.)

Sideon was in town for a conference. When he's not traveling to conferences and giving kick ass presentations—as apparently he did this week at said conference he was in town for—he lives in the Bay Area. Of course, whenever I meet people who smartly stay there, I get a little weepy and nostalgic. Again I ask myself, what was I THINKING!?!?!!! But I digress, as usual.

We talked about restaurants in the Bay Area—the great Thai place he goes to in Concord, the fabulous creperie in San Francisco I recommend to everyone. (Sideon: You really must go there. Must! Must! Must! Order “The Tod” for dessert. It’s the crepe with the apples and caramel. I prefer the “La Delice,” but The Tod is nice, too.) We discussed where we’d grown up (surprising, not all that far from each other in Utah. And we graduated high school the same year. Go Class of ’86!) We waxed enthusiastic about one of our most favoritest bloggers, Sister Mary Lisa, and the brilliant things she writes. We talked about jobs and real estate. And we ate.

Bottom line: It was a lovely evening spent with a lovely person who also pays the nicest compliments. (He said I was a “kind writer.” I’m still pondering that. And thank you again, Sideon, for the compliment.)

Oh, and about the food. We ate at a fabulous little Thai restaurant that opened in my old neighborhood about two years ago. It’s called Rice and is tucked in next to a new bank of condos and a shop called 100% Made in Mexico on 14th Street between R and Q Streets. It is, in a word, divine. We had the chicken satay, pad thai, sautéed beef in green tea, and crispy tofu with mushrooms and ginger sauce. That last dish was new for me and its best feature was the tempura ginger. Amazing!

I love meeting new people and Sideon was no exception. Thanks again for dinner, Sid! Come back anytime and let me know when you get to Ti Couz!

Photo copyright: Fog Bay, "Golden Gate Morning."

For Want of a Bagel

This week, the Boss Lady asked me to do some research on bagel bakeries and whether they would deliver to our offices. Most of the bagel purveyors she wanted me to look into were featured in a WaPo article a while ago. So, I let my fingers do the walking and called up the three she was most interested in. One was in D.C. up near Union Station and the other two were in Rockville. None of them, it turns out, deliver.

Disappointed, I then asked Boss Lady how often she wanted bagels in the office and proposed that perhaps one of us could run up to Union Station a couple of times a week to haul some in. (I'll tell you her response in a moment.) So, why do I tell you all this? For one simple reason only: I am baffled that in a city addicted to coffee and carbs and frantic energy, there are no... none... nada... bagel franchises to be found in this entire city.

I know, I know. There's Au Bon Pain, but it's not strictly a bagel shop. And yes, there's Einsteins, but they're in the suburbs. Of course, you can find a bagel at McDonald's if you're willing to eat it with preformed eggs, ham, and cheese. Or, the little local delis and markets sometimes have them. But I'm not interested in any of those. I'm talking about a genuine, all-we-do-is-bagels bagel shop.

When I lived and worked in the Bay Area, they were as ubiquitous as Peet's Coffee shops. At least once a week, we had bagels from Noah's. How is it that there isn't something like that in this city?

Getting back to the Boss Lady, though. When I asked how often she'd like bagels in the office and if one of us should make a run for them, she e-mailed me back and said, "This isn't a bagel office. I just wanted them once. No need to do anything else with this. Thanks."

Sheesh. Here I thought it was something and now all I have in my head are thoughts of bagels.

I want a bagel, dammit!

Bagel and lox. BLT on a cinnamon raisin. Sea salt and butter. Asiago cheese... Bagels, oh, bagels, wherefore art thou?

"Switzerland Does Not Have An Army..."

"...Switzerland is an army." So says a Swiss army officer assigned to accompany American writer John McPhee as he travels around Switzerland on manuevers with the country's civilian military.

Lying in the depths of the Alps, Switzerland is Europe's bastion of neutrality and quirks. Known for its watches, banks, chocolate, pristine cities and landscapes, cow bells, yodelers, cuckoo clocks, and the Papal Swiss Guard, Helvetia is no larger than the U.S. state of New Jersey in both square miles and population. Nestled high in the alpine mountain ranges that stretch from France to Austria, Switzerland lies snuggly between France to the west, Germany to the north, Austria to the east, and Italy to the south. Divided into cantons, Switzerland is a multi-lingual confederation with four official languages: French, German, Italian, and Romansch (a mish-mash of French, Italian, Spanish, and Catalan.)

Switzerland is defended by a professional and civilian militia composed of little more than 650,000 citizen soldiers. The Swiss Army, most famous for its iconic little red, utilitarian knife, is able to mobilize in less than 48 hours and lockdown Switzerland into an impregnable fortress, should any nation be foolhardy enough to invade it. These are no weekend warriors, either. Every soldier participates in maneuvers several times a year and their employers not only support their military activities, they structure their civilian, private sector to mirror the military establishment. Rank in the army equals rank in Swiss society, particularly in the professional arena. High-ranking Swiss Army officers can be found in the executive suites of some of Switzerland's largest companies.

McPhee is paired up with Luc Massy, a vintner from the Canton de Vaud and patrol leader of a Section de Renseignements, as he ventures around Switzerland on patrol, observing military manuevers. He describes his journeys around the alpine nation in his book La Place de la Concorde Suisse. McPhee describes hidden entrances and doors that open in the sides of otherwise normal looking rock faces, only to reveal hidden fighter jets and artillery, which can be rapidly brought to bear against invaders. He notes the explosives carefully embedded, catalogued, and maintained in bridges over the Rhone River--all for the purpose of destroying the bridges and cutting off access to key segments of Switzerland. McPhee also describes Switzerland's vulnerabilities and the difficulty of defending the flat lands, which includes one of the country's largest cities, Basel.

In a surreal picture, McPhee takes us on manuevers in the villages and alp valleys where the town's citizens are nonplussed by the presence of soldiers with backpacks and automatic weapons marching in formation through town and up into the hills and mountains surrounding their villages. With a precision only the Swiss possess, these citizen soldiers map out every square inch of Switzerland, leaving no stone unturned or indefensible. On the side, McPhee also discusses the Swiss Army's contributions to the mercenary armies of Europe--most notably the French Foreign Legion and the Papal Swiss Guard.

I picked up La Place de la Concorde Suisse after reading Rising from the Plains because I was fascinated by the topic and wanted a glance into the precise psyche that are the Swiss. Plus, as an undergrad, I spent a semester studying Swiss literature and Swiss neutrality, of which the latter remains of particular interest. La Place de la Concorde Suisse was not as well-written as Rising from the Plains, but it was good enough and out of the ordinary such that it held my attention for its entire 150 pages. That said, if you'd like a unique look at Swiss culture, this is a good book for that.

Out of five stars, I give this one a three and a half.


Photos: Dustcover for La Place de la Concorde Suisse; John McPhee; The Swiss Guard; postage stamp commemorating the 500th anniversary of the Papal Swiss Guard.

Photo and/or illustration copyrights: Farrar, Strauss & Giroux; Peter Cook; The Holy See; Swiss Post.

Plain Talking

Devil's Tower National Monument, Wyoming

One of the general ed requirements for a bachelor of arts degree from George Mason University—and probably at all universities that offer liberal arts degrees, for that matter—is six units of science. When I was an undergraduate at GMU, I chose geology for my science credits. Mostly I chose it because I was in my senior year and everyone I asked said, of all the sciences, it and astronomy were the “easiest.” I confess: I chose easy over whoppingly difficult because I was in the midst of applying to graduate schools and I didn’t want to mess around with my GPA by bombing quantam physics and chaos theory. So, geology it was.

Despite my less-than-noble reasons for my choice, I fell in love with this field of science pretty quickly. Another confession, though: In my rush to graduate, I only gave it cursory time and attention. Still, it fascinated me then and I remain so today.

As a result, reading about geology—the building blocks of our planet—and Earth’s constantly changing heights and depths continues to hold my interest. I love me a good piece of folded and tilted rock or a lovely piece of schist. I marvel at marble and gravitate to granite. I thrill at finding outcrops and love to look at the sedimentary layers, as well as the water and wind erosion patterns, in sandstone. Diamonds may be most girls’ best friend, but I’m just as happy with the exoskeleton of some coral-based sea creature.

This is why when my friends, The Legislative Fellow and The MIG, recommended the writings of John McPhee, I ran right out to Amazon and bought McPhee’s Rising from the Plains (as well as a half dozen of his other books. Stay tuned to this spot for reviews of his writings on the Swiss Army, the U.S. Interstate System, U.S. commerce and its methods of transportation, Alaska, and California.)

My interest in this particular McPhee was twofold. First, it is about Wyoming, which is where my mother was born and raised and where my late grandparents lived for 60 years. It is where I spent a good chunk of my youth, including two weeks during the summer when I was 12. Second, Rising from the Plains is about geology.

Published in 1986 (the year I graduated from high school)—Rising from the Plains chronicles essayist John McPhee’s journey across the Equality State as he pairs up with preeminent geologist David Love. Dr. Love, the grandnephew of conservationist John Muir, was the last of a dying breed of geologic scientists. Simply put, Love was a field geologist. While many geologists today rely on high tech gadgetry to identify seismic instabilities, plumb oil beds, or locate stable bedrock, Love actually went out in the field and dug around—often sleeping under the stars without a tent or other standard provisions.

In the western outskirts of Rawlins, David Love pulled over onto the shoulder of the interstate, the better to fix the scene, although his purpose in doing so was not at all apparent…. So why was…Love, who had the geologic map of Wyoming in his head, stopping here?

The rock that outcropped around Rawlins, said Love, contained a greater spread of time than any other suite of exposed rocks along Interstate 80 between New York and San Francisco. We were looking at many moments in well over half the existence of the earth, and we were seeing—as it happened—a good deal more than one sees in the walls of the Grand Canyon. (p. 21)

If you’ve ever been to Rawlins, Wyoming—and I have—it looks like one more dust-bitten, sandstone-landscaped, sagebrush-infested, dead desert. But McPhee challenges us to wipe the dust from our shallow eyes and look deeper. What we are looking at, though hard to believe, are the beginnings of the North American continents. Realizing this, suddenly Rawlins doesn’t look as dumpy and godforsaken after all. Here, perhaps, is the primordial Eden before Eden was Eden and before Adam and his progenitors started pounding sand and digging up the land for railroad rights-of-way, oil and natural gas exploration, coal mining, and trona (the stuff from which baking soda is made.)

Love is, as McPhee portrays him, a simple man with more than an ounce of Wyoming horse sense running through his veins. He knows Wyoming like the back of his hand and McPhee mines his knowledge in a manner that brings this science down to earth for readers, pun intended. At the same time, mirroring the sandstone and granite layers that cover Wyoming, McPhee beautifully spins and layers the history of Love and his ancestors, who came to Wyoming when it was being settled by only the hardiest of souls, including his father, John Love, the son of Scottish emigrants and a rancher, and his mother, Ethel Waxman, a graduate of Bryn Mawr and a school teacher.

If you enjoy geology or if you’ve brushed off southern Wyoming as uninteresting, McPhee’s Rising from the Plains will change your perspective entirely. At the very least, you’ll learn a lot about geologists and what makes these erudite rockhounds tick.

Geologists tend to have been strongly influenced by the rocks among which they grew up…. Structural geology…has traditionally been dominated by the Swiss, …wizards of sedimentology tend to be Dutch, …Cincinnati has produced an amazingly long list of American paleontologists…[and] Houston—the capital city of the oil geologists—is a hundred and fifty miles from the first place you can hit a hammer on a rock. Houston geologists come from somewhere else… (pp. 24-25)

I thoroughly enjoyed this book and came away with a new appreciation for Wyoming and its place in the geologic life of our earth and this continent. It made me want to get in my car, drive to Wyoming, seek out Love's son—a geologist and professor at Western Wyoming Community College—and spend a week seeing the real Wyoming.

Out of five stars, I give Rising from the Plains four and a half.

McPhee, John, Rising from the Plains, Farrar, Strauss & Giroux, New York, 1986,

More information about David Love:

High Country News
Geotimes (Feature Article)
Geotimes (In Memoriam)

Photos: Devil's Tower National Monument (top), dustcover for Rising from the Plains (center), David Love (1914-2002; bottom.)

Photo copyrights: TerraGalleria, Farrar, Strauss & Giroux, Geotimes.

D.C. Crime Victim

Those were the words I read the other day on a button pinned to the lapel of a man’s coat. He was on Metro and got off at the same stop I did. His button gave me pause for thought and left me feeling incredulous. On the one hand, I know what it’s like to be a victim of crime. On the other hand, I choose not to be a victim.

In 2002, I had my car stolen. Crime is never a fun experience to deal with. First, there’s the disbelief that something like this could happen to you. You think, “Maybe this isn’t happening…” In my case, I thought, “Maybe I didn’t park my car where I thought I did…” I looked up and down the street, hoping it would be in a space I hadn’t remembered parking it in. But alas, no.

After you’ve realized things aren’t right, you feel a sense of shock and wonderment. Tired, sound bite clichés immediately come to mind and usually start with “This kind of thing doesn’t happen…” But it does. And it happens to all kinds of people in all kinds of places, regardless of demographics. No one is immune.

Once you get over your cliché, you call the police and deal with the endless questions. At some point, the cop or detective is going to ask you about your involvement in the crime, if you’ve had any. As if having your property or person violated isn’t enough, now the cop—albeit doing his job and eliminating suspects—contributes to your sense of victimization by implying that you might be a criminal.

The rigamarole goes on… And it consumes a large portion of your time. Phone calls to your insurance company and your bank. Distractions at work as you deal with details during regular business hours. Juggling how you’re going to get on with the little things in life. In my case, it affected my ability to get around in a reasonable manner. It short, crime is a pain in the ass.

While I empathize with the buttoned gentleman, I wondered at his choice to advertise his plight. On one level, I understand that crime is traumatic and you want people to know you’ve been victimized. The reality is, you’ve been robbed of your voice or your dignity and you want to get that back. On the other hand, by wearing a button that declares your victimhood, it seems you’re declaring that you are still victimized. In other words, you’re choosing to remain a victim.

I don’t want to paint too broad a stroke here and say that people who have had crimes perpetrated against them should just get over it and move on. It’s one thing to have your car stolen; it’s fairly easy to get over that. It’s just a thing. And no one was hurt or killed in the process of it being stolen, at least to the best of my knowledge in my specific case. Hopefully, no one was victimized, hurt, or killed while the thieves were in possession of my car either. More than likely, the person who stole my car felt they needed it more than I did. But, it’s another thing entirely to have a loved one murdered, raped, mugged, or assaulted in any manner that violates and robs them of their humanity, and possibly their very life.

I could see where it would be easy to stay in that victim role after something like that. I don’t know what crime this man experienced. And yet, I feel sorry for him. I feel sorry that he feels he has to self-identify as a victim. I’m sorry that injustice leave us feeling like victims. I’m especially sorry that crime disenfranchises us and often favors the criminal, leaving those in their wake with little recourse and a sense of powerlessness.

They say crime doesn't pay, but when you're one who's on the other end of that crime, it sure feels like you got the raw end of the deal, no matter how you slice it.

Photo copyright: iStock Photos.

Luxembourg and Liechtenstein

Luxembourg, Luxembourg

An earlier entry today featured a quiz about the European duchy of Luxembourg. I asked three questions:

1. Name the three countries what border Luxembourg.
   
2. Name the official languages of this country.
   
3. Name the capital.

Some of you who left answers in the comments section were partially right, but no one scored 100 percent on this. (And, in truth, I had to look up the answers at Wikipedia. Had I taken this quiz, I would have scored pitifully. Which is embarrassing, because I use to know all the countries in Europe, along with which countries border which and what their capitals are.)

Here, for your quiz-checking pleasure, are the answers for the Grand Duchy of Luxembourg:

1. Luxembourg is bordered by Germany, France, and Belgium.
2. The official languages are German, French, and Luxembourgish.
3. The capital is Luxembourg.

For the fun of it, I also pulled up information about Liechtenstein. This country is sandwiched between Switzerland to the west and Austria to the east. Its official language is German and the capital is Vaduz. Like Luxembourg, it is the only other German-speaking country with a monarchy as head of state. Where Luxembourg is a Grand Duchy, Liechtenstein is a principality, like Monaco.

More information on Luxembourg and Liechtenstein can be found by clicking on each respective country.

Vaduz, Liechtenstein

Briefmarken

I’m not a philatelist, but I wrote about Austria yesterday and it reminded me of their postage stamps, or Briefmarken. Unlike American stamps, which are dull and flat, Austrian stamps are textured and the majority are printed using rotogravure. The result is a stamp that looks and feels like our currency and that has details that are exquisite. I’ve received letters from many different countries in my life, but none have stamps as beautiful as the Austrians. At least, in my humble opinion anyway. Here are a couple of examples.


This one commemorates Austrian snowplow drivers who keep the Alpine passes and roads cleared in wintertime. This mark was printed in 1964.


A good example of the detail that goes into Austria's stamps. This mark is from 1933.


Here's one that has a more contemporary theme: the commemoration of an electrical plant just outside Vienna in the suburb of Schwechat, which is also where the airport is located.


Here's one that's more whimsical and modern. It was issued to celebrate Postage Stamp Day in 1990.


And finally, what would Austrian philately be without a stamp of Austria's own native son, the Guvenator of Kahleefornya--Arnold Schwarzenegger.

The Mystery of the Seven Hour Meters

I have solved the mystery of the seven hour meters and I understand why I have no tickets when I return to my car in the Metro parking lot at the People’s Republic of Takoma Park Metro Station.

From 8:30 a.m. to 3:30 p.m., the meters have to be fed. If you park and don’t feed quarters to the meter, you get a ticket. Between the hours of 3:30 p.m. and 7:30 p.m., the meters are free. After 7:30 p.m. until 2:30 a.m., the spaces are again metered. And from 2:30 a.m. to 8:30 a.m., they are again free.

I think that’s just about the most bizarre set of parking meters I’ve ever seen, but so be it. I wonder if other lots in the Metro system have similar set ups?

Either way, mystery solved. Case closed.

Das Schmeckt!

If you’ve ever lived in a foreign country, you develop a taste for the cuisine of your adopted land. And, if you really love the place you’re living, you try to learn how to cook some of the signature dishes of that country. Such is the case for me.

Back in the late 80s/early 90s, I lived in Austria for a year and a half. For those not familiar with Austria, it lies at the crossroads of East and West. It is bordered in the northeastern and eastern quadrants by the former Communist enclaves of Hungary and then-Czechoslovakia (now two countries: The Czech Republic and Slovakia.) To the north, it shares a border with Germany. In the west, it is bounded by Switzerland and Liechtenstein. The south includes Italy and what was Yugoslavia, but is now Slovenia.

When I lived there, it was a broadly historic time in Europe with enormous political unrest. Communism was disintegrating all across the Eastern Bloc and, in December 1989, the wall in Berlin that stood as a literal, physical symbol of the divide between East and West came tumbling down. Austria became a way station for immigrants pouring out of eastern Europe and heading to new lives in western Europe, Canada, America, and Australia. In addition to Austrians, I met and became friends with Czechs, Hungarians, Poles, Romanians, Slovenians, Albanians, and Serbo-Croatians.

With a population of just over 8 million people, Austria is a tiny country when compared to its Germanic sister state, The Federal Republic of Germany (pop. 82 million.) The Democratic Republic of Austria is divided into nine provinces, or Bundesländer, and each has a unique history, cultural flavor, and dialect. German is the official language and has a lilting, melodic quality that their neighbors to the north lack.

When you return to your homeland, there are certain smells and flavors that you miss from your adopted country. In my case, it’s things like chocolates, sausages, breads, cheeses, and jams that surpassed the simple rating “good.” Even the lowest end chocolate in Austria is better than the highest end chocolate in America.

One of the gems in the D.C. area is a little shop in Falls Church, Virginia, called the German Gourmet Deli. Located just south of Route 7 on Route 29/Lee Highway, the German Deli stocks every thing from Hausgemacht Bratwurst and Bauernwurst, beef tongue and German bologna, Ritter and Milka chocolate, Knorr gravy and soup mixes, Marble Cake and Pfeffernüsse, Gummibären and Mozartkugel, sauerkraut and mustards, Teekanne tea and Darbo jams, hearty breads and pastries, to cosmetics, newspapers, gifts, and cards, as well as a broad selection of German and Austrian beers and wines. And it’s all packed into less than 1,000 square feet.

When my grandfather would visit us, we’d make a trip to the German Gourmet Deli. In addition to the fabulous food we’d buy, he’d get a kick out of my conversations in German with the staff. His eye would gleam with pride and he’d dust off his soldier’s German, point at some delectable and declare “Schmeckt gut, ja?” (“Tastes good, yes?”) As we’d leave, he’d holler a hearty “Auf Wiedersehen” and give one of his classic, twist-of-the-wrist waves, as we’d head out with our booty and the prospect of a fabulous Mahlzeit!

If you love a good brat and sauerkraut or you’re looking for excellent chocolate, if you’re tired of amerikanisches Luftbrot* and you want a hearty, robust bread, or you want pointers on how to make a good Schnitzl or goulasch, this is the place to go. The Deli is owned by a German family and most of the employees speak German, so you can also indulge your need to sprech’ Deutsch.

German Gourmet Deli
7185 Lee Highway
Falls Church, VA
(703) 534-1908

Monday and Saturday: 9:00 a.m.–6:00 p.m.
Tuesday through Friday: 9:00 a.m.–7:00 p.m.
Closed on Sundays

The Deli is hard to see from the road, but is directly across the street from a Chevron gas station. Parking is limited, but you can find additional space on the residential streets. Do not park in the spaces for the veterinary clinic next door. You will be towed.

Have you lived or traveled overseas? Where do you go in the D.C. area to find the foods and products that remind you of your favorite places?


* The Germans and Austrians refer to American bread as Luftbrot or “air bread” for its light heft, bland flavor, soulless crust, and scant redeeming qualities other than its ability to hold cold cuts and condiments.

Photo copyright: Varp.net.

People Watch: Brought to You By WMATA

Today’s edition of People Watch is brought to you by the Washington Metropolitan Area Transportation Authority, the letter S, and the number 6.

I’m figuring out this commute thing, slowly but surely. I embark at the Republic of Takoma Station and I disembark in the Melting Pot of Chinatown Station. All told, when Metro is working like it should, it’s a 20 minute ride with only seven stations between me and my destination.

This morning, though, there was a switching problem at one of the stations further down the line, which resulted in all of us being backed up and crawling along from one station to the next. There were six trains between us and the station with the problem, which meant some delays. Fortunately, we had an excellent train operator who updated us every couple of minutes and who spoke clearly so he could be understood. No Bahnhof on this train! (That’s a German euphemism, by the way. As in, “Er spricht Bahnhof.” [Transliteration: He speaks train station. Translation: When he speaks, he is incomprehensible.])

It’s amazing what a difference even 15 minutes can make. Yesterday, I left 15 minutes later than the day before. The frenzy, particularly at my final stop, was noticeably more… er, frenzied. My stop is a transfer point, so people are rushing to get from one train to the next. Trains come every three minutes, but heaven forbid folks have to wait for a train. The result: a continual stampede akin to the running of the bulls. People’s eyes get really big and they look like cows panicking in the chutes on the way to the slaughterhouse as they run and dodge to absolutely get on that train right now. Apropos, I suppose. Just replace chutes with escalators and slaughterhouses with jobs and you get the picture. Although, cows involuntarily go to the slaughter, whereas we humans voluntarily go to work. Leave 15 minutes earlier and it’s a leisurely walk to the train car of your choice and a relatively calm walk along the platforms and out of that station.

Metro is a good place to people watch, too. This morning’s observees included a pensive, overheated woman, a talkative court reporter from Fredricksburg, an older woman on a cell phone, a guy with a beard who was muttering, and a soldier. There were others in the train car, but these were the ones I noticed in particular.

Sidebar: There goes Rosa Klebb! Going down… It’s a comfort to know she’s here and shuttling back and forth between floors. Yesterday, not so much. Maybe today will be a more active day…

Back to our programming…

Sitting across from me this morning was a young woman; no more than 32 or 33 would be my guess. She had taken off her coat and scarf, which made me wonder, “Is she European?” You know, trying not to get too warm, because that will just makes things feel colder once you’re outside. I could tell her brain was going 50 mph. She had a pensive, lower-lip-jutting-out look screwed on her face. She kept pulling at her lip, too. I was pretty sure I didn’t want to crawl inside her head and have a look around. She looked tired, and anxious for the weekend to start.

Across from pensive woman was a very kind, gentle looking woman. In her mid-50s maybe. She had a face that was soft and eyes that were warm. I could see a salad in a Gladware container peeking out of the top of her shoulder bag. While the train was at its prolonged standstill, she pulled out her cell phone and quietly made a call to say, “I’m stuck on the train. There’s a switching problem, but I should be there shortly…” And just as quietly, she hung up. Nice, I thought. Discrete, polite, succinct. No drama, just the facts. On and off, lickety-spit.

Shortly after her call, the trains started moving again. We pulled into Union Station and I was joined by a woman, her roll-on bag, and a whopping leather satchel. She plonked down next to me and bumped my arm, but apologized for her invasion of my little space. A few minutes later, she started talking away. I don’t even remember what she started off with, to be honest. Probably something about the train delays. I asked if she was visiting D.C. or leaving. Neither, she said. Turns out she’s a court reporter who schleps her work stuff around in a roll-on suitcase and who commutes to D.C. from Fredricksburg every day. It was everything I could do not to look at her incredulously and say, “Are you insane?” We had a congenial chat, and then we arrived at my station.

But not before the guy with the beard and the glasses started muttering to himself about how much he hates Metro. I didn’t catch all of his rave because he was speaking Bahnhof and I was only catching snippets. It sounded sort of like this: “Bahnhof Metro! I Bahnhof Bahnhof system. It’s always Bahnhof Bahnhof Bahnhof I’m always Bahnhof. Bahnhof a shitty Bahnhof Bahnhof day.”

As for the soldier, I just noticed him for three reasons. One, he was quite tall. Two, he kept his beret on, then seemed to remember the protocol is lids off when you’re indoors, so he rapidly plucked it off. A result no doubt of his internal drill sergeant dressing him down. His maneuver made me think of The Gunfighter and his blog posting about folks who wear hats indoors. And third, he was so tall, he was spread out across both seats with one of his khaki combat boots sticking out almost into the aisle. Which made me think about a blog I read the other day about how much sitting room guys take up versus women. Has something to do with not squishing their package, I guess.

Speaking of packages, I think I’ll have bratwursts and sauerkraut for dinner tonight.

Number of Rosa Klebb sightings while I wrote this entry: 4

Photo copyright: Brian Horling.

Nonsense

Day 2 of the new, temporary job at PharmaCo.

This morning, I decided I’d drive to the Metro station near my home and try the Park and Ride, metered parking feature. This, as opposed to the Kiss and Ride, the hop - a - bus - and - transfer, the walk - in - the - bitter - cold - of - January, or the drive - downtown - and - sell - your - first - born - to - pay - for - parking - near - your - office options. I left the house around 7:30 and arrived at the Takoma Station around 7:40. The Park and Ride lot was wide open; lots and lots of available spaces. Yippee! I thought.

Then I pulled into the lot and started to read the signs. Seven hour parking. Did I read that correctly? Seven hour parking?! Seven hour parking? Are they kidding?! (“They” being an unknown entity. Is “they” WMATA or the Republic of Takoma Park? It’s a mystery. Regardless, seven hour parking.)

I ask you: who among us—among those of us who ride the Metro into our jobs downtown—who among us works less than seven hours a day? Unless you’re an exceptional federal employee, none of us work less than seven hours a day. I have to be at work no later than 8:15, which means—taking into account possible (read: inevitable) Metro glitches, including trains going out of service, trains crashing into each others, and trains killing customers or employees—I’m on the train around 7:30. I can’t leave work before 5:15, which means—at the earliest—I’m getting back to Takoma Park around 5:45 (again, barring any unforeseen incidents.)

All told, I’m en route and/or at work at least 11 hours. That’s about four hours more than the seven-hour time limit at the Takoma Park Metro Station lot. Can someone tell me, for the love of all that is holy, why there aren’t 12-hour meters for me to feed? Can’t wait to see what my ticket is tonight when I get off the train. So help me, if it’s more than $25, I’m writing a letter to whoever “they” are. After that, I suppose I’ll figure out an alternate means of getting to Metro.

But here’s what really sticks in my craw. In this era of global warming, when more people should get out of their cars and into alternate modes of transportation if they can, organizations like WMATA (or the hippy, crunchy enclave Republic of Takoma Park, as the case may be) should be doing more to encourage the use of the Metro system. Putting in seven-hour-only parking meters isn’t much of an incentive to use more earth-friendly commuting alternatives.

Okay, Metro rant over.

Now for the good things about today.

1. This morning’s sunrise, as seen through the picture windows of the train, was spectacular! Unlike the temperature outside, it was bright and warm and beautiful.
2. Having ham and pineapple pizza for dinner. Yum! Of course, I had to share the pineapple with the Abyssinian.
   
3. The Abyssinian who likes pineapple (not to mention anything meat, sour cream, cantaloupe, and Doritos. Yes, you read that right. A cat that eats Doritos) and seemed to like me tonight, as opposed to hissing and spitting at me.
   

Photo copyright: deviantArt

No, No, No, No, No, No... Yessshh

What line is that from and who says it?

If you guessed the Vicar of Dibley and Jim, you'd be right on both counts. If you didn't guess either, then get thee to Netflix and add it to your queue!

The Vicar of Dibley is a hilarious British sitcom starring Dawn French and Emma Chambers. French plays Geraldine Granger as the Vicar. Sent to the Village of Dibley, she's a shock to the tiny town and the parish council because they've never had a woman vicar. What follows are Geraldine's efforts to move the parish council out of its antiquated ways of thinking and doing and into a more contemporary, progressive place. Along the way, French and her co-horts exchange some of the best lines in British comedic writing.

Here's a good example.

I adore this show. If you love British humour, you'll love this show. If you hate it and don't get it and think it's all stupid and vapid, I'd say avoid this then. You won't enjoy it and it's meant to be enjoyed.

Snowed In

In addition to the loftier reading I often do, I also occasionally dabble in lighter reading. A case in point would be the mystery novels of Wyomingite C.J. Box. Set in fictional Twelve Sleep County, Wyoming, Box's books feature soaring landscapes and small town politics. His protagonist is a bumbling, but lovable Fish & Game Warden, Joe Pickett.

The third in Box's six-book Pickett series, this tale finds Pickett once again battling small town mentalities, as well as trigger-anxious federal authorities seeking revenge for the murders of a Forest Service officer and a Bureau of Land Management employee. Their target is a wacko millenialist group camping illegally on federal land in the Bighorn Mountains.

Pickett doubts the government's claim and fights to set the record straight before tensions rise and ignite another Waco, all while battling against the worst of Wyoming elements: a wicked, winter snow storm.

If you like an easy read, Box's books are good for settling in on a cold evening. No, this isn't heady intellectual reading and they aren't the classics, but if you don't want to think too much and you just want something different for a change, check out his Joe Pickett series. Out of five stars, I give this one a four.

Tinker with My Tailor as I Spy

Several weeks ago, I picked up a copy of John le Carre's great spy thriller Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy at the Wheaton Library Bookstore. While I'm not one to often read spy or espionage thrillers, occasionally I don't mind one or two of these as fluff tomes on the bedside stand. They're something I can read as I'm drifting off to sleep and not feel bad about missing something or having to go back and re-read and capture all the important bits. I've heard that le Carre's works are must-reads if you've ever read Ken Follett, Tom Clancy, or Alistair McLean. Noting that, I figured for 50 cents, I could read le Carre.

Very simply put: I didn't even finish this book. It's not even a keeper; in fact, it's back in the pile of books to go to the library bookstore the next time I take a trip up there.

If you've stuck with me beyond that last sentence, perhaps you're asking why I didn't finish TTSS? After slogging through 136 pages, I had yet to grasp what the plot was. None of the characters stood out in any extraordinary way, save John Priddeaux. At no point was there a "thrill factor"--nothing that made my heart beat faster or eagerly turn pages or even be surprised by a twist in the plot I had failed to see coming. For all the hype around le Carre I have to say that frankly, I find Agatha Christie's writing far more interesting and exciting.

The problem with le Carre's TTSS is, I was never sure if it was a spy thriller or a commentary on the politics within the British intelligence community during the Cold War. If the former, it was poorly plotted and written. If the latter, it was dull as dust in the desert. Regardless of what this book is or isn't suppose to be, I finally quit because it simply wasn't worth it. Out of five stars, I give this one a zero.

I still want to see the movie starring Sir Alec Guiness, though. I'm hoping that will at least redeem le Carre's work.

Networking

Received a postcard today from my friend, Amy "Here's Your Damn Postcard" Krautheimer (that's not really her name, but we'll pretend it is.)



On the back, she wrote, "Here are a few networking techniques to add to your bag of tricks!"

Funny thing is, I just looked at an opening for a project manager in Rocks Springs, WY! I suppose if I lived there, I'd have to get a pick-up truck to make it easier to network.

Thanks, Amy!