No-Problem Photo Addendum

Instead of grumbling about a "no problem" response to "thank you," I thought I’d take this opportunity to illustrate instances of when "no problem" is appropriate. 

Road blocked by two flocks of sheep? No problem. Just

wait until they move the sheep. Xinjiang, China, 1982.

Stuck again crossing the muddy stream? No problem.

Just find a farmer with a tractor. Syria, 1983.

Too much traffic on the unpaved city street? No problem.

Just keep driving; they’ll move. Syria, early 1980s.

Baskets too big to get your arms around? No problem.

Just use your head. Bangladesh, 1981.

Outmatched in a fight? No problem.

Just call, "Maaa!" Warren and his

big brother, mid-1940s.

Dining Out

Welcome back. The Washington Post had an article about a fellow, 49, who found mushrooms in his backyard after a rainstorm. They looked so good, he plucked, cooked and shared a handful with his wife. An experimental drug saved his liver and his life; his wife recovered without the drug.

Title of 25 Sep 2011 Washington Post.

article by Joe Stephens.

Reading the article, I was wondering how this guy ever made it to 49 years, when I saw, about a week later, a second person ate mushrooms he found near his home and was also saved by the same experimental drug. This fellow was an 82-year-old, retired farmer. A farmer? No way.
 

Store-bought 

mushrooms.

I love mushrooms. But about the same time my mother was telling me, “Yes, dear, you can play with the worm but don’t put it in your mouth,” I’ll bet she was also telling me not to eat mushrooms growing wild in the yard.  

Anyway, the article got me thinking about how lucky I’ve been. Of course I’ve eaten things that disrupted my internal plumbing; that’s allowed by the FDA. As yet, however, I’ve avoided dining on anything that would kill me. I thought a few highlights might be of interest.

Foreign Fare

  I emphasize that this is not a slam against any cited locale. Taking reasonable precautions is always advisable. The aftereffects of sampling our supermarket salad bars have been as bad as anything I experienced overseas. I’m not sure if that’s a testament to my iron stomach or, again, incredible luck.
 

One of Rachel’s animal 

portraits—unroasted pig.

Puerto Rico -- Working at the Arecibo Observatory, I accepted invitations to attend various celebrations. Lechon asado (roast pig) was often the main course. Given the other scrumptious dishes and, yes, perhaps a beverage or two, I’m hesitant to blame the poor pig or its preparation. Still, more than one morning after was unpleasant.
 
Philippines -- I don’t remember being “off,” so to speak, even once after dining at home, where the water was boiled, or around the country. Admittedly, I never tried balut (boiled, fertilized duck egg with an undeveloped embryo), which was offered regularly by Tomas, a program driver who had a side business selling such delicacies.
 

Bangladesh – My first UN consulting project was in Bangladesh, where I remained quite healthy, even en route, when a delayed flight set me down around midnight in Pakistan for an unscheduled overnight. 

Bangladeshi family at brick-factory housing, 1981

Preparing for that project, I made the mistake of asking an acquaintance who had worked in Bangladesh where I should stay. Then I made a bigger mistake, accepting his recommendation. Only later did it sink in that my acquaintance had been a Peace Corps volunteer. For cultural awareness, he would have opted to share space with a Bangladeshi family in a jute and bamboo structure. At least my hotel had electricity and running water.

Baking flat bread, Syria, 1982

Prickly pear vendor, 

Syria, 1982

Syria -- As in Bangladesh, my UN project activities in Syria were unhampered by food-borne problems. On my initial visit, I went with the UN’s recommended hotel, though dining alone, I kind of went overboard on flatbread and prickly pear I purchased on the street.  

On a subsequent trip to Syria, I spent more time in the field. Fortunately I remained healthy, as I and my weak knees were introduced to non-western style “squat” toilets, the use of which is akin to camping out, except they flush.
 

Squat toilet, 

northwestern
China 1982

Banquet residuals, 

northwestern China, 1982

China -- Dining at banquet tables or off a yurt blanket, where I somehow missed the fermented horse milk, I had significant aftereffects only once during UN projects in China. Flying west from Beijing to Urumqi was the most uncomfortable plane ride I’d ever taken thanks to a broken seat. To top it off, whatever I was fed on the plane spent little time getting to know me.

Minding the meal, northwestern China, 1982

Food preparation in the field, 

northwestern China, 1982

Wrap Up

At times, the aftereffects of dining overseas were humorous. Visiting a communal, open stall, no-seat, outhouse very early one morning in northwestern China, I was…uh…monitored by a boy about 5 years old. He apparently had never seen a Caucasian before. As I crouched, so did he, smiling.  

Thanks for stopping by. I’ll write again in about a week.

Time to Renovate

Welcome back. In the scheme of a working life, you retire, you move, right? We decided not to, at least not in the near term. There are several reasons, but the big one is the wish of my wife, Vicki, to spend more time helping her father in Wisconsin.

(Vicki is planning ahead, well ahead. Her father is the guy, who, in his mid-80s, just built the Model-T Ford, builds and flies his own airplanes, and last year, painted his barn perched on a 30 foot lift.)

So, rather than spend time and money finding and preparing a new home, located who knows where, we chose to renovate both our present home and an existing apartment over the garage at my father-in-law’s house.

Home Renovations

Attending to our home, I made a list of needed and desired fix-ups, reviewed it with Vicki and got started.  

No, our house doesn’t need that much
work. That’s the Colosseum, 1982.

First item was the front walk and stoop. That job turned out well, and it gave me the opportunity to stumble through construction Spanish I’d forgotten. (Checking out at the supermarket only covers Spanish small talk, which I’ve also forgotten.)

Although we hadn’t planned to replace our house siding, a severe hailstorm had pummeled our neighborhood. Nature’s storm didn’t match the intensity of the storm of young adults the contractors sent to knock on doors and drum up siding and roofing business.

No, that isn’t work on our front stoop.
That’s brick-making in Bangladesh, 1981.
Forming and drying (L); burying and baking.

“No thank you. We don’t want a free evaluation of hail damage,” usually kept them away for as long as 24 hours. First they came in logoed polo shirts; then they just came. I’m talking weeks here. After we witnessed either work underway or contractor signs in front of nearly every house on our street, we surrendered.

Next on our house fix-up list is…well, it’s a long list but nothing major.

No, we didn’t go over the top with our
house renovation. That's a Taoist Temple
in the Philippines, 1971.

Apartment Renovations

The Wisconsin apartment is in a structure that began life as a carriage house--ok, a barn.

The barn and adjacent farmhouse where Vicki’s father lives had 100 candles on their birthday cakes many years ago. Horse-drawn buggies sat where cars now park; horses in the back. The apartment is much more comfortable without the hay that once filled the second floor.  

No, this horse and buggy came long after
the carriage house was converted to an
apartment and garage. That’s Vicki on the
left and her sister, Cam, in the middle.

Although the horses and buggies moved out when Model T’s were in vogue, the conversion of the carriage house to Vicki’s parents’ first home didn’t occur until the late-1940s. 

Yes, that’s the farmhouse and the garage
with the upstairs apartment.

Vicki’s solo drive to Wisconsin last March (with the new GPS) was, in part, to start the renovations--new plumbing, hot water heater, flooring, the whole shebang.

Wrap Up

Although there’s always more to accomplish at the house and apartment, we’re progressing well.

Thanks for stopping by. I’ll write again in about a week.

Time to Travel -- Where’s My GPS?

Welcome back. In March, my wife, Vicki, drove about 1800 miles, soloing from Virginia to Wisconsin and back, one day each way. Whew!
 

Vicki’s bachelor’s degree was in geography. To guide her drive, I generated and annotated a stack of Google maps. At the almost-last minute, I also bought her a vehicle GPS (Global Positioning System).

I figured the GPS would keep her company in addition to telling her when and in what direction to turn, in the accent of her choice. (I bet she chose British; she worked in London for two years.)

Picking a GPS

It was a rush and there are too many GPS devices to choose from, with too many options. Luckily, I’d selected one as a gift for our son, Noah, a few months earlier. For both Noah and Vicki, I went with a package that included the GPS plus accessories (identified here for reference and completeness). 

We bought Noah a GPS because

(1) he’s always going somewhere,

(2) he detests traffic and seeks alternative routes, and

(3) he has this thing about maps--“Just tell me how to get there.” Who needs a map if you can call or text your friends or mother (after pulling off the road of course)?

Traffic could be rough on this two-way (yes, two-way)

street in Bangladesh, 1981.

The Response?

Noah loves the GPS. He still calls or texts from the road, but at least he can get where he’s going if no one responds.

Vicki loves the GPS. Being a geographer at heart, she was happy to have the maps along for a broader perspective. She found the GPS was wrong at one intersection outside of Chicago, but later, wasn’t sure if she or the GPS was in error.

A final vote came from my daughter, Rachel, who has had a GPS for her freelance business for years and loves it. She sometimes argues with the GPS, when it tries to send her on a shortcut that isn’t really a shortcut. Ultimately, the GPS yields and goes away to sulk and recalculate.

Taking a shortcut slowed the UN team in northwestern China.

Why’d We Wait So Long?

You probably bought a GPS a week after the GPS satellites were launched. Prior to Vicki’s trip, we had no real need for one. Well, that’s not entirely true.

Vicki does have a GPS that wraps around her wrist and tracks how far and fast she’s running or how to get home when she simply couldn’t resist a new trail. It also monitors her heart rate and calories burned, which I could use when I drive. 

And I suppose that I should have a GPS with me at all times. Unlike my father, who always knew intuitively where he was and which way to go, I’m directionally challenged. If I drive somewhere new, the return drive is a whole new world. Heck, if I go into a building, exiting can be enlightening.

My mother always said, “You’ll never get lost if you have a voice.” I’m not sure if she meant ask directions or scream. 

Wrap Up

I’ll join Vicki on her next jaunt to Wisconsin. Although I’ve worked with people of many nationalities, the drive will be the first time I’m told where to go by a Briton. And I’ll be most grateful

During a UN project in Syria, 1983, my Australian CSIRO colleague (white shirt) took the lead in rescuing our Syrian counterparts’ vehicle.

Thanks for stopping by. I’ll write again in about a week.

Time to Travel -- Driving

Welcome back. Yes, there’s no place like home. But don’t you agree that traveling would be a nice way to spend some of my retirement time? 
 
If my wife, Vicki, were also retired, we could drive, cruise or fly off into the sunset. Would I travel without her? Naaah. No problem. I’ll plan for about a week, which will be a warm up for longer adventures ahead. 
 
Regarding destination, we haven’t been Type A hermits for our umpty ump years together, but vacations have normally been visits with family in Upstate New York or Wisconsin. We’ll reserve time for that, too.
 
Budget-wise, fortunately, we’re fine, especially if Vicki continues to work. (Go Girl!) Still, raised by depression-era parents, I’d have a hard time going hog wild, even if we weren’t riding a global economic roller coaster. 
 
For travel, then, I’ll start with driving. I’ll deal with the getting there, and let Vicki pick the where. 

The Vehicle
 

We could take Vicki’s car, a 2002, small SUV, automatic transmission, with lots of miles, or my 2006, standard shift, compact, with many fewer miles. Vicki is the quintessential packer and is always prepared. Her car offers space and spaces for her running gear, EMT gear, and whatever else gear. My car offers better gas mileage, so we’ll take mine.

Hey, that was easy.   

                            You know, Vicki, we could save money on gas if we...

Public transportation in Bangladesh, 1986.

Country driving in the Philippines, 1972.

The Drivers

Vicki grew up on a dairy farm. If it had an engine and at least two wheels, she was driving it as soon as her toes reached the pedals. I’m sure she wasn’t allowed to drive heavy equipment before she was what, 10?

Vicki’s father teaching our son, Noah, how to drive a payloader.

Me? I excelled in high school driver education. Then I failed the New York State drivers’ road test. Twice.  

  

On the first test, the car rolled too much when I stopped and restarted on a hill. That the car was an automatic shift was most embarrassing. On the second test, the guy said, “Turn left. This is a one-way.” I thought he meant I was turning into a one-way street.

I eventually got my license and improved. (The cracked axle incident wasn’t really a driving error.) My parents had a small business that required a VW bus and a few cars, one of which I could usually borrow. Although the bus had the business name not psychedelic flowers painted on its side, it was fun to drive if there was no wind or hill or pothole.

My First Car
 
Generously (and wisely separating the business from my driving), my parents bought me my first car before I graduated college. Toward the end of our life together, she looked so abused I felt guilty. Parked innocently on a side street, she was attacked brutally by a tree, leaving a dent—more like a gorge--in the hapless car’s roof.

When, in protest, she refused to release rear-seat riders, I finally sold her for $75, tossing in snow tires. For the next year or two, Bill, who ran the gas station I frequented, would tell me whenever he had seen the car. You couldn’t miss her. 

My daughter’s car, attacked by a deer not a tree, but you get the idea.

I hope to continue traveling in about a week. Thanks for stopping by.