Not surprisingly, writing and working while driving cross country is almost impossible. This wouldn't have been the case if the entire country had 3G coverage. But, considering that I spent the last ten days in Mt. Hood, eastern Oregon, Idaho, and Wyoming, Edge networks were the norm. Whenever I had a fleeting hour of time at a cafe with Wifi, I furiously typed emails that had been long in queue. And just as soon as that hour seemed to have begun, it was over, and more driving along empty highways was imminent. So, back in the van and on the open road I'd go. A few emails left in the dust ... and no time at all for a blog post.
I hope the explanation suffices for my lack of posting during this trip. And I hope that you noticed I mentioned "van" in the last paragraph. While spending a week in Mt. Hood, it became apparent that the little VW Rabbit was just too small for our purposes of driving cross country with half our possessions in the backseat. Luckily, Oregonians use Craigslist, and we did a quick switch. Goodbye Rabbit and hello Eurovan!! Yes, we bought a Eurovan. I never thought I'd have an RV, and I never thought I'd like them. Well, I like to believe that this is the bunny rabbit of RVs so no big deal. Yet, the roof pops open, two beds can be made inside, there's a stove, a refrigerator, a sink and enough space to do a whole ashtanga series in the backseat. Also, with those big captain seats up front and the most enormous window a van could ever have, we can view the USA in all its glory as we chug our way down the 80.
I started to love the van so much that, in a momentary lapse of sanity somewhere in mid-Idaho and 95 degree heat, I became a bit sentimental and realized that the Eurovan was my first home. My first wholly owned sink, refrigerator, cabinetry and ... a little more heat later, enough room to birth a child, and even a place for him or her to sleep (up in the bed by the pop-top). Luckily the air cooled down at night and I regained my composure. No worries, we're ditching the van once we get a house somewhere.
Wednesday, September 14, 2011
Sunday, September 4, 2011
Portland Day 1 and 2
We've been on the road for a few days now, and have made it to Portland. The driving was pretty intense, mostly because it took us a bit longer to pack than we expected ... to be exact, eight hours longer than we expected. We also had about two times more stuff than we'd originally thought. This forced us to spend three hours buying and installing a roof rack and cargo box on top of my little VW Rabbit in the REI parking lot during our first day in Portland. Anyway, within a day and a half of hitting the road, we had made it to Ashland, Oregon, town of Renaissance Fairs, Shakespeare Festivals, and funky park yoga. It's almost the type of place we'd love to live in - beautiful homes studding a hill overlooking a valley and an earthy yet upscale downtown - but it's far away from everything, unfortunately.
By midnight on Thursday, we had found ourselves a hotel south of Portland by Lake Oswego. From a quick walk around and a momentary check-in to the farmer's market down the street, we realized it's yuppy in this southern corner of Portland. This was confirmed later at a friend's housewarming party in NorthEast Portland where they consider their neighborhood to be up-and-coming. The NE may be a little too much on the early side of gentrification for us, but we definitely saw the potential.
The mix of people at the party was the perfect melange of Portlanders, or so they said. Everyone was brought up elsewhere - Tennessee, Mexico City, Massachusetts, Michigan. Everyone had made their pilgrimage to Oregon and stayed, citing the openness, the easy access to "nowhere," the perfect combination of the calm and the fun that the area provides. Everyone had at least one visible tattoo.
By midnight on Thursday, we had found ourselves a hotel south of Portland by Lake Oswego. From a quick walk around and a momentary check-in to the farmer's market down the street, we realized it's yuppy in this southern corner of Portland. This was confirmed later at a friend's housewarming party in NorthEast Portland where they consider their neighborhood to be up-and-coming. The NE may be a little too much on the early side of gentrification for us, but we definitely saw the potential.
The mix of people at the party was the perfect melange of Portlanders, or so they said. Everyone was brought up elsewhere - Tennessee, Mexico City, Massachusetts, Michigan. Everyone had made their pilgrimage to Oregon and stayed, citing the openness, the easy access to "nowhere," the perfect combination of the calm and the fun that the area provides. Everyone had at least one visible tattoo.
Tuesday, August 30, 2011
Noe Valley
How I'll miss you! My evening walks under the fog, the tiny gym that gives me such happiness, Noe Valley bakery muffins, coffee galore, cute boutiques, a Whole Foods at one end, and an amazing vegetable stand at the other, good neighbors and fun friends, the sun during the day, a view of Twin Peaks on the west and Bernal Hill on the East, brunch at Chloe's, the J train, proximity to the 280. I hope to see you soon.
Monday, July 25, 2011
Walking to Work
I found this old post from a blog I reclaimed. This was written in 2005 and takes me back to the olden days of investment banking ...
Walking shoes, slacks, black wool jacket, dress shirt, white scarf, one overstuffed sky blue canvas bag with gym clothes, lunch, wallet, keys, and other necessities including pointy black shoes for the office, random appropriate and conservative jewelry, recently dyed and blow-dried hair, a white trashbag full of dry cleaning, and a cell phone in hand soon to vibrate with my mother on the line. I lock the door, look out onto the street, the fog is clearing here and the day is just beginning. Clear air, empty streets, the cable car rattles by, its sound is so regular to this area that I do not consider it to be breaking the silence. This is my twenty sixth 7:30AM walk to work. In a half hour, I will be sitting in an office, staring at my computer screen, staying there until about 9PM. imagine for me, this is my freedom time.
I walk along Greenwich Street and take a right on Columbus. Up the concrete sidewalk, I pass "Just a Bite" cafe and still laugh to myself at a comment my mom made about the name months ago when she was starving after a day of unpacking. "Ain't no way I'm eating there!" The rest of this block is empty, the stores are all closed, not about to open anytime soon. But up ahead is the first stoplight, and it is here that my day really begins. I advertantly wait for the light to turn red. I love to stand at this corner and watch the rest of the people starting out their day. I can see Washington Square Park from here, and the early-morning Chinese exercisers who cover the park remind me of my year abroad in Beijing, and I feel a tinge of homesickness for my host family and life abroad. I watch as a few people pull into the garage across the street, or smile at the drivers pulling out onto Columbus from their own residential garages up the street. I imagine a gorgeous, friendly guy catching up with me at this light, only to say good morning, notice the view as I do, and casually chat as we walk to work together for a little ways. It is here where I recognize the first person I ever recognized on my walk to work.
It was the fifth day when I saw him, a man in a green shirt with a light green sportsjacket and a red scarf. He is balding, probably somewhere around fifty five years old. I can tell this man is happy, but judging from my own personal experience, the people I first recognize anonymously are always the craziest people around. I doubt myself, and I doubt this man. On this twenty sixth day, he passes me still without recognition. I think of him as a sort of whimsical creature of my morning. The only person I recognize who hasn't yet spoken to himself in public.
I cross the street and continue up Columbus Avenue, toward the coffee shops and popular touristy restaurants. They are all closed save two very popular places, Caffe Greco and Caffe Puccini, outside I see the same two men drinking their morning espressos and discussing the most recent baseball game. In the window of the second cafe, I always see the same man, dressed like an explorer from the nineteenth century, he is immersed in a book, surrounded by piles of other books and papers and highlighters. I have always wanted to walk into this cafe and introduce myself, asking him what it is he does. But, I don't, I don't even smile at him, I just keep walking. Here is another stoplight, but this one is busier and the buses are coming from every direction. I cross as quickly as I can, and head downward toward the TransAmerica building.
My hair is starting to frizz as I descend into the fog. As I descend it's as if I'm descending into another world. The cheerful morning activity of North Beach becomes a somber scene after I pass Broadway. Here is where I recognize the bums and the crazies. First, I see the skinny man in the tophat. He talks to himself, and one day I was caught walking the same speed as him with him trailing me by a few paces. I could hear him speaking to himself. About what, i'm still not quite sure, it's kind of like listening to someone talk in their sleep. I pass bums in front of City Lights, usually sleeping. And then, just a few shops down, I pass a homeless woman who was blonde for the first week, then she adopted a fake hair piece, recently her hair is blue. When she asks me for spare change, she asks me in a matter-of-fact way, like she's not begging, but rather like it's just expected, sometimes she smiles and I can see that the only teeth she has left are the two top canines. I keep walking, I still haven't given this woman a cent, something about her presence frightens me. There is something too normal about her, normal but crazy, maybe a part of myself that I would rather imagine doesn't exist, a part of myself that i'd rather not feed into existence. I keep walking.
Just as I turn the corner from Columbus to Kearny, the Happy Donuts is on my right. I look inside, without fail. Everyone in here is interesting, and deep down, I really want one of their donuts, with sprinkles and chocolate icing. I never recognize the people here, but the scene, it is familiar to me. Working class and poor men, tearing into donuts quickly while they sip on steaming coffee out of a styrofoam cup. Something about this is very comforting. Around this corner, I always see someone who appears to be semi-normal speaking to himself. Does everyone start speaking to themselves eventually? I wonder, and I worry that around this corner, I too may start doing so as well. I walk on.
Gradually I find my way to the financial section of Kearny. The bums have turned to poor people who have turned to working class, who have now turned to white collar workers. These people are either talking to themselves, motioning with their hands, or looking straight ahead, walking too fast to notice that anything is going on around them. It is these people who I recognize--men with a mission, I call them in my mind. It's a misnomer, I assume their mission is trivial and financially-based, I hope they start speaking to themselves. Sometimes I hope they trip over a curb just to break that overdone concentration.
And now I'm here, at work. I look up at the building, turn around to view the outside. goodbye for the day, for the week, I'll see you in 24 hours, I think. Or maybe say? Who knows. I'm just as crazy as the rest of them.
Walking shoes, slacks, black wool jacket, dress shirt, white scarf, one overstuffed sky blue canvas bag with gym clothes, lunch, wallet, keys, and other necessities including pointy black shoes for the office, random appropriate and conservative jewelry, recently dyed and blow-dried hair, a white trashbag full of dry cleaning, and a cell phone in hand soon to vibrate with my mother on the line. I lock the door, look out onto the street, the fog is clearing here and the day is just beginning. Clear air, empty streets, the cable car rattles by, its sound is so regular to this area that I do not consider it to be breaking the silence. This is my twenty sixth 7:30AM walk to work. In a half hour, I will be sitting in an office, staring at my computer screen, staying there until about 9PM. imagine for me, this is my freedom time.
I walk along Greenwich Street and take a right on Columbus. Up the concrete sidewalk, I pass "Just a Bite" cafe and still laugh to myself at a comment my mom made about the name months ago when she was starving after a day of unpacking. "Ain't no way I'm eating there!" The rest of this block is empty, the stores are all closed, not about to open anytime soon. But up ahead is the first stoplight, and it is here that my day really begins. I advertantly wait for the light to turn red. I love to stand at this corner and watch the rest of the people starting out their day. I can see Washington Square Park from here, and the early-morning Chinese exercisers who cover the park remind me of my year abroad in Beijing, and I feel a tinge of homesickness for my host family and life abroad. I watch as a few people pull into the garage across the street, or smile at the drivers pulling out onto Columbus from their own residential garages up the street. I imagine a gorgeous, friendly guy catching up with me at this light, only to say good morning, notice the view as I do, and casually chat as we walk to work together for a little ways. It is here where I recognize the first person I ever recognized on my walk to work.
It was the fifth day when I saw him, a man in a green shirt with a light green sportsjacket and a red scarf. He is balding, probably somewhere around fifty five years old. I can tell this man is happy, but judging from my own personal experience, the people I first recognize anonymously are always the craziest people around. I doubt myself, and I doubt this man. On this twenty sixth day, he passes me still without recognition. I think of him as a sort of whimsical creature of my morning. The only person I recognize who hasn't yet spoken to himself in public.
I cross the street and continue up Columbus Avenue, toward the coffee shops and popular touristy restaurants. They are all closed save two very popular places, Caffe Greco and Caffe Puccini, outside I see the same two men drinking their morning espressos and discussing the most recent baseball game. In the window of the second cafe, I always see the same man, dressed like an explorer from the nineteenth century, he is immersed in a book, surrounded by piles of other books and papers and highlighters. I have always wanted to walk into this cafe and introduce myself, asking him what it is he does. But, I don't, I don't even smile at him, I just keep walking. Here is another stoplight, but this one is busier and the buses are coming from every direction. I cross as quickly as I can, and head downward toward the TransAmerica building.
My hair is starting to frizz as I descend into the fog. As I descend it's as if I'm descending into another world. The cheerful morning activity of North Beach becomes a somber scene after I pass Broadway. Here is where I recognize the bums and the crazies. First, I see the skinny man in the tophat. He talks to himself, and one day I was caught walking the same speed as him with him trailing me by a few paces. I could hear him speaking to himself. About what, i'm still not quite sure, it's kind of like listening to someone talk in their sleep. I pass bums in front of City Lights, usually sleeping. And then, just a few shops down, I pass a homeless woman who was blonde for the first week, then she adopted a fake hair piece, recently her hair is blue. When she asks me for spare change, she asks me in a matter-of-fact way, like she's not begging, but rather like it's just expected, sometimes she smiles and I can see that the only teeth she has left are the two top canines. I keep walking, I still haven't given this woman a cent, something about her presence frightens me. There is something too normal about her, normal but crazy, maybe a part of myself that I would rather imagine doesn't exist, a part of myself that i'd rather not feed into existence. I keep walking.
Just as I turn the corner from Columbus to Kearny, the Happy Donuts is on my right. I look inside, without fail. Everyone in here is interesting, and deep down, I really want one of their donuts, with sprinkles and chocolate icing. I never recognize the people here, but the scene, it is familiar to me. Working class and poor men, tearing into donuts quickly while they sip on steaming coffee out of a styrofoam cup. Something about this is very comforting. Around this corner, I always see someone who appears to be semi-normal speaking to himself. Does everyone start speaking to themselves eventually? I wonder, and I worry that around this corner, I too may start doing so as well. I walk on.
Gradually I find my way to the financial section of Kearny. The bums have turned to poor people who have turned to working class, who have now turned to white collar workers. These people are either talking to themselves, motioning with their hands, or looking straight ahead, walking too fast to notice that anything is going on around them. It is these people who I recognize--men with a mission, I call them in my mind. It's a misnomer, I assume their mission is trivial and financially-based, I hope they start speaking to themselves. Sometimes I hope they trip over a curb just to break that overdone concentration.
And now I'm here, at work. I look up at the building, turn around to view the outside. goodbye for the day, for the week, I'll see you in 24 hours, I think. Or maybe say? Who knows. I'm just as crazy as the rest of them.
Tuesday, June 14, 2011
Real Life
Something occurred to me yesterday as I was wandering amongst commuters, taking note of their mobile phone usage on the BART and MUNI lines heading into and out of San Francisco. I spent two hours on public transportation yesterday, and another few hours observing people at the mall. I'd jot down their age, their gender, the type of phone they were using, race (if I could venture a guess), and what they were doing on their mobile phones. This meant that I had to stand over many people's shoulders, awkwardly watching from above, hoping the subject wouldn't notice.
Oddly enough, no one noticed me. Ever. Not even in the mall when I edged up next to their bench, or in the food court when wandered up behind a whole group of tween boys, and especially not when I was on public transportation. Oh yeah, except for one kind, middle aged Indian man returning from SFO who offered me a seat. He didn't have his mobile phone on hand.
How is it possible that I could be observing hundreds of people from such close proximity, and only one of them notice me?
So I'll tell you a little of what I saw people doing, and perhaps this may serve to explain the conundrum. Earphones plugged in, they were obviously listening to something while texting, looking at other people's pictures on Facebook, thumbing through their emails, playing simple games, and a select few seemed to be reading the news. The MUNI snaked its way along the upper border of Dolores Park where the view of the city is breathtaking. I looked up from my clipboard and soaked in the view as we pounded down to the wakening Castro streets. I don't think many of them noticed the view, they were all looking at their phones.
I'm not here to write about the results of the research; that's going to be saved for a more professional blog on my sister work-blog site. Rather, I want to discuss the fact that ... everyone's going to work to create things for people, things that people will, ostensibly, like and use. And so they wake up, put in their earphones, drag themselves to the MUNI, and drown out the world with Podcasts and emails to friends, meanwhile thumbing through those friends' photos on Facebook.
Doesn't this just sound ... wrong? First of all, how can people enjoy a life like that? And second, why aren't people looking around anymore? It's like, reality just isn't good enough, it's better to see friends in short messages and candid photos. And if we're really creating things for other people, then why aren't we watching those other people, interacting with them, talking to them? Do we really think we're going to innovate in an office?
Later that night, I went home feeling uneasy. All that people watching served to depress me. I kept wondering what the world would be like today if we didn't have boring 9-5 jobs. Something tells me there would be a whole lot less emails and messages to people we don't have the time to see, less time spent in mindless games, and more time spent creating amazing things.
Oddly enough, no one noticed me. Ever. Not even in the mall when I edged up next to their bench, or in the food court when wandered up behind a whole group of tween boys, and especially not when I was on public transportation. Oh yeah, except for one kind, middle aged Indian man returning from SFO who offered me a seat. He didn't have his mobile phone on hand.
How is it possible that I could be observing hundreds of people from such close proximity, and only one of them notice me?
So I'll tell you a little of what I saw people doing, and perhaps this may serve to explain the conundrum. Earphones plugged in, they were obviously listening to something while texting, looking at other people's pictures on Facebook, thumbing through their emails, playing simple games, and a select few seemed to be reading the news. The MUNI snaked its way along the upper border of Dolores Park where the view of the city is breathtaking. I looked up from my clipboard and soaked in the view as we pounded down to the wakening Castro streets. I don't think many of them noticed the view, they were all looking at their phones.
I'm not here to write about the results of the research; that's going to be saved for a more professional blog on my sister work-blog site. Rather, I want to discuss the fact that ... everyone's going to work to create things for people, things that people will, ostensibly, like and use. And so they wake up, put in their earphones, drag themselves to the MUNI, and drown out the world with Podcasts and emails to friends, meanwhile thumbing through those friends' photos on Facebook.
Doesn't this just sound ... wrong? First of all, how can people enjoy a life like that? And second, why aren't people looking around anymore? It's like, reality just isn't good enough, it's better to see friends in short messages and candid photos. And if we're really creating things for other people, then why aren't we watching those other people, interacting with them, talking to them? Do we really think we're going to innovate in an office?
Later that night, I went home feeling uneasy. All that people watching served to depress me. I kept wondering what the world would be like today if we didn't have boring 9-5 jobs. Something tells me there would be a whole lot less emails and messages to people we don't have the time to see, less time spent in mindless games, and more time spent creating amazing things.
Creativity
"But this joyful, imaginative, impassioned energy dies out of us very young. Why? Because we do not see that it is great and important. Because we let dry obligation take its place. Because we don't respect it in ourselves and keep it alive by using it. And because we don't keep it alive in others by listening to them."
Monday, May 23, 2011
The Good Kind of Chinese Torture
I just got back from spending a week in Shanghai, China, and without realizing or expecting it, I am suddenly seeing the world in a very different way. Strange because I lived in China for over three years, and have returned multiple times. This experience, though, was fundamentally different than the others.
I arrived on a Sunday night, jetlagged, choking on my unpracticed Chinese words, and living in a typical Chinese style business hotel. Everyday I would wake up, walk to the subway, and head to the company's office out in the sticks of Pudong. I was in China to help a successful mobile app company create their US launch strategy, present it to the Board, and come up with their product roll-out plan. An interesting project, no doubt, but the most interesting part for me was ...
I was basically reliving the old life I had lived in China three years ago. The job was different, but the offices were strikingly close to one another. My daily schedule was remarkably the same. I met up with the same old friends in the evenings, and went to the same restaurants, bars and foot massage parlors. Same food, same smelly water, same breathtaking sunrise over the river, same frustrations, same sound pollution, same shockingly kind and friendly strangers, same momentum, same camaraderie with other foreigners, same interesting, adventurous friends, same feeling that the impossible is simply not so. Same same same.
By the end of the week, I was speaking Chinese once again as I had years ago. I had grown comfortable with the food again. I'd even sunk back into the old habit of walking around the office park's garden area on my own at ~3pm, automatically launching my thoughts into planning elaborate escape routes back to America. I'd suddenly remember that this time was different, no need to devise escape routes, I was leaving on Saturday.
At the end of this bizarre week or reminiscing, something crucial happened. During the board meeting, as I was presenting the 24 month financials on the product rollout in the US, one of the board members asked, "So, I see that you have headcount in the US for a few people. Surely these can't be Chinese people. Who are they going to be?" The CEO of the company jumped in, answering in speedy, slurred Chinese, hoping I wouldn't understand. "We will hire her, she will head up our office in Silicon Valley."
Rather than feel flattered, I suddenly felt worried. I have finally left the workplace to be out on my own. I've really done this, and I'm doing just fine on my own. Slowly but surely I'm gathering more projects, and seeing the success from the previous consulting projects. I love the flexibility. I thoroughly enjoy the travel and the new people. Oddly, I left the office that evening feeling disoriented and concerned that I might be the US general manager of a company that makes feature phone video chat applications, devoting my life to random encounters over Wifi, 3G and cellular networks. Why would I accept that job? It's scary to be out on your own.
As I swam along with the sea of people in the subway that evening, I observed everyone around me. Each was ending a long week of work or school or retirement, heading home to their boxy apartments in the enormous city of 20 million, playing games on their phones, chatting with their friends, trendsetting with various gadgets and hair 'dos. I then truly realized something dramatic: most of us will live and die and be forgotten.
It is macabre, but it's true. Despite our best efforts, we might be forgotten. The best chance we have is making sure that we devote ourselves to something truly meaningful.
Most companies will start and end and be forgotten as well. Most things, and concepts and activities will have the same fate. Here I was, back in Shanghai, the only person reminiscing my own life and the things that I did in China at one time. It's time to start examining the time spent on what, and making sure that the most effort goes to the most good.
I arrived on a Sunday night, jetlagged, choking on my unpracticed Chinese words, and living in a typical Chinese style business hotel. Everyday I would wake up, walk to the subway, and head to the company's office out in the sticks of Pudong. I was in China to help a successful mobile app company create their US launch strategy, present it to the Board, and come up with their product roll-out plan. An interesting project, no doubt, but the most interesting part for me was ...
I was basically reliving the old life I had lived in China three years ago. The job was different, but the offices were strikingly close to one another. My daily schedule was remarkably the same. I met up with the same old friends in the evenings, and went to the same restaurants, bars and foot massage parlors. Same food, same smelly water, same breathtaking sunrise over the river, same frustrations, same sound pollution, same shockingly kind and friendly strangers, same momentum, same camaraderie with other foreigners, same interesting, adventurous friends, same feeling that the impossible is simply not so. Same same same.
By the end of the week, I was speaking Chinese once again as I had years ago. I had grown comfortable with the food again. I'd even sunk back into the old habit of walking around the office park's garden area on my own at ~3pm, automatically launching my thoughts into planning elaborate escape routes back to America. I'd suddenly remember that this time was different, no need to devise escape routes, I was leaving on Saturday.
At the end of this bizarre week or reminiscing, something crucial happened. During the board meeting, as I was presenting the 24 month financials on the product rollout in the US, one of the board members asked, "So, I see that you have headcount in the US for a few people. Surely these can't be Chinese people. Who are they going to be?" The CEO of the company jumped in, answering in speedy, slurred Chinese, hoping I wouldn't understand. "We will hire her, she will head up our office in Silicon Valley."
Rather than feel flattered, I suddenly felt worried. I have finally left the workplace to be out on my own. I've really done this, and I'm doing just fine on my own. Slowly but surely I'm gathering more projects, and seeing the success from the previous consulting projects. I love the flexibility. I thoroughly enjoy the travel and the new people. Oddly, I left the office that evening feeling disoriented and concerned that I might be the US general manager of a company that makes feature phone video chat applications, devoting my life to random encounters over Wifi, 3G and cellular networks. Why would I accept that job? It's scary to be out on your own.
As I swam along with the sea of people in the subway that evening, I observed everyone around me. Each was ending a long week of work or school or retirement, heading home to their boxy apartments in the enormous city of 20 million, playing games on their phones, chatting with their friends, trendsetting with various gadgets and hair 'dos. I then truly realized something dramatic: most of us will live and die and be forgotten.
It is macabre, but it's true. Despite our best efforts, we might be forgotten. The best chance we have is making sure that we devote ourselves to something truly meaningful.
Most companies will start and end and be forgotten as well. Most things, and concepts and activities will have the same fate. Here I was, back in Shanghai, the only person reminiscing my own life and the things that I did in China at one time. It's time to start examining the time spent on what, and making sure that the most effort goes to the most good.
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