Travel Log: Don't Worry, It's a Tourist Town

La Serena, Chile

August 2004

It was the summer of 2004: I had graduated college, was on my way to graduate school in New York City, and feeling pretty good. Seemingly out of the blue, I received an email from a sort of advisor in my astrophysics career. He was the PI (principle investigator) on a project that included my own advisor and me. As a chance to get more telescope observing experience, he wanted to send me on a two-week telescope run at Cerro Tololo Inter-American Observatory in Chile. And a pretty great summer had just gotten even better.

CTIO, as it is more commonly known, sits in the Andes mountains in the north of Chile. There are a number of increasingly growing observatories in the area as it is perhaps the single best place on the planet to put a telescope. Tall mountains, dry climate--it really doesn't get much better than that. The nearest town, where the base operations for the telescopes are located, is the coastal town of La Serena. I would stay there a few days, and spend most of my time up on the mountain at the telescope.

There was the problem of timing, however. I was due to fly to Chile on the same day I was scheduled to move into my new graduate student apartment at Columbia University, and I had only a couple of weeks to prepare for the telescope, and I didn't speak a word of Spanish, and I didn't have a passport (in those days, I could travel to Canada and Mexico with only a driver's license). So it was a busy couple of weeks quickly preparing, rushing the passport, and, well, not learning any Spanish.

"Don't worry," some other astronomers who had been to CTIO told me, "La Serena is a tourist town. You'll have no problems finding people who speak English." I bought a phrase book, you know, just in case. (I later learned that La Serena is in fact a very popular tourist town--lots of Argentinians travel there for vacation. If I'd known that in advance, I'd have probably cracked open that phrase book a little earlier.)

So on the first day of August I drove across to New York City, dumped all of my earthly possessions into my new bedroom, and grabbed a few hours of sleep by nesting in the pile of all my clothes. Then it was off to the airport.

The next day I arrived in La Serena, Chile--my first trip to a country that required a passport for entry, my first trip to the Southern Hemisphere, and my first trip to a foreign land completely alone. I had been told that a taxi driver familiar with the observatory would pick me up from the airport, as he's apparently the one who always handles the American astronomers on account of his excellent English skills.

He was the nicest man I met in all of Chile, and to this day I don't know a single word he spoke to me.

Quickly realizing that words weren't going to be of much use, we devised a set of gestures, symbols, cognates, and grunting in the car as we left the airport and headed into town. He would take me to the observatory's base of operations, where I'd find a room to stay in, and he'd come back to pick me up for dinner.

Sure enough, just as I was getting hungry after settling into my room, the nicest taxi driver in all of Chile came knocking. His friend had a restaurant, we'd go there. But it was only 7pm, and there's so much to do first! (Chilenos eat dinner around 10pm, I later learned, though it was of little consolation to my stomach that first night.)

First up, he assumed I'd need some provisions. So he took me to the grocery store. Not just drove me to the grocery store, like a taxi driver might, but actually took me into the grocery store. He showed me what was good, helped me find things and check out, and even bought me a bottle of wine by way of welcoming me to his town. Did I mention he's the nicest man in Chile? Oh, good.

Fully stocked for my two weeks on the mountain top, we jumped back in the car. Oh, but it was so early, and I hadn't met his mother yet! So we drove round to his mother's house for introductions and freshly-squeezed lemonade. We--by which I mean they--chatted for a while while we--by which I mean they--discussed something very interesting and fairly amusing, too. Then it was time for dinner, and we were back in the car.

The restaurant was right on the ocean, and my driver-friend couldn't recommend it highly enough. Upon arriving, I learned that he had to go pick up some other people, so he'd come back for me after I'd eaten. I'd be in good hands, he seemed to say, his friend owned the place. Introductions were made, and  I was shown to a table by the windows overlooking the ocean. The menu, my phrasebook being still in my suitcase back in my room, meant very little to me. So I sort of shrugged at my waiter, he and the owner conferred briefly and asked me if they could just bring me things. Sounded good to me, I smiled back.

I wish I could say what it was that I ate, but I'm sure I couldn't do it justice. It was delicious, all three courses and the personal bottle of local wine. The owner also brought me my very first pisco sour--and I will always be eternally grateful for that. After dinner, the owner cheerily showed me around his restaurant and introduced me to everyone else dining there. I shook a lot of hands, smiled and laughed along with the locals....and had no idea any of it was about.

Then the driver came back, and couldn't be more happy that I enjoyed the meal. I thanked him the entire ride back to the observatory base, where I promptly collapsed into my bed. The next day I'd be heading up the mountain to the telescope. It was an incredible two weeks, and I'll never forget it, but the memory that stands out the most is of my best friend in Chile, who took care of a stranger as if I were his oldest friend.

Travel Log: On a Train Platform in Germany

October, 2011

It was a brisk but wholly sunny day in October in Germany, and Lynn and I are standing on a train platform in Nuremburg. We were traveling between Munich and Frankfurt, at the end of a 10-day trip across much of southern Germany, on our way to the airport to head home. We're standing on the platform because the super-fast, super-fancy high-speed train that shoots between the capitol of Bavaria and the capitol of the Euro is quite expensive. The local trains, that connect all the smaller towns and cities in between, are slow but much more affordable. We're switching from one local train to another.

When I was in high school, I took classes in the German language. My school offered four languages: Spanish, French, German, and Russian. Many of my friends took Spanish. One in particular tried in vain to get me to take Spanish as well. It's the most widely-spoken language on the planet, she would say, it will certainly be the most useful to you in the future. Ah, but German, I would invariably reply, is so much more fun--and then proceed to shout something in the language just to demonstrate how intimidating it could sound.

When I finally did travel abroad for the first time (Canada doesn't count), it was to Mexico. Then another trip to Mexico. Then my first inter-continental jaunt took me to Chile. In more recent trips, I've gone back to Mexico, then Peru and Bolivia. My next big trip takes me through Argentina. Seeing a pattern? My friend was right about Spanish being more useful.

Nonetheless, I took German in school, and loved it. It was a language that made sense to me; every sentence part had its place. There are rules, and those rules are not broken. The German language is so very...well, German. It was great. I thoroughly enjoyed learning and speaking the language, and my few friends who ventured into those classes with me kept me practicing often.

For a while, at least. In college I was too wrapped up in classes for my major to play with languages. And though I did have a close friend who also spoke German, we found that we did so less and less. So it was nearly eleven years after my last German class that I finally made it to Germany. I found that the rules still made sense, and I could still build basic sentences. My vocabulary, however, left much to be desired. Perhaps not too surprisingly, I met an alarmingly small number of Germans who sounded like my teacher, or my high-school native-English-speaking classmates. I struggled through the trip, being able to make simple sentences, and to understand more than I could speak--but not able to have very meaningful conversations. Sure, I got my general point across, but the person I was speaking with tended to mercifully switched to English when, if not before, I exhausted my abilities.

But on this beautiful, sunny, and only a little chilly in the shade day, my need for German language skills was nearly at an end. In 24 hours' time I'd be back on a plane home. I was standing on the platform, luggage in hand, with all the other people who were waiting for the next train.

Then, the train pulled up the platform, and we all shuffled with our luggage and families over toward the doors. "Sorry," said a middle-aged woman near me who must have bumped into me or my bag, though I didn't feel it. "No problem," I replied. Germans are so polite, I love that too. The doors of the train cars didn't open. Instead, the train started to back up slowly. "Strange!" the woman next to me remarked, as we all started chasing the doors down the platform a ways. The train stopped, we arranged ourselves in front of the doors, and I said to her, "This spot is better anyway!" Then the train pulled forward again, just a little. "Here we go again," she said to me, laughing. "We must go back and forth a few times so they know we really want it," I joked, and we both laughed and boarded the train.

It was about this time that Lynn asked me what we were talking about. I realized, only then, that our entire exchange had not been in English. I had a little conversation,  shared a joke and laughter with someone in their language, and she never felt the need to switch to mine. And I couldn't have been happier for this simple, light-hearted exchange. I could have hugged that woman right in doorway of the train car. Ah, but that would not have been very German at all.

---

(Note: This isn't current, but I find I'm just not writing as much as I used to--and I'd like to change that. So while I often sit with a blank page and ponder what to write about only to give up and go surf Facebook, I am instead going to try and get myself to recount past stories. Just to, as they say, get the juices flowing.)

Mr. Andrew Fleming, Traveling

Ask me what I love to do, and I'm likely to answer (among other things): travel. I love to travel, to see new places, to meet new people, to just go somewhere. Anywhere. Everywhere. Well, eventually. And so it is that I look back at the ol' blog, see that I haven't written in over six months, and realize that I have a great excuse--the best excuse--I've been traveling. A lot.

Let's see, where to begin? The last post was in March, and shortly thereafter I was in Roanoke, Virginia for Mu Beta Psi's National Convention. Lynn was ill, so I was on my own. It was a good time, as usual, and I even managed to get myself appointed Chairman of the Board of Trustees....whoops. And while I didn't write about it in this blog, I did manage to write a post for the Psi officers' blog over here.

Then suddenly it was April, and Lynn and I were off to exciting Milwaukee, Wisconsin. Typically when we travel to Wisconsin, it's to spend time with her family out on the family farm in Janesville. This time, though, it was a pleasant trip to spend time were her cousins who live in Milwaukee, and just catch up. Of all the trips this summer, this one was probably the most relaxing.

In May, I turned 30. And knowing she would be doing the same later this year, Lynn suggested we celebrate by running off to Disney World. Who could argue? We spent a whirlwind long weekend in Orlando, Florida and hit up all four major Disney Parks, and of course the Wizarding World of Harry Potter. Even I have to admit, that was cool. We even ran into some good friends along the way--one who was there for a bachelorette party, and one who works at Hollywood Studios and was able to hang out with us in the parks before going to work. Spending a great weekend at Disney was sort of eye-opening--not just that we had such a good time, but that it was so easy to pop down there for a weekend. Could be dangerous...

May ended with a quick trip with friends up to Killington, Vermont. And June was a much-needed rest. Instead of us traveling, a few friends came to visit us in New York. Then in July, it was back to Killington where we hosted Psi's Alumni Association mid-year meeting.

August was the biggest travel month. Lynn's brother got married, and we joined them in La Paz, Bolivia for a second wedding reception in the bride's hometown with all of her family. On the way, we traveled through Peru and saw Cusco, Machu Picchu, and Lake Titicaca. These are deserving of posts of their own, so hopefully I'll get to that.

Finally, that brings us up to September. Not long after returning from South America, we made a quick trip to Janesville, Wisconsin and then a trip to Austin, Texas for a swing dance event: The Hot Rhythm Holiday. Along with several of our dancer-friends, we'd been working on a piece of group choreography in collegiate shag. Although I had a fever and spent much of the time being generally ill, it was still a good weekend.

And now, we are home, and plan to be home--for a while at least. The holidays are coming up soon, which means Detroit, Michigan and probably back to Killington. And then 2013 kicks off with what promises to be a truly unforgettable trip, Antarctica.

Bon voyage!

Ich habe fünfzehn Jahre für diese gewartet

Sunset over New York, sunrise over London, lunch in Frankfurt.

Fifteen years ago, when faced with the decision of foreign languages to choose from in high school, I chose German.  I don't recall exactly why I chose German over French, Russian, and Spanish, but it was probably because then, as now, I just liked the sound of the language.  Throughout taking German levels 1, 2, and 4 (but not 3 for reasons I can't seem to recall), it was of course a foregone conclusion that I would travel to Germany at first opportunity.

And travel I did, to countries whose inhabitants speak Spanish, Italian, French, Spanish, more Spanish, and also Spanish.  But all good things to those who wait...that is, wait for friends to move to Germany and convince you that now's as good a time as any to just book the tickets and make the trip.

Lynn and I landed in Frankfurt on a sunny afternoon, and the adventure began immediately.  We were to make our way by train to the small western town of Kusel, where a friend has been living for a couple years.  Nervous about speaking a language among natives that I haven't studied in over a decade, fears were abated when I experienced once again that people are people everywhere.  The gentleman behind the ticket counter at the train station helped us get our route down (Kusel is not exactly on the beaten path), and even found a way to save us some money be making certain connections.  Helpful folks on the trains pointed us to the right platforms when we had to make those connections.  And so we went gliding through the countryside, generally aware of where we were going and marginally sure of when we'd get there.

Kusel

Once in Kusel, we had only to find our friend's house and some dinner.  Our friend was working late, so off we went in search of a little French restaurant she had recommended.  There, exhausted but happy to be in a new place, we chatted with the owner (who was even gracious enough to complement my German) and readied ourselves for the excitement to come.

"Odd that they'd play the Beatles, no?" mused Lynn the American upon hearing British music in the French restaurant of the German town over her plate of Austrian wienerschnitzel.

3...2...1...Liftoff!

STS-132: Atlantis lifts off for the last time
Ben Cooper, Launch Photography

It was dark when we woke up.  Dark because the shades were drawn, and we had gotten to our hotel so late we knew we wouldn't be getting much sleep.  Also because it was before dawn.  Come to think of it, that's probably the main reason.

Our tickets to Kennedy Space Center said we had to arrive by 9am.  Expecting a lot of traffic, we left around 6am to make the 1-hour (on a good day) trip due east from Orlando to Cape Canaveral.  As we drove through the marshland to the coast, the sun rose ahead of us, and traffic was no concern at all.  We arrived at KSC around 7am, not really sure what we were going to do all day, but excited for the big moment that would come at 2:19pm.

I had never been to KSC before, though even I was surprised at just how much I enjoyed our day there.  In the early morning light, we walked among the towering converted missiles of the early space program in the Rocket Garden.  We saw the stages of early spaceflight become the modern shuttle program.  We played in Mercury and Apollo capsules.  We rode a shuttle launch simulator ride.  And all of this before breakfast.

As the morning continued, we found ourselves more and more drawn to one of the lawns where would eventually view the launch.  Although we did not have a clear view of the launchpad itself, there were large screens set up with live video feeds of the pad and activity around the Atlantis.  Speakers throughout the grounds were tuned to listen in on communications between Mission Control, Launch Control, and the vehicle itself.  Near one of the screens, a small stage was set up.  Here one of NASA's extremely knowledgeable Communications Officers would describe in detail what was happening as the external fuel tank (the large orange tank underneath the shuttle) was filled with liquid oxygen and hydrogen.  We could see the astronauts putting their suits on, riding up the shuttle, and being strapped in.

What was more, two astronauts took the stage as well.  They talked not only about their experiences in space, but what was happening right now with the crew of STS-132.  What they were thinking and feeling as they were strapped into the most complex machine mankind has ever built.  What we should expect to see as the launch neared, and began.  We knew the astronaut's nicknames, and how they earned them.  We knew how they chose their meals for their time in space.  We knew what they were carrying to the International Space Station.  The effect of all of this was two-fold.  For people like me, who had dreamed of being there for as long as they could remember, we felt so much more a part of the launch.  We were invested in it emotionally as well as intellectually.  For those like Lynn, who did not have the decades of background knowledge in spaceflight, it brought them into that community as well.  As the countdown clock ticked lower and lower, everyone in attendance became more than spectators, we became a community of supporters.

With about a half hour before the launch, things began moving quickly.  We heard the final checks being performed and confirmed over the radio.  A helicopter swept back and forth over the Cape checking to make sure the airspace was clear.

At nine minutes, we all stood up.  The walkway to the shuttle was retracted.  A crowd of thousands held their breath.

Two minutes.  We cheered as the oxygen tank cap swung away from the top of the large orange fuel tank.  This is the last piece of the launch tower attached the shuttle, the astronauts call it the "parking break."  The astronauts closed their helmet visors.

One minute to go, all systems check, power and communications are internal to the vehical.  Houston checks in with Launch Control.  Everything's ready.

Thirty seconds: Ground Launch Sequnce starts

Ten seconds: On our screen, we see a close up of the main engines.  Sparks begin to fly, these will burn up any excess hydrogen fuel in the area so there are no uncontrolled explosions.

Six seconds: Main engines start.  The flames are so hot they are clear and blue, and focused into tight cones behind the engines.  The shuttle rocks forward in reaction to the engines firing.

One second: The shuttle rocks back.

Zero: The white Solid Rocket Boosters on either side of the fuel tank ignite.  Smoke billows out to the side.  The shuttle lifts off the pad.  It's the most effortless movement, the one thing this incredible machine was designed to do exceedingly well.  And it does.  It rises smoothly and quickly straight up, building a pillar of smoke beneath it.

At this, we all look to the east, waiting for the shuttle to come into view.  It was the longest ten seconds I've ever experienced.  Ten seconds of anticipation to see, with my own eyes, what I'd watched so many times on TV and computer screens.  My life paused for ten seconds.

Ben Cooper, Launch Photography

And then it came over the trees.  Even seven miles away, it was larger than I expected.  And it was such a clear day, we could see every detail.  Such grace.  And it was so bright.  So bright it startled me.  So bright it moved me.  As if the rocket boosters were so powerful they had torn a hole of the sky behind them, and the sun was shining through.

Thirty seconds later, the wall of sound finally reached us.

We watched Atlantis gracefully roll over, putting the shuttle itself at the bottom of the arc it would take up into the sky.  I was five years old again, in my living room in Detroit.  I had my metal toy shuttle pressed against the TV screen, lining it up with the trail of smoke from the real shuttle.  My cheeks were puffed out from the growling noise I made and imagined the real rocket engines were making.  I was in that little toy shuttle, and I was going somewhere I'd never been before.  My thoughts, and my spirits, and my dreams went into that real shuttle on this day.  They rose with Atlantis and her crew to a new place, a new adventure.  They were unstoppable.

About two minutes after lift-off, Atlantis had one more final farewell for those us on the ground.  The sky was so clear, we saw the solid rocket boosters reach the end of their fuel, and jettison from the sides of the shuttle.  They fell off to each side, and their flames went out.  They began to fall, and eventually parachute down to the ocean.

Our eyes back to the large screen on the lawn, we watched from the external cameras attached to the external fuel tank.  We saw the horizon of the Earth begin to curve, with the darkness of space beginning to surround it.  Finally, eight minutes after launch, the external tank detached from the shuttle.  Another cheer went up from the crowd.  Atlantis was in space.  We watched as the cameras on the tank continued to transmit, Atlantis seemed to float away.  We could see the underside of the shuttle sliding easily out of view as the cameras finally stopped.

Looking around us on the ground was like waking up from an incredible dream.  I had to remember where I was, how I got there.  Lynn squeezed my hand, and I was happy.  Heading back to Orlando took nearly three and a half hours with the traffic.  Lynn was driving the first shift, and I fell asleep in the passenger seat.  I dreamed.  I dreamed the same dream as moments before, and all those years ago.

Ad Astra!

Atlantis awaits rollout in the VAB - 4/19/10
Ben Cooper, Launch Photography

When I was very young, being an astronaut when I grew up was a foregone conclusion.  Well, after I got over my dinosaur paleontologist kick, at least.  I jumped into science, physics, astronomy, and loved it.  As I grew up, my interests shifted a bit, but I still stayed with the theme.  Astrophysics, as I studied in college and grad school, was everything about space except actually getting there.  (Some day I'll be rich enough for one of those private trips above the atmosphere.)  Still, I watched every launch I could on TV and later on the internet.

There's something so exhilarating about watching a rocket or a shuttle lift off into the sky.  The power, the rumbling, the fire, the grace, the beauty, and finally the awe.  It's unlike any other man-made marvel and reaches right down into us, tapping that sense of wonder and exploration.  Suddenly we're all back with our space helmets and pillow-fort starships, and everything is possible.

I've never seen it in person.

In all my years, and all my trips down to Orlando, I've never been able to line anything up with a launch.  I've been stuck running to a TV, or watching the NASA coverage on their web site.  Sometimes, though I'll never admit in person, I watch just the launch scene from the movie Apollo 13.  Sometimes I watch it twice.

With the shuttle fleet retiring this year, I came to the startling realization that I may never see a launch if I didn't act quickly.  So I checked the schedule, cleared a couple days from work, and bought plane tickets for Lynn and I to head down for the launch of STS-132, the final flight of the shuttle Atlantis.

Since then, I've been following the shuttle's progress from the Orbiter Processing Facility (OPF) to the Vehical Assembly Building (VAB), and finally out to the launch pad. NASA's shuttle page has great coverage of the details, but I've been really enjoying Ben Cooper's Launch Photography site. Ben is a NASA photographer and has amazing access to the shuttle for pictures. Here's a whole series on Atlantis being lifted up and rotated in the VAB so they can attach the fuel tank and rocket boosters. These are rare, and awesome, pictures.

Today, Atlantis is sitting at launch pad 39A, where in two weeks' time it will lift off on its final mission. And I'll be there to see it in person. With my space helmet. Everything is possible.

Atlantis rolls out to launch pad 39A - 4/21/10
Ben Cooper, Launch Photography

The Cass Gilbert Connection

I am by no means an architecture buff.  I enjoy a beautiful building as much as the next person, but am typically more interested in why it was built than how.  I've learned to discern the Federalist and Queen Anne brownstones in my neighborhood from the Victorian brownstones of Park Slope, and to identify some other large trends in architecture through time, but this again is because of their historical context.

Still, I find myself gravitating toward the Beaux-Arts and Neo-Gothic architectural styles, and to one of that era's star architects Cass Gilbert.  There's something about the optimism inherent in these grand structures, as if upstart America really could contribute to the vast architectural heritage of the world, that keeps drawing my eye.

It's through this that the Woolworth Tower has always been my favorite skyscraper in New York.  Completed in 1913 by Cass Gilbert, and paid for in cash by Frank Woolworth (all $13.5 million), it has always struck me as the most beautiful of of the major skyscrapers in New York.  And in a show of levity typical of Gilbert, there are little details hidden in plain site on the tower. There's a gecko scaling one face high up on the tower, for example, only visible with a good pair of binoculars and just the right viewing angle. Gilbert made beautiful buildings, and found a way to keep them fun as well.

When I first moved to 90 West Street, a stunning neo-Gothic building in its own right, one of the best features of my apartment was the view east to the Woolworth Tower.  I was surprised and excited to learn that 90 West was also one of Cass Gilbert's buildings.  Built it 1907, it was actually the precursor to the Woolworth Tower, Gilbert used it to test some of his Gothic stylings.  Like the Woolworth Tower after it, Gilbert played with the design of 90 West,  adding Gargoyles with his relatives' faces.  It was really through living in this building that I begun to learn more about Gilbert, and to appreciate his style.

I've since learned more random connections with Gilbert.  He was named for an ancestor of his, Lewis Cass.  Cass was governor of the Michigan territory (before it became a state), American Ambassador to France, US Senator for Michigan, and Secretary of State.  To understand his impact, I need only consider that my own mother lives just off of Cass Boulevard, and for many years worked in the Lewis Cass Building in Michigan's state capitol.  (In fact, there are a myriad of places named after him.)

In my travels, I've begun to pay more attention to buildings in particular.  And I still find myself drawn to Cass Gilbert's buildings across the country even without knowing about them.   The US Supreme Court Building, the state capitol of Minnesota, and many buildings around New York have all drawn my eye.  They are all Gilbert's.

Recently, I flew to Saint Louis to help launch a new Chapter of Mu Beta Psi.  One day, we went to the Saint Louis Zoo, which sits in Forest Park just down a hill from the Museum of Art.  I enjoyed the zoo, but kept looking up at the Museum.  My last day in the city I had some time to myself, so I went back to the park and walked around the Museum.  It felt so familiar.  I asked the gentleman at the information desk if he knew much about the building itself.  He replied, oh yes, it was built in 1904 for the World's Fair by Cass Gilbert.

Of course.

Now I find myself looking for them.  There are quite a few, but I will see as many as I can.

Lords of Slane, Keepers of the Paschal Fire

(Cross-posted from the Fleming Family Blog.)

Last month I spent a week wandering around Ireland. It was a bit of a fluke, really, I wanted to take a week off after finishing at one company and before starting at my current one. A few minutes' search on Orbitz.com, and I found surprisingly cheap tickets to Dublin. Ireland is a beautiful country, and full of vivid and amazing stories. "History should not be bogged down with facts," one gentleman told me, "It's the stories that matter."

Along the way, I visited Slane, a small village north of Dublin in the Boyne Valley. I did not know before-hand the significance of the place, as it was one stop of a historical tour focusing on the Celtic culture. But when we arrived at the Hill of Slane, the tallest hill for ten miles in any direction, my guide patted me on the shoulder and said, "Mr. Fleming, welcome back."

Any Flemings in the US that trace their heritage to Ireland today are descended from two branches of the Fleming Family that came from Flanders via Scotland (where the name persisted as Flemming).

In 1370, following the invasion of Henry II of England, the Barony of Slane was created and given as a reward to Richard and Thomas Fleming for their part in the war. They, and their descendants the Fleming Family, were Lords of Slane for three hundred years. (The other branch of Flemings became viscounts of Longford.) Loyal to king James II, they lost the Barony of Slane when James fell to William of Orange in 1691. Slane castle stood on the Hill of Slane until the Flemings built a newer castle in the valley below.

But there's another story about the Hill of Slane that, although largely apocryphal, is dear to the hearts of many Irish Catholics. My guide told me the following story that day.

Saint Patrick, perhaps the most famous Irishman of all, was not Irish. He was a Roman, born in the British territory to a wealthy famliy living on the west coast of England. The Romans never conquered Ireland, leaving it to the Celts. When he was a teenager, he was captured by Celtic raiders and taken to Ireland as a slave. He spent six years there before escaping back to Britain and joining the Church. As an adult, he saw that Christianity wasn't doing so well in Ireland, the missionaries didn't have the cultural experience he had to really communicate with the Celts about Jesus.

Patrick knew the Celts, he knew their beliefs, and he knew what was important to them. So he returned to Ireland on a mission of his own, and in the springtime went to the Hill of Slane.

Ten miles away rose the Hill of Tara, the seat of the High King of Celtic Ireland. Every spring, around the vernal equinox, a great celebration was held on Tara. The High King himself would light a ceremonial fire that would burn for days, and all other fires throughout Ireland were to be put out during this festival. Storytellers from all clans traveled to Tara so they could bring news of the festival back to every corner of Ireland.

Patrick knew this, and so began the biggest publicity stunt Ireland had ever known. As the festival began, and the Tara fire was blazing as the only fire in sight, the revelers saw another light struck on Slane. Patrick had lit a fire well within view of the King's fire, and even bigger. The King was furious at this defiance, and immediately dispatched his army to Slane to destroy any rivals they might find there.

The army marched across Boyne Valley, the best and strongest warriors who served the King, some 200 to 20,000 (depending on who tells the story). When they arrived ready to fight an invading army, they found only Patrick, unarmed but running right at them down the hill. They were so taken aback by this show of bravery that they completely failed to kill him. Instead, he convinced them to take him back to the King to explain himself. Patrick told the King about Jesus, about a God so powerful that Patrick knew he need not fear the King's army. The King was impressed, and not only allowed Patrick to live, but allowed him to continue his mission throughout Ireland. (Of course, he was greatly helped by all the storytellers present at Tara who also told the story far and wide.)

Eventually a monastery was built on the Hill of Slane, the ruins of which you can see in the pictures above. Every year at Easter, a paschal fire is lit on the spot where Patrick lit his fire. For three hundred years, the eldest Baron Fleming lit the fire, proclaiming the light of Christianity to the Boyne Valley.

Things Happen So Fast

It certainly does seem that way, doesn't it? So much has changed in just a few short weeks. I left my old job to start at a new company. It was odd, having been there for two and a half years, to leave all the people I've come to rely on every day. But the time was right. The new job is pretty fantastic, and as I'm settling into it I'm liking it more and more.

In between the end of one era and the beginning of the next, I went to Ireland. Why Ireland? Cheapest flights I could find. My friend Andy happened to be visiting us when I made the decision, and as luck would have it he could take a week off too. So we went, with no plans, and very little knowledge of the country or geography. It was great. We found wonderful things to do, fantastic people, and lots of great beer. Maybe one of these days I'll write more about it. But I doubt it. There's just never enough time in the day.

Things happen so fast.

Lynn and I, in an attempt to curb our parents' calls for an expanded family, adopted a kitten. We're calling him Louis, after Satchmo, of course. He's an all-too-adorable little tabby cat who's fearless around people and loves to cuddle—that is, when he's not tearing something apart.

Now that the summer is stretching out ahead, we're hoping things will calm down a bit. We have no plans this weekend, and that's a welcome change.

Sin é

I'm in Cork, Ireland, on a week-long trip through this country with my friend Andy. Yes, we do confuse people wherever we go. This is an amazing country. Not only is it exactly as beautiful as everyong, and especially the Irish, describe, but there's a very unique kind of history here. They aren't the Celtic nation because they were the first Celts, rather they were the last to survive. They aren't an independent Irish nation because they wanted it, rather they fought for it--and in some ways, still are. All of this comes together to build a sense of identity I haven't seen anywhere else. I've known the Irish are a proud people, but I haven't understood why until now. I feel a little more connected to my name, though my branch of the Flemings have been in America for too many generations to have held onto much more.

I'll have to write more about the trip later.

Back from Boston

Watching the marathon was surprisingly good. I had sort of figured I would wander around Boston until I had a chance to see my uncle run past and that would be it. Instead, I ended up staying along the rail on the course the entire time until he came by. It was fascinating to watch all the runners, 25,000 in total, come through. Even more fascinating were the variety of attitudes. Some were weary, some determined, but many were downright celebratory. A large number of the runners were smiling and waving to the crowd. One guy even did a cart-wheel to the cheers of the spectators. I was amazed at the amount of positive energy, and that made it a lot of fun to watch.

I know, being a New Yorker, that it's my duty to downplay Boston as the quaint little town it is. But I have to say, when it comes to the subway, I found it to be pretty lacking. From where we were on the race course (near Boston College), we took the green line into the Back Bay area where the finish line was. Outside of "downtown" this train is on the street level, and it stops for every traffic light and any pedestrians who feel like standing in front of it. It took us more than 45 minutes to travel a distance of four and a half miles. There were two women jogging along the street parallel to our train, and they pulled ahead of us at each stop for about six stations before they were so far ahead that I could no longer see them. Boston, you need express trains.

The attempt to live blog the marathon turned out alright. I couldn't get the "Publish" button to appear on my blackberry, so I had to create new posts instead of editing the first post I created with updates. And as my battery wore down quickly during the day, posts went from short narratives to as few words as I could use. Once I find a better delivery method, and another event worth of the effort, I'll try again.

Live Blogging the Boston Marathon

I'm travelling to Boston to support my uncle running in the Boston Marathon. I'm going to try something new and see if I can live blog it from my blackberry over on the family blog: Boston Marathon

Passing The Torch

I just returned from Houghton, and my Fraternity's National Convention. This was a big event for me, returning to my alma mater for the first time in years and passing on the gavel to the next National President.

It's been two years since I was first elected President, and it's been a busy two years. I accomplished several of my goals, from obtaining insurance for the Fraternity to completely over-hauling the policy structure of the National Office. I've missed a few, a Travel Incentive Program that doesn't yet support the service aspects of the group. At the end of the day, though, I think I left the organization in a better state, with a more functional National Office and a clearer sense of the goals necessary to move forward. People have asked me what my "legacy" will be, and I'm not sure how to answer. I suppose, so long as the Fraternity is insured and March 14th, 2009 is the approved date on the policies I fixed, then I'll be happy that some of the more important work was worthwhile. Two Chapters bear my name on their Charter, which I'll freely admit, is pretty cool. I've offered to continue advising the new President, and I'm confident that the organization is in good hands.

But for me, I don't think I'm ready yet to leave a legacy. There is so much more work to be done for this organization to really get into a position to affect positive service in the music world. Lynn, also no longer a National Vice President, and I are focusing our efforts now on the Alumni Association. Some of you reading this may be hearing from us soon. I get the feeling that I'm in this for the long haul, and that's a good thing.

This Convention was a homecoming for me, in a few ways. It was wonderful to preside over the Convention at my home Chapter, and fitting that I come home to pass on the torch. It was also the first time I was able to spend real time in and around Houghton since graduation. Sure, I made a brief visit a couple years ago, but spent about 24 hours there, and most of it in someone's house. This trip was different.

Although the events of Convention didn't start until Thursday, we flew up Wednesday. Our flight connected through Minneapolis (as all flights to Houghton do), and they almost didn't let us leave that airport citing bad weather in Houghton. We eventually took off with the very real possibility of redirecting to Marquette should the winds at Houghton continue gusting above 60mph. It took three tries at approaching the landing strip, but we did land in Houghton and were off on our adventure.

We went into town, and met up with an old friend of mine John. John and I met back when I used to have lunch every Friday at Marie's Deli and he would be playing the harp. Eventually, he would join me for lunch, and we became friends chatting about everything from music to astronomy. I hadn't seen him since graduation, and we had a lot of catching up to do. He also adores opera, which helped he and Lynn get along just fine.

Thursday began as Wednesday ended; we had to finish our preparations for the meetings and business that is conducted at Convention. But afterward we headed to MTU's campus to meet up with some others. In true Tech tradition, we borrowed some cafeteria trays and went sledding down McNair Hill. Then it was back to the hotel for some time in the hot tub before heading back out for dinner at the Bass (Ambassador) and drinks at the DT (Downtowner Lounge).

Friday was meetings, meetings, meetings, and Saturday was one big long meeting--both extremely relevant to Mu Beta Psi, but not for our narrative here.

Sunday, as everyone was leaving, we decided to take a drive. Another time-honored Tech tradition is to go Copper Country Cruisin'. So, we piled a few other visiting Brothers into our rental car and went up US-41 and M-26 to Copper Harbor. It was exhilarating to be back, and I was amazed once again of the stark beauty of the land there. As we drove along Lake Superior, with waves frozen mid-crash, I fell right back in love with the UP. It will likely never again be where I live, but it will always be my home.

Taking It to the Limit

After an incredibly difficult week both in and out of work, Lynn and I decided to run away for the weekend. We went up to Killington, VT to meet some friends and ski our troubles away.

I went skiing a lot with my dad growing up, but during college almost completely stopped as other concerns crept in and time became a luxury I no longer enjoyed. Moving to NYC certainly didn't help get me out-of-doors, until Lynn and I started going up to Killington once or twice a year. I found, though, that while I remembered how to ski, the practice of skiing had considerably changed. My body has changed, and certainly the way I use it. And even the skis themselves had changed, the last pair I owned were straight and longer than I am tall. Nowadays with the parabolic skis, they're shorter, lighter, and feel quite a bit different.

Once or twice a year, for three years now, did not make me immediately recall the days when I was young and just wanted to go fast. But as I pushed myself a little more each time, I found the memories return, the muscles recall, and the technique slowly improve. Two weeks ago, skiing with Lynn's family, I went down the first black diamond run in at least a decade. Two days ago, I pushed my own limits much further.

We were skiing this weekend with a good friend who stood in our wedding and his girlfriend. They are both excellent skiers, and we find ourselves pushing a little harder when around them to keep up. My friend in particular is also a good motivator, and he knows just when I need a little nudge.

Our first run from the condo down to the base lodge was green, if only because there were no other trails to take. The second and third runs were half blue and half black diamonds—the real warm-up runs. As we rode up the Bear Mountain quad lift, along the famous Outer Limits trail, we couldn't help but all feel good about our skiing and our weekend. My friend, seizing the opportunity, noted how the snow was good, the moguls smaller than usual, and that this was the day—if ever there was one—to take Outer Limits.

Outer Limits is long and steep. It's known for being one of the steepest and toughest trails in the East. It's a double-black diamond trail.

And we did it.

I won't claim it was pretty, but I made it to the bottom without falling, and that's an accomplishment I'll take pride in. It was frightening, slowly moving toward the brink at the top of the mountain. But I heard a voice behind me, a friend saying "Don't stop! Don't stop!" and I kept going. Once over the edge and making way down the mountain, it became much easier. Where else was I to go but down? I focused on the snow ahead of me and where I should make my turns, rather than how steep the hill was and very far it was to the bottom. As with many things, once I'd committed to doing it, the act of doing it was a much smaller hurdle.

When I reached the bottom, the four of us celebrated with a well-deserved waffle at the base.


Images of Outer Limits from Wikipedia

The Holiday Traveling Show

Occasionally, this blog sits around for a while. Generally I'm either distracted by shiny objects elsewhere, or simply can't think of anything about which to write. Not this time, though. Things have really just been a whirlwind of activity.

Lynn and I spent Thanksgiving in Michigan, flying out there for about four days. We were lucky to spend some time with some of the Flemings in Ann Arbor, and visit with them a bit. Thanksgiving dinner itself was at my mom's house (a first, since we've always had a big Soave family dinner) with several members of a new branch of the family. The next day we had dinner with some of the Soaves, and soon after flew back to New York.

Christmas was similar, as we found ourselves out with Lynn's family for Christmas, and up in the Catskills to my dad's place the next couple days. Fortunately, we had a brief layover in Connecticut on the way back home where we enjoyed the whole house—empty—to ourselves. Don't think I'm complaining, though. These holidays were our first as a family, and to spend them with all of the extensions of our families showed us just how lucky we are.

All the while, and in between, we've also played host to several friends who've come to visit or have been passing through the city. Many of Lynn's singer-friends have come to town for the audition season, and several others have been through just to say hi and spend some time with us. November and December have been an almost continual progression of traveling and hosting, and what could be better than friends and family at this time of year?

The stats:
Families visited: 5 (all out own!)
Friends hosted: 7
Distance travelled: 1,750 miles

The fun continues as we'll be up in Boston for New Year's, and then off to Killington for some fun in the snow!

East Side, West Side, All Around the....Country

It's been a summer of quick little trips around the country. I'm always amazed at the little quirks of each little place. Especially in these times of big-box stores and generic chain stores, it's wonderful to see something unique to an area.

A while back I spent a wonderful day down in Point Pleasant Beach, NJ. Point Pleasant is fairly typical Jersey Shore beach town, with a long boardwalk lined with restaurants and shops. Further north along the boardwalk, these give way to houses large and small with cute, beach-appropriate names tacked over their doors. One of these is named "Seascape," but to everyone who's been to Point Pleasant, it's simply known as the "Sinatra House." Here, Ol' Blues Eyes plays from speakers built into the porch every day from 8am to 9pm. I found an archived NYT article with some more details. The house is owned by the Smith family, and although Mr. Smith may have passed on, the residents of Point Pleasant were glad to hear his family is continuing the tradition. This is my kind of place.

The following weekend, I spent a few days in Silicon Valley. Here again, the people who live in this area have an interesting quirk. There are shopping carts everywhere. Everywhere. This string of cities are neither as pedestrian friendly as New York nor as car-centric as Detroit. Most people have cars, and most use them every day to run errands. But many people walk to the grocery store. In New York, where everything, as they say, is bigger, people take little fold-up carts that they own to the little grocers to pack the little foodstuffs into their little refrigerators. But in the Valley, people seem to walk to the grocery stores, buy a shopping cart full of groceries, and then walk home with their groceries in the cart. They don't need a shopping cart, of course, so they leave it on the side of the road. At first I figured all these shopping carts along the roads were an indication of homelessness. But the carts outnumbered the homeless by far. The friend I stayed with told me that people just use them and leave them--and that he hadn't really noticed how many there were because they're simply always around.

The next weekend I went back down to Brevard, NC to see Lynn's opera. I didn't get much time to socialize with locals, as it was a very short trip. Still, in my three weekends in three parts of the country, it was nice to see first-hand that there still is quite a bit of diversity in behavior and ideas, if not in choice of fast-food eats.

Astronaut Ice Cream!

One of those staples of childhood museum trips was to stop off at the gift shop at the end of the day and get some astronaut ice cream. Crumbling freeze-dried goodness packed in a shiny foil wrapper. It was always one of the highlights of going to any museum, ranking just below the animatronic dinosaurs and just above the screen that would hold your shadow for several seconds after a light turned off. (Of course, it never came close to the planetarium.)

Today I find myself connecting through Houston on my way to California. Capitalizing on a certain NASA center somewhere in this town, there's a "Space Trader" gift shop here in my terminal. They have astronaut ice cream. I can't even remember the last I had any. So I bought some.

You're probably expecting me to say it doesn't taste as good as I remember. But you'd be wrong, it's delicious!

The Fighting White Squirrels of Brevard, North Carolina

I'm sitting in a quaint little coffee shop in the quaint little town of Brevard, NC. Yesterday, I flew out of Newark for the first time in five years. I've always avoided that airport, not just because of the obvious association with Jersey, but also because it seems so difficult to get to without a car. Or at the very least, expensive. But for this trip the only direct flight--not to mention cheapest by far--was out of Newark. My assumption of how difficult it would be to get there couldn't be more wrong. From my apartment it's only a walk of a few minutes to get to the WTC PATH train station. This train, for only $1.75, takes you all the way to Newark's Penn Station. From here you can take any number of trains one stop to Newark airport--and you will never have to wait more than a few minutes. The airport stop has a monorail that takes you right to the terminal of your choice. Sure, it sounds a little complicated since you are effectively taking three trains, but it was surprisingly easy. All told, it took me about fifty minutes to get from my front door to the security line at the airport. On a day with heavy traffic, that's equivalent to a taxi ride to LaGuardia, my usual airport of choice.

I flew into Greenville, SC; again, the cheapest option. From the air I could see that Greenville is booming. The lush green hilly countryside of this part of the country was everywhere marked by the vivid red-orange of freshly unearthed soil. There were roads every which way that curved "just so" to give the future subdivision that meandering feel. Each one wandered to some empty bulbous cul-de-sac where soon innumerable house will huddle around. The airport is still relatively small, so it was easy to find the very generous stranger Lynn had arranged to pick me up. He and I drove an hour and a half deep into the stunning Blue Mountains and finally into North Carolina and the little town of Brevard.

Brevard is a charming little place. The main street has all the little two-story shops you would expect of small town, but in that special small town feel it hits the mark with perfection. Strolling along, you'll find many little restaurants (most serving seafood, for reasons not abundantly clear this far from any major body of water). You'll find Hunters and Gatherers, a little kitsch shop with everything from antique furniture to bars of soap with plastic nuns in them (to was away the sins, of course). Kiwi gelato is across the street, so named for its owner who is the only resident in town native to New Zealand. Next door is the home-made chocolate shop. And so on down the street with cute little shops all the way. At the end of the street is the toy store. It was closed when I walked by last night so I had to content myself with peering in the windows. In one window is a large Lionell train display. This display had everything: the cute little shops of Brevard, the loading station for freight trains, a gondola going up a mountain, and a group of "Homies" break-dancing in a park pavilion. But the best part was when a trolley suddenly sprang to life and raced down the street revealing the most risqué car wash scene ever depicted in a train model town. Picture forthcoming.

Brevard is most famous for it's curious and elusive white squirrels. For reasons unknown, the seem to only inhabit this area, and it's quite the gimmick to capitalize on. Everywhere you can buy white squirrel shirts, mugs, cards, underwear, salt and pepper shakers, and so much more. My personal favorites are the unofficial mascot shirts for the local school. On these are a white squirrel with his dukes up, just above the boldly lettered "Fightin' White Squirrels." I was even fortunate enough to see a real live white squirrel this morning. Supposedly, that's good luck.

Clearfield, PA

Last weekend, Lynn and I took a whirlwind road-trip to Michigan and back for a wedding shower. We borrowed her parents car on Thursday night and parked it in the city so we could leave right after work on Friday.

Friday afternoon, we left New York around 3pm. Expecting a ten-hour drive, we hoped to get to the Detroit area by 1am. Then we'd have plenty of sleep before Lynn went to the 12:30 shower (I was to show up only at the end to say hello to the relatives and family friends). The first part of the drive was uneventful, we flew through Jersey into the wonderful (but long) stretch of I-80 through the Pennsylvania mountains.

About a third of the way across the state, and firmly in the middle of nowhere, we got a flat tire. The car we had borrowed was nice enough to have tire pressure sensors, so the light came on and we had plenty of time to get off the next exit before the tire deflated significantly. So, off we went down the ramp of exit 120 and into a small gas station.

Now, of all of the great state of Pennsylvania, there has been only one location that I've stopped while passing through. This particular exit of the interstate has a little local restaurant called the "Dutch Pantry" that has good food and nice service. This restaurant is the half-way point between Catskill, NY and Detroit, MI, and so is the place where my father always stops when driving back to Michigan to visit his family. So, having been on many of those drives myself, I've been there more than a few times. So it was only natural that our flat tire would leave us nowhere else but the exit with the Dutch Pantry, at the gas station right next door.

Having had a couple flat tires in the past (once I lost both back tires at the same time!), I knew I could change the tire and we could go as far as we could on the spare. Opening the trunk, we saw that we had a full-size spare tire and were delighted to think that in fifteen minutes or so we'd be back on our way to Michigan. So, I pulled out the jack while Lynn went to grab us some dinner. It didn't take me long, however, to discover that I was not going to get that flat tire off the car.

This particular brand of car has a special lug nut (one of the five) that requires a special key to get it off the wheel. We did not have this key. We turned the car inside out, but no key. So, we called AAA to ask them how we could get the key to get the tire off. They politely informed us that the car company does not release universal keys, so our only option was to take the car to a dealership. They were also kind enough to point out that the nearest dealership was 120 miles southwest of us in Pittsburgh.

By this point, the sun had set, and hours had passed.

Around 10pm, it looked like all hope was lost. A tow truck was on the way, but it could only take us to Pittsburgh. We had tried calling car rental companies to get us moving again, but on a Friday night they were all closed (and we were nowhere near an airport). So, the tow truck would take us to Pittsburgh, we would stay in a hotel, and when the dealership opened Saturday morning they would replace the tire. Then we would have to turn around and go home, since we would certainly miss the shower.

Hope arrived in the form of John, the driver of the tow truck. He looked at our locked lug nut, and offered the one thing we hadn't considered: to simply break it off. He hammered a larger nut over the locked nut and unscrewed it. After that, our full size spare tire was on and road-ready in a matter of minutes. John assured us this method would ruin the locked nut, but that didn't even happen--it was only slightly scratched.

With a perfectly fine tire on the car, we were back on the road again. After a long night, we pulled into my mom's driveway around 4:30am. It was more than worth it. The shower was lovely (well, at least what I saw of it), and it was great to see family and friends even if only briefly. All too early Sunday morning, we were heading east again--but with a car full of presents.

Now the car has no locking lug nuts at all, only plain ones that can be easily removed by the wrench in the trunk.

Spring is in the Air

So much time since the last post. Things get busy, and the old blog gets neglected. I suppose it's a good thing, though, to prioritize life over updates.

After the last post, Lynn and I traveled to Raleigh, NC to Mu Beta Psi's National Convention. It was fantastic as always to see old friends, meet new ones, and celebrate together the diversity and history of our organization. I had the distinct privilege of signing and presenting the charter for our newest chapter at Rutgers University. I was also thrilled to be re-elected as National President for another year. There's a lot I hope to accomplish in the coming year.


Then began a string of performances. Lynn performed at the culmination of a class she had taken in preparing opera roles. We both went to see our friend Marjorie perform stand-up. We went to Princeton, NJ to see another friend sing. Then Marjorie took us with her to see Bill Cosby perform in Connecticut. He was hilarious. He came on stage in sweat pants and a sweatshirt, sat down on a chair and just started talking. It was as much a conversation as it was a performance.

We've also kicked wedding planning into high gear. In a couple of weekends, we've set out the save-the-date cards, invitations, menu, table linens, floor plan, cake, florist, rehearsal dinner venue, and singers for the ceremony. It seems as if every time we make a host of decisions about the wedding, that there cannot possibly be any more decisions to make—but there are always more.


More recently, we were besieged by the Pope in his recent visit to NYC. Last Sunday morning, he visited the Trade Center site to offer a prayer and a blessing. The ramp down to the site, and the gate that allows trucks from the street to access it, is right in front of our building. (That's our building at the top of the ramp in this picture.) So, in order to protect the Pope, they set up a bullet-proof tent in front of our main entrance in which the Pope could move from his motorcade car to the Popemobile. Then he rode the Popemobile down the ramp to the spot where he prayed. All this time, we were not allowed to use the door to our building. Lynn and I decided to sleep in, and wait it out, rather than try and go anywhere. The Secret Service sent around a memo to everyone in our building to please keep our windows closed, for fear of sniper fire. But it was such a beautiful day, we left them open. Our windows didn't have the vantage point for anything of the sort anyway.

There have been many beautiful days here lately. Spring is definitely here, and as the trees bloom and skies clear, I remember one of the many reasons I love this city so much.