Dave Barry gets a colonoscopy (you should, too)

He makes a good point: you either have colon cancer, or you don't. Either way, don't you want to know? Stop putting it off, get a colonoscopy!

Dave Barry: A journey into my colon - and yours

Cycletaurs

I remember writing last year (no, wait, it was the one before that! How long have I been here now??) that Bert & I were on our bikes so much we were slowly finding mystical union with them.

Well! That ain't nothing compared to this summer. Because this summer I have a new bike!

Check it oooooouuuutt!

Isn't it gorgeous? It's got 27 gears, hydraulic brakes, unkaputtbare Reifen ("indestructible tires" -- we don't say that, do we? "Flat-resistant tires"? Help me out, here), a top shifting system, adjustable everything, and suspension under the seat and handlebars. The powerful headlight and taillights come on automatically when it gets dark enough. Even the bell is the perfect silvery sound to announce the approach of this noblest of Zweirädern. Ding, ding! Magnificent bike coming, hark! And admire ye!

My last bikes (yes, plural) were all more or less experiments, hand-me-downs from friends which fit me just enough to keep my knees from making contact with my jaw as I pedaled. Which was good, because any tiny unevenness in the pavement would already make my teeth chatter together as I fumbled with the temperamental gears in an attempt to keep up with Bert's cruiseworthy Diamant. Don't get me wrong, I was grateful to have them; but we were definitely Chitty-Chitty-Bang-Bang -- without the wings and sentience -- following an Audi Roadster.

When the chain finally leapt in desperation from the last such contraption, Bert took my hand and marched me into a huge cycling shop in Oggersheim. Light glinted off row upon row of sleek thoroughbreds, turning their wheels seductively toward me and purring their tinkling bells, beckoning me to sit on the bouncy new seats. "But I can't afford any of these jewels!" I protested, already clambering onto one to see what I'd be missing. Bounce, bounce. I squeezed the ergonomic handles. Ooo. "And I can't afford to allow you any more excuses not to take longer excursions with me," said Bert. He waved over a salesperson.

Well! After much experimentation, we are now two Audis cruising down the road. The right equipment just makes all the difference. What before had been rattling and laborious is now smooth and effortless, like flying; and I can focus so much more on the scenery and the wind than on keeping my chain in place. Even pedaling over very rough, tree-rooty forest paths is like something out of a 4x4 commercial.

So far, we average about 40-60 kilometers per ride in anticipation of taking a biking vacation for Bert's birthday in October. Bike paths in Germany are just the best. It's a very outdoorsy country, and the specially-designated, traffic-free bike paths that ribbon all throughout the countryside are well mapped and maintained, with cute little green signs indicating direction and distance at every intersection. We've already got our journey entered into the GPS -- 300 kilometers along rivers between Bavaria and Baden Württemberg, with many a camping spot and brewery along the way, finally ending four or five days later at a vineyard where Bert's family will come join us for the birthday weekend itself.

Doesn't that just sound awesome??

Time to start molding butts onto bike seats!

Dragging...

So... tired... today!

I've been weirdly sleepy all week. Have so much to do, and a long list of planning and translating and proofreading and email-answering and general Work Admin to get through today... but I can't seem to focus. What is up? I haven't been sleeping any less (or more!) than usual this week, but when I do, it's been very deep and then difficult to get up afterwards. Bert even took one look at my puffy peepers and asked, alarmed, if I'd been crying!

Can a body suddenly start demanding all the lost sleep it's accumulated over the years?

Must finish lessons... must write colleagues back... want to go... lie... down... zzzzzz!

Bare addendum

Poor Berti! He read that last post and was a little shocked. He said I make it sound as if "er glotzt anderen Frauen hinterher und findet seine eigene total langweilig."

So allow me to emphasize that Bert is not glotzing other women hinterher. And he doesn't find me total langweilig. I just noticed that he picks up on the cute little touches -- little touches that I have no plans to add to my already chore-filled morning routine, not even if it's something small for my boyfriend's sake.

Which is kind of a pity, considering how many women complain that their guys don't notice or appreciate when they go out of their way to look nice. It seems with us, Bert is such a rare man, who got stuck with a girlfriend who's too lazy to make the effort!

And India, ho!

Shauna's all checked into her hotel and ready to start work tomorrow. Just fyi! :)

India bound

We just sent Shauna off to Bangalore to meet her new Google playmates today. She had her little sack lunch and backpack and typhoid tablets. Everybody please wish her a safe and happy adventure.

The bare minimum

Yesterday, I saw a girl wearing bright yellow ballet flats.

It looked really cute, especially because the rest of her outfit, being rather unremarkable, was made completely eye-catching and expressive by these two cheerful feet. My first thought was how cool that was. My second thought was that I would never think to do that.

Thing is, I kind of like fashion. Not in the magazine-runway-designer way; I mean the oh-look-what-she-has-on kind of way. Although maybe like isn't so much the word as admire: I enjoy observing how people decorate themselves, and am kind of envious that I don't have the same effortless ability. I only just recently bowed to the skinny-jean trend, probably on the same vague impulse that propelled me to stop wearing them somewhere around 1994: the small part of my brain devoted to not looking ten years out of date was finally visually prodded enough to passively follow along with my age group.

Tempted as I am to claim that this is due to occupying some lofty plane above such petty considerations (you know, contemplating the cosmos with Carl and all that), the fact is, I'm just lazy and broke. And unadventurous, too, as a result.

See, it's hard enough work finding just one piece of clothing or shoes that do the job and look halfway decent. Maybe if I had the time -- or, well, okay, if I chose to spend the time -- to shop endlessly, I'm sure I'd find more stuff. Which would promptly be out of style again 18 months later, and I'd be back to shopping for more stuff. (This is where the money part comes in.) It just seems like the constant effort involved outweighs any impulse I have to decorate myself beyond the bare minimum. I have a belt, I have a pair of pumps. Why do I need a bunch of different kinds?

Of course this means I'm also not terribly experimental -- if I do find something, and spend my limited cash on it, it's got to be useful with more than one outfit (sorry, bright yellow flats).

All of which leaves me with a closet full of relatively neutral colors in what I think are nice cuts and fabrics. And I feel comfortable and put-together, until I go out with my friend Nadja, who has cleverly matched her lipstick to her pearl-pink jacket and looks like a million bucks. Or I have a date with my boyfriend, and go to find something pretty and eye-catching to wear and the best I can do is Librarian In Heels.

I guess this all pretty trivial, not to mention exactly like complaining you don't have awesome triceps when you're not willing to put in the time and effort to attain them. I just wish it was equally as unimportant to my boyfriend. Of course he's subtle about it; but I can't help cringing just a little when he comments, with a halfway-pleading look at me, how cute and feminine that girl's painted toenails look peeking out of her summery sandals, and I realize I don't even own any nail polish. (Because then I'd have to, you know, paint my nails! And it would chip off, and I'd have to paint them again. You see??)

Sigh. Bert would have noticed the yellow flats, too.

Maybe I should become a software engineer like my sister, where you're looked at fish-eyed if you do more than make sure your company logo tee is clean and free of noticeable holes.

Reading on the Weinstraße

Non-fiction has really started to allure me of late. Two recent discoveries have been "The Omnivore's Dilemma" by Michael Pollan and "Cosmos" by Carl Sagan.

The Omnivore's Dilemma is an engrossing, thoughtful, and even suspenseful account of one journalist's adventures exploring the modern food chain. Pollan's intriguing premise is that our ancestors, as omnivores, were faced with special challenges not experienced by animals with a more self-evident dinner menu. Unlike, say, koala bears, an animal that can eat almost anything must constantly make decisions: Are those red berries nutritious or dangerous? Are these mushrooms tasty or toxic? Should this be combined with that?

How we resolved this dilemma in the past was through culture. Instead of new experimentation every generation, accumulated wisdom was passed down through the community via an established local cuisine. If grandmother made it, then that's what I'll make, too.

This approach to nourishing ourselves worked pretty well for a good many thousand years. But in the last couple of generations, our guide for navigating the bulging supermarket shelves has become everyone but grandma: nutritionists, journalists, scientists, politicians, and advertisers have all elbowed her out, each with a different motive and none with a clue. Eat less fat! Wait, eat more fat! But only these kinds! Eggs are good. Eggs are bad! Eggs are okay, but this omega-3-added variety is even better. Try this milk with "new! active cultures" and this one with "now more calcium". In attempting to industrialize our food production, we've gone from eating the stuff to analyzing, manipulating, and processing (to say nothing of marketing) it. The result is that we've re-introduced the omnivore's dilemma, and sentenced an entire population to bewilderment and malnutrition.

A fascinating read. Here are a couple excerpts:

On the modern omnivore's dilemma: "This situation suits the food industry just fine, of course. The more anxious we are about eating, the more vulnerable we are to the seductions of the marketer and the expert's advice."

On industrial agriculture: "When we mistake what we can know for all there is to know, a healthy appreciation of one's ignorance in the face of a mystery like soil fertility gives way to the hubris that we can treat nature as a machine... when the synthetic nitrogen fed to plants makes them more attractive to insects and vulnerable to disease, as we have discovered, the farmer turns to chemical pesticides to fix his broken machine."

On a sustainable-agriculture movement in Italy called Slow Food: "It's all very Italian (and decidedly un-American): to insist that doing the right thing is the most pleasurable thing, and that the act of consumption might be an act of addition rather than subtraction."

On a meal with friends: "In his chapter Brillat-Savarin draws a sharp distinction between the pleasures of eating -- 'the actual and direct sensation of a need being satisfied,' a sensation we share with the animals -- and the uniquely human 'pleasures of the table.' These consist of 'considered sensations born of the various circumstances of fact, things, and persons accompanying the meal' and comprise for him one of the brightest fruits of civilization. Every meal we share at a table recapitulates this evolution from nature to culture, as we pass from satisfying our animal appetites in semisilence to the lofting of conversational balloons. The pleasures of the table begin with eating (and specifically with eating meat, in Brillat-Savarin's view, since it was the need to cook and apportion meat that first brought us together to eat), but they can end up anywhere human talk cares to go. In the same way that the raw becomes cooked, eating becomes dining."

Cosmos has been another delightful discovery (thanks, Shauna, for leaving your copy at our place!). Carl Sagan was one of the greatest astronomers of the twentieth century, even more so because of his belief that the miracles of science should be made available to the general public. An avowed atheist, he is nonetheless surprisingly spiritual. I can't think of a better word to describe his book than "wonder" -- wonder at the universe, at creation, at humans and our minds, at mathematics, at chemistry, at existence. Here was a guy whose boylike enthusiasm for the cosmos only grew the more he found out. He made it his life's work to shake people and point at the sky and go, "wake up! Look around you! Isn't it incredible?"

I think a review on the back of the book says it all: "Cosmos is like the college course in science you always wanted to take but never knew a professor could teach. It's magnificent. Sagan writes beautifully... With a lyrical literary style, and a range that touches almost all aspects of human knowledge, Cosmos often seems too good to be true."

Well, I'm sure enjoying it. The book is not just about the universe itself -- what it's made of, what we know about how it works, theories as to what it looks like and where it came from -- it also documents how these discoveries themselves were made. Which is funny, how we sort of take that part for granted. Sure, everyone has to read in school about Galileo and his telescope and Isaac Newton watching an apple fall to the ground. Yawn.

But take those stories out of school for a minute. These were real guys. Everything we know about anything had to be stumbled upon and observed and proven by humans like us -- often despite intimidating obstacles, like the scowling Inquisition or the Thirty Years War. As a kid, it's kind of natural to think of science as magic; even though you're intellectually aware that there are rational, often astonishingly clever, inventions behind the things you take for granted, you're so busy learning everything -- from how to walk to how to find your way to the bus stop to how your parents knew it was you who hid your unfinished lunch in the kitchen drawer -- that everything is new, and you're less occupied with how they came about than how to simply navigate their use. Being told that Pythagorus came up with this or that theorum is just another thing to have to learn.

I guess I never noticed that where some things are concerned, like science, this tendency has remained with me into adulthood (at least to some extent). What Carl Sagan does is show you behind the curtain -- make you realize that taking pictures of the surface of Mars is the incredible culmination of thousands of years of struggle and drama and discovery. I found myself reading passages on equations -- equations, for God's sake! -- and nodding in page-turning captivation. Wow. There's a writer.

The book begins with a chapter called The Shores of the Cosmic Ocean:

"The Cosmos is all that is or ever was or ever will be. Our feeblest contemplations of the Cosmos stir us -- there is a tingling in the spine, a catch in the voice, a faint sensation, as if a distant memory, of falling from a height. We know we are approaching the greatest of mysteries.

"The size and age of the Cosmos are beyond ordinary human understanding. Lost somewhere between immensity and eternity is our tiny planetary home. In a cosmic perspective, most human concerns seem insignificant, even petty. And yet our species is young and curious and brave and shows much promise. In the last few millennia, we have made the most astonishing and unexpected discoveries about the Cosmos and our place within it, explorations that are exhilarating to consider. They remind us that humans have evolved to wonder, that understanding is a joy, that knowledge is prerequisite to survival. I believe our future depends on how well we know this Cosmos in which we float like a mote of dust in the morning sky."

Speaking Churman

People often tell me that I don't have an accent when I speak German. Which I guess I don't, but honestly, this is simply the result of early exposure rather than of some incredible mastery of the language. Don't get me wrong, my German's pretty good; but I ain't a native speaker, and sometimes it would actually do a lot more good if people could hear this!

Because like any non-native speaker, I say things differently. I make grammatical mistakes and use the wrong verb prefix, all the little slips that one expects and forgives, or possibly doesn't even notice, when the speaker has an accent. But without an accent, there's a bizarre discord: the person sounds German, so there's no reason to expect any errors at all -- which means the smallest misstep comes streaking out like the wrong key played on a piano.

So it turns out, all not-having-an-accent really does is trade the vague indignity of sounding foreign for the much greater indignity of sounding, well, stupid! Or just appallingly weird, as when I use the wrong word for something and tell my hairdresser that my "roots" are growing out. (The word, in case you care to know, is Ansatz.)

I often feel compelled, therefore, to explicitly tell people that German is not my first language, especially in situations involving a barrage of technical jargon, i.e. from the insurance guy. But since this often doesn't help, it leaves me wondering just how much our perception is apparently fooled by what we hear. If she sounds like a German, she must be a German. For goodness' sake, my French teacher speaks flawlessly fabulous, colloquial, fluent, richly-vocabularied German; but because she also has a slight French accent, the other people in my class tell me that my German is better. Which it most certainly is not, if they stopped to listen to the words and not just the sound.

But I can no more seriously affect an American accent when speaking German than I can take on a German one in English. It's just how I talk!

Weird, what you can still discover after over 2.5 years abroad.

A lesson from the pro

I love watching Bert handle conflict!

How is he so good at it?? I wish I were that brave and relaxed. I've watched him again and again, and still can't identify exactly how he manages to so seamlessly blend strong language with courtesy. He always listens to and acknowledges the other, yet he also always has the final say. What's especially marvelous is how artlessly this is achieved, too. He doesn't try to awe, or bully, or ingratiate, or use empty but impressive-sounding words. He's simply himself.

Maybe that's the whole secret: the man's natural confidence seems to be the consequence of a complete lack of self-consciousness. Even if he does something that would leave most people feeling sheepish -- say, arguing strongly in favor of a shortcut that proves to be a mistake -- he laughs at himself and apologizes and then just looks for other options. This is confidence. Not that swaggering, I-have-something-to-prove arrogance which insecure young men mistake for the appearance of self-assuredness; his is the sincere, almost innocent kind that we must have all had before we learned to be embarrassed. He sees and acknowledges his mistakes, but it doesn't occur to him to feel ashamed at being human.

I'm sure this must be where he derives that indefinable leadership quality. He never tries to take control of a group; but because he just always is in control of his surroundings, people -- I've seen this time and again -- inevitably end up rotating around him, looking to him for decisions.

This must be what people mean when they say women like confident men. They don't mean a pretentious asshole. Nor do they mean James Bond, who is a fun cartoon figure, but as a real man, would be a repellingly self-interested playboy who uses women like facial tissues. What is, in fact, hopelessly sexy is a man whose natural self-reliance comes from innate competence and the security to be himself.

Whatever it is -- whenever I get the opportunity to observe that boy thoroughly distributing some justice, it makes me want to drag him into the first secluded corner I can find!

Spring has sprung!

Wish I had more time to blog, since there's so much I wanna write about right now; but since I'm off to work, just a quick list so as not to forget --

- I planted lotsa flowers and herbs in pots and hanging boxes on the balcony, very exciting. Grow, little seeds, grow!

- The view from said balcony is scrumptious. Seriously, I could just eat all those fluffily blossoming blooming leafing trees. Did you ever notice how fresh spring leaves look? They're so... green, so glossy and flawless. It's like the wet sticks of winter have sprouted glowing jewels. Millions of 'em! It makes me hover maternally over the trembling sprouts in my own flower and herb pots. Sure, I could just as easily have bought ready-grown plants and potted them; but I wanted to see the tiny magic of watering a seed and then watching the life emerge.

- This was before attempting to expunge large quantities of my own brain cells with quarts of beer at Fruehlingsfest last weekend. Nothing says "Welcome, Spring" like getting up on the table in a Bierzelt, linking arms with hundreds of strangers, and swinging your liter-sized mug of beer to the communally arrhythmic swaying of a hoard of Swabians, roaring along with the appalling Festmusik played by a live band in Lederhosen. Teresa called the Stuttgarter Fruehlingsfest "Oktoberfest Part Two," which is rather apt, except that there are 1) fewer tourists, more locals and 2) they played a few Karnival songs -- including "Viva Colonia," which I imagine would be unlikely in Muenchen(!). It was a blast. Young or old, traditional costumes or jeans, guys and gals, Schwaben and visitors -- everyone is buddies in the Bierzelt. It's also something my liver won't need to do again for a loooong time!

- Last Friday, Mom and I spent a wonderful sunny breezy bloomy day in Strasbourg. I slept at her place Thursday night, and we woke up early the next morning (thanks, Lucy!) and decided hey, let's go to France. So we did! We breakfasted luxuriously in the train's restaurant as we zoomed across the border; toured the city, climbed the cathedral, walked down the River Ille, took pictures of the ducks and swans, shopped a bit, and practiced our cafe French. And as usual, we yakked yakked yakked. Go mommy-daughter days in Europe!

Life is good.

More vigorous agreement

Obama's Gripping Style Overseas

By Dan Balz

Tuesday, April 21, 2009

President Obama's weekend of summitry in Latin America will be remembered most for his cordial encounter with Venezuelan President Hugo Chávez. The images of that handshake between the smiling leaders spoke vividly to the changes Obama is bringing to U.S. relations abroad.

The affable exchange drew criticism from Dick Cheney and other Republicans as irresponsible and an equally stiff defense from the president and his spokesman as appropriate. The underlying question is whether Obama's new style will make the United States stronger or weaker as the administration confronts a series of intractable problems around the world.

Does Obama's desire to deal more respectfully with leaders hostile to the United States make him more or less likely to carry out effective negotiations to achieve his strategic goals? Will Americans conclude over time that his approach to global threats makes the United States safer than under George W. Bush's presidency or less safe?

No one should be surprised that Obama has adopted a different style and tone from his predecessor in his first meetings with world leaders. He signaled early in the presidential campaign that he would not stand on past diplomatic conventions, even if the foreign policy establishment disagreed. The moment of definition came on July 23, 2007, during a Democratic debate in South Carolina.

Obama was asked an explicit question. Would he, in his first year as president, be willing to meet without preconditions with the leaders of Iran, Syria, North Korea, Venezuela and Cuba? "I would," he replied. "And the reason is this, that the notion that somehow not talking to countries is punishment to them -- which has been the guiding diplomatic principle of this administration -- is ridiculous."

Obama was roundly criticized for that answer by his rivals for the Democratic nomination -- most notably by Hillary Rodham Clinton, now his secretary of state. Sounding much like Gingrich did yesterday, she called him naive and irresponsible. Despite the attacks, Obama stood his ground, convinced that his critics were defending an old paradigm.

Having won the presidency, he has begun quickly to act on that conviction. He has signaled new openness toward diplomatic discussions with Iran, but with limits. He said in Europe that the United States had shown "arrogance, and been dismissive, even derisive" toward its allies, while noting that there has sometimes been a casual, insidious anti-Americanism among the Europeans.

Last week, he softened U.S. policy toward Cuba. In return, Cuban President Raúl Castro said last week that everything was now on the table, but Obama still prodded the Cubans to act first. The weekend meetings brought him face to face not only with Venezuela's Chávez but also with Bolivia's Evo Morales and Nicaragua's Daniel Ortega. For that, he drew the wrath of Republicans at home.

"I find it disturbing the extent to which he has gone to Europe, for example, and seemed to apologize profusely in Europe, and then to Mexico, and apologize there and so forth," Cheney told Fox News Channel's Sean Hannity in an interview.

Obama was asked Sunday whether he was worried about being perceived back home as soft. "We had this debate throughout the campaign, and the whole notion was -- is -- that somehow if we showed courtesy or opened up dialogue with governments that had previously been hostile to us, that that somehow would be a sign of weakness," he said. "The American people didn't buy it. And there's a good reason the American people didn't buy it -- because it doesn't make sense." Shaking hands with Chávez does nothing to endanger U.S. strategic interests, he argued. Nor does having a more constructive relationship with Venezuela.

The president was also asked how he would define an Obama doctrine in foreign policy. After his trips to Europe and Latin America and his meetings with many world leaders, how should Americans and the rest of the world interpret what sets his approach apart from those of other presidents?

Obama was understandably reluctant at this early stage in his presidency to offer a lengthy or overly precise answer. But what he said underscored that his early steps are very much in reaction to former president George W. Bush's style of interacting with the world. Obama said he believes that the United States remains the most powerful nation in the world but that it cannot solve problems by itself. That means listening as well as talking when working with other nations. He said the United States should stand for a universal set of values, live those values whenever possible -- and acknowledge mistakes when they occur.

Obama defended his approach as an improvement on the past. He said he is prepared to jettison doctrines and practices that now seem outdated, or that failed to produce real results. But he said there were limits to what he could achieve.

"In Europe, people believe in our plan for Afghanistan, but their politics are still such that it's hard for leaders to want to send more troops into Afghanistan," he told reporters on Sunday. "That's not going to change because I'm popular in Europe or leaders think that I've been respectful towards them. On the other hand, by having established those better relations, it means that among the population there's more confidence that working with the United States is beneficial, and they are going to try to do more than they might otherwise have done."

Obama sees irrefutable logic in all this. "On this one, I think I'm right," he said Sunday -- the same posture he took when he was criticized during the campaign. His popularity at home remains strong, and it is far too early to know what Americans made of his performance over the weekend.

The opening rounds of his diplomatic outreach to the world provide no real answers to the bigger questions. In time, it will be clearer whether Obama's approach produces different results with Iran or North Korea or elsewhere. He benefits now from the backlash against Bush's presidency. In time, his foreign policy will have to stand on its own record.

--------

How unsurprising that Dick Cheney finds Obama's attempt to make amends for the last eight years "disturbing." Heh heh.

And yes, there has absolutely been "a casual, insidious anti-Americanism among Europeans." Those who think such attitudes among our previous allies are unimportant should realize that the U.S. is no longer an island.

Gosh, imagine -- a world leader who wants to act like one!

Gobama!

And trains!

Obama: Better trains foster energy independence

By Natasha Metzler, Associated Press

WASHINGTON (AP) — President Barack Obama called Thursday for the country to move swiftly to a system of high-speed rail travel, saying it will relieve congestion, help clean the air and save on energy.

Appearing with Vice President Joe Biden and Transportation Secretary Ray LaHood, Obama said the country cannot afford not to invest in a major upgrade to rail travel. He said he understands it necessarily will be "a long-term project" but said the time to start is now.

The president allocated $8 billion in the enormous $787 billion economic stimulus spending package for a start on establishing high-speed rail corridors nationwide.

Obama said, "This is not some fanciful, pie-in-the-sky vision of the future. It's happening now. The problem is, it's happening elsewhere." He cited superior high-speed rail travel in countries like China, Japan, France and Spain.

The rail upgrades are critically needed, Obama said, because the nation's highways and airways "are clogged with traffic."

The money will go not only to high-speed rail development but also to a parallel effort to improve rail service along existing lines — upgrades that would allow faster train travel.

The White House said funding will move into the rail system through three channels, first to upgrade projects already approved and only in need of funding, thus providing jobs in the short term. The second and third would focus on high-speed rail planning and then a commitment to help in the execution of those plans far into the future when the stimulus funds are no longer available.

Transportation Department officials say about six proposed routes with federal approval for high-speed rail stand a good chance of getting some of the $8 billion award. The spurs include parts of Texas, Florida, the Chicago region, and southeast routes through North Carolina and Louisiana.

The U.S. Federal Railroad Administration says the term high-speed rail applies to trains traveling more than 90 mph. The European Union standard is above 125 mph.

Many overseas bullet trains — most powered by overhead electricity lines — run faster than that. In France, for example, the TGV ("Train a Grande Vitesse") covers the 250 miles between Paris and Lyon in one hour, 55 minutes at an average speed of about 133 mph.

In Japan, which opened the first high-speed rail in the 1960s and carries more passengers than any other country, the Japanese Shinkansen trains hurtle through the countryside at an average of about 180 mph.

Super-fast trains also run in Germany, Spain and China, at speeds up to 140 mph, according to a 2007 survey in the trade publication Railway Gazette.

The only rail service that qualifies under America's lower high-speed standard is Amtrak's 9-year-old Acela Express route connecting Boston to Washington, D.C.

The trains are built to reach speeds up to 150 mph, but only average about 80 mph because of curving tracks and slower-moving freight and passenger trains that share the route. On the densely traveled line from New York City to the nation's capital, the Acela arrives just about 20 minutes earlier than standard service, at more than twice the cost during peak travel times.

Copyright © 2009 The Associated Press. All rights reserved.

What a mighty fine German

So for some mysterious reason I appear to go through a bout of irritability every few weeks.

It only took roughly fifteen years to catch on. Could this be, like, cyclical or something? I would think my body had suddenly freaked out on me -- "Huh, these clothes feel unusually tight today. If only I weren't so sleepy. You know what would be a good idea? Eating everything I see. But first I think I'll act sullen and moody." And then the dawning, crumb-spewing realization: "Oh yeah...!"

Fortunately, there are some life-mates who have read the Awesome Boyfriend Handbook. Instead of getting defensive -- or worse, dismissive! -- Bert simply laughs sympathetically and squeezes me. "Meh! Meh! Meh!" I gripe. "Armes kleines Weibchen!" he says.

Then he disappears in order to draw me a bath. Places me in it; leaves me sculpting the bubbles in mindless absorption until he returns bearing several flickering tea lights and a snifter of brandy. Kneels down to hand me the glowing amber elixir and chat about the latest details of Barack Obama's visit to Baden-Baden. (The man knows me: "Quick, bring up her hero!") So I babble happily about my marvelous omnipotent handsome president; he nods and issues the right noises and hangs out just long enough to give me the attention I was probably seeking; then leaves me alone to wiggle my toes in warm water and sip Asbach and hide from the world.

Damn. I mean, damn. On second thought, I'd better not publish this post. I'd better keep this man a secret from the rest of the PMS-afflicted world!

How I'll always think of him

Hat and all:

Thanks for the pic, Gramma Lois.

Guess he'd rather ride the range

My Grandpa Dale was a cowboy.

He was also a man's man in the most classic sense: strong, adventurous, kind, clever, always sticking up for the little guy. Even at 80 years old, he carried himself with that familiar straight-backed saunter and spoke in that booming drawl that took me right back to the days of riding horses with him through Bryce Canyon or playing cards by the glow of a gas lamp.

I last saw him when Bert and I drove through northern Arizona last Christmas. When he came out of the house to greet our jeep, the first thing I glimpsed was that familiar white cowboy hat over the top of the hedge, and I was a kid again.

I didn't know it'd be the last time I'd ever see him.

Losing both grandfathers in the space of three months is not exactly how I pictured the start of a new year. I only wish I could be with my Dad right now. I lost my Grampa; he lost his hero.

Hang in there, Dad.

French an der Weinstrasse

Lots of fun stuff has been afoot of late.

To start with, the first weekend after the vernal equinox is the cue for Hansel Fingerhut to emerge. Remember the tar-faced rogue from Forst who plants smudgy black kisses on all the women in town, before everyone gathers around to torch a stack of straw, representing the ceremonial burning down of winter? It's a very cool spring festival that certainly would never fly in the States. People stand around an inferno of hay, hooting as flaming pieces detach themselves and blow off unpredictably toward their heads, while nearby stands sell copious amounts of wine. Ahhh, Europe!

Then this weekend, I hope the neighbors got their fill of watching us through binoculars, 'cause Bert and I finally hung up vertical blinds. (They look great! We're such grownups!)

And last week, we started a French class! I'm so stoked to learn some French. Not only did my maternal grandfather speak it as his first language -- so it's kind of in the blood, you could say! -- I just love learning new languages. And it doesn't look so hard, either: when Mom and I were in Paris, I could understand a whole bunch of written words, but probably would have been publicly stoned had I attempted to pronounce them. This was supremely frustrating, as if it were barely out of reach -- like smelling a banquet but not being able to see it. The language of Jules Verne and Victor Hugo was suddenly so alive, and I decided I wanted to be able to clear away the cobwebs and make it mine. Plus, hey, we live so close to the border -- I'm determined to go explore that country a few miles west without being intimidated by the notorious language barrier.

So I was practically quivering with glee as Bert and I sat down for our first lesson and were taken through all the nasal exercises. Exciting!!!

Speaking of nasals... now is when I feel compelled to admit something that will certainly get me stoned, after all. Let me first reiterate what a cool sound the language has. And it certainly summons images of delicious cooking, fashionable women, illustrious history, classic literature, and gorgeous countryside. Neat, neat, neat. But is it, you know... pretty? I mean, does it really sound melodious? I know everyone says so. Hey, it's certainly sexy. And for hundreds of years, it was the European lingua franca (ha! get it?), therefore closely associated with nobility and education. So French is inarguably connected to sex, rank, and prestige -- all quite enough to recommend it. But does this also automatically make it aesthetic?

Frankly (and here come the missiles!), I don't think so. I hear a monotone cadence of gargled r's and honking nasals, punctuated by the expectoration of gutteral vowels at the end of the sentence. I mean, this is cool! Of course it is! But come on, it's not pretty. Pretty is Italian: l'italiano e la lingua piu bella nel mondo. (Melt.)

On the few occasions, however, when I've timidly put forth this suggestion, I have met with nothing short of anger. Anger! People -- especially those with a working knowledge of French and apparently quite proud of this ability -- take it personally. Which confirms my suspicion that the appeal of French has more to do with association and social status, because why else should they be so offended? As if a language's entire merit is based on its perceived prettiness. I mean, I love German. German is warm, familiar, earthy, friendly. It can also be intriguingly logical and agglutinating in a way that I don't see in other languages. Yet few people would argue that it's beautiful. And why should it be? Yet unfailingly, if I dare to suggest that French is comparable, I'm met with the same hissed retort: "Well, English is not a pretty language!" Wow. I didn't say anything about English. But it's like people need to lash out at my blasphemy by commenting on my language. Whew, I've learned to simply not express this viewpoint!

Well, it's Sunday evening and I'm abandoning my lovely-voiced German to write in the blog. Better get going! Besides, we have some vocabulary to practice! Bon soir!

For mom

Come by the hills to the land where fancy is free
Stand where the peaks meet the sky and the lochs meet the sea
Where the rivers run clear, and the bracken is gold in the sun
And the cares of tomorrow must wait till this day is done.

Come by the hills to the land where legend remains
Where stories of old stir the heart and may yet come again.
Where the past, it is lost, and the future has yet to be won,
And cares of tomorrow must wait till this day is done.

The Crisis of Credit, visualized

This is a fascinating little cartoon about what on earth has been going on with our financial markets in the last ten years. It only takes a few minutes... have a looksee!

Part One:


Continued:

Can you give it a second to come back from space?

In case you haven't seen it yet: Louis CK telling Conan O'Brien about how "everything is amazing and nobody is happy."



Hahahaha!