Methusalem

The good news is: several people have inquired when the next GABROEN blog will be posted, meaning that there are people who not only read, but who are actually looking forward to these linguistic concoctions. The bad news is: it has been a challenge to find time to concoct, at least linguistically. GABROEN did spend time concocting cocktails, a newly found hobby as well as an outlet for a chemist who's last lab experiment was over a decade ago. Last weekend was the most intriguing mixology experiment yet, boiling resin from the Boswellia tree into an intense syrup, and mixing that with aromatic bitters, citrus juices and gin into something reminiscent of walking into a Roman Catholic church service.

Besides that mass in a glass, not much else came to fruition last weekend. In the past, only the better half of GABROEN used to devour magazines as a pleasant leisure pastime, but lately the men's periodicals have been equally piling up around our house. So last weekend was devoted to catching up on some of those piles, in front of the fireplace. I believe I have read through at least a dozen issues, some current but some more than a year old. The good news is that it feels pretty good to be all Esquired, Detailed, Dwelled, Afarred and Mentally Flossed, and equally good to carry a full bag out of the house and into the paper recycling bins. The bad news is that it made just a small dent in the piles, smaller than the dent in my self awareness that weekends are really too short and leisure time is too valuable to be spent reading articles about the 2012 Summer Olympics after the 2014 Winter Games have concluded.

A friend recently mentioned that as a 22-year old in her first job, she was tasked to create a bucket list of 100 items she wanted to do/see/accomplish in her lifetime. A pretty interesting assignment to get paid for, but also food for thought in between ploughing through the magazines. Regardless, I'm sure there's merit well beyond pay, as such a list provides perspective on how to spend, and prioritize one's time. Mixing in the final ingredient for this concoction, one magazine article I read over the weekend was about a 4800 year old bristlecone pine in California called Methusalem, possibly the oldest living organism on our planet. Not sure if the picture that came with the article was of that very pine tree (see below), because the 'living' part is somewhat questionable.


But the tree got me thinking about the relativity of a lifetime, the relativity of how we experience time, and life time experiences. While I am writing this I am actually in flight to Athens, and it's mentally flossing and humbling to realize that this Methusalem is twice as old as the famous Parthenon on the Acropolis.

The bad news is: all this magazine reading and pondering about time management has kept me from blogging the next GABROEN post. The good news is that writing a few lines about magazine reading and time management pondering just turned into a blog post nonetheless. More to follow, hopefully at a higher pace than in the past few months, because I sure ain't Methusalem.

Spring is in the head

Okay, it's official. This Chicago winter, with its polar vortices, arctic surges and Alberta clippers was one for the books. Meteorologically it is over, as the local weathermen and -girls (for some reason unbeknownst to me, the local weathermen are typically past their 50s, but the -women are under 30) count the months of December, January and February as their 'official' winter. Over the last 3 months we got 67.4 inches of snow, which makes the 2013/14 winter the third snowiest since record keeping begun. What made it more cabin-feverish was the average temperature of 18.8 degrees F (-7 degrees C), or the third coldest winter on record. Put a lot of snow and butt freezing temperatures together and even die-hard Chicagoans turn into a complaining bunch.

It started to feel somewhat heroic to deal with this weather, although GABROEN must admit that the cabin fever was becoming a little stifling. But rather than joining the growing army of complainers, we did a couple of things to break the mold and lift our spirits.

We moved furniture and paintings around, installed better lighting, and traded in Gabri's Mazda 3 with its fun-in-the-sun, but dangerously snow-sliding front wheel drive, for another all wheel drive Subaru. This trade-in equals Gabri not being able to safely leave home for at least one out of every three days lately, to Gabri excited when the roads are not yet plowed as the Subaru is built for this gruesome weather.

Another great way to lift our spirits was during the last 5 days of this long winter - we were happy to leave for Arizona where the temperatures were actually higher than average. Stay tuned for details of this trip in other posts in the coming days, but suffice it to say that it replenished our pitiful vitamin D levels and warmed our bone marrow. We returned yesterday, March 1, the official start of Spring, at least in the minds of our weathermen. It looks like we're gonna need all the vitamin D we've got, as we landed in the middle of winter-storm Titan with another 6 inches of snow, crews plowing landing strips and de-icing planes, and only a handful of taxis braving the roads.


Luckily for us, our pre-arranged ride was an all wheel drive, and the driver was willing to chip in a few extra hours - of the regular 200 cars this company has riding around for airport pickups, only he and one other guy were showing up.

So let's see what March has in store for us; I'm sure it's going to take at least another 10 weeks and 2 jars of multivitamin pills before the crocuses we spotted in Arizona will show up in Illinois. All wheel drive makes it much easier to bear, it's just too bad that that doesn't solve the precarious process of digestive emissions of a mexican hairless dog in this record-breaking weather. Ruba is the true heroine of this story, complaining just a little and just happy to see us return to the feverish cabin..........

Alberta Clipper

After last week's polar vortex caused butt-freezingly low temperatures (see the post Polar vortex), GABROEN will be treated to another weather phenomenon. The National Weather Service issued a special weather statement for our area for tomorrow, warning for a so-called 'Alberta Clipper'. Not to be confused with a 'Manitoban Mauler' or 'Saskatchewan Screamer' - I'm not making this up, believe me. All three terms are related, describing a low pressure winter storm that originates in Canada and moves rapidly across the Midwest and Great Lakes. The difference between the three is where the storm originates, most commonly in the Canadian Province of Alberta, and rarely in the other two.

So we'll get ready for another clipper rolling over us tomorrow, which should come with rapidly dropping temperatures and strong winds. Wind chills, ahoy!
The area got beaten up hard last week, first from a foot of snow and then from subzero temperatures. Chicago's already spent 60% of its Winter 2014 snow removal budget, just in the first week of the year. Most of it went to salting and plowing the roads, but a good chunk also got poured into filling potholes. The roads got seriously wrecked in just one week. Chicago mayor Rahm Emanuel even declared a 'war on potholes', ordering crews to work 7 days a week till April to fill up as many of those tire-popping, axle-wrecking babies in the city's roadways. Supposedly they already filled 20,000 since the temperatures returned to more asphalt-friendly levels last Thursday.

The mayor of our small neighbor town of Highwood seems to be less militaristic in his approach than Rahm E., or perhaps he's more budget-savvy, or more indifferent to the whole pothole thing. At least that's what it looked like when GABROEN drove through town on Saturday. Kind of like a cluster bomb impact, as if the potholes had declared a war on Highwood instead. Or maybe it's the Canadians with their arctic cyclones, clippers and screamers.



The potholes are filled with melted snow water by now, and I'm sure tomorrow's Alberta Clipper will do wonders in rapidly freezing them and turning Highwood's roads in a concrete Emmenthaler cheese. An old Dutch cheese commercial boasted: "the holes is where the flavor is". Not a particularly convincing slogan, and no particular analogy with the condition of our roads.

Record cracking?

So the polar vortex (see the post of 2 days ago by clicking on: Polar vortex) indeed came to pay us a visit. Was it cold around here? Hell yes, it sure was. Is it still cold around here? Hell yes, it sure is, still. Was it record-breaking cold? Uhm, that's a more complicated question to answer. Yes and no. Yesterday's low temperature of -16ºF (-27ºC) at 8 a.m. was the lowest ever measured on a January 6th, but still some ways off the all-time low of -27ºF (-33ºC). Yesterday's high was measured just after midnight, and was not even close to the all time lowest high temperature of -11ºF (-23ºC). That said, we never got warmer than -13ºF (-24ºC) during the day yesterday, and that is cold. That was colder than Anchorage Alaska, colder even than the Amundsen Weather Station on the South Pole. Hell yes, that was as cold as in the crater on Mars where NASA's Curiosity is nosing around, 200 million kilometers further away from the sun!
I'm sure it does make a difference to be 200 million kilometers closer; we had beautiful brisk blue skies and plenty of sunshine yesterday, which looked quite appealing from the comfort of our heated home. But wind chills of -40 (the only temperature that is the same in either ºF or ºC) are no cat pee - that's Dutch for pretty darn serious. The warnings for frostbite of exposed skin were no cat pee either, but how does one deal with a hairless dog's pee in this weather? Although this seems like a recipe for an inevitable Ruba Crisis, the solution is twofold. Number one, these temperatures - as well as GABROEN's persistence - turn out to be sufficiently frigid to overcome Ruba's initial stubborn reluctance to do number 1 on a pad in our bathroom. Second, all dressed up in a slim fit thermal suit + fleece body suit + padded wind jacket + snow booties, but by default with private parts exposed, she needs 45 seconds tops to do number 2 and hurry back in. It still is a little challenging for a 16 year old with diminishing bladder control to go through the 5 minutes of dressing up, but GABROEN has the routine down by now and she takes it like a grumpy diva.


Albeit far from balmy, today was a little warmer: we got to +1ºF (-17ºC). The heaps of snow from clearing the entry way to our parking garage create a nice barrier for the frigid winds, at least at Ruba's height, so she spent a luxurious full minute out this afternoon. I still have to take Ms. Diva out once more tonight, and the forecast calls for snow and -6ºF (-21ºC) tomorrow, before warming up to just above freezing over the weekend. Wish her luck and expeditious bowels, and wish GABROEN expeditious dressing skills.

Polar vortex

As several blog followers correctly noted, GABROEN has been off the airwaves (or, to be more precise, off the glass optic fiber waves, but that doesn't sound as catchy) for a few months. But with the new year come new opportunities, so we're back on as of today. This is not so much a new year's resolution, as that term should be reserved for things that are a major challenge or a major bore, or both. This is a renewed attempt to connect with family and friends, existing or in the future, using a little more substance than the snippet captions of Facebook and Instagram.

And what better substance for the first blog post of 2014 than what has all social media buzzing already: winter storm Hercules that is plummeting a large part of the US into a deep freeze. The climate in Illinois creates all kinds of new experiences for GABROEN.




We were getting used to severe weather after living for 4 years in Georgia, as well as to the sometimes strangely poetic descriptions of the local weather that the Weather Channel comes up with, but the weather in Illinois comes with a whole new vocabulary. And the Weather Channel now came up with something else: in this Twitter-frenzy era, they started last year with naming snow storms hitting the US, similar to the decades old tradition of naming tropical hurricanes. They seem to have been thinking that a name like this week's 'Hercules' creates more buzz and tweets than having to spend too many of the valuable 140 tweet characters to say 'the snow storm hitting Midwest early Jan 2014'.

Apparently the passing of Hercules not only dumped over a foot of snow on us (currently at 14" or about 40cm since new year's eve), but it opened up the door for a polar vortex. This is a large arctic cyclone that persist year round at close to the North Pole, and occasionally dips down to pay a visit to the US, sort of like a frigid Santa Claus. This time the vortex is forecast to dip down pretty extensively, all the way to the Deep South, with temperatures in Atlanta below those in Alaska. Temperatures in Northern Illinois currently are dropping with about 2 degrees F each hour, and are bound to end up at -17 degrees F (-26 degrees C) tonight. It's still several degrees away from the all-time low of -27 degrees F, but combined with cyclone winds gusting at 30 mph you get a crisis situation for a Mexican Hairless trained for 17 years to do her thing outside. By tomorrow, we are not getting much warmer, and will likely not top the lowest daytime high temperature of -11 degrees F (-23 degrees C). GABROEN will report out in a next post whether that record will indeed be crashed, like when the 5 feet long icicles decorating our gutters will inevitably come crashing down at some point. We may even venture out for a minute, just to experience what such frigidness feels like.





Wishing all a happy New Year with many new experiences, and may the polar vortex not be on your side of the globe.

Soul food, or the lack thereof

Because of getting stranded in London (see the post London cabby), my trip to Madrid last month was not off to the best start. It consisted of rushing up and down 8 escalators, through 2 airport terminals, 2 shuttle stops, immigration, customs, a 15-minute taxi ride, conference registration, and another 10-minute walk through the expo center in 90 degrees weather to get to the conference room where I was scheduled to present, exactly 74 minutes after my flight touched down on Spanish soil. I had about 10 minutes left to catch my breath, as well as attempt to fight back the outbreak of sweat from the previous 64 minutes.

Although not my best presentation on record, given the circumstances it went reasonably well, and with this out of the way I could start off fresh. I had been in Madrid once before, in 1992 while on Interrail through Spain and Portugal with two cousins. At the time it was a blistering 110 degrees, and our college budget allowed for a one night campsite stay only. This time around, I had two nights in a comfortable hotel with air-conditioning, and decided to try to experience some of the city's soul, rather than continue rushing as I had done through the airport. And what better way than to wander around and taste the local soul food, tapas.

I spent the first evening with a philosophically inclined Canadian radiologist, whom I met at a similar conference two years ago. His inclination makes for an entertaining evening, with soulful discussions about cultural differences between Canada, Europe and the U.S., the art of living and working, and the meaning of life (as Douglas Adams readers know, the meaning of life is "42", and I happen to be 42 years old). The restaurant, Ten Con Ten, served delicious dishes, but more Italian with a twist than Spanish tapas.

The second night was spent with a co-worker at a tapas bar on famous Playa Mayor. Its fame has turned the square into a tourist trap, and its tapas into something deep-fried and unrecognizable. 

With one morning left in the Spanish capital, I had one more opportunity to savor some of its soul food. Someone in Illinois had recommended the tapas bar Vi Cool, by heavily laureated two-michelin star Sergi Arola of El Bulli fame. GABROEN had recently seen the documentary about that culinary liquid nitrogen lab north of Barcelona, dubbed the best restaurant in the world. It showed the six months process that the El Bulli crew followed to create the menus for the other six months of the year. Although genius, the technical precision and military discipline seemed to come at a double hefty price: first, the sum of money one had to cough up to dine there, and second, the crazy culinary creations were devoid of soul. So when considering a soulful final lunch spot, I did not have high hopes of finding a memorable one in Vi Cool. I ended up there nevertheless, and am happy to report there was no liquid nitrogen or dry ice involved with its tapas menu. It was a modern twist on classical dishes, it was fun, and it was actually pretty good.

Spain is drowning in a deep recession, its touristy tapas are drowning in deep-fried grease, but Vi Cool and Ten Con Ten are symbols of Madrilean resilience and creativity, of modern twists to a classical city, perhaps of a new soul emerging. I sincerely hope they find their way out of the mess they're in.

London cabby

Several years ago I saw a documentary about taxi drivers in London, in which they were explaining that it takes about 2 years of memorizing all of the city's street names and a hefty exam to obtain a license. I wish I thought of that when getting stranded at City Airport in the city's Eastern Docklands last month, due to another strike by those lovely contrôleurs trafic aérien francais. I received multiple messages to check the status of my flight with the airport and airline before heading out; like most flights that had to fly over France, my British Airways flight to Madrid was delayed from 6:30 to 10:15pm. Rather than waiting in an overly crowded terminal, I decided to have a comfortable dinner at the nearby mod design hotel I had stayed the night before.

I got to the airport at about 8 pm, still a good 2 hours before the new departure time, so no line at the BA check-in desk. The attendant however looked at me stunned, with big eyes, and uttered I should go and talk to her manager. Not a hopeful sign. Completely unaware of any wrong-doing on my part I walked over to the manager on the other side of the pretty tiny terminal building. She asked me, in upper lip stiff British, and in a classic example of customer service, why I had dared not to show up at the original check-in time 3 hours earlier, just like the other 93 passengers who she had just stuffed in a bus off to an airport I had never even heard of.
The manager and I exchanged more words, not all as polite as what the Brits are known for. To cut a long story short, there was no way for me to get to Madrid that evening, and I was scheduled to present at a conference the next morning at 11:15am. My best bet to get there in time was a flight the next morning at 6:15am out of Heathrow Airport, at the exact opposite side of town. I had 3 options to get there: 90 mins by public transport, or 70 mins by either a metered taxi or flat-rate limo. That was the point in time I should have thought of the taxi license requirements, but anyone should know how to get to Heathrow, right? So instead, in an effort to be a good steward of my boss' travel budget, I opted for the flat rate limo. He took me straight through the rainy city, along the banks of the Thames and all the major sights. I am thinking to myself: This is much better than being passenger # 94 on a bus to nowhere for a diverted aircraft that may not show up at all. But my story did not end here...........

While driving by the Tower, Big Ben, and Westminster Abbey, I was trying to get a Heathrow hotel room. However, thanks to those lovely contrôleurs trafic aérien francais, all nearby hotels were fully booked by fellow stranded passengers. My best bet was a hotel 9 miles west, and the limo driver smelled money - his flat rate was to Heathrow only, so he would have to charge me for the additional 9 miles. Being stranded, this time in the back of a limo, I had little choice but to let my efforts to be financially conscious go by the wayside. So on we go, passing Heathrow airport for the last 9-mile stretch. The limo driver had programmed the hotel's address in his GPS, but after about 15 minutes racing on the interstate I started to wander whether this guy was deliberately taking a detour to lay claim to still more of my cash.

So I looked up where we were using my iPhone's GPS, which was on 9% battery power remaining, and started interrogating this guy. He assured me he knew where he was going, but still 20 minutes later we were close to getting stuck on a tiny road in England's countryside, and he admitted he was utterly lost. It was still raining and now also dark, so he tossed his GPS and we navigated on my iPhone, now with only 5% battery power left. This limo driver was not only lost, but not geographically gifted nor a good listener. I am not known for a short-fused personality, but this was a combustible mix even for me. I had to revert to switching my phone on and off to save power, and I got us to the right street just before it completely died. It had taken 2 hours and 40 minutes to get here, and I had 4 hours left before my 4:15am wake up call for the next taxi, to take me to my early morning Heathrow flight.  Once again this was not a licensed cabby, but this time the 9-mile stretch took us 15 minutes in stead of 90.........

Fort Sheridan

For the last 2.5 years, GABROEN have lived in the so-called tower barracks in the Town of Fort Sheridan. The fort was an actual army base for over 100 years, and was named after Philip Sheridan, a celebrated Union cavalry general during the American civil war. He was a colorful character to say the least, with a personal quest to get National Park protection to Yellowstone's buffalos, but at the same time he applauded white hunters trespassing on indian lands and killing 4 million bison. He is also known for being a 'great' indian fighter; supposedly, when told by the Comanche chief "me good injun", he responded "all good indians I know are dead". This made it into history as "the only good indian is a dead indian", which may not be exactly what Ol' Phil meant, but I think you get the picture of this guy.
He actually was in Chicago at the time of the Great Fire, and was put in charge when the mayor installed martial orders in the fire's aftermath. To thank him for his services, the newly installed fort was named after him, as well as the lakeside road from downtown Chicago to the fort. To this day, there's a bronze statue of Ol' Phil on his horse Rienzi along Sheridan Road in downtown Chicago, by the same sculptor that designed the four presidents' busts at Mount Rushmore, and another one on the fort's former parade ground - now our front yard.

Interestingly, Fort Sheridan was never close to a battlefield, nor to any border
with enemy nations or tribes to the West or North. The only reason for its creation was that a few guys that made it big in Chicago's industry where moving out of the stinking city to more comfortable mansions and villas on the Northshore, and they were getting a little nervous with the labor unrests of the 1880s. They requested a garrison from the federal government to protect their valuable estates, who initially refused - I'm sure it had more pressing things on its mind at the time. To get their way, the Chicago commerce club ended up donating the prime real estate along the lake to the army.

Most of the fort's 90 or so historic buildings were built in the 1880s and 90s, including the iconic tower which at the time was the tallest building in the Chicago area. Not for long, as competing architecture firms figured out a way to build skyscrapers on Chicago's marshy soil. The garrison was actually deployed to quench the 1894 Pullman strike, but within 10 years of its existence the fort became a major training and rehabilitation facility for the Spanish American War and in particular World War II, processing a staggering 500,000 soldiers for military service in the early 1940s. So again, the federal government had more pressing things to care about than the mansions in affluent neighbor towns Lake Forest and Highland Park.
Most of the fort was closed in 1993, but there still is an active reserve base to our South and to our North. Part of the lands were used for housing employees of the Great Lakes Naval Base further north, but all historical buildings, including barracks, officer homes, kitchens, jail, veterinary office, mess hall and fire station, were turned into residential area.

 

One of our neighbors, now 85, grew up in this area and returned to live in the fort 15 years ago. He vividly remembers the bustling activity during World War II, and told us about the encampments where German prisoners of war were held. This lot is once again designated as "prime lakefront property", but the housing market bust has not helped in finding interested buyers. In contrast to the German POWs, who were locked up in camps, the Italian POWs were put in apartments in the next door village of Highwood. They supposedly did not require incarceration, as they had no desire to return to their homeland, and to this day Highwood still is a very thriving Italian-American community.

Our 85-year old neighbor Narrin also recalled shooting practice in the indoor range on the top floor of the tower barracks, what is now our bedroom; you can still see the original opening in the exposed brick wall on Jeroen's side of the bed, now closed up with almost exactly matching masonry work. The historic bricks were all made locally out of the local bluffs, and they show over 100 years of wear and tear, but some holes in our bedroom wall seem to originate from a stray practice bullet. The history and character of this place makes it unique in the northern suburbs, and that's what was appealing to GABROEN. We visit friends who live in the old kitchen unit, had a christmas party in the old bakery, do an evening dog walk by the tower, officers' mess hall and fire station. We walk along the parade ground and beautiful officer homes, we hike on trails that used to be the airstrip but are now restored as original prairie land with abundant wildflowers, and we sleep in a former shooting range.

After so many years in the fort, Narrin is moving out next week. He's going to an assisted living home in Lake Forest - we heard it was his grand wish to one day call zip code 60045 home. It's a step up, numerically, from where we are at 60035. But I guess for him it's a big step up on the aristocratic ladder to finally move in with the truly affluent, the rich benefactors who created Fort Sheridan in the first place. We hope you enjoy it, Narrin

Extreme weather

As they say, everything is bigger in America. Typically that saying is referring to manmade things, but after moving here GABROEN realized it also applies to nature, and the weather. Tornadoes, hurricanes, snow storms, all indicate the US climate produces more extreme weather than what GABROEN has encountered in Western Europe. And that's not only a matter of perception - statistics show that the U.S. holds many weatherly world records:

- most snowfall in one year: 95 feet (Mt Baker, Washington)
- heaviest rainfall in one hour: 12 inches (Holt, Missouri), which is about a third of the average annual precipitation in notoriously wet places like London or Amsterdam
- largest hailstone: 8 inch in diameter (Vivian, South Dakota) - imagine getting that on your car
- hottest temperature: 134 F, or 57 C (Death Valley, California) - back in 1913, and the local mercury came eerily close at this record's centennial last week.

Supposedly this all has to do with geography - the US is uniquely situated about halfway between the equator and the pole, in between two oceans, and without east-west mountain ranges. This creates a continuous collision between dry, cold arctic air and moist, warm air from the Atlantic, Gulf of Mexico and Pacific, a recipe for everything from arctic blizzards to the 10,000 or so severe thunderstorms and 1000 (or 80-90% of the world's) tornadoes each year.

Northern Illinois is not part of tornado alley, but being perched against Lake Michigan we do seem to be at a summer storm cul-de-sac. Most of the storm systems that wreak havoc further southwest migrate up to us and create spectacular skies (see last year's post Local warming), perhaps because they hit cooler air over the lake.


This year's first visitor frequented our climatic cul-de-sac about two months ago, dumping almost 10 inches of rain (see the post Crazy weather), and since then we have seen a pretty continuous flow of storms come through. Much to the dismay of the fragile petunia flowers on our deck, and a particular Mexican hairless dog. Fortunately, her senior ears make her pretty much oblivious to all but the heaviest thunder striking very close-by, but she still appreciates being walked appropriately timed in between storms, so she's the only one watering the plants.

We had another spectacular system come through a few days ago, with dramatic skies of grey and fiery tones and a tiny rainbow as extra splash of color.

The right to bare heads

I was always puzzled by the fact that in most states one is required to wear a helmet when riding a bicycle, but can leave one's helmet home when taking one's Harley on a 70 miles per hour cruise on the interstate. I wondered whether this has something to do with the free-spiritness of motorbikes, with not wanting to be told or restricted in any way by the government. Similar to the gun debate - perhaps NRA stands for the National Riders Association? I have not studied all constitutional amendments in detail, but I would not be in the least bit surprised if the famous Second Amendment not only talks about the popular right to bear arms, but also includes the right to bare heads. 

All of that said, I did encounter an unexpected reason to wear a bicycle helmet yesterday. I was going to the office along the local bike path, enjoying the nice morning sun, a little lake breeze and plenty of wildlife. A deer, six rabbits, two chipmunks, red robins, barn swallows and plenty of pretty redwinged blackbirds. The latter were singing and gurgling their little hearts out, with so much enthousiasm that they spread their tails wide in order not to fall of the electric wires. I had forgotten my helmet, so rode bare headed, which is actually a better way to enjoy the gentle lake breeze. However, I rode bare headed straight into  a Hitchcock movie, when one of those pretty redwinged buggers attacked. It hovered over my head, scratching my skull with its tiny talons!  Not a good day to forget one's helmet. 

I was certainly aware that these little buggers were not as pretty as they look; on another bike path a couple of miles south there are traffic sings warning for these attacks during breeding season. But this breeding season, apparently the redwinged blackbirds are extending their territory northbound. Or perhaps they share that same American free-spiritness; they are leaving the path with the traffic signs, as they see that as the government interfering with their lives and with their rights to bare heads, to attack bare heads that is. 

Tokyo (2)

My first time in Japan, back in 2003, I traveled to the southern island of Okinawa, of which one-third is a US naval base since world war II. Naively, I assumed that would mean that the other two-thirds of the island would speak English as well, but I could not have been more mistaken. At the time I stayed in a hotel called 'niyuu ichi seiki', and it took me some time to figure out ahead of my trip that that's Japanese for '21st century'. Again naively, I took that as a sign of modernity. When I finally arrived late in the evening, after a 90 minute taxi ride in pitch darkness, I was a little disappointed.

This hotel was way past its heydays even decades prior to the 21st century. At the front desk they literally spoke one word of English, 'yes'. I could hardly open the door to my room because the carpet was dangerously curling upwards. And once inside, it smelled like the carpet had absorbed years of food odors, which may be correlated to the curling up. The room interior reminded me of a set of The Thunderbirds, the 1960s sci-fi tv series with clumsily moving puppets. It probably was what a Japanese designer, back in the 1960s, and on a small budget, thought today was going to look like. The room was half smelly curly carpet, and half a large polyester structure of a non-descriptive color. That structure contained both the bed, the shower, a tiny ledge with an alarm clock an another tiny ledge with a black-and-white TV set. The bed was too short to fit me even diagonally, and strategic use of the tiny ledges, putting my head next to the alarm clock and feet next to the TV set still did not make for a comfortable night.

I was on Okinawa for a conference. It was held at a nice venue that had recently hosted the G8, but it had only one, fully booked, hotel close by. The 21st century was quite a way out, literally speaking a 45 minute shuttle ride, but also figuratively speaking. Admittedly, this is the place with the longest life expectancy in the world, so perhaps that gives Okinawans a different perspective on keeping up with time. Every evening was a testimony to that, and a test to the patience of all Westerners present. Per Japanese tradition, we all had to solemnly listen to a lot of Japanese speeches before we could attack the sushi buffet. Every night, the buffet was hosted by a different authority, like the Okinawa governor, the local prefect, the minister of health, the mayor. And every host was associated with a lot of protocol and an hur worth of speeches, which seemed to last forever if you're hungry, jet-lagged and don't understand a single word. Well, actually I did understand a single word: campai, Japanese for cheers. After the second night it became clear that 'campai' was like 'amen' in these protocols, followed by drinking whatever alcoholic beverage you happened to have in your hand.

So this time around, on my trip last month to Tokyo and our company's corporate office, I was weary to hear they were hosting another welcome reception 'in the good Japanese tradition' for us visitors. However, this time around the speech was in English, and given by an American. So 3 minutes of high energy sales pitch, with only one traditional piece to it; it again ended with 'CAMPAI'. 

Also this time around, my Tokyo hotel was of the 21st century, with beds I fitted in, no smelly carpets, and swank interior design. Nothing got lost in translation here. 

It featured 5 restaurants, and a nice view on Tokyo's Midtown. 

Message from the gods

Gabriella's birthday was two weeks ago, and she received a twin message from the gods. Personally delivered by Hermes, the Greek stud with little wings on his shoes. Her first gift is becoming an annual classic: her mom gets her a scarf from Parisian fashion house Hermes. That's quite a process actually, going to the local store in downtown Chicago, and exposing yourself to oddly unsocial personnel who are reluctant to showcase the scarves as if they are the queen's crown jewels. Not uncommon for these high end fashion houses, I guess that's intended to be their interpretation of "exclusivity". Nonetheless, Hermes makes beautiful scarves, and Gabriella got a particularly awesome one with black, lime green, fuchsia, bright pink patterns.

The second message was already on notice when we were in Holland last month. During that trip, we visited our favorite art gallery, an old farm in the countryside only a few miles away from the southern border with Belgium. It's also close to Breda, the city where Gabri spent most of her young years, and where her mom still lives. At the gallery Jeroen got Gabriella's birthday present, a picture by Dutch artist Margriet Smulders. Margriet Smulders is a photographer who takes her inspiration from stills by the 16th and 17th century Dutch masters, and attempts to reproduce the colors and vibe of those iconic paintings of flowers and fruits. For GABROEN that creates a link to our roots and history, but the piece is turning out to be more multidimensional to us, and it's evolving even after the decision to buy it.
Interestingly, we both fell in love with it for a number of reasons, some of which only came to bare after we bought it. It is a Ciba chrome print of 13 dye containing polyester layers, which is no longer used because it is too labor intensive, but is as vibrant as nature itself. It has lavender in it, the flower and herb forever associated to our sister-in-law Marjolein, who we buried just two days before by leaving beautifully fragrant lavender twines on her coffin. It has a reflection of clouds and blue skies in it, reminding us of the valuable lessons we learned last month, of celebrating the beauty of life, of the little cloud from which we're sure Marjolein is watching us. And we only found out its title after we bought it. It's called "Hermes". No kidding. It's colorful, powerful, inspiring. Just like the birthday girl.

Tokyo (1) - Sushi and sashimi

A three-day trip to the largest urban area of the world. With over 13 million people in the city proper, and almost 36 million people in Greater Tokyo, this is a massive town. It is the true concrete jungle, with roads winding over canals and under railroads, pressed between grey buildings of all, mostly not too pretty, shapes and styles. Add on top a mumble jumble of billboards and led-screens and you get a cacophony of screaming color and movement. What does not turn all of this into a sensory overload is that the city is squeaky clean, and the vast majority of the thousands and thousands of people on the streets dress the same: the men in dark suit and white dress shirt, and the women in either dark suit and white dress shirt, or in earth tones.

Although there are people everywhere, and there are so many of them, it doesn't feel like a human anthill. No one bumps into each other, and there is universal respect for personal space. For a bystander, the society seems very well organized, friendly, safe, and utterly incomprehensible.
The reason for my trip was 1.5 days of meetings at our Japan office, so that left 1.5 days for sightseeing. This was also my first time crossing the international dateline, and that makes for an interesting experience. Although it was a 13 hour flight, getting on a plane on Sunday morning and getting off on Monday late afternoon is a bit confusing. But in particular the return flight made the concept of time utterly surreal; after a 12 hour flight you arrive earlier than you left.

So somewhat confused and at a loss what time and day it was, I kicked off my stay Monday with an excellent sushi dinner prepared right in front of you - incredibly fresh fish makes you realize what we're missing out on with the US or European imitations.

The swank Grand Hyatt hotel I stayed at is in Roppongi Hills, a new high-end shopping and residential development with many expats. Definitely not lost in translation like Bill Murray in the Park Hyatt, but it does feel very un-western nonetheless.

Waking up jetlagged and early, I ventured to the Tsukiji fish market during morning rush hour. The market is the largest in the world and is at its most hectic from 5 to 9AM, with delivery guys on mopeds, electric carts, bicycles or hand-trolleys swarming in and out of the massive market halls to haul the most exotic types of fish to the local restaurants or to trucks standing by for delivery further out. This is so busy that they don't want strolling tourists to enter before 9AM, but you can enjoyably wait it out over a sushi breakfast nearby. Thinking that yesterday's dinner was fresh, breakfast was still swimming in the ocean just 4 to 6 hours before landing in your bentobox, and the shrimp were actually still alive on the breakfast counter. Marvelous mackerel, sumptuous squid, terrific tuna. And uni, aka sea urchin.

For someone who typically eats crunchy granola, I didn't think I would ever have sea urchin for breakfast, and the one time I had an uni hand roll for dinner in the US made me a little wary this time around. That said, tthis time around it tasted much better, but anything that draws slimy threads between your chopsticks and your mouth will not be my favorite...... Other than that, this massive concrete jungle is a foodie's heaven.

Trix week

Last week was Trix week, of Trix going and Trix coming. The Trix going was our good old Queen Beatrix of The Kingdom of The Netherlands. She abdicated her throne on April 30th, which was the national 'all Dutch go nuts' Queen's Day for the last 71 years. She vacated her seat to her eldest son Willem Alexander, who just became the first king in over 120 years, and with that Queen's Day is now becoming King's Day. April 30 was actually the birthday of Juliana, the Queen Mother, or I guess we would now have to call her the King Granny. When Beatrix became queen in 1980, she did not change the date of Queen's Day to her own birthday, January 31. Although a little kid, I do remember her announcement at the time that this was 'in honor of her beloved mother'. Her mother indeed was very beloved, but now that i'm older i'm pretty sure the main reason was the weather. Late April is much more amenable to the typical outdoor festivities than late January. Coincidentally, Willem's birthday is very close to his granny's, April 27th, and starting next year King's Day will be 3 days earlier than Queen's Day.

With the new king also comes a new queen. Queen Maxima, a blonde Argentinian girl who's spontaneity and exotic flair stole the hearts of the Dutch people. So Argentina is on a role in 2013: after the historic election of a pope, they now have their very first queen as well. I'm sure the whole country is wishing to complete the trinity with a title in next year's world cup soccer, even sweeter as it will be hosed by nemesis Brazil...........

Speaking of soccer, GABROEN likes to listen a Dutch radio show hosted by an iconic soccer and sports commentator slash music fan. The radio show has nothing to do with sports; this guy is just playing records he likes, but he provides commentary in pretty much the same way he does sports. One record we heard some 3 months back was from Trixie Whitley, an up and coming singer-songwriter from Brooklyn and Belgium, daughter of jazz rock guitarist Chris Whitley. To our pleasant surprise, she came to play in nearby Evanston last week - so she was the coming Trix.


After a surprisingly strong opening act by the frontman of Echorev (never heard of), up came a skinny blond which looked passionate and possessed. She put on an intense show, playing her heart, voice and guitars out. Each guitar was out of tune every time she ploinged and plunked its snares through another emotional song. Her voice was hoarse before she even started, but that didn't prevent her from leaving her soul on stage. Its hoarseness actually gave her performance a more tantalizing, almost haunted feel to it. But the real magic entered the intimate nightclub venue every time she got behind the piano. Powerful stuff can be produced by a skinny girl with a voice blown to pieces. Just watch the video of Pieces

Trix week - a historic week all around.

Crazy weather

As GABROEN posted last week (see the post Floodgates), it felt as if someone up in the heavens was pouring his/her/its heart out - I guess the gender of that someone is a matter of religion, belief system or personal preference. Anyway, we got over 4 inches of rain in about 16 hours, strangely but fittingly coinciding with the last 16 hours of Marjolein's life. That amount of downpour was too much to handle for the surroundings, and we got major flooding.

We came back on Thursday from a second trip to the homelands in two weeks, and there still were some flooded areas, but most of the water had drained and saturated the dried out soil around here. Since GABROEN's return, the weather has been pretty nice. Spring has reluctantly sprung upon us. Not that the trees have any leaves yet. But there is a certain balminess in the air, and daffodils and hyacinths as the first spring flowers. But the most obvious sign of spring: we have lake effect fog. Every spring, when the land is warming up but Lake Michigan still is cold as hell, we have days of dense fog for about a 1-mile stretch along the lakefront. So lakeside living does have its downsides. The weather around here is crazy, but not boring.

Someone is getting some sun

I don't think many people know this, but our fifteen-and-a-half (writing it out in full is only fitting for such a respectable age) year old Mexican Hairless has a last name. Actually, she also has a first name; Ruba is just her given name, given by GABROEN when we got her, now fifteen-and-a-half year ago, as we didn't picture ourselves calling her by that pedigree name: Girassol Gonzalez.

I'll first explain how we got from Girassol to Ruba. When we got her as an 8 week old little gremlin, now fifteen-and-a-half years ago (repeating this so often is only fitting for such a respectable age), the little hair she had on her head was as orange reddish as a carrot. Girassol, Spanish for sunflower, just didn't seem right. She was a redhead, a red dog, which would be 'rode hond' in Dutch. Oddly, 'rode hond' is also the Dutch name for rubella, one of the childhood diseases characterized by red spots. The origin of the name 'rode hond' has nothing to do with dogs whatsoever; it is derived from the old Dutch 'huin' meaning impurity or blemish. Apparently there was an old English word 'hun' with the same meaning. Anyway, we liked the reference to 'red dog', but thought that naming a puppy after a childhood disease, in particular a puppy that looks like a gremlin with many pimples and zits, is a bit awkward. So we ended up abbreviating 'rubella' to make it sound friendlier, e voila: Ruba. Certainly has a better ring to it than Girassol.

Her pedigree last name, Gonzalez, turned out more fitting than we thought fifteen-and-a-half years ago. Reminiscent of her fellow Mexican cousin, the cartoon mouse Speedy, Ruba turned out to be surprisingly fast. Now that she is fifteen-and-a-half, she lost most of her speed. She hasn't lost her love for sunbathing, and moves around the house with the turning sunlight. So perhaps Girassol wasn't such a bad name after all. Also, she hasn't lost her pigmentation, and still tans incredibly fast. So fast, that even the little winter sun in Illinois apparently has some effects on her. We only realized that when we took her shirt off. At her respectable age, she has outgrown her gremlin looks. Instead, she now looks like a Tour de France cyclist.

Floodgates

The Dutch are renowned for their water management and their down-to-earth nature in claiming land from the sea, aptly summarized in the proverb "God created the world, but the Dutch created The Netherlands". However, the severe thunderstorms that are dumping inches of rain on us today are a bit much even for a Dutchman to cope with.

It almost seems as if the flood gates of the heavens were opened yesterday over Northern Illinois, and that someone up there is pouring his or her heart out. The weather is fitting for our mood, as GABROEN received the sad news that our dear sister-in-law Marjolein passed away today. That news is a bit much to cope with as well; it feels as if the floodgates to our hearts and souls have opened up also.

Sweet dreams, dear sister.

The big C is a B

I believe it was ubercowboy John Wayne who first coined the phrase "the Big C" when he was battling cancer, perhaps making reference to the rival sports club from his college town. In his classical way, he stated in a press conference that he "licked the big C". Well, I would argue that the Big C is a B. B as in bitch. GABROEN received the shocking news on Saturday that our oldest sister in law is diagnosed with cancer, the big C, the B, whatever you want to coin it, and that it is incurable. We are in The Netherlands to be with our family in these difficult times, which turn out to also be very valuable times.

Our sister in law is brave, sweet, loving, in need of loving, all at the same time. She needs care and caring, but is also sending tons of loving to her loved ones, first and foremost to my big brother and their 4 kids. It is beautiful to witness and be a part of.

Today we learned the diagnosis is a recurring melanoma, and the prognosis is bad. But at the same time we are glad to be here, on the same emotional roller coaster ride with our loved ones. On the roller coaster, our sister in law sits in the front cart, and we join her and support her, going wherever the disease and the emotions are taking us. Roller coasters always have this compelling and thrilling name. I think we'll name this one "The Big B". Keep on riding it, sweet Marjolein, and know we have your back.

A bitchy melanoma cell (melissa-melanomasucks.blogspot.com)

Rusty Gold

After all the walking on our first day in San Francisco, we planned to take it a little slow on Sunday. The weather was not really enticing for another 7 mile walk either, so we headed to The Presidio and iconic Golden Gate instead. Everyone has seen the bridge, or at least pictures of it, so there's not much I can write here to add to that visual. However, actually being there is very different from looking at a picture, because of the other senses contributing to the experience. From a distance, such as from Baker Beach on the Pacific Ocean, the bridge is as beautiful and sleek as ever. But if you actually cross the 1 mile bridge on foot, it's a whole different play. You are walking right next to a 6-lane highway, providing a sensory overload that's worse than an evening in a discotheque. Also, what I thought was a muted warm red color turned out to be a browny rusty hue up close. So is it worth walking the Golden Gate Bridge? For the view on the city, bay and Alcatraz: yes. To see the dolphins hunting fish a couple hundred feet below: definitely. Just be sure to bring ear plugs.

SFMoMA

Sore calfs and painful knees from all the walking through the city during the weekend made us take it down a notch on Monday. So while the ladies hit the local salon in Potrero Hill for a mani-pedi, the gents did SF's Museum of Modern Art. The building seemed to be an odd mix between a contemporary white and airy space and an ancient sarcophage with black and dark gray granite. It's closing for renovation through the next 3 years, during which they are adding hypermodern metallic floors on top of the building, so we'll see what smorgasbord that will turn out to be.

We explored the exhibit of Garry Winogrand, an American photographer known for his candid and spontaneous street photography that broke with the orderly rigid optimistic mainstream of the 1950s and 60s. Beautiful work of an immensely prolific artist; he left over 2500 undeveloped rolls of film and almost 300,000 unedited images at his death. His style is easy, which seemed so easy to imitate with an iPhone camera. Not the case, to my disappointment. As a consolation, the museum bar served chocolate cakes with figurines copied from a famous Winogrand picture, and lost all spontaneity and candidness in the process as well. That said, the Winogrand cake looked a lot more appealing than the Rothko toast or Mondriaan lemon cake.

Unfortunately we were not around to see the girls stroll back up the steep Potrero Hill on flipflops, nails freshly colored and no doubt shiny in the Spring sun. That would be a topic worthy of a Winogrand inspired street shot, spontaneous or not.

G. Winogrand's beautiful shot on Rodeo Drive