You say yes, I say no

This blog faces so much neglect. Most days, there's not even a Hello Goodbye. So much life if happening that the brainspace this blog gets is reduced to microscopic proportions.

Exploring California's coasts, I'm happy that the beaches around here are ones where you need to wear a sweatshirt to. Picnics and books with a fine layer of sand on barely sunny days. Living here, I don't need an excuse to go outdoors, just need more company holidays.

Next holiday is all the way in September, but I already have flights booked and plans made. I live from one long weekend to the next.

Zen and The Art of Motorcycle License Testing

Another week, another couple of hours wasted pondering the many existential crises that comes saddled with a Monday morning. I am yet to attain anything remotely close to Zen. Bikram yoga, when will I see the miracles that you famously promise on your website? Will it take more than the ten sessions that my groupon is valid for?

I got my Motorcycle skill test waived by attending two 5 hour sessions of coaching followed by tests. Stood in the sun for 5 hours, woke up early and skipped breakfasts. Should I buy a motorcycle or should I not? That is the question. Help me out here, imaginary readers of this blog. Is it a good buy or am I just throwing money out the window, to be caught by some sleazy dealer or greasy guy from craigslist?

The weekend was filled with the riches of Indian food that only the bay area can provide without ripping giant holes in one's pocket. And at an archaic parking ticket machine, a stranger was kind to me. As they say on the internet nowadays, Faith in Humanity restored.

The great, but crowded outdoors

For Labor Day weekend, I went camping. Why I chose to go camping in another state, when California has such gorgeous state parks? Because I haven't flown anywhere recently and I missed airports. Result of all the flights (and of the fact that we put off reserving a campsite, as good procastinators do), we went camping for one night. Still major fun though.

Did some touristy things before the actual camping, drained the rental cars battery by leaving on the headlights and took lots of photos and had a fancy chocolate fondue the night before. After parking the car at the campsite, we walked to the firewood shack and then realised that we didn't have enough arms/muscles between us to take back an entire stack of firewood. Luckily, the campsite 'host'(I wonder what his job description is) drove up in his mini lorry and offered to take the lumber and kindling to our campsite for us.

After a 2 hour hike to nowhere and back, we decided to start the fire and boy did it take a while. It had rained the day before and so the ground was damp-ish and the firewood wasn't completely dry. So it was a super smoky fire which took forever to start. Damned weather. It wasn't particularly cold, so we could have done without a fire, but I wanted smores and was unwilling to let all the campfire food planning go unfulfilled. Despite blowing at the embers till I felt my lungs would give out and carefully burning our ration of newspaper and kindling, the logs just wouldn't catch fire. They just sat there and smoked, like a bunch of chain smokers on their lunch break. When the first log caught fire, I almost wept with joy, though it might have been all the smoke in my eyes. I added another log and had to start revving up my lungs again  because the fire dwindled. While prepping the burgers and the potatoes, I realised that we had a whole block of butter. And we weren't planning to use more than a smear for the potatoes. And then I had my eureka moment. I started greasing the logs with butter and man was it effective. At that moment, I felt like I deserved my own Survive-in-the-almost-wilderness TV show. I was meant to be outdoors! Guess I get it from my grandma, who insisted on drying her own firewood and using that to boil bath water even after we installed water heaters in our house.

So there you have it folks, if your fire just won't catch, add a dollop of butter. Expensive fuel indeed, but when push comes to shove, I say throw in a stick of butter.

P.S. Don't the coal embers look like rock candy?

Sundry

I found a new blog buddy, someone who christens himself Fez and tries to hide his blog from the world.

The last few days have been one close shave after another. I stress out, almost break down. Rinse and repeat in an unforgiving loop. Credit for keeping me from going to a dark place goes to a fitness obsessed, eternally cheerful fellar I know. You, sir, are the absolute best. None of which happened or is happening is life alteringly or irreversibly disastrous. It took a white hair on my head to put the humor back in life, to lighten me up.

Pittsburgh is beautiful, even in the blazing heat. The rivers and the bridges and the old buildings will be sorely missed. The bay area seems crass and unrefined in comparison. I will eventually move to a proper city, not a place where downtown means a half block filled with restaurants and hair salons. Move somewhere where there is still some lingering romance in the buildings, somewhere where there exists layers of memories, so that I can add mine to them.

The one thing I regret is being so caught up by graduation, that I did not take many pictures of the ceremony or my friends. Carnegie Mellon was all that I hoped for and more. Some good, bad and truly ugly times happened in those 1.5 years. But I loved it to bits. I won’t harp on the endless nights spent on assignments. It was all worth the Dunkin donuts, the discovery of Kiva Han and the teensy French crepes place; worth the last minute trips to Washington and the other well-planned ones; the student lounges and the weird street art sculptures. It was worth Tom Mitchell and the other, equally brilliant profs. I am so glad I made it there.

The tourist paradigm

A checklist. And then some more. Running to the nearest working printer to get two copies of the measly tickets. The inevitability of the last minute packing, be it a backpack or a suitcase.

The taking of public(or almost public) transport to the airport, bus or train station. The long hours where you are in between both destination and source. A kind of Limbo. That very limbo, that disconnection, that almost ephemeral feeling which is priceless. Just like the mastercard advert, with wrinkled old ladies riding elephants and watching the sunset with their equally hoary spouses.

It feels strangely like boredom, but not quite. There is something special about it, that doesn't push one over the edge and into a dull stupor. A strange elation. The unfulfilled anticipation of new encounters with fascinating people. Never fails. As reliable as the German trains. Just the journey validates the excursion.

But touristing is a whole other world altogether. What can only be described as lust. A happiness so complete when the map is deciphered, the tiny kitschy cafe is found, the cliched photos taken. Right from the constant checking to see if the camera was left behind, whether the wallet was safe, to the annoying of passers by to take pictures of me, you, us.

The cramming of a million activities in the almost niggardly number of vacation days. The debate of which places to skip in the itenrary that exists only in my head. The irritation when you get too tired from all the adventuring, the hunger and refusal to compromise on food. Crashing and burning on the hotel bed at the end of the day. The wanting to extend it all by just one more, just one more day.

And when it's all done, turning the key in the lock, and feeling, like a stranger in your own home.

Lists, anyone?

This weekend has been a physical roller coaster.

Things which I have never paid attention to before are assuming astonishing significance, public transport for starters.

I'd like to give a thankful nod to the guys up top for -

1. Distributed Systems, especially VOIP.
2. Big Fat Red Markers.
3. Tiny Chinese take out boxes.
4. Knowing that there is someone always willing to go to Panera bread with me.
5. Old english ladies with offerings of instant coffee.

Learning is fascinating, be it about the Japanese Maple and root systems or the prospect of tennis lessons.

Roses come in many forms, some sweet, some pretty. But my favorites are those that come in a box.

San Frikkin Cisco

Arrived at San Fran hungry. Of all the places we could have chosen, went to the nearest Indian buffet. Tasted like home food. Not the mouth-watering, my granny's the best cook ever home food, the come home at 11 pm and eat a week old dal kind. The only redeeming factor was the kheer and the freezing gulab jamun.

Onto Golden Gate Bridge. A thousand photos and a very windy walk later, I was at peace.




Trying to find the crookedest street in the world involved more than 3 hours of driving with an unreasonably confused GPS.

Decided it was better done on foot. An unplanned walk up to Coit tower through steep stairs surrounded by teensy gardens and beautifully quaint houses later, I found my happy place.

A kind stranger gave us a map of SF, and we still couldn't find the elusive Lombard street. We were ready to give up when we spotted it.

Just how crooked can a street be? You have to see it to believe it.



San Fran just has to be done. Just has to. Even though I skipped all the art deco-y period stuff and most of the tourist-y places like Alcatraz, I felt like singing through it all.

It is one of the most beautifully quaint cities on earth. I will be going back, for sure.

I discovered I am a soft gooey traveler inside, complete with squeals at the sight of ancient moldings on downtown buildings. Might be all those hours of Lonely Planet. Then again, it might be San Francisco.