The best Christmas gift

Well, taking time spent with family and good friends out of the equation, this is the best.  Better than new sheets, new slippers, and gift cards (and certainly better than this book, which my brother bought for me as a joke).

Pre-holiday hodgepodge

For some reason, the hectic pace of the holiday season seems to stunt my ability to fully formulate eloquent thoughts.  So, in an effort to not completely neglect my blog this December, outlined below are a few things that have been on my mind.  I may expand on some of them, either in the lull between Christmas and New Year’s Eve or later down the road, or I may not.

The historic repeal, this past weekend, of the Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell ban on gays serving openly in the military pleases me - both because the policy was discriminatory and detrimental and because it will quiet some of the annoying squawking coming from the left.  Though I don’t inherently care as much about this aspect of gay rights as, say, marriage equality, it is, nevertheless, a momentous step in the right direction for our country.

On the topic of Congressional action, I’ve also been very happy with the pace and bipartisan nature of the “lame duck” session.  Since returning to Washington after the elections, Congress has gotten quite a bit done: a tax deal and economic stimulus that angered the more ideological wings of both parties (which, to me, makes it all the more appealing), progress toward a vote on the crucial New START nuclear arms reduction treaty with Russia, and, of course, the aforementioned DADT repeal.  The failure of the Dream Act is truly disheartening and New START is not yet ratified, but, for once, pragmatism has seemed to characterize the overall course of events in Washington more than frustrating partisan gridlock (with some notable exceptions).

In a break with the child-like excitement of years past, I reacted to this season’s first snow – a small one, at that – with a sense of barely contained distaste.  Perhaps a remnant of last winter’s blizzard fatigue, perhaps simply an indication that I have become a 25 year old curmudgeon.

I have not yet read this book, recommended by Andrew Sullivan, but, as an imaginative exercise in philosophies and interpretations of the afterlife, it sounds fascinating.  Thought-provoking excerpts here.

Egged on by a candy-filled advent calendar and the abundance of sweets that show up on the office’s kitchen table during the holidays, I find myself recently unable to resist the following things: Reesee’s Peanut Butter Cups, chocolate chip cookies, ginger cookies, and cupcakes.

It alarms me, in a somewhat glum, existential way, that 2011 is just two weeks away.

Recently, I received the first hard copy in my subscription to The Atlantic.  Occasionally, I am struck with frivolous ideas when it comes to reading – that I should buy a non-fiction book based on the interesting-sounding description on the back cover, without first investigating reviews and verifying its readability, for example, or the perpetually incorrect assumption that I possess the patience and intellectual curiosity to fully digest an issue of The Economist.  I’m hoping The Atlantic does not fall victim to a similar fate - so far, I’m doing ok.

Michael Giacchino’s beautiful score from Lost continues to delight and haunt me, six months after the series finale.  Grooveshark allows me to listen whenever I am the mood for a transportively emotional experience.

Given the proper appetite and a particularly tasty batch, I could probably eat an entire carton of Clementines.

Over the past week, the way that Maryland has treated head coach Ralph Friedgen, an alum who led the program back to national relevancy a decade ago, is despicable.  He deserves better than to have unnamed sources from the university fuel rumors about his status, particularly after orchestrating a huge turnaround season and winning ACC coach of the year.  Most dishonorable, to me, is the conduct of our new A.D., Kevin Anderson, who earlier this season definitively confirmed Friedgen’s job security for next year and now, as of this afternoon, has officially reneged on his show of support.  This has been handled unreasonably poorly and, combined with the basketball team’s mounting losses and the heartbreak of the premature end to soccer season, has sapped most of my enthusiasm for Terps sports (for now, at least).

I’m disappointed that tonight’s lunar eclipse is going to happen while I’m asleep.

Life is far too fleeting to give up, even temporarily, the pursuit of happiness.

Fall in the Capital 2010

A few weeks ago, I wrote with wonder about the striking nature of autumn colors on a rainy afternoon.  But, truthfully, there are endless ways to appreciate my favorite season.  As we transition into the long, cold winter, this is my homage to fall.

Our world is cruel and beautiful

If I pay attention, I find that I am reminded on an almost daily basis of just how fortunate I am.  Just the other morning, I read an article about the record number of families that are now facing “food insecurity” (many of them very recently middle class), and how that is stretching resources at area food pantries very, very thin.  Our world is stricken with quite a bit of heartache, and, to date, I’ve been blissfully shielded from much of it.

Though I always attempt to maintain a sense of humility about my place on this Earth, it is shamefully easy to lose perspective.  But stories, like the one I read earlier today, and firsthand experiences both have a uniquely illustrative power to lend context and poignancy to life’s many abstractions.  Particularly with the approach of Thanksgiving, this helps to bring what is often otherwise latent gratitude into sharper relief.

In this sense (and many others), one of the more meaningful things I’ve done over the past year is travel to South Africa.  Though my two weeks of volunteering were, in all likelihood, far more impactful on a personal level than on a practical one, it was an experience that I will carry with me for the rest of my life.  I have been meaning to write more fully about my time there since June.  With the hope of sharing even a fraction of all that I took away, Thanksgiving seems as good a time as any.

 After zooming around the country for a little over a week on the left side of the road (literally – I’ve received two separate email notifications from Thrifty that my credit card would be charged for speed camera violations), Dave and I arrived in the township of Zonkizizwe, about 45 minutes southeast of Johannesburg.  We slept there for a week, volunteering for Vumundzuku-bya vana (VVOCF), which means “Our Children’s Future” in Zulu, and spent a second week commuting to Zonki every day from Johannesburg.

VVOCF: Shipping containers, a dirt yard, and love

Some background: VVOCF is a resource and support center dedicated to children who have been made vulnerable by HIV and AIDS.  Though this disease has orphaned most of the kids who attend, the center itself is not an orphanage.  The kids live primarily with some combination of aunts, uncles, and grandparents, or, most heartbreakingly, in child-headed households.

Dinner time!

Three days per week feature formal programming, intended to nurture, educate, and entertain the youth, helping them to reach their full potential.  There is also a free (and delicious) hot meal – often the only one these kids get all day.  The center helps obtain school uniforms and distributes donated clothes. Overarchingly, it works tirelessly to destigmatize and raise awareness about HIV/AIDS, and helps ensure that HIV positive children receive the care they need to survive and thrive.  Even on the off days, when the center is not technically open, many children congregate and play there, which, to me, speaks volumes about VVOCF’s important place in the community.

Dave and I helped with all of this, splitting our time between having fun with the kids and doing behind-the-scenes administrative stuff to support the center - organizing for grant proposals and setting up a more efficient accounting spreadsheet, for example.  With several months in Zonki, I think we could have made measurable progress on some of these initiatives, particularly a large scale study of VVOCF’s efficacy.  However, with only two weeks, we faced many limitations (complicated further by the lack of available resources, such as a reliable computer). 

The children themselves are wonderful.  Particularly with the younger ones, it's so easy to forget what dire circumstances all of them face. They are so loving and happy, and were genuinely excited to do anything with us - reading, arts and crafts, beating us at soccer, etc. Reality begins to set in, though, when you have conversations with some of the older kids about their aspirations. Growing up as they have, these kids have not had chance or reason to think about their future. Self-empowerment is one of the goals of VVOCF, but all of the good work at the center cannot overcome a lackluster education system in the townships and the 40% national unemployment rate (higher in places like Zonki). It is depressing to observe that, no matter what they do, as these kids grow up, they have very few options to make a living. Even more heartbreaking is the fact that the older kids seem to recognize this.

I thought quite a bit about the most effective way to convey the many nuances of our time at the center and decided, ultimately, to introduce you to some of the characters that we came to know.

Nomusa and Sne

Nomusa co-founded VVOCF in 2006 and now runs the center’s day-to-day operations.  Though she only has a few years of formal education, she is bright and passionate about caring for the kids, and has a great sense for how to get things done.  It is the organizational aspects of running a non-profit center where she needs assistance, which is why we tried to help her with the filing and record keeping systems.  Nomusa speaks English fluently, and often focused on teaching the children to read.  Her son, Snetemba, was a real terror, in a good way.  One time, Nomusa saw streaks of mud running across the side of our parked car.  Shaking her head, she mused, “Only Snetemba could have done this.”  He liked to shout out vowel sounds: "ah, eh, iii, uh, oo!"

Spe and Nlanthla

Once the sun set on our first evening in Zonki, all of the kids had left.  We had chatted briefly with Nomusa and Vumile over tea and decided to sort the clothes the next morning.  Feeling a little out of place, Dave and I were somewhat awkwardly taking in our surroundings.  Up strode Spe, Nomusa’s older son, and Nlanthla, his best friend.  “My troublemakers,” she called them.

They sat for awhile and taught us words and phrases in Zulu (indiza is plane, inyanga is moon), laughing at our struggles to pronounce the unfamiliar sounds.  Nlanthla asked us to sing our national anthem, and he sang theirs in return: “Nkosi Sikelel' iAfrika,” an old resistance song that translates to “God bless Africa” and was later combined with songs of several languages to form the modern South African anthem.  We played the first of many games of soccer in the dark yard, and I took the first of many tumbles on the rocky, packed dirt, luckily avoiding the shards of broken glass and popping up laughing.  Later that evening, they took turns reading “Danny and the Dinosaur.”  Every night thereafter, they would come and read with us, sometimes after soccer, sometimes after chess.  Spe and Nlanthla were key to us feeling welcome in Zonki.

Phakamani

 We were specifically tasked with bonding with the older teen boys, since they have very few male role models in their lives.  Phakamani was one of my favorites – he challenged us, along with one of his friends, to a two on two USA v. South Africa soccer match (sadly, the USA did not prevail – it was not even close).  He and the other teens also kept asking if they could wash our car.  Having only been in Zonki for a day or two, we were still getting acclimated and felt vaguely suspicious. But they really did just want to wash the road dirt off of our car.  A few times, Phakamani borrowed my camera and ran around taking pictures.  Photography is one of my favorite hobbies, and I take the fact that I can practice, more or less at will, for granted.

One of the most lasting memories that I’ll keep of Phakamani was a conversation that he had with Kristi and me about his future.  As a 17 year old, he is getting ready to graduate from school.  We asked him what he wanted to do afterwards and he kind of shrugged, saying that the only thing he does well is play sports.  When we followed that by asking if he wanted to stay in Zonki or move away, he responded that he would stay, because “[he has] no choice.”  It floored me to realize that, having grown up as he did, in a country with 40% unemployment and still-blatant stratification, Phakamani had never had reason to give much thought to his ideal future.  Even poor kids in America grow up with big dreams.  It’s cruel and unfair that these kids do not.

Specihle

Specihle, another of the teen boys, is 16 and lives in a child-headed household with his twin brother, who no longer comes to VVOCF, and several younger siblings.  He told me one time while we were gardening that when he is able to get online, his chat name is “Cool Zulu Boy.”  Specihle also expressed disappointment that one of the previous volunteers had forgotten his birthday (July 3), even though he remembered hers.  It struck me that, to us, visiting VVOCF is the experience of a lifetime, but that to these kids, our presence is likely depressingly fleeting.  After returning home, I made sure to ask Kristi to wish Specihle a happy birthday from me.  I want the kids to know that, even half a world away, I think of them often, and that I care about them.

Wiseman, in the middle

M'Longisi

M’Longisi took an instant liking to us.  I’m not entirely sure that that is actually his name, since he doesn’t speak a word of English.  He would follow us around like a little shadow, tugging at our hands, wanting to be picked up and spun around, or asking to play soccer, or just gesturing to show us something. 

Wiseman wins the award for best name, yet, for some odd reason, his was one of the names it took me the longest to remember.  He was always eager to say hello and one of the first to volunteer to help clean up at the end of the day.

Chlanchla, Vumile, and Hilda in the kitchen

Aside from Nomusa, VVOCF relies on the hard work of several adult volunteers. They would gather each morning for a moving, musical prayer. Vumile always seemed particularly tickled when we would ask her “how are you?” in Zulu (unjani).  Chlanchla, who actually spoke great English, would only speak to us in Zulu and would often lead the kids in song or dance.  Susvina usually cooked the delicious meals, like samp (curried beans and hominy) and lentils over rice.  Hilda invited us over to her home to watch the opening game of the World Cup on TV, with her husband Alfred.  Because Alfred has a job, they live in a nice house, have a small flat screen TV, opened a bottle of wine to share with us, and own a car.  The fact that they still live in Zonki illustrates the fact that today’s townships are home to people of varying means – there are even some mansions in Soweto. 

Weeding in the vegetable garden

There are so many others that we came to know – Pulile, the sweet girl with the shy smile whose face I painted with the South African flag for the World Cup, Sfizso, the teen boy who ran across a field to help us find the center on our first afternoon and later showed me the addition he was building to his family’s home, the grinning boy in the red snow jacket who, despite the fact that I never was too clear on his name, was one of my favorites, the other Nlanthla, who played soccer barefoot.

Zonkizizwe

VVOCF is a place of exceptional hope and love, but also depressing realities.  Knowing that the world is full of M’Longisi-s, eager to give hugs, and Phakamani-s, struggling with a lack of opportunity, is utterly heartbreaking.  Despite these harsh realities, the inherent goodness of these kids gives me hope for the power of the human spirit to overcome adversity.  And, more than anything, it makes me acutely aware of my great fortune.  We are all graced with considerable blessings.  Happy Thanksgiving.

To learn more about VVOCF, or to donate to the U.S.-based non-profit organization that directly supports it, click here.

Isolated bursts of color

Walking home from the Metro earlier this week, I noticed something peculiar.  It had been a wet, miserable day, and drizzle was still slipping from the sky in forlorn little spurts.  There were a lot of leaves on the ground, freshly pulled from branches by the wind and rain.  But instead of melding into the slippery mess of the scene, they popped, with stunning effect.

Maybe it was the concentrated piles of leaves, gathered on the sidewalk underneath each tree like the glow of a street lamp.  Or perhaps it was just the bright autumn colors, held in such sharp contrast to the prevailing grayness of the day.  Regardless, I have never been so soundly struck by something's beauty on an otherwise gloomy Tuesday afternoon.

(more - and better - pictures to come)

Things that many conservatives tend to forget

Andrew Sullivan pointed me to this piece by David Frum in the New York Times magazine.  It is fantastic - thoughtful, realistic, and somewhat damning, without being harsh or overly partisan.  Although he is quite conservative from a policy-standpoint, I often find myself drawn to Frum's ideas for their measured, reasonable tones.

In this article, he argues against knee-jerk hypocrisy and closed information systems (think Fox News and MSNBC), among other things, and suggests that newly empowered Republicans and, most importantly, the nation would benefit from more cooperation and less political opportunism.  Read it - it's informative and honest.

The U.S. political system is not a parliamentary system. Power is usually divided. The system is sustained by habits of cooperation, accepted limits on the use of power, implicit restraints on the use of rhetoric. In recent years, however, those restraints have faded and the system has delivered one failure after another, from the intelligence failures detailed in the 9/11 report to the stimulus that failed to adequately reduce unemployment, through frustrating wars and a financial crash. The message we hear from some Republicans — “this is no time for compromise” — threatens to extend the failures of governance for at least two more years. These failures serve nobody’s interest, and the national interest least of all.

Everywhere we follow

As a college student, I followed the Maryland men’s soccer team very closely.  Spurred by my proximity to campus and, more than anything, the stirring community of alums and students that lives and dies with the team’s success, I have continued to attend games in the years since graduation, albeit less frequently. I’ve done some seemingly crazy things over the years for the Terps, mostly related to far-flung road (or plane) trips, made especially inconvenient because of departure time, proximity to exams or holidays, or both.

One thing, however, that I’ve never experienced first hand is an ACC championship.  Maryland defeated UNC 1-0 yesterday to take home the trophy (our second in the past three seasons!).  For all of the six hour bus trips back and forth to what was once called SAS Soccer Stadium, in Cary, NC, I have never seen the Terps win the conference tournament in person.  This weekend was no different, as a visit with David in Middletown, PA prevented me from joining the rest of the Crew on this weekend’s road trip.  But my absence couldn’t keep me from getting nostalgic - the victorious celebration, the joyous text messages, the DOTS bus.  All make me miss that particular corner of my college experience so, so much.

On the bright side, the Terps are not done.  I think this team could be special.  This year’s College Cup will be taking place in Santa Barbara in a few weeks.  Perhaps, if Maryland can get there, my Southwest voucher will get me there too.  Until then, you can find me at Ludwig, cherishing the experience of supporting college soccer’s finest team.

The land of the elves, and other amusing things

I can't pretend to understand the science underlying this discovery, but I find it stunning nevertheless.  Taiwanese researchers have found that injecting the leaves of trees with gold nanoparticles causes the chlorophyll within them to emit a warm, reddish glow.  The discovery has sparked interest as both a potential biological alternative to some of the highly toxic materials in popular LED lights and as a futuristic, yet natural, way to illuminate roads without energy-leeching streetlamps.

This is all very impressive but, what truly captures my imagination is the thought of forests of ephemerally twinkling trees, similar to Lothlorien in the Lord of the Rings.  I'm picturing epic hikes through the woods, or perhaps a treehouse nestled among the luminous foliage.  Very, very cool.

Another thing that made me smile today, though for a completely different reason, was this tongue-in-cheek map (courtesy of Sarah), parodying stereotypes that many Americans hold about various regions of the world.  I felt like a jerk while reading it, but it's hard not to laugh at the phrase "Libertarians' Wet Dream."

Weekends are for food lovers

Eating a good meal is, to me, one of life's principal enjoyments.  Beyond the obvious fact that food provides an often irresistible treat for the tastebuds, there are few better ways to socialize and catch up with friends than over a meal.  I was fortunate enough to spend my weekend doing all of these things.

On Friday, I visited Alex, Adam, and Joe in Frederick, where we ate a satisfying, hearty barbecue meal (sans cornbread, unfortunately).  Later, we experimented with a Chesapeake oyster shooter (a mistake we will not soon repeat) and devoured a soft pretzel.  Saturday involved excellent Mediterranean roasted eggplant pizza and a classier than expected dinner at Ming's in Chinatown with Jimmy.

Finally, yesterday afternoon I indulged my occasional urge to spend a few hours of a lazy Sunday cooking.  It's nice to have the time to produce a dish more involved than what is possible on a weeknight.  Similar to (though less ambitious than) the ethnic food feasts that Alex and I tackled last year, I wanted to try something I had not attempted before.  Spanakopita, with its tricky, temperamental phyllo dough but jaw-droppingly delicious payoff, seemed to fit the bill.

So I tackled it, fusing a couple of recipes from online and a cookbook and taking breaks to watch the Terps women's soccer team lose in the ACC Championship game on TV.  Though the entire process (including breaks and baking time) took a few hours, there were no major disasters and the end result was pretty tasty.

Spanakopita

1. Thaw 8 oz (about 16 sheets) phyllo dough, if frozen, in the refrigerator overnight or on the counter for two or three hours.
2. Thaw approximately 20 oz. frozen chopped spinach in the microwave.  Thoroughly squeeze the spinach dry to remove as much moisture as possible, pressing between plates or against the hard surface of a collander if needed.
3. Saute two onions, chopped and several garlic cloves, minced, in olive oil until soft.
4. Add spinach, as well as 2 tbsp. flour and dried or chopped fresh dill, salt, and pepper to taste.  Cook for 5-10 minutes, making sure any liquid has evaporated or been absorbed and remove from heat, allowing the mixture to cool a bit.
5. Mix in 1 lb. feta cheese, crumbled and 4 eggs, lightly beaten.
6. Melt 1 stick butter.
7. Unroll phyllo dough and cover with plastic wrap and a damp towel to keep it from drying out.
8. Grease a 9"x13" baking dish.  Lay in one sheet of phyllo and brush lightly with the melted butter.  Lay another sheet on top and repeat approximately 8 times, depending on the total number of sheets of phyllo you have.
9. Spread the spinach mixture evenly on top of the phyllo in the baking dish.
10. Place another sheet of phyllo on top of the spinach mixture and brush with melted butter.  Again, repeat approximately eight times.  Brush the top layer with the remaining butter.
11. Bake 350 (preheated) for about an hour and ten minutes, or until deeply golden brown and crispy looking.

 

The finished creation.  The stuff off to the side is grilled eggplant.

In a bookstore near you

I came across this hilarious pamphlet in Barnes and Noble last night. The inside features a list of "secret" two letter country codes, corresponding to the first two characters on diplomatic license plates. For only $3.99, you can own this guide and help your country identify and track suspected foreign spies. Countries deemed dangerous are listed in red ink, so that you can be particularly wary of these dignitaries.

Despite the inclusion of the USSR on the list, this brochure does not appear to be a joke. It was located among traveling books and maps, not kitsch-y prank gifts. I pity the idiot that buys this thing, if, for no other reason, because I'm sure all of this information is available for free online. Amateur counter-espionage agents can save themselves four bucks.

A worthwhile reminder

The message of this website is simple, if a little flippant - it never hurts to keep the past two years in perspective.  Much of the electorate is disgusted right now by a frustratingly stagnant economy and bitter partisanship, but to claim that Obama has not delivered on his campaign promises rings a little false.  He has ushered many significant pieces of legislation through Congress.  Despite Republican vilification of many of these victories, I'm hopeful that public opinion will ultimately swing back in the president's favor.  Poll numbers, too, seem to suggest that, despite voters' frustrations, Democrats - and particularly Obama - are seen as more likely to compromise than Republicans.

Just a small bit of sunlight to help fellow liberals bear what is certain to be a painful shellacking at the polls tonight.  And for God's sake, no matter your political persuasion, please go vote today.  As part of this representative democracy, it's one of our most important civic duties.

Toothless in his old age

Though only six days old, with the spat of unseasonably warm weather last week, my jack-o-lantern is becoming elderly in pumpkin-time.  He began with a toothy, somewhat sinister looking grin, with huge, dodgy eyes and furrowed brows.  The eyes are still there, but the formerly pointy teeth, four on top and two on the bottom, have shriveled backwards into his head.  Regardless, he has held up well enough and will be illuminating our steps tonight, as costumed little kids and opportunistic teenagers stop by for some candy.  Happy Halloween!

A glimpse of old grandeur

Inspired by Tom’s recent post about an organ-supported theater in Jersey City, NJ, I decided to pay homage to two fantastic places in the DC area.  The first, AFI Silver Theater in downtown Silver Spring, is not one I’ve frequented much over the years, though this is mostly due to the fact that I rarely go out to see movies. Originally constructed in 1938, it was renovated in the early 2000’s as part of the rejuvenation of downtown Silver Spring.  These days, the theater mostly screens artsy independent movies (I saw Waiting for Superman there recently) and is also heavily involved in the local film festival scene.

By contrast, The Uptown, despite modernized interior amenities, hearkens back to the heyday of single screen “movie palaces,” and all of the glamorous old-school Hollywood imagery that that conjures.  With its balcony seating and large capacity, the Cleveland Park theater draws crowds with major studio blockbusters.  The Uptown has been my favorite movie theater for as long as I can remember and it occupies a special place in our local entertainment scene.  When presented with the opportunity to see Star Wars or Star Trek or something equally big and sweeping on that huge screen, you don’t need to say you’re “going to the movies.”  Instead, you’re just “going to The Uptown.”

A day at BDL

I started the day in complete darkness, lying on my back on a mushy red couch in Sam's windowless basement in Hartford, CT. Without the gradual cues of morning light, what would normally be a fairly run-of-the-mill weekend wake up time of 8:15 seemed utterly unreasonable.

After a quick shower and a toasted bagel, Sam and Caryn dropped me off at Bradley International Airport. With negligible lines at the Southwest check-in counter and security, I made it to the gate with plenty of time to spare. Busying myself with listening to music from the Lost soundtrack, I noted, with some amusement, the airline staff's increasingly desperate pleas for three volunteers to be bumped to a later, not overbooked flight so that some folks with a connection to St. Louis could make it to their destination today.

At first, I gave this next to no thought. I relished the idea of arriving home in the early afternoon. But as I lined up to board, guilt struck. It was the same nasty feeling that compels me to donate to WAMU twice a year and it filled me with visions of hypothetical separated families and lonely nights in hotel rooms. I craned my neck to look at the Southwest agents and considered the smile of gratitude (and ample monetary compensation) I might get in return for identifying my itinerary as "flexible." But, facing the reality of sitting in the airport for eight hours, I turned back toward the gate. More guilt. Somewhat begrudgingly, I walked up to the desk.

Thus began a long day in Hartford's international airport, which, despite ostensibly launching planes overseas, is quite small. Feeling a bit like Tom Hanks in The Terminal, I roamed the corridors and newsstands, people-watched, and consumed a laughably large amount of overpriced food and beer. Every few hours, I dutifully made my way back to gates 4 and 6 to see if I could sneak onto an earlier flight via standby. Finally, I was lucky enough to get the last seat on a completely booked plane.

Since the situation was entirely of my own making, I don't think I have the privilege of frustration. I also have a nicely sized voucher to use on a future trip or two. But I can't help but feel a little aggravated with myself for getting suckered into giving up my seat. I'm not sure the buffalo chicken wrap with sweet potato fries and five onion soup, while delicious, was worth my entire Sunday. And the one thing that attracted me in the first place, which could have mitigated being stuck in the airport, didn't materialize. Far from showing glowing gratitude, the guy who got my spot just whined about having to cancel an appointment if he didn't get on the plane, then snatched the boarding pass and walked away, without so much as a look in my direction.

Now I'm wending my way through the Metro system, almost home. After this long trip home, it's easy to forget what a great weekend I had in Connecticut. And I'm glad to have been able to help someone, but, truth be told, even happier about the prospect of using my voucher to spark another adventure - hopefully with uneventful flights next time.

Fall membership campaign

Those three dreaded words are back in style at WAMU this week, meaning that, instead of crisp, insightful programming, my commute is filled with a parade of local on-air and behind the scenes personalities begging for donations of "whatever you can afford - maybe $1,000, maybe $5 a month."  I am actually fairly tolerant of these bi-annual (tri, if you count the spring's Morning Edition-only version) annoyances - I recognize the great importance of listener donations to the success and quality of public radio.  However, there is one thing I cannot bear.

Pat Brogan really needs to calm down about Marketplace.  Perhaps it's just because my commute often straddles the 5:45 - 6:00 zone, when his excitement is reaching its peak, but I feel as though he raves about little else.  The title Marketplace is frequently linked with the words "my favorite program" or "one of those shows where they just take something that could be so confusing, so tough to grasp, and make it just so digestible and so clear for everyone."

Although I mostly agree with this assessment of Marketplace's value and understand how difficult it must be to speak constantly about giving money (call 800-248-8850 or visit wamu.org) without sounding like a broken record, surely Pat Brogan can grasp that the same people listening to 88.5 FM at 5:40 in the DC area are probably still listening at 5:43, 5:47, and 5:55.  By the fourth or fifth glowing mention on the fourth or fifth consecutive night of the campaign, I think everyone gets it: he loves Marketplace.

I will most likely donate before the week is out.  But it will not be because of Brogan's clumsy, repetitive prattling.  And, if he could somehow promise to vary his pledge-drive commentary even a little bit, I would be tempted to give quite a bit more.

Maybe I can go to Brazil in four years

ESPN The Magazine has a nice piece reflecting on the ongoing recovery of Charlie Davies, the U.S. soccer national team star who almost died in a car accident about a year ago.  Despite the severity of the crash, Davies set a goal of returning for this past summer's World Cup in South Africa.  Once it became evident that that was not going to happen, rather than become despondent, he dug in and concentrated on rehabbing his injury at his own pace.

It sounds like he's making significant progress, and I would not be surprised if, by the time the next World Cup rolls around (or, most likely, much sooner), Davies is once again using his blazing speed to rack up goals for the American side, seeking out soccer glory.  With luck, maybe I can find a way to be on hand to watch.

Redwoods of the east

Many people, it seems, have some underlying sense of the tragedy of the great American Chestnut tree. Fondly called the “Redwoods of the East,” billions of these majestic trees once covered the East Coast, Appalachian range, and Ohio Valley, comprising up to one quarter of the trees in these deciduous forests. Mature American Chestnuts frequently stood 100 feet tall with massive trunks up to 10 feet in diameter. With such an imposing profile, useful hardwood, and delicious nuts, the trees are folded across the lore of American history, art, poetry, and music

A devastating foreign fungal blight struck in the early twentieth century, rotting the insides of the chestnut trees and causing the majority to disappear by 1950. Ever since, conservationists have been trying, mostly in vain, to develop a way to combat the blight and bring back the lost eastern icon. However, through a careful process of cross breeding with blight-resistant Chinese Chestnut trees and back-breeding with the American species, scientists seem to be getting closer. They have developed a tree that is more than 90% American in genetic make-up, but maintains the fungal resistance of its Chinese cousins.

One of the most poignant pieces of this Post article tells of how the roots of the once mighty trees still live underground, so saplings will frequently crop up in the woods, only to be destroyed by the still lurking blight. But now, conservation groups, working together with the federal government, are beginning to introduce the cross-bred trees into the wild. It will take many hundreds of years for them to grow to full size, which makes me sad, but hopefully this marks the start of the American Chestnut’s return.

Giant American Chestnut Trees, originally uploaded by Steadyjohn.

News-induced gloom

A lot has been happening in the news this week, at least in the circles of public discourse that I find most compelling.  NPR ran a series of well-done pieces on the evolution of the Balkans, coinciding with Secretary Clinton’s visit to the region.  Aside from this, much of the news has been rather depressing, with a fomenting foreclosure scandal threatening to worsen the already dismal housing crisis, Afghan officials weighing striking a deal with the Taliban (raising the question of why we just spent almost a decade at war), and the formal resignation of D.C. School's Chancellor Michelle Rhee.

Perhaps most aggravating of all, however, is something that should have come as welcome news to people like me.  A judge this week ordered the government to stop enforcing the Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell policy that prohibits gays and lesbians from serving openly in the military.  Instead of accepting this ruling, the Obama administration’s Justice Department has pleaded with the judge to stay the decision pending the result of the appeals process.

To date, I have been more than willing to give Obama the benefit of the doubt on issues like this.  He has expressed consistent support for ending the policy, and his desire to allow the Pentagon’s yearlong implementation study to run its course before acting makes sense (and is an important piece of gaining broad support for the policy change from top military officials and more conservative politicians).

However, in light of the recent Congressional filibuster of the defense spending bill containing provisions to end Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell, as well as the presumed Republican landslide at the polls in three weeks, Obama’s contention that the law should be allowed to fall legislatively rings a little false.  How, exactly, does he think he is going to push something like this through a hostile Congress when he couldn’t get it past one dominated by Democrats?  Letting the court strike it down, to me at least, seems like the easiest and most assured way to be rid of the policy.

And finally, a bright spot: the stories and images of the 33 rescued Chilean miners have been truly heartwarming.  A welcome break from the frustrating news that otherwise seems to perpetually fill the headlines.

Air dry

...que hay ropa colgada., originally uploaded by Txanoduna.

The somewhat whimsical sight of this laundry, dangling high above the street, really, really makes me want to be traveling right now. Aside from that, my main reason for posting this is to experiment with the new link that I established between this blog and flickr, allowing me to instantaneously post cool things that I run across while exploring that site.

Red brick schoolhouses

Inspired by this fun book, a fascinating website that Jimmy shared with me, and a recent visit to the Washington Historical Society, I decided to rebrand some of my previous posts with a new label.  Titled Local Color, it is meant to serve as a catch-all for content directly related to the place that I call home, ranging from ruminations on city politics and events to photos from my periodic weekend roamings.  More than anything, I hope to capture an appreciation of local history, especially interesting old buildings and institutions, with particular attention paid to the impact (or lack thereof) that it continues to have on our modern lives.

One of the exhibits at the Historical Society is currently dedicated to the preservation of DC’s 19^th century school buildings, particularly the Franklin School, off of K Street downtown.  Fresh off seeing Waiting for Superman, the maladies of our nation’s public schools were planted prominently in my mind when I visited. I thought the film was very well done, though rather than inspire me with the sweeping possibility of education reform, it instilled in me a dire, depressing sense of helplessness.

By contrast, in the 1860’s, the District helped to pioneer the evolution of American public education from the single-room schoolhouse to a model that resembles our present-day system – large buildings with classes separated by age.  The city engaged architect Adolf Cluss, whose mark can be found on many notable city buildings, including Eastern Market, to design several of these facilities.

Wallach School

The first, the Wallach School, was located on Capitol Hill.  It was a grand-looking building with a capacity of 600 students, named for the mayor who spearheaded this reform effort.  A prototype for many others that followed, the Wallach School gained international recognition as a model for urban public schooling.  It operated until the mid twentieth century when, unfortunately, it was razed and replaced with a modern building (the Hine Junior High School) that has since been abandoned.  Many of these historic structures met with this sad fate during this period.

Of the handful that remain are the Sumner School at 17^th & M NW, still in use, and the Franklin School, which currently sits empty.  Even after students left, the District’s school administration offices were housed there until they outgrew the space in the 1960’s.  Since then, the school was used briefly as a homeless shelter but its future is now uncertain.  The building graces the eastern side of Franklin Square, nestled among modern high rise offices - a reminder of a rustic age gone by, when DC’s public education system was at the forefront of the world, instead of a national disgrace.

Franklin School

Sumner School

The shade of someone else's grace

Driving through the townships near Thokoza, South Africa on a chilly June day, Nate took it upon himself to introduce us to all sorts of out-of-the-mainstream hip hop.  One of the best, in my opinion, was this collection of remixes from K'NAAN and producer J.Period.  They teamed up to create a series of three releases, dubbed "The Messengers," each incorporating and paying tribute to a transformational artist.

My favorite is the third - Bob Dylan (the other two being Bob Marley and Fela Kuti, an influential Nigerian activist musician).  It is pretty cool to hear Dylan's very recognizable guitar riffs transformed into beats with a modern, urban flair and to have his famous lyrics interspersed with K'NAAN's rapping.  Alongside some of the hip hop remixes are brief, crisply assembled introductory pieces and biographical sketches, providing interesting historical and social context to the music.

You can download all three of the releases, for free, from J.Period's website.  Grooveshark has them as well, although Youtube only seemed to have a few (not including my favorite, "Don't Think Twice").  In searching for this music online this morning, I came across this post from NPR's All Songs Considered Blog.  There are several sound clips of an interview with K'NAAN, as he discusses the motivation behind the project and the humble approach he takes to paying tribute to these icons.

"There is never a way you can improve an original, becuase you don't know what it was meant to be," he says.  If not to improve upon it, then what was your goal? wonders the interviewer.  K'NAAN answers simply: "To be in the shade of someone else's grace....as a narrator and [to] explain how they connect" to each other and to our lives in the present.

Much tastier than it looks

Wednesday's combination of crisp weather and my ongoing struggle to get rid of a nasty cold seemed perfectly tailored for soup - always one of my favorite foods to bump back into my diet every fall.  So I set about cooking a non-creamy mushroom soup that I first attempted last spring, with a few modifications.  Very delicious, although dreary and very brown in color without the spinach (which I did not have this time).  As with many things, I'm finding that proportions for soup recipes are pretty fluid - you can generally use what you have on hand or what sounds appealing at the time with great results.

Wild Mushroom Soup

1. Slice 1 onion or several leeks.  Saute in a soup pot until soft with some olive oil or butter.
2. Chop and throw in about 1 lb. fresh mushrooms, any combination.  I used about half baby portabella, diced, and half shittake, sliced.  Saute until soft.
3. Pour in 1/2 c. cooking sherry or marsala wine.  Boil and allow to reduce by about half.
4. Add about 8 c. chicken stock and bring to a boil.  Lower heat and simmer.
5. Reconstitute 1 oz. dried wild mushrooms in the simmering soup.  I used oyster mushrooms.  If you don't have them, you can just use an additional 1/2 lb. of fresh mushrooms in step 2.
6. Simmer for at least 15 minutes, making sure the dried mushrooms are soft.
7. Pour in approximately 1 c. orzo or other small pasta.  Simmer until tender.
8. Season with salt and black pepper to taste.
9. Stir in chopped parsley and a handful of fresh spinach leaves before serving, if you have them.

October, once again

As this blog lumbers into its third year of existence, I’m still mostly happy with what I’ve managed to piece together here.  This afternoon, I took advantage of some of Google’s new design tools and updated my template a bit.  With that will, I hope, come a renewed focus on posting content.  It would be nice to write more often, as my pace in 2010 has been fairly sedentary.  But overall, as a collection of glimpses of moments in my life and the world, I think this blog serves its purpose well.

One of the things I noted the last time I reflected on this effort was how much enjoyment I took away from reading friends’ blogs.  I mused that this had become a backdoor way of keeping in touch with people who I don’t get to see regularly and that the mere knowledge that we occasionally read each others’ thoughts instilled a subtle sense of closeness.  Unfortunately, save Tom, who has continued posting about his life in New York and his evolving career as a stroller-parking playwright, all of my friends’ blogs have gone quiet lately.  If I had to name one regret for the year, it would be that.

Otherwise, all is good in my corner of the blogosphere, as well as in Washington, where we are in store for a beautiful, sunny, 70 degree fall weekend.  Soon the leaves will sport all sorts of glorious colors and I will carve a pumpkin.

The soft smell of Christmas trees

It is a about an hour's hike, tromping along at a brisk pace, from the train station in Moselkern, Germany to the magnificent Burg Eltz, a castle that has been owned by the same family for hundreds of years.  With a little imagination, the walk there feels more like an adventure, through dense forests that could be populated with creatures from the Lord of the Rings. As the path winds on, the ground becomes padded with fallen pine needles and the air takes on a distinct, pleasant air of Christmas.  It's possible I only enjoyed this experience so much because I was traveling alone, but I'd prefer to think that this forest has some sort of innate appeal of its own.

Only 20 light years away

This is just so cool.  Scientists have discovered a planet orbiting the relatively nearby star of Gliese 581G that appears to be capable of supporting life.  That is, its distance from its sun and its size fall within a range that is conducive to many of the prerequisites for life as we know it, such as liquid water and maintaining an atmosphere.

Similar to Earth's moon, this planet appears to be fixed as it orbits Gliese 581G.  The same side always faces the sun and the same side always stays in darkness.  Though this suggests temperature extremes on the planet, scientists suggest that the belts near the transition from light to dark would likely be quite temperate.  Also, they would be bathed in a perpetual state of glowing sunrise or sunset light.  How would life not want to live there?

If only we had a spaceship that could speed over and check this world out.  Maybe someday...

Italy, Spain, and Georgia

I was heartened to read this story about olive oil in the Washington Post this afternoon.  Detailed and highly topical, it reminds me of some of the more light-hearted fare on NPR, and is certainly a nice break from politics, the economy and war.

The article profiles a cooperative of farmers trying to rekindle the olive growing industry in Georgia.  Parts of the South are apparently, climate-wise, very well suited for growing olives.  Georgia, in fact, had a somewhat robust harvest in the 17th, 18th, and 19th centuries, until being destroyed by hurricanes and eclipsed by the emergence of more prominent crops, such as cotton.

But now, farmers are beginning to see the benefits of domestically produced olive oil.  Statistics identify the US as the 3rd largest consumer of olive oil in the world - much of it the lucrative, delicious extra virgin variety - yet 99% of it is imported at great cost.  There is amazing potential for a high quality, American-grown and -pressed product.  It would most likely cost less, be better for the environment, and support more job growth than the imported variety.  If these Georgian farmers can accomplish all that and manage to create a comparably tasty oil that goes well on a baguette, sprinkled with parmesan cheese and freshly grated black pepper, I'll happily buy American over Italian or Spanish any day.

Playing tourist

After a cruddy Thursday morning at work and a busy past couple of weeks, I decided to take today off. I had no particular plan for the day, and considered spending it shopping, reading, or sitting on the couch, watching dvds.

Instead, I decided to hop on the metro and indulge in one of my favorite pastimes, usually reserved for crisp weekend afternoons in the spring and fall: roaming aimlessly around DC with a camera and an intrepid spirit.

Today my adventure was slightly more focused. I have been trying for almost two years to find a good time to see the newly renovated American History Museum, so that topped my to do list. The rest was improvised.

After crying my way through exhibits on the military, 18th century fulfilment of the American Dream, and, of course, the original Star Spangled Banner, I had lunch and set out for the Tidal Basin. I often forget about the FDR Memorial, and especially never remember just how large it is, but I think it's one of my favorites.

Now, gazing across the water at the Jefferson (another favorite), as planes take-off from National behind me and families, joggers, and a teenager wielding a fishing rod roam by, I feel contentedly awash with patriotism. DC, I think, has a unique power to do that. Despite being the seat of such nasty, divisive political rhetoric, the city is also a magnet for Americans from all walks of life as well as foreign tourists who seem happy to shrug off the prevailing anti-Americanism in the world. All come to marvel at the history, the beauty, and, more than anything, the enduring institutions of our nation, generously scattered, to grandiose effect, around downtown DC.

I love living here and, most of the time, love playing tourist in my own city.

Stuffed with goodness

Driven by a desire to grill as frequently as possible while the weather is nice, I've been experimenting with some new things.  Grilled eggplant, for one, brushed lightly with olive oil, garlic, salt, and pepper, has become a new favorite.  Another keeper are these stuffed lamb burgers, which I've made a few times now.  With a distinct Middle Eastern flavor, they go really well with that grilled eggplant and couscous salad on the side.

Stuffed Lamb Burgers

1. Combine in a bowl: about 1 1/4 lbs. ground lamb, 1 onion, finely diced, several cloves of garlic, minced, chopped cilantro, and generous amounts of cumin, salt, and black pepper.
2. Knead with hands until well mixed.
3. In a separate bowl, mix goat cheese with fresh mint and black pepper.
4. Form a patty in your hand.
5. Carve out an indentation in the patty, spooning in a dollop of the goat cheese mixture and then reforming the meat around it.  The cheese should be completely enclosed.
6. Grill patties until cooked through.
7. Serve using pita bread as buns, garnished with lettuce, tomato, and tzatziki sauce.

Like the last scene of Men in Black, or a matryoshka doll

Most of the specific theories in this article go way, way over my head, but the overarching idea is cool enough to make me momentarily put aside my deadline at work and post it here.  If only the Enterprise were real, we could find a way to go investigate the fascinating possibility that everything in our universe - all that we could ever hope to experience and know - is somehow entirely contained within something else...

Treacherous waters

Here is an issue that I don't think is getting nearly enough attention: the recent catastrophic flooding in Pakistan.  Not only is this a humanitarian crisis of epic scale (latest estimates are that the more than 15 million people have been displaced or otherwise affected, and access to ample clean water and food is scarce), but it presents a troubling security issue as well.

Pakistan was not a particularly stable country to begin with, saddled with an unpopular, corrupt central government and constantly battling a vicious insurgency.  Now, forced to cope with a horrific natural disaster and a disappointingly anemic international response, the nation seems more vulnerable than ever.  Not that crumbling states are ever a good thing, but, in light of Pakistan's hefty nuclear arsenal, this should be of special concern.

The Washington Post has compiled a list of organizations on the ground that are helping.  I donated $100 to the American Red Cross.  In their automatic "thank you for your support" email, they said that they had been able to make an initial commitment of $250,000.  I don't know much about the cost of relief supplies, but I am savvy enough to recognize that this is a pathetically low sum in the face of the staggering level of need.  Please consider giving generously.

Some stunning before and after NASA satellite photos of the inundated city of Khewali are here.

Streetcars and public education

After dinner a week ago, some volunteers from the Fenty campaign knocked on our door to encourage us to attend the Ward 4 Democratic straw poll taking place that night.  With nothing else to do, Joe and I finished our dessert (ice cream) and hopped in the car.

Never having been to a straw poll before, neither of us really knew what to expect.  The volunteers had touted the possibility of free refreshments (nope) and, hoping for some face time with the mayor (also no), we brought a copy of the Washington Post's editorial endorsement for him to sign.  We thought it might look good on our bulletin board, next to the autographed Vic Vickers poster from Alaska and the floating Princess Diana head.

The evening turned out to be quite an experience.  I have never seen so many people, all so excited about local politics, crammed into one place.  After struggling to find a nearby parking space along the street, we had to wait in a very long line to cast our vote.  The poll was not just for the mayoral race - supporters and volunteers for a variety of city council posts were crawling all over the place, offering literature, stickers, and an earful.

What I liked the best, I think, was the fact that all of the candidates, aside from Fenty and Gray, were working the line of voters themselves.  We had a lengthy discussion with Vincent Orange, a former council member who is running against Kwame Brown for the chairmanship.  I'm supporting Fenty, despite the fact that I think he's a jerk, because I respect his accomplishments and I really like the work that Michelle Rhee is doing with DC Public Schools.  The guy in front of us in line was asking all of the candidates about their position on streetcars, something I hadn't even thought about as an issue, but which I strongly support.  It was really interesting to hear everyone stake out their positions.

With such a long line to vote, we hardly got to see any of the forum between Fenty and Gray.  From what I did see, they bickered like a pair of bratty, contentious schoolchildren, which was kind of silly.  Gray ended up winning, even though Ward 4 is Fenty's home district and one of his strongholds.  Though the results of the poll do not bode well for the upcoming primary in September, it was, nevertheless, gratifying to see such a strong turnout.  Democracy is alive and well in the District.

The dominoes continue to fall

With broad public support, Argentina, a South American nation of 41 million - mostly Catholic - people, passed a law legalizing same sex marriage this morning.  Even the most conservative institutions must eventually adapt to changing times.  The U.S. government (and perhaps even the Vatican) will get there someday.  On this matter, we are unequivocably on the right side of history.

"Feel it, it is here"

When I have the time to compose something a little more thoughtful, I plan to write much, much more about my trip around South Africa and, specifically, about my time spent volunteering in Zonkizizwe.  In the aftermath of yesterday's World Cup final, though, I felt compelled to share this photo.

It's out of focus and overexposed, but, I think, captures the spirit of the epically popular tournament's first trip to Africa quite well.  Kids, armed with boundless energy and the creative ball skills that come from playing soccer everyday, would run circles around us in the dusty yard.  Each night, in the week leading up to the opening match, a chorus of vuvuzelas would echo throughout the township, blaring loudly and fading into the distance as children paraded around, filling the air with exultant, noisy anticipation.  On the afternoon of the first match, we painted dozens of faces with South African colors (matching the flags lining seemingly every major street elsewhere in the country), sang the national anthem, and chattered excitedly about Bafana Bafana's chances.

There has been much discussion, both in South Africa and in the media coverage back home, about whether or not hosting the World Cup was worthwhile.  Large construction projects and a surge in tourism boosted the economy, but new stadiums are expensive, and several will now sit empty.  However, economic calculations aside, I feel there is no question that the tournament was positive for the country.  All you need to do is look at the faces of these kids and others like them who, despite being historically and systematically disadvantaged in just about every imaginable way, take an extraordinary amount of joy and national pride in hosting such a presigious event.  It is lastingly and unquestionably moving.

Even I know how to play "Heart and Soul"

Public art, like so much else that is generally cultured and worthwhile, must tread a fine line between seeming inspired and pretentiously pointless. On the way home last night, I heard about the “Play Me I’m Yours” project in New York City on the radio, and definitely feel that it fits into the former category.

British artist Luke Jerram has been sprinkling collections of creatively decorated pianos on the streets of major world cities and observing how people react. Some noncommittally tap out a few bars and move on, while others become wholly engrossed, playing recital pieces and improvising as they go.

This reaction makes complete sense. Despite not having ever taken any lessons, the instrument holds a certain sway over me. Growing up, I would sit at my parents’ piano and pick out tunes, key by key – simplified versions of movie scores and classical pieces, the Maryland Victory Song, and more. What is most appealing about the piano, however, is its accessibility. More so than with any other instrument, you can walk up to almost any piano – in the lounge of hotel, in a friend’s living room, or, now, on a street corner of New York – and entertain either a crowd or yourself, for a couple minutes or a couple hours.

Jerram was inspired to start this project by seeing the same people, over and over again, in the laundromat. Everyone recognized each other, but no one spoke. Assuming that these types of situations existed everywhere, he envisioned the pianos as a way to jumpstart conversations that might otherwise go unspoken. I only wish I had a reason to be in New York in the next two weeks. Maybe the next city Jerram chooses will be DC.

Down at the New Amsterdam

It's been a week now, that Dave and I have been in Africa.  We spent several days in Cape Town, where Sarah is studying, and managed to do a number of touristy things, including hiking Table Mountain, a tour of the Stellenbosch winelands, and a visit to Robben Island.  Since then, we rented a car and drove down to Cape Point and onwards (on the left side of the road) to the smaller towns of Swellendam and Oudtshoorn.

Between the quaint Cape Dutch architecture to the lush green scenery to "Mr. Jones" playing in the rugby bar, it has, so far, been easy to forget that we're in Africa and not Europe.  But then, we'll pass a sprawling, ramshackle township on the side of the highway, with kids playing soccer in the grassy shoulder and minibuses and trucks buzzing around, packed with commuters who hop off in the middle of the road and dart across to safety.  Or our car will be accosted by a herd of baboons, scuttling down the cliffside on the side of a mountain pass.  Or, when sitting down to dinner, we'll be presented with fascinating options such as ostrich steak (delicious), bobotie (delicious), and grilled crocodile (so so).

The sightseeing part of our trip has hardly begun, but we've already seen so many great things.  I can only imagine what we'll experience and learn once we settle into Zonkizizwe.  We actually met a pair of 19 year old Brits last night who had done something similar, for five weeks, and are now exploring several countries during their gap year.  They seemed to have had an amazing time.  I'm hopeful that, in a few weeks, we can say the same.