Chungking Mansions has changed. The ground floor is almost wall-to-wall with currency exchange booths and the elevators are full of Chinese people with big suitcases, a group that was almost nonexistent when I first began to stay here in 2010. It holds many more Western travelers too, enough that I no longer stare at them, but they're still a minority in this place. It wakes up before 10 am now, and the halls are more crowded in the daytime than they were in years past. But one thing remains unchanged.
Ever since I first arrived, an old Chinese lady has dominated the elevator of the E block with her loads of salvaged cardboard and black garbage bags full of paper, always going up, taking her recyclables heaven only knows where. She's still here, more stooped than when I first saw her, but still dragging her black garbage bags down the hall toward the elevator.
Tonight she had two big, bulky bags, not heavy but making a wide load that bumped into displays of goods and people's feet while she chugged on, oblivious to any barriers that lay before her. I was stuck behind her, unable to get past and unwilling to linger at any of the shops while she forged far ahead of me. She was approaching a narrow section of her route that seemed to court disaster for someone--but probably not for her. So I picked up the back of the widest bag and lifted it above the obstacle.
It seemed stupid to put it down; she was moving more rapidly now that I had part of her load and that was good for me too. So we proceeded along our way until she realized her load had been assumed by someone else. Without a backward glance, she let go of her end and scurried toward the elevator line to secure a spot near the front. When I joined her and dropped my black plastic bag beside her own, she received it royally, with a flicker of expression in her eyes but no other acknowledgment.
And I love her. Singlehandedly, she both raises and lowers the tone of Chungking Mansions; long may she scavenge.
Saturday, January 18, 2014
Thursday, January 16, 2014
Without a Camera
Some days you just cannot win. I was so happy to find that I could recharge my camera's battery without setting it on fire in a Kowloon outlet (no way is that going to happen in Thailand), only to discover when I was far from home that my little Nikon had devoured its memory card.
So I can't show you the winding staircase lined with gold-painted Buddhas that I climbed today. Ten thousand of them lead to a temple/monastery complex, which I'm sure is true because the compound is called the Ten Thousand Buddha Monastery. It is on a hill overlooking Sha Tin, not as high up as the place I visited yesterday but lofty enough at its apex that I felt more than a touch of vertigo as I neared the end of the trail. The miniaturized view of Sha Tin's highrises and highways was rather spectacular, but I wished I had been there back in the days when the hilltop had an unobstructed view of the mountains across the way.
After descending, I went to the river, and walked through the park that runs along its banks, wondering why I was persistently pulled back to this small city. Its pleasures are quiet ones, and after a week of Nathan Road, that may well be why. The pace is slow and people there seem to enjoy the park, the town plaza, the singers who were putting on a concert there. Old men played cards by the river, some of them sharing a large beer poured into small plastic cups. Arching bridges cross the river, connecting the divided sides of Sha Tin. In spite of the forest of highrise buildings and the malls that rival any that I've seen anywhere, this place has a lovely small town feel to it and I really like it a lot.
I'll go back with a camera next time, so I can try to show you just how nice it is.
In Tsim Sha Tsui, at a supermarket whose prices make me gasp, there are people who treat it like a Costco. Tonight I saw a girl with a bungie-corded trolley full of giant packs of Huggies pack a supermarket cart full of luxury items like mammoth packages of fresh grapes and super-sized packs of imported chocolates into an already well laden suitcase. It was a humbling sight, as I clutched my bag of ground coffee, a bottle of water, a small chocolate bar, a package of tissues, and a minute bottle of red wine.
It's sights like these that make me feel as though I'm visiting from the Third World with devalued currency. To me, Hong Kong is very expensive and I watch every cent I spend here. To others, it's a supply station where purchasing of high-end goods is done in bulk.
Bangkok in nine more days, where my room will be much larger than a postage stamp and I won't pay six US dollars for a bowl of noodle soup. I'm looking forward to relinquishing the persona of the Little Match Girl.
So I can't show you the winding staircase lined with gold-painted Buddhas that I climbed today. Ten thousand of them lead to a temple/monastery complex, which I'm sure is true because the compound is called the Ten Thousand Buddha Monastery. It is on a hill overlooking Sha Tin, not as high up as the place I visited yesterday but lofty enough at its apex that I felt more than a touch of vertigo as I neared the end of the trail. The miniaturized view of Sha Tin's highrises and highways was rather spectacular, but I wished I had been there back in the days when the hilltop had an unobstructed view of the mountains across the way.
After descending, I went to the river, and walked through the park that runs along its banks, wondering why I was persistently pulled back to this small city. Its pleasures are quiet ones, and after a week of Nathan Road, that may well be why. The pace is slow and people there seem to enjoy the park, the town plaza, the singers who were putting on a concert there. Old men played cards by the river, some of them sharing a large beer poured into small plastic cups. Arching bridges cross the river, connecting the divided sides of Sha Tin. In spite of the forest of highrise buildings and the malls that rival any that I've seen anywhere, this place has a lovely small town feel to it and I really like it a lot.
I'll go back with a camera next time, so I can try to show you just how nice it is.
In Tsim Sha Tsui, at a supermarket whose prices make me gasp, there are people who treat it like a Costco. Tonight I saw a girl with a bungie-corded trolley full of giant packs of Huggies pack a supermarket cart full of luxury items like mammoth packages of fresh grapes and super-sized packs of imported chocolates into an already well laden suitcase. It was a humbling sight, as I clutched my bag of ground coffee, a bottle of water, a small chocolate bar, a package of tissues, and a minute bottle of red wine.
It's sights like these that make me feel as though I'm visiting from the Third World with devalued currency. To me, Hong Kong is very expensive and I watch every cent I spend here. To others, it's a supply station where purchasing of high-end goods is done in bulk.
Bangkok in nine more days, where my room will be much larger than a postage stamp and I won't pay six US dollars for a bowl of noodle soup. I'm looking forward to relinquishing the persona of the Little Match Girl.
Wednesday, January 15, 2014
A Place for Pilgrims
I've always liked Sha Tin, a town in the New Territories, because it has a river that is bordered by a lovely park, and it holds one of my favorite museums in the world. It has a race track too, that I haven't yet been to, and a hillside temple that I plan to go to soon. So when I read in Lonely Planet about a guesthouse that was quite reasonable and was perched up in the hills behind the town, I jotted down the directions on how to get there.
They were like something out of Grimm's Fairy Tales: climb the stairs to your left and then follow the path. I began to climb, walking through a jungle of leaves and blossoms that canopied the steps, up a never-ending staircase that took me high above the highrise buildings of Sha Tin. Then there was a paved road that continued the upward slant, bordered with trees and mammoth elephant ear plants. It passed a few enticing looking buildings, but none bearing a sign that said Pilgrim's Hall. I began to hope that when I found it, there would friendly backpackers and a table where I could sit and have a bottle of very cold water.
Then there was a sign. This didn't seem promising, except for the part about keeping silence. Quietly, I kept going..
They were like something out of Grimm's Fairy Tales: climb the stairs to your left and then follow the path. I began to climb, walking through a jungle of leaves and blossoms that canopied the steps, up a never-ending staircase that took me high above the highrise buildings of Sha Tin. Then there was a paved road that continued the upward slant, bordered with trees and mammoth elephant ear plants. It passed a few enticing looking buildings, but none bearing a sign that said Pilgrim's Hall. I began to hope that when I found it, there would friendly backpackers and a table where I could sit and have a bottle of very cold water.
Then there was a sign. This didn't seem promising, except for the part about keeping silence. Quietly, I kept going..
Then I found this. It was more than I had hoped for--quiet and a view, besides. I swallowed my agnostic reservations and wandered through a place that seemed uninhabited, until an elderly couple emerged from a nearby staircase. The woman stopped to exchange pleasantries and she explained where I was.
In the 1930s, a Danish architect with an interest in Chinese building and design came to Hong Kong. A devout Christian, he was curious about Buddhism and how it related to his own creed. He found property and began to create buildings that linked Danish and Chinese characteristics. When missionaries streamed out of China in the '40s, he gave them a refuge,continuing to build and create a sanctuary for all who would respect it.
This is the Pilgrim's Hall. It is one of the most serene places I've ever seen. I don't think it's meant for me but Thomas Merton would have felt very much at home here, I'm certain. Down a short flight of steps is this.
And across from it is this chapel.
And through the trees, almost unreal, float the towers of Sha Tin.
When I left, I felt almost like Rip Van Winkle. Would the world I left when I climbed to this silent refuge still be there? But within minutes I was surrounded by Zara and H&M and MotherCare and all of the other joys of civilization. This is my world, as much as I love to decry it. But I also love knowing that on a hilltop overlooking the malls is a place that exists out of this time. Or did I imagine it?
Monday, January 13, 2014
Where am I?
I travel to find a sense of place at the spot where I land, and once I leave an airport for my real destination, every sense I have concentrates on that search. Sometimes it leads to places that are unpleasant or uncomfortable, but life is like that, isn't it? And my greed is for the life in the places I visit.
When I entered Chungking Mansions at 1 a.m. on Monday, the hall that used to be empty had become an African street, with men and women hanging out and chatting. This used to take place in front of the 7/11 on the next block, but there's some kind of obstruction there that's big and apparently permanent, so the village square has moved. The 7/11 itself now has a large, empty space where Africans stand, eat, drink, and chat during the day; it's like a club of which I'm not a member. It looks a lot more viable than standing near Nathan Road, breathing traffic fumes, and I like this change.
But the news vendor at the end of one of the alleys that connects Chungking Mansions with Nathan Road no longer has the cats that used to take turns presiding over his stall and the friendly old lady who used to do my laundry seems to have retired. The elderly gentleman who sold skin magazines and paperbacks in English has expanded; he now stands behind a glass counter and sells DVDs and electronic gadgets too. My friend Hari is ready to return to Nepal; while he waits for his departure, he stands at the front entrance to Chungking Mansions with the other Nepali guys who work as impromptu guides for guesthouses and restaurants. It's a comedown for him but he still looks immaculate and cheerful.
On the street the men who hand out cards for tailorshops and counterfeit handbag emporiums are more aggressive than they used to be and frequently my response is "Don't touch me." Starbucks in ISquare is more crowded than ever, but has set up a little sidewalk cafe arrangement of tables near the main shop, close to the escalators. It's packed and noisy and often cluttered with used cups and leftover napkins. I miss the old Starbucks with its armchairs and personal service.
This part of Kowloon is for tourist-shoppers. I prefer the parts that cater to resident-shoppers--the fruit market, the textile street, the hardware stores and cookware shops. They are on the other side of Nathan Road, the downmarket side where people actually live. There are days when I wander through and wish I were one of them. It's an area with character and personality and a community history that hasn't been erased by high-rise apartments and luxury hotels.
Far above my usual cat track is Kai Tak, the old airport site which now is thought of as Thai Town. I went there yesterday and was delighted to see signs written in Thai. A little neighborhood store had look choob, which is a confection that looks like this.
The ladies who sold it to me were sweet enough to indulge my bad Thai and lied about how good it was--the day I'm not told that, I'll know I might be getting better at this language.
There were many restaurants and beer bars and massage shops. There were no street stalls; the sidewalks were wide, clean, and empty. There were no Thai newspapers or magazines in sight. All that made me feel as though I was in a Thai neighborhood were the signs, the posters for the new Tony Jaa movie, and the dogs--the only unleashed canines I've seen roaming in a Kowloon neighborhood, all strutting with the territorial pride of their Bangkok counterparts.
It was Thai but not enough. Suddenly I missed Bangkok more than I have in a long time. Tears rose up hard, stinging behind my eyes. I left.
No city in the world has the sense of place that Bangkok possesses, and it can't be replicated.Although Thailand is amazing at duplicating almost anything in the world, no place in the world can duplicate what that country so effortlessly is. When I'm in Kowloon, I'll look for what makes it unique. As for Bangkok? It's worth waiting for.
When I entered Chungking Mansions at 1 a.m. on Monday, the hall that used to be empty had become an African street, with men and women hanging out and chatting. This used to take place in front of the 7/11 on the next block, but there's some kind of obstruction there that's big and apparently permanent, so the village square has moved. The 7/11 itself now has a large, empty space where Africans stand, eat, drink, and chat during the day; it's like a club of which I'm not a member. It looks a lot more viable than standing near Nathan Road, breathing traffic fumes, and I like this change.
But the news vendor at the end of one of the alleys that connects Chungking Mansions with Nathan Road no longer has the cats that used to take turns presiding over his stall and the friendly old lady who used to do my laundry seems to have retired. The elderly gentleman who sold skin magazines and paperbacks in English has expanded; he now stands behind a glass counter and sells DVDs and electronic gadgets too. My friend Hari is ready to return to Nepal; while he waits for his departure, he stands at the front entrance to Chungking Mansions with the other Nepali guys who work as impromptu guides for guesthouses and restaurants. It's a comedown for him but he still looks immaculate and cheerful.
On the street the men who hand out cards for tailorshops and counterfeit handbag emporiums are more aggressive than they used to be and frequently my response is "Don't touch me." Starbucks in ISquare is more crowded than ever, but has set up a little sidewalk cafe arrangement of tables near the main shop, close to the escalators. It's packed and noisy and often cluttered with used cups and leftover napkins. I miss the old Starbucks with its armchairs and personal service.
This part of Kowloon is for tourist-shoppers. I prefer the parts that cater to resident-shoppers--the fruit market, the textile street, the hardware stores and cookware shops. They are on the other side of Nathan Road, the downmarket side where people actually live. There are days when I wander through and wish I were one of them. It's an area with character and personality and a community history that hasn't been erased by high-rise apartments and luxury hotels.
Far above my usual cat track is Kai Tak, the old airport site which now is thought of as Thai Town. I went there yesterday and was delighted to see signs written in Thai. A little neighborhood store had look choob, which is a confection that looks like this.
There were many restaurants and beer bars and massage shops. There were no street stalls; the sidewalks were wide, clean, and empty. There were no Thai newspapers or magazines in sight. All that made me feel as though I was in a Thai neighborhood were the signs, the posters for the new Tony Jaa movie, and the dogs--the only unleashed canines I've seen roaming in a Kowloon neighborhood, all strutting with the territorial pride of their Bangkok counterparts.
It was Thai but not enough. Suddenly I missed Bangkok more than I have in a long time. Tears rose up hard, stinging behind my eyes. I left.
No city in the world has the sense of place that Bangkok possesses, and it can't be replicated.Although Thailand is amazing at duplicating almost anything in the world, no place in the world can duplicate what that country so effortlessly is. When I'm in Kowloon, I'll look for what makes it unique. As for Bangkok? It's worth waiting for.
Sunday, January 12, 2014
Settling Into Another Life
I really don't travel. I change from one life to another in the space of fifteen hours. I get on a plane, land in another place and feel the life I just walked away from ebb into a kind of fog. It feels so far away, it's hard to believe that a few days ago it was my reality.
I know this is going to happen before I pack my suitcases, which might be why I always leave that task for the last minute. During my last days at home, I look at everyone and everything I love through a filter of longing, wanting to stamp them deeply into my mind and heart before I'm claimed by another corner of the world. Leaving is not entirely pleasant.
There's an alchemy that occurs when crossing the International Date Line that has nothing to do with clocks or calendars. It's enhanced by sleepless hours in a small space, nodding off occasionally and jerking back into wakefulness. Sitting still and trying not to think that zombiedom lies right around the corner, flying across the Pacific is probably a lot like having an extended MRI, except with that procedure you can lie flat on your back. When the plane finally touches down into an airport, you're so far removed from life as you knew it that you're more than willing to take on whatever existence is offered.
In my case, it's a room in Chungking Mansions that is the size of a walk-in closet. It is narrow enough that I can touch both sides of the room with my outstretched arms. It's essentially part of a hallway that has been partitioned off with a door at one end and a window at the other. Less than half of its width at the entryway has been turned into a water closet, with a sink, a toilet, and a shower head. I can only turn around while showering by maneuvering very carefully.
Beside my bed is a stand that covers a small refrigerator and a safe; on top of it is a phone and a hotpot for boiling water. A TV is attached to the wall at the end of my bed. On my first morning, the housekeeper gave me the world's tiniest hairdryer to use while I'm here. And there are enough (wire) hangers on the small clothes rack on the wall near the door. Best of all, the wifi is fast and reliable.
It's a place that could easily reawaken my claustrophobia if it weren't for the window. Unlike the one in my usual Chungking Mansion hostel, it doesn't look out onto an airshaft encircled by other blocks of the same building. It doesn't feature a view of airconditioners that are topped with mounds of garbage. There is real air and daylight between me and the building across the alley and that is a true saving grace. I can't see the sky but the light isn't the trapped, muddy sort that I used to gaze at. This has a dim radiance to it.
In my previous stays at Chungking Mansions, my mornings consisted of rapid showers and a flight to Starbucks for coffee. Now I wake up slowly, the way I do in Seattle, with freshly made filtered coffee and checking in with friends and family on the internet. Then I go out--for congee at a place where many of the customers are Thai and we all perch on small stools that don't encourage a leisurely meal or noodles served in a small, hot wok at a restaurant where the booths are comfortable and I seem to be (amazingly) the only laowai, Then I explore for as long as my energy holds out, jamming my senses with new sights and tastes until I come home exhausted in the late afternoon. Too tired to find a meal in the outside world, I eat fruit or nuts in my room, wishing it were large enough that I could sit somewhere other than my bed. I'd like to have samosas again, but the effort of keeping crumbs from where I sleep isn't relaxing.
It doesn't feel like home this time around, but it feels as though it could be, as soon as I've settled in. Now that I start my second week here and I no longer am wide awake at 2 am, I'm eager to see what shape my Kowloon home will take this time around.
I know this is going to happen before I pack my suitcases, which might be why I always leave that task for the last minute. During my last days at home, I look at everyone and everything I love through a filter of longing, wanting to stamp them deeply into my mind and heart before I'm claimed by another corner of the world. Leaving is not entirely pleasant.
There's an alchemy that occurs when crossing the International Date Line that has nothing to do with clocks or calendars. It's enhanced by sleepless hours in a small space, nodding off occasionally and jerking back into wakefulness. Sitting still and trying not to think that zombiedom lies right around the corner, flying across the Pacific is probably a lot like having an extended MRI, except with that procedure you can lie flat on your back. When the plane finally touches down into an airport, you're so far removed from life as you knew it that you're more than willing to take on whatever existence is offered.
In my case, it's a room in Chungking Mansions that is the size of a walk-in closet. It is narrow enough that I can touch both sides of the room with my outstretched arms. It's essentially part of a hallway that has been partitioned off with a door at one end and a window at the other. Less than half of its width at the entryway has been turned into a water closet, with a sink, a toilet, and a shower head. I can only turn around while showering by maneuvering very carefully.
Beside my bed is a stand that covers a small refrigerator and a safe; on top of it is a phone and a hotpot for boiling water. A TV is attached to the wall at the end of my bed. On my first morning, the housekeeper gave me the world's tiniest hairdryer to use while I'm here. And there are enough (wire) hangers on the small clothes rack on the wall near the door. Best of all, the wifi is fast and reliable.
It's a place that could easily reawaken my claustrophobia if it weren't for the window. Unlike the one in my usual Chungking Mansion hostel, it doesn't look out onto an airshaft encircled by other blocks of the same building. It doesn't feature a view of airconditioners that are topped with mounds of garbage. There is real air and daylight between me and the building across the alley and that is a true saving grace. I can't see the sky but the light isn't the trapped, muddy sort that I used to gaze at. This has a dim radiance to it.
In my previous stays at Chungking Mansions, my mornings consisted of rapid showers and a flight to Starbucks for coffee. Now I wake up slowly, the way I do in Seattle, with freshly made filtered coffee and checking in with friends and family on the internet. Then I go out--for congee at a place where many of the customers are Thai and we all perch on small stools that don't encourage a leisurely meal or noodles served in a small, hot wok at a restaurant where the booths are comfortable and I seem to be (amazingly) the only laowai, Then I explore for as long as my energy holds out, jamming my senses with new sights and tastes until I come home exhausted in the late afternoon. Too tired to find a meal in the outside world, I eat fruit or nuts in my room, wishing it were large enough that I could sit somewhere other than my bed. I'd like to have samosas again, but the effort of keeping crumbs from where I sleep isn't relaxing.
It doesn't feel like home this time around, but it feels as though it could be, as soon as I've settled in. Now that I start my second week here and I no longer am wide awake at 2 am, I'm eager to see what shape my Kowloon home will take this time around.
Monday, December 23, 2013
Detroit, Drop Dead?
Anthony Bourdain isn't my favorite guide to the world at large but he caught my attention the other day with his latest destination in adventure travel. He went to Detroit.
His glimpse was almost heartwarming, what with neighborhood barbecues and volunteers turning meadows back into the playgrounds they once had been. But there was an edge to what he showed and it was one that cut deep into my imagination. How did a city with a thriving population that numbered in the millions become a spot where grass is reclaiming neighborhoods?
Then recently Facebook had posts about a group that plans to renovate houses and give them to writers who will live in them for two years--in Detroit. Homesteading must be in my blood; I wrote for more information.
Then I went online and this is what I found. http://www.detroitblog.org
And I read it until I came to this http://metrotimes.com/culture/broken-home-1.1288386
These are stories from the Detroit equivalent of The Stranger. John Carlisle wrote them and put them into a book. It's called 313: Life in the Motor City. You can buy it here: http://www.elliottbaybook.com/search/apachesolr_search/313%3A%20Life%20in%20the%20Motor%20City
I went to Craigslist. Apartments in Detroit go as high as a couple of thousand a month. Is this what's meant by recovery? The mayor plans to tear down thousands of abandoned houses. What's going to replace them? There's a statistic floating around that 47% of Detroit's population is functionally illiterate. Where will they find a place to become functional? What's going on? (You might remember that song; it's from Motown. Yes, Detroit has a culture and history too--settled in 1701.)
New York survived the infamous headline Ford Says Drop Dead. New Orleans is working to come back from Katrina. Detroit? Well, the good news the city has a Whole Foods and urban homesteaders bike to an affluent area to go to Trader Joe's and Barnes & Noble. The bad news?
In 2014 I want to see for myself. In the US, a 300-year-old city is becoming--what? And who cares?
Merry Christmas to all.
Wednesday, December 18, 2013
"It's a Lesson too Late for the Learning"
I'm closing in on the last few minutes of my 24 hours with no Facebook and the things that I've learned from this have been interesting indeed.
Facebook has rendered voicemail obsolete. I know I never check mine anymore, which is an embarrassing thing when I finally do and find messages from people I care about. What I didn't know is that there are people out there who haven't put voicemail on their cellphones. I know because I tried to call them and that was what the voice on the other end told me. If I had texting capability...but that doesn't come with a landline. It seems if I want to communicate by phone, a landline is also obsolete--unless I have Facebook.
Blogs are still out there. I visited the ones on my blogroll and left comments with the ones that have been used within the past six months. In many cases, mine was the only writing in the comments field. Comments are now being left on Facebook instead.
And blogs not announced on Facebook go unread. Thank you, Mack, Will, and Steve for reading my last blogpost. I'm as guilty as anyone for reading posts only when they're announced on Facebook. And I'm missing things as a result, but not as much as I would have thought--or hoped.
Facebook has become our communication portal. It's quick, efficient, and provides the potential for an immediate response, which bothers me almost as much as it entertains me. On Facebook, we communicate in soundbites, with every fleeting thought that crosses our minds. Anybody who has been following the discussion about Thai politics on Facebook can see the inherent danger in immediate response without thought. This topic has turned into a war that is far from civil on Facebook pages; only a handful of posters give any real thought to what is no longer really a discussion.
The seductive speed of Facebook is doing us not as many favors as we think. Back in the last century, as the new technology began to take hold and offices installed computers, Jeremy Rifkin noticed that a different kind of time was also coming into existence. Computers gave answers in a heartbeat; clumsy old humans took more than a minute to respond. Rapid responders in the workplace became the most desirable and clever computer programmers brought that same rapidity to our personal lives, through Facebook.
Blogs are too slow for us now. Email is too slow. Letters are a laughable affectation. Voicemail is dead; the phone call is swiftly approaching the same fate. We communicate through Facebook and its even terser equivalent, Twitter. This changes the way we respond to each other, our expectations of a response, and what we respond to, What happens if our newsfeed becomes truncated so that we see only what Facebook chooses?
It's already happening. If I respond to a status update without clicking 'Like' enough times, the person who is writing those updates disappears from my newsfeed--no matter that I have been communicating with them. So now my form of communication has to include an obligatory click--one that isn't organic to my communication style.
Communicating through Facebook is like bonsai, small, concise, sometimes artful, and twisted into unnatural shapes. At last we have immediate gratification; unfortunately we're paying for it, even though it's free.
Facebook has rendered voicemail obsolete. I know I never check mine anymore, which is an embarrassing thing when I finally do and find messages from people I care about. What I didn't know is that there are people out there who haven't put voicemail on their cellphones. I know because I tried to call them and that was what the voice on the other end told me. If I had texting capability...but that doesn't come with a landline. It seems if I want to communicate by phone, a landline is also obsolete--unless I have Facebook.
Blogs are still out there. I visited the ones on my blogroll and left comments with the ones that have been used within the past six months. In many cases, mine was the only writing in the comments field. Comments are now being left on Facebook instead.
And blogs not announced on Facebook go unread. Thank you, Mack, Will, and Steve for reading my last blogpost. I'm as guilty as anyone for reading posts only when they're announced on Facebook. And I'm missing things as a result, but not as much as I would have thought--or hoped.
Facebook has become our communication portal. It's quick, efficient, and provides the potential for an immediate response, which bothers me almost as much as it entertains me. On Facebook, we communicate in soundbites, with every fleeting thought that crosses our minds. Anybody who has been following the discussion about Thai politics on Facebook can see the inherent danger in immediate response without thought. This topic has turned into a war that is far from civil on Facebook pages; only a handful of posters give any real thought to what is no longer really a discussion.
The seductive speed of Facebook is doing us not as many favors as we think. Back in the last century, as the new technology began to take hold and offices installed computers, Jeremy Rifkin noticed that a different kind of time was also coming into existence. Computers gave answers in a heartbeat; clumsy old humans took more than a minute to respond. Rapid responders in the workplace became the most desirable and clever computer programmers brought that same rapidity to our personal lives, through Facebook.
Blogs are too slow for us now. Email is too slow. Letters are a laughable affectation. Voicemail is dead; the phone call is swiftly approaching the same fate. We communicate through Facebook and its even terser equivalent, Twitter. This changes the way we respond to each other, our expectations of a response, and what we respond to, What happens if our newsfeed becomes truncated so that we see only what Facebook chooses?
It's already happening. If I respond to a status update without clicking 'Like' enough times, the person who is writing those updates disappears from my newsfeed--no matter that I have been communicating with them. So now my form of communication has to include an obligatory click--one that isn't organic to my communication style.
Communicating through Facebook is like bonsai, small, concise, sometimes artful, and twisted into unnatural shapes. At last we have immediate gratification; unfortunately we're paying for it, even though it's free.
Tuesday, December 17, 2013
Living Without Facebook
This morning I realized I'd forgotten my Facebook password, and since I'm going to be traveling soon, that I would probably need it. So I followed the instructions for changing my password, only to find that I now cannot use my account for "23 hours and 58 minutes."
Hmmm.
I have email addresses for most of my Facebook friends, many of whom live in other countries. I suppose my friend Will in Bangkok can live without our lexulous game for almost 24 hours (maybe not--I won last time and he is out for blood with this one). And it's not as though I'm living without the Internet. This is going to be an interesting little exercise--communicating without Facebook.
To start, I'n going to ask that everyone who reads this, please leave a comment. Just a simple I was here or your first name would be fine. I'm curious to see if a blogpost falls in a Facebookless forest, does it make a sound?
Hmmm.
I have email addresses for most of my Facebook friends, many of whom live in other countries. I suppose my friend Will in Bangkok can live without our lexulous game for almost 24 hours (maybe not--I won last time and he is out for blood with this one). And it's not as though I'm living without the Internet. This is going to be an interesting little exercise--communicating without Facebook.
To start, I'n going to ask that everyone who reads this, please leave a comment. Just a simple I was here or your first name would be fine. I'm curious to see if a blogpost falls in a Facebookless forest, does it make a sound?
Monday, December 16, 2013
Less With More
Long ago Christmas cards were a holiday staple.Flurries of images arrived every day, some with notes on the back, some with letters, many with just a signature and a good wish attached. Some of them had glitter glued to their fronts, some had a flocked velvet object prominently displayed, some were reproductions of Nativity paintings. All were read and put in a prominent spot and were later taken out of the house with the Christmas tree.
In those days, long distance calls were an extravagance and postal rates were low. When we wanted to get in touch, we used the US mail.
Quaint, isn't it? Now we can call anywhere in the country for one flat monthly rate. We send email, not postal mail. We have blogs and Facebook and Twitter and smartphones on which we can monitor all of these things. Our phones are always with us. We are reachable anywhere in the world.
So--what does this truly mean? We text messages to each other rather than make a phone call. We put up a status update to be read by all of our friends rather than write a series of letters to people we care about. We tweet with 140 characters (I just used 28 in the beginning of this sentence, if you count spaces--since I avoid Twitter, I don't know if I should or not) about anything that might have flitted across our minds at any given second.
And the business world has discovered this great new accessibility to the point that many of us don't answer our phones. We screen calls or ignore them until much later, because frequently the caller is a robot, posing as a telemarketer. We read messages in our free moments, plan to respond later, and then often forget about them. There's really no impetus to respond to many of them because they're written to a world at large. What's written to everyone in fact is written for nobody.
I am fond of people whom I never call. They're busy and I'm reluctant to break into their world. It used to be if someone picked up the phone, it meant they were in their living room. Now they could be at a party, in a meeting, having dinner at a restaurant, in line to go to the movies...This is why we text, but I have a landline. I don't have that capability.
And even if I did, odds are there would be no response until much later.
I used to think of this blog as being a letter to friends and family, especially when I lived overseas. Now I don't expect responses here. It's become a notebook to myself. I do post notifications of new entries on Facebook, where (if I'm lucky) people will press a Like button in response.
Our conversations in real life have become different. "Oh yes. I read about that on Facebook, " we say in reply to a friend's news. Or even worse, "I keep up with you on Facebook." No need to meet for coffee when Facebook provides such an efficient alternative.
Last year I sent Christmas cards, each with a little note. They sank into the same vacuum as a Facebook message or a Tweet, with considerably more thought and financial outlay than is required by social media. It made me sad, enough so that I won't do it again. And it makes me sad that with so many ways to communicate, we do less of it than we did when there was only one.
Thursday, November 7, 2013
Fashion Victim for Life
When I became a teenager, this was still a nascent category. My mother held the term in contempt; her generation went from being children to becoming young ladies and gentlemen. There was no middle ground.
Teenage girls when I became one were either bobbysoxers in rolled-up jeans and saddle shoes, or in full skirts and ballet slippers. Beyond that was really dangerous territory--we all dressed like matrons.
Look at the suits that Jackie Kennedy used to wear--with jackets that ended at the waist and straight skirts. Her shoes were utilitarian and well-bred. Jimmy Choo was what hookers would have worn. Those suits looked fantastic on Jackie and Babe Paley and the other trim, elegant social icons. Of course they did; they were cut in a Paris haute couture salon for bodies that were broad in the shoulders, slim in the hips. When translated to mass-markets like J.C. Penney or Ohrbach's and worn by women whose build was more in the peasant mode, they looked horrible. And when they were covering the bodies of adolescent girls, they looked even worse. Slender girls looked as though they were dressing up in their mothers' clothing and chubby girls looked like boxes. It was an ugly time for fashion in America.
"Good" coats were made of heavy wool tweed and were cut to go over a "good" suit. The shoulders were droopy and the arms wide; they hit the mid-calf, if the wearer had height, and the ankle area if she was short. They weighed about ten pounds and would have made dandy survival tents if they hadn't been wool and easily saturated by a rainfall. I hated my coats when I was in my early teens.
Then along came the British invasion with miniskirts and Courreges with body-skimming A-lines and Calvin Klein with coats that fit close to the body with narrow shoulders. It was a wonderful time for young women and we all happily threw away our garter belts and little white gloves. For me, clothes were fun--until about ten years ago, when I turned 55.
No matter how thin a woman may be at that age, put her in certain kinds of clothing and she looks absurd. The offending garments are all patterned after Paris Hilton et al, and are the kind that I privately call Trailer Park Chic. Skinny jeans, midriff tops, halters, skirts that look as though they were stolen from a drum majorette, leggings--or even worse, jeggings.
These are things that a 20-something can carry off. A 60-something looks at them and sobs. And yet that old hag has few alternatives, if she's shopping on a budget. (Yes, I love Eileen Fisher too--but can I afford her?) She can dress like a cruel parody of Kim Kardashian or she can go to hell in a handbasket, a polyester smock, and elastic-waist pants.
Frankly I'd rather wear rolled-up jeans and bobbysox. I frequently wear a printed, almost circle, skirt and a variant on ballet slippers. And I inwardly rage, rage against the dying of the light and charming pleasure that I used to find in wearing clothes that made me feel happy to get dressed in the morning.
(Just a simple cotton tunic top with long and narrow sleeves that hits just below the knee and a pair of black, well-fitting tights that don't cost as much as my weekly food bill--is that too much to ask? And bear in mind, the one who's asking is part of the Baby Boom generation--I'm sure many in my age group feel much the same way.)
Teenage girls when I became one were either bobbysoxers in rolled-up jeans and saddle shoes, or in full skirts and ballet slippers. Beyond that was really dangerous territory--we all dressed like matrons.
Look at the suits that Jackie Kennedy used to wear--with jackets that ended at the waist and straight skirts. Her shoes were utilitarian and well-bred. Jimmy Choo was what hookers would have worn. Those suits looked fantastic on Jackie and Babe Paley and the other trim, elegant social icons. Of course they did; they were cut in a Paris haute couture salon for bodies that were broad in the shoulders, slim in the hips. When translated to mass-markets like J.C. Penney or Ohrbach's and worn by women whose build was more in the peasant mode, they looked horrible. And when they were covering the bodies of adolescent girls, they looked even worse. Slender girls looked as though they were dressing up in their mothers' clothing and chubby girls looked like boxes. It was an ugly time for fashion in America.
"Good" coats were made of heavy wool tweed and were cut to go over a "good" suit. The shoulders were droopy and the arms wide; they hit the mid-calf, if the wearer had height, and the ankle area if she was short. They weighed about ten pounds and would have made dandy survival tents if they hadn't been wool and easily saturated by a rainfall. I hated my coats when I was in my early teens.
Then along came the British invasion with miniskirts and Courreges with body-skimming A-lines and Calvin Klein with coats that fit close to the body with narrow shoulders. It was a wonderful time for young women and we all happily threw away our garter belts and little white gloves. For me, clothes were fun--until about ten years ago, when I turned 55.
No matter how thin a woman may be at that age, put her in certain kinds of clothing and she looks absurd. The offending garments are all patterned after Paris Hilton et al, and are the kind that I privately call Trailer Park Chic. Skinny jeans, midriff tops, halters, skirts that look as though they were stolen from a drum majorette, leggings--or even worse, jeggings.
These are things that a 20-something can carry off. A 60-something looks at them and sobs. And yet that old hag has few alternatives, if she's shopping on a budget. (Yes, I love Eileen Fisher too--but can I afford her?) She can dress like a cruel parody of Kim Kardashian or she can go to hell in a handbasket, a polyester smock, and elastic-waist pants.
Frankly I'd rather wear rolled-up jeans and bobbysox. I frequently wear a printed, almost circle, skirt and a variant on ballet slippers. And I inwardly rage, rage against the dying of the light and charming pleasure that I used to find in wearing clothes that made me feel happy to get dressed in the morning.
(Just a simple cotton tunic top with long and narrow sleeves that hits just below the knee and a pair of black, well-fitting tights that don't cost as much as my weekly food bill--is that too much to ask? And bear in mind, the one who's asking is part of the Baby Boom generation--I'm sure many in my age group feel much the same way.)
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