3.28.05 globalization and its discontents

Joe and I were watching CBS' reality show "The Amazing Race" a couple nights ago. The racers were in Santiago, Chile. At one point, there was a panoramic shot of a busy downtown area; the contestants were looking around for a bus to take them to their next location. "Wait a second," I said, hitting the freeze-frame button on the TiVo remote. "Look at that heart!"

It was the swirly, stylized Unilever heart, best known in the U.S. as the Good Humor logo, displayed prominently on a building. That heart. It's everywhere.

Forgive me another exercise in pointless nostalgia (should I just call them EIPN from now on?). When I was a kid, my family spent a lot of time in Sweden, visiting our relatives there. My favorite thing about Sweden was the ice cream, specifically the brand called GB Glace. I especially loved the fact that it was available absolutely everywhere. Whether you were on a street corner in Stockholm or in a tiny village in the middle of nowhere, one thing was sure -- someone would be there to sell you an ice cream bar. I have no idea why the Swedes love ice cream so much. I mean, it's cold there a lot of the time. But they are one of the world's highest per capita consumers of frozen desserts.

Anyway, every year, GB introduced a new line of ice cream treats. When we arrived in Sweden, I had to find out as soon as possible what the new offerings were. (These old flavors still live on at GB's web site.) My favorite was the Päronsplitt, a pear-flavored ice cream bar that had the additional benefit of coming with a collectible card depicting an animal or nature scene. Other flavors came and went, but the Päronsplitt, which debuted in 1970 under the name "Wild West," was a perennial.

In 1996, GB became a wholly-owned subsidiary of Unilever, which reduced the prominence of the brand's ubiquitous clown logo in order to feature the heart on all of its posters and packaging. Also, instead of featuring many unique ice cream treats, GB began to focus on product "families" such as Magnum and Solero. (GB's current assortment includes three Solero pops and seven Magnums.)

Here's what really gets me, though. These same brands are now available all over the world. This would have thrilled me when I was a child, when my fondest wish was to import a freezer full of Swedish ice cream to my home in the U.S. But now, it just seems sort of sad. I mean, Sweden has Applebee's, T.G.I. Friday's and 7-11, but I never thought our inferior American ice cream would be among the products exported to my homeland. You can eat Magnum and Solero bars in the U.K., Belgium, Chile, Hungary, China and the Russian Federation, among others. I took the photo below in Mexico, proving that there you can buy the same ice cream in the middle of the Yucatan jungle. (This was a few miles from Chichen Itza.) Yes, I did buy something -- a Cornetto Crispy. What can I say, I still love ice cream.

There is one bit of good news for those of us who prize individuality in the face of global megabrands. GB Glace has reintroduced the Päronsplitt. I know what I'll be eating when I visit Sweden later this year.

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3.25.05 the woodman, or: an exercise in pointless nostalgia

I have no interest in seeing "Melinda and Melinda" -- my reservoir of good will for Woody Allen ran out years ago, and I believe the last one of his films I saw was 1995's "Mighty Aphrodite" -- but the name of Will Ferrell's character made me take notice. He plays an actor named Hobie. As absolutely everyone reading this blog knows, Hobie is the name of my precious dog. It would be really disconcerting to hear Will Ferrell referred to by that name.

Long, long ago, I was a pretty big Allen fan. When I was in high school, the Bijou, a 99-seat theater in the Eastown district, held an Allen festival, and I was able to enjoy all of his '70s and early '80s films (well, almost all -- I never did see his Bergman pastiche, "Interiors"). I loved the Bijou, which showed cult movies like "Harold and Maude" as well as first-run films such as John Sayles' "Return of the Secaucus 7" and Louis Malle's "My Dinner with Andre." Sadly, the only info on the web about the late, lamented Bijou appears to be on this page (it's the one on Lake Dr.), which also features photos of Grand Rapids' long-lasting Cina-Mini One and Red Barn adult theaters. I never thought I'd see that on the web; it's certainly a comprehensive site. I wish I had a photo of the Bijou to contribute.

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3.24.05 south of the border, pt. 3 (the final part)

What impressed me the most about Chichén Itzá? Was it learning about the early Mayas' amazing advances in astronomy and calendrical systems? The scary stories of human sacrifice? The splendid reliefs and statuary?

No -- it's the fact that you are allowed to go scampering up the 79-foot-tall pyramid, El Castillo. There are 91 steep steps, and when you get to the top, you can walk around and take in the view, unimpeded by railings. There are no warnings posted; you don't need to sign a waiver before you climb. We Americans couldn't get over it. "You would never see something like this in the U.S.!" was a constant refrain. The only indication that this activity might be a bit dangerous is an ambulance waiting discreetly a short distance away.

I had no problems reaching the top of the structure; it was easy, despite the 11-inch-high steps. Once I had reached the platform, I walked around, taking photos. Getting down is a bit harder. The steps are tall, but only a few inches deep. Like many tourists, I opted to scoot down on my butt.

Angel, one of our two tour guides, had his arm in a cast. He didn't mention how he had hurt himself. Our other guide revealed all, though -- Angel had fallen halfway down El Castillo a few days earlier. He climbed the great monument every day, and finally, bad luck (or the gods of Chichén Itzá) caught up with him -- he lost his footing halfway up, and tumbled down to the ground. The ambulance had a new customer. On our bus ride back, he did confess to having been a "fallen Angel."

My recommendation: a lot of people take day trips from Cancun to Chichén Itzá, but if you go, I suggest you spend the night. It's two and a half hours away, and even though we left Cancun early in the day, the noonday sun was in full effect when we arrived.

Our tour bus traveled on the toll road, which costs around $20 U.S. one way. I was looking forward to enjoying the scenery on the trip, but it turns out the road was hacked out of the Yucatan jungle and there is absolutely nothing to see except unvarying trees and foliage. Few locals take the road, so we didn't see any other vehicles; and there are no rest stops, either, except at the toll plaza. Very dull. Luckily, we had loaded a couple episodes of Wait Wait... onto our iPod.

By the way, the next day, I was almost incapacitated by pain in my quadriceps from having climbed the pyramid. My muscles ached so badly that I actually had trouble getting up from a seated position. If I am lucky enough to spend more time at the site, I plan to undertake a rigorous quad-stretching exercise program before I go!

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3.23.05 south of the border, pt. 2

In a way, Cancun owes its modern-day existence to a bunch of computer programmers, which made it the perfect reward travel getaway for a bunch of engineers and their significant others (Joe's company picked up most of the tab for our trip). In the late 1960s, some Mexican government officials decided they wanted to get in on the tourism boom, so they entered a bunch of factors into a computer in order to find the perfect place to put a resort -- it needed to have a great climate, beautiful beaches, proximity to natural and cultural attractions, suitable location for building a big airport. The result? The backwater state of Quintana Roo, then a sparsely-inhabited jungle. Cancun opened for business in 1974, and it's been full steam ahead ever since.

Because of the town's short history, however, no one is really "from" Cancun. The workers who staff the many hotels, restaurants and shops come from all over Mexico for much the same reason illegal immigrants continue to sneak across the border into the U.S. -- they want to make money to help their families. The workers put in long hours for low wages. Out of the 750,000 Mexican residents of Cancun, approximately 60% are poor (with an average monthly income of around $400). As you might imagine, the people lucky enough to score a job at a high-end resort like the Marriott are absolutely top-notch; amazingly friendly, and speaking near-perfect English. According to our tour guide, these folks can expect to earn $18-20 a day, or $600 a month. We received the excellent advice to bring $50 in one-dollar bills to give as tips (yes, your dollars are happily accepted everywhere down there). Every day, we left $2 on the pillow in our room, and got nice thank-you notes in return.

What about that other 60%? Well, they're probably going to try to sell you something. The one thing I truly wearied of during our trip was the constant hawking. Sit on the beach, and someone will come by trying to sell you a shell or braid your hair for a fee. Go to the ruins, and young girls will approach you with embroidered handkerchiefs, while boys more aggressively push statuettes ("just one dollar!"). At the airport, you'll probably be met by someone selling time-shares.

If you really want to experience the hard sell in full force, venture downtown to the Market 28, where every souvenir vendor will have a "special deal just for you." I'm not a big souvenir buyer, but I did look around enough to notice that most of the tchotchkes for sale in Cancun are mass-produced -- I saw the same things everywhere -- so shop around, and don't be afraid to bargain.

No, I didn't try this; I just took a picture:

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3.21.05 south of the border, pt. 1

It would never have occurred to me to travel to Mexico. I know that might sound odd, since it's conveniently located right here in North America, but I'm just not a very adventurous traveler, and almost everything I'd heard about Mexico has been negative. Turista! Cabdrivers in league with bandidos! Widespread crime! A few years ago, I heard a story about a woman who was taking a walk on a Mexican beach, when a thief demanded she give him her beautiful ring. When she hesitated, he cut her finger off and absconded with her jewelry and her digit. I realize that this is a typical FOAF tale, but an anecdote like that is going to stay with you. (There's also the classic legend of The Mexican Pet.)

Well, forces conspired to send me to our neighbor to the south, specifically the Yucatan Peninsula. (Perhaps luckily, I hadn't yet seen this page, a hypochondriac's nightmare which talks about Hepatitis A and B, yellow fever, typhoid fever and other delights.) Now, I can't speak about the rest of Mexico, but I will say that I really enjoyed this trip and found Cancun to be a perfectly safe, relaxing place.

We spent five nights at the Marriott Casa Magna Resort in Cancun. My impressions of Cancun were pretty biased as well -- I thought of it as a spring break destination for partying teenagers (indeed, MTV films a spring break series there). However, the Marriott hotels (a second one, J.W. Marriott, is right next door) are located several miles from the sort of hot spots youngsters enjoy -- places like Señor Frog's and the La Boom discotheque. The hotel is extremely elegant and geared toward families and business travelers, unlike the bargain establishments that cater to the campus set. Sure, you can sip a tequila in the hotel lounge, but the music playing in the background will be the subtle tinkling of a pianist, not 50 Cent or Eminem. In addition, it has a superb beach and enormous pool. Here is the view from our room; the property on the left is the J.W. Marriott.

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3.17.05 where the pyramid meets the snake

I know my faithful readers are looking forward to an account of my travels. However, many of my clients are looking forward to having me do lots of work for them. And that, alas, must take precedence.

Did I find the head? Well, how about this rather enormous stone snake head?

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3.08.05 a brief interruption

At last, I have discovered my destiny. I must undertake a vision quest in order to find the wonderful remains of the ENORMOUS HEAD. Since the remains are on the large side -- 1,700 pounds! -- I don't expect it'll take too long. Maybe... oh, a week or so?

See you back here then.

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3.07.05 wonderful remains of an ENORMOUS HEAD

When Joe and I went to see Ricky Jay at City Arts & Lectures back in January, he showed a bunch of slides from his upcoming event at Yerba Buena Center for the Arts, "Extraordinary Exhibitions: Broadsides From the Collection of Ricky Jay." Jay's broadsides are handbills from the 17th, 18th and 19th centuries, advertising appearances by magicians, performers and oddities. He has collected these ephemeral bits of paper for years; Jay says that it's amazing they've survived into the present, since they were as disposable as the take-out menus of today.

I found the slides absolutely fascinating and was champing at the bit to see the exhibit. Joe couldn't imagine why I was so interested; after all, you're just looking at a small flyer inviting you to come see the "Wonderful Remains of an ENORMOUS HEAD." It's not like the HEAD itself ("18 Feet in Length, 7 Feet in Breadth and Weighing 1,700 Pounds") is on display.

My feeling is that the things being advertised couldn't possibly live up to their billing, and it's probably just as much fun to imagine what it was like to go check out the armless dulcimer player, the singing mouse or "Toby, the Sapient Pig" than it was to actually fork over your dimes or shillings and see them. Some of the exhibits were genuine hoaxes, such as the Pig Faced Lady; some, such as Siamese twins Chang & Eng, we know to be real; most others are lost to history. Was the Giant Hungarian Schoolboy truly a giant? Did Bertolotto's Industrious Fleas truly perform amazing feats?

I spent a couple hours studying all 100 handbills in the collection and listening to the informative audio tour, narrated by Jay himself. If you're intrigued, but can't make it to San Francisco, you can buy this book, which features reproductions of each broadside alongside Jay's commentary.

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3.04.05 roger & me

I went to see Roger Ebert at Stacey's bookstore in San Francisco yesterday, which doesn't count as a bona fide celebrity sighting, since a true celebrity sighting requires the element of surprise -- "wow, I had no idea Tab Hunter would be at this party!" Nevertheless, I feel it's worth noting, since I've been an Ebert fan since I was a kid, when he and Gene Siskel were on PBS. That was a long time ago. He's a lot more famous now, and the bookstore was packed. Unfortunately, Stacey's lunchtime events are geared toward Financial District office drones who have to be back to work by 1 or 1:30, so Ebert only had a half hour to talk. He rambled on in a stream-of-consciousness style; something would remind him of a particular star, and he'd tell an anecdote about that star. He told a story about Bette Davis and Lillian Gish that you can read here (skip to the last paragraph); a Lee Marvin story; and talked about Cate Blanchett's hilarious remark backstage at the Oscars. I suspect that if there hadn't been a time limit, Ebert could have kept going for hours. He is quite the raconteur. And he looks good -- Ebert, who had cancer surgery last year, has lost weight (don't call him "the fat one"!) and seemed extremely healthy.

Ebert recently wrote a negative review of America's current #1 film at the box office, "Diary of a Mad Black Woman," that generated more mail than any review he has ever written. He felt that the over-the-top character of Madea, played by a man in drag, seemed out of place in the movie, a domestic drama about a woman who is dumped by her no-good husband. In his follow-up essay, Ebert reports that "As a white man, I'm told, I am clueless to understand that strong older women, who have had to be tough to survive in hard times, are familiar in all African-American families, and do not conform to the genteel manners of the art-house crowd... I refuse to accept the theory that I am racist because I disliked the film."

Yes, it seems extremely unlikely that Ebert is a racist, considering that he has been married to an African-American woman for 12 years. He probably knows a thing or two about strong African-American women (Chaz is an attorney). I can see why he wouldn't want to refer in print to his private life, but it must rankle to receive tons of e-mails calling you a racist when there's quite solid evidence to the contrary that it is not true. Perhaps people should stop and consider the possibility that he just didn't like the movie.

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3.01.05 assault with a deadly pepper

Sometimes, when I am walking the dog in the woods and my mind is wandering, I wonder what it would be like to find a body. This is a direct result of watching too much "Law and Order" and reading too many mystery novels, where people walking dogs are forever stumbling over bodies. "We were just strolling along, minding our own business," I picture myself telling the officer, "when the dog started acting funny, like he'd picked up a strange scent..."

Now, I'm sure finding a body would be a genuinely horrifying experience, but I guess I thought it would be exciting to play a supporting role in a real-life crime drama. Well, today I got my chance, in a less grisly but still rather dramatic fashion.

I was walking from the library to my car, which was parked along a busy street, about three blocks away. As I was approaching my auto, I witnessed a road rage incident involving a driver and a pedestrian, both middle-aged white men. The pedestrian was heavily laden with packages and was jaywalking in the street in order to take a more direct route to his car. This infuriated the driver, who started yelling that "I don't drive on the sidewalk!" and calling the pedestrian all manner of expletives. The walking man defended his honor as a pedestrian, which is very Californian; here, when you step off a curb, drivers actually stop for you most of the time. If they don't, they could be facing a ticket. Despite our car culture, pedestrians really do have the right of way here, no matter what.

The pedestrian kept on walking and reached his car, which was a couple spaces to the right of mine. I figured that was the end of it and was getting into my car when guess who reappeared -- the foul-mouthed driver! He had actually pulled over in order to continue berating the man with the packages. I don't know who threw the first punch, but all of a sudden, the men were fighting. I did see the driver produce a vial of pepper spray and squirt it right in the other man's face. The pedestrian sank to the ground; then, for a moment, they both disappeared from my view. I chided myself for not carrying my cell phone (I have a clunky old cell phone, which I hate toting around; because I'm cheap, I can't bring myself to get a new one as long as the old one still works) so I could call the police. I didn't dare approach the men. I mean, that one guy was obviously nuts.

A woman who was shorter but much braver than I went right up to them and started shouting at them to quit fighting. "You're two grown men! You're too old for that!" I guess it helped, because Pepper Spray Man hightailed it out of there. Package-Carrying Guy slumped against his Volkswagen, bleeding and debilitated by the spray. The woman and I followed Dr. Pepper; he was parked two spaces to the left of my car. We read his license number, and recited it over and over again to burn it into our memories.

It turns out another woman, watching from across the street, had tried to call the police on her cell phone, and hadn't been able to get through to 911. (Hey, I wrote about that last year!) Luckily, a fire truck happened to be passing by. She flagged it down and the firemen came over to see what was going on. It seemed to take hours, but someone finally rounded up a big jug of eyewash, put a poncho on the guy and helped him rinse his eyes out. They also called the police, who took down the license plate number; then they separated the three witnesses and took our statements. The officer asked me for my name, address, telephone number, date of birth, etc., all of which I gave him. Then he asked for my occupation. I never know quite how to answer that question, since I run two different businesses. I should have just said "self-employed," but instead I got flustered and stammered out, "Uh, I do computer consulting." My eyes were probably darting back and forth. I'm sure they think I'm actually into something shady. I may as well have said I was in the "import-export business."

I figured that would be the end of it -- for a while, at least -- but an hour later, a policeman called me at my home and said he needed a written statement from me immediately, and that he would meet me in front of my building in two minutes (!). It was raining, so when the cop car pulled up, I leapt into its front seat like a high school girl eager to go on her first date. I then spent nearly half an hour explaining what had happened to the curious policeman (he had just come on duty) and writing out my account of the incident (I so rarely write in longhand these days that it takes me a long time). Anyway, the officer said that as far as he knew, Pepper Spray Man had been taken into custody, and if I was needed to testify against him in court, I'd be contacted in a few weeks.

In the meantime, maybe I've done a small part in helping to get a miscreant off the streets of my city. I hope he thinks twice before pulling his road rage act again.

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