I’m at another bus stop. Metaphorically. It feels like life just dropped me off somewhere. Nowhere, actually. It’s not a destination; not a place I want to be.
It’s a situation and a state of mind. It’s empty and quiet. Plenty of time for rumination.
I’ve looked into my soul (yet again) and it’s a sad and confusing clutter.
Maybe it’s just time for a change of scenery. Open the doors and windows. Let a fresh breeze blow through a dusty, sullen heart.
As an American driving enthusiast, I was excited to drive a car in Ireland. Driving on the wrong side of the road with the steering wheel on the wrong side of the car would be great fun. To add to the challenge, I rented a car with a manual transmission. A stick. So I would have to learn to “row the gears” with my left hand.
I studied these concepts on the Internet before I left and found a lot of helpful info. Most drivers said that the adjustment was easy. Some mentioned the little things that were confusing, like rear-view mirrors that aren’t where you expect them and turning into the wrong lane first thing in the morning. I also found Google Street View to be invaluable. Our trip started out in Dublin, so I could “fly” down the local streets and visualize the traffic patterns.
I wasn’t interested in driving in Dublin. Like most large cities, it’s difficult and fraught with danger. We picked up the car the day before leaving the city, with a clear shot out of the south side to the M50 motorway (in the Republic of Ireland and the UK, a motorway is a controlled-access highway similar to an Interstate in the U.S.)
Many dual carriageways and two-lane roads in Ireland have been updated in the last few decades. They have paved shoulders and clear markings that are similar to roads in the U.S.
But once you wander off into the country, it’s hard to know what you’ll find until you get there. Many roads can accommodate two vehicles moving in opposite directions, but only by very slim margins. The “close” feeling is amplified by the presence of hedges and stone fences that come right up to the very edge of the road on both sides.
An oncoming tractor-trailer on a rural road can be a harrowing experience. We rounded a bend on a road with very tall grass berms on either side to find a huge truck lumbering toward us. I stuffed the little Citroen C4 as far into the grass as far as I dared and stopped. The trucker slowed. They have huge blunt-nosed trucks with giant windshields that allow you to see the driver almost completely. He was a young man with dark hair, sunglasses, and a mild sneer.
He gave me the “come on” signal and I immediately realized that it’s probably easier for a small car to work it’s way past a truck than the other way around. I don’t know if that’s true, but I’m pretty confident at judging whether or not the car I’m driving will fit through a particular hole. So I went for it and I made it without any scratches.
Another challenge on these roads is the appearance of pedestrians and cyclists. When the road is lined with walls or hedges, there is simply no other place they can go. We were flabbergasted at times, for the locals had no qualms about walking down a road with blind corners and hills. Rounding a bend, you naturally lift your foot off the pedal and prepare to brake because you just don’t know what might be there.
And half the time they’ve got a dog with them!
Short of the race track, this was the most engaging driving I’ve done since I got my driver’s permit at the age of 16. All the elements come into play. Left-hand orientation, shifting with the wrong hand, tight quarters, and stunning scenery to top it all off. You really have to be on your toes all the time.
So light! So sleek! Twice the storage of my trusty iPhone 4 (maybe freeing me from the tedium of pruning my music library for syncing)! And I sent my first two Siri texts: the first with no punctuation and the second with an exclamation mark!
The traffic layer of Apple Maps is disappointing. I live in the Mid-Atlantic region of the US, so I depend on traffic mapping to set my expectations for the long daily commute. Compared with the fat and colorful stripes in Google Maps, the tiny dashed red lines from Apple don’t seem very informative.
Maybe I’ll get used to it. Maybe Apple will fix it.
I pay the trash company about 30 bucks per quarter. Their little tiny bill arrives on an index card in the mailbox. It’s old school. No online service or itemized bill in an envelope with a colorful flyer and a return envelope.
I always pay promptly through my bank’s online bill-pay service. Just normal every day stuff we all do. Except for today, when I left out the decimal point and nearly paid them $3,105. Good thing I went and looked at my upcoming payment summary before I logged off.
I wonder what would have happened. Maybe they would say, “Sorry, we don’t generate refunds. Our system can only do credits. ” Gee. Twenty five years of trash service paid in advance. I guess that would be a nice, secure feeling.
I completely forgot that I had a blog. I wonder how many more are out there with my name on them?
What is it about this… this wonder of science? The peanut butter Rice Krispie treat with chocolate-butterscotch frosting is surely one of the most rich and decadent foods ever created, yet it’s appeal goes beyond mere taste. In my family, it’s a holiday institution.
We’ve always called them Rice Krispie bars. But they’re not bars, they’re not cookies, and they’re not cakes. Some people even call them “treats” but I avoid that term. Treats are something that dogs swallow without chewing first. So, I take from the initials RKB and call them Rocks, which is fitting because that’s what they turn into if you let them dry out. They also sit like rocks in your gut if you eat too many and it’s impossible to swallow one without chewing.
In this age of health enlightenment, I avoid discussing the chemistry of the Rock with outsiders. The recipe scares some people, even after they’ve declared the taste divine. There is no mystery, really. Legend has it that my sister found the recipe on the back of a box of Rice Krispies when she was a kid. I know at least one other person who has tasted this confection before, and so it can’t be that Mom invented it. (Which, by the way, is like finding out about Santa Claus way after your friends are already wise to him.)
But still, it’s like laws and sausage: best not to see how they’re made.
Today, I have made a batch for the Thanksgiving potluck at the office. I brought them last year, too, and surprised a few people who never tasted this particular recipe. (Yes, there are many other Rice Krispie treats. But they are truly just treats: things that fall on the floor for Rover.) So I’m bringing them again under the premise that I’m a joyful holiday reveller who wants to make merry with my coworkers. Really, I just want them for myself. If I can arouse the pleasure centers of a few other brains, fine, but don’t take too many.
So there they sit, stacked on parchment paper in a plastic container, ready to be displayed with all the other piles of food at lunch today. On the counter in my kitchen, tightly sealed, are the rejects. These are visually unacceptable for holiday gatherings and so they remain behind. Too bad.
Oh, and I made a mistake at the grocery store. Since I can’t translate cup measurements into dry ounces, I bought too much of everything. On my kitchen countertop lie mountains of Rice Krispies, piles of chocolate and butterscotch chips, barrels of peanut butter, and tankards of corn syrup.
What will I do with all this excess? Make rocks, I guess.
Another Time 