Traveling this week

I'll be on the road for a few days, no further blog posts until Monday.

Airport Hell

The Independent summarizes a recent high-profile listing of the world's worst airports:

Why are airports so bad? Perhaps it's because travellers are not so much customers as captives, and airports exploit them without mercy. Got to wait for a few hours? Why not stroll through the soulless shops and pick up some overpriced bauble? For most of us, the abiding experience of airports is not horror. It is tedium.

Read the entire article: The World's Worst Airports

My Starbucks Card

I admit it: I have a Starbucks card.

Mine is a half-hearted admission of guilt, because I'm not that guilty at the prospect of being seen in a Starbucks.

I once was.

Among my cool friends, the ones who see only art films and read the New York Review of Books regularly, Starbucks is often dismissed as hopelessly square: bad, burnt coffee, silly attempts at exoticism (ohhh, this coffee is from Ethiopia), and, most damningly, death to the neighborhood café.

I sympathize with that reasoning. I prefer local places, even if the quality may be uneven.

But I still like Starbucks.

I began visiting the ubiquitous coffee chain when writing my first draft of a book about ubiquity, the ongoing omnitopia project. I found a Starbucks in Salinas whose plate glass windows offered views of both the interstate and a Wal-Mart. When writing about placeless architecture, it's hard to imagine a more apt site.

No connoisseur of decent coffee, having never drunk the stuff even after a hitch with the Navy, I started with frothy, milky drinks before discovering the thrilling jolt of espresso. Sure, there are "great" espressos to be had. In Italy, I guess. But you can't convince me that Starbucks offers a lousy one.

Eventually I learned to order mine in the doppio ceramic cups -- no paper for me.

And then I discovered those damned toffee bars.

Sometimes the bars have a lot of toffee; sometimes they have none. Sometimes they're a bit dry and sometimes they're tender and moist. But almost always they go perfectly with the thick, strong shot of espresso served in that tiny cup. Almost always, they help me craft a mental vacation from a busy afternoon.

That's the point of Starbucks, for me anyway. I have an espresso maker in my office. And in a pinch, I can brew up a decent cup. Nothing memorable, but nothing too shabby either.

But the chance to walk a few blocks to a place whose employees seem genuinely happy to rap a few moments (when the line isn't too long) and serve some coffee is a good thing.

So now I have a local Starbucks that is "mine." It's near my office (aren't they all?) in San José. I go every day or so, looking forward to the times when the counter-person knows what I want before I have to ask.

I'd never queue endlessly during a morning just to get a jolt. But the afternoon fits with my schedule and has become a consistently happy part of my day for months now.

So, at last, I decided it was time to buy a Starbucks card. Carrying it offers no privileges, no special deals (yet, at least). Sure, I got a couple of free iTunes selections out of the purchase. But I would have happily bought "Stairway to Heaven" on my own eventually.

It's just nice to know that I keep a reminder in my wallet of a relatively cheap and dependable dalliance from the daily grind, a promise of consistency amid seemingly endless variation.

I admit it: I like Starbucks.

No Country For Old Men

Disturbing, dark, solemn, and intense, No Country for Old Men is one of the most memorable films I've seen this year. And while I've only read one Cormac McCarthy novel, The Road, I am amazed that the Coen Brothers so perfectly managed to evoke the author's unmistakable voice in their newest film. Predictably, Jenny didn't much care for it. She's no fan of either the directing duo's work or of this kind of film, so bleak it was. That's OK. I enjoyed it enough for the both of us.

Spoiler Alert

The plot of No Country for Old Men is disarmingly simple: a fellow named Llewellyn Moss comes across a satchel full of money after stumbling upon a drug deal gone wrong. Taking the cash, he is pursued by various thugs, most notably a killer named Anton Chigurh. Sheriff Ed Tom Bell, recognizing that Moss has stepped out of his league, also tracks the man. For his own reasons, Bell wants to help Moss. Along with the human characters, the film adds the desolate wastescape of southwestern Texas, a land of prickly scrub and dusty towns. No question, the movie is not a "fun" experience; it's no summer blockbuster. But every scene is its own moment of almost perfect acting, pacing, screenwriting, cinematography, and musical score. The movie coils with menace and strikes in brutal and surprising ways, even while managing remarkable pathos and odd humor. And at its conclusion, you might be amazed at how subtly the film's primary message and point of reference shift from character to character, from present to past.

Walking out of our beloved Del Mar Theatre, Jenny and I discussed the various mysteries left hanging in No country for Old Men, wondering about the choice made by the remorseless killer who demanded that Moss's wife determine her fate by a coin toss. He stepped out, wiping his shoe, leaving many observers of the film to conclude that he kills her. To be honest, I'm not sure. Chatting with Jenny as we walked through downtown Santa Cruz, I explained that I prefer to imagine that the fate of Moss's wife may be similar to that of Schrödinger's cat, that we can never really know without going into the house. From this perspective, "fate" remains a sort of choice. An older couple walking a few paces ahead entered our conversation with their own thoughts, and for a few moments we four strangers compared mental notes. I was actually a bit sad when an intersection set our paths apart once more, so much did I enjoy chatting about this relentlessly thought-provoking film.

Happy Thanksgiving

I'll be taking the next couple days off, enjoying the holiday with my family. See you next Monday.

NCA - Chicago

I've finally resurfaced from the NCA conference in Chicago, after working to complete a lengthy set of interviews for candidates to the SJSU Peer Mentor Program in the days that followed. Only now I can spend a few moments reflecting on my trip. This post won't focus on the academic side of my travels - presenting papers about Greyhound bus terminals and mobile/placeless enclaves, and hearing some of the research shared by my colleagues. Rather, I'll highlight some of the images from the time around the conference that stuck with me:

I enjoyed breakfast at the Artist's Snack Shop with my former forensics coach from Berry College, Randy Richardson, and our mutual friend and colleague, Kathy McKee. I so enjoyed the chance to relax with old friends, sharing our recent adventures in writing along with our other activities. Our conversations carry a collection of well-worn stories and jokes that we tell year after year, offering comfort and consistency no matter where or when they're shared. It always means so much to spend time with people who helped me become who I am. During our breakfast, Randy and Kathy encouraged me to check out Renoir's "Alfred Sisley" at the Art Institute of Chicago. They assured me that my resemblance to the figure portrayed in that piece was uncanny. How correct they were is a testament to our friendship.

I toured the Chicago Art Institute on a drizzly Sunday afternoon, digging the impressive collection of nineteenth and twentieth century pieces. Favorites include Georges Seurat's "A Sunday Afternoon on the Island of La Grande Jatte" and Gustave Caillebotte's "Paris Street, Rainy Day," while I also enjoyed the eerie post-9/11 vibe of Richard Misrach's collection of birds-eye view photographs entitled (post apocalyptically) "At the Beach." I was less enamored with the Jasper Johns collection that seemed less about art as communication and more about communication between artists.

I also ambled through Millennium Park, peering upon Anish Kapoor's beloved "Cloud Gate" installation (known informally as "the bean") and photographing the Crown Fountain. I overheard a tour guide explain that the faces on these twin 50-foot tall glass-block installations were picked from regular, every-day Chicago residents. But there was nothing normal about their towering height and creepy one-way stare. I also enjoyed the Frank Geary-designed outdoor amphitheater, notable for its graceful crisscross of silver arcs that hold speakers aloft so that folks sitting on the lawn can still enjoy the show.

I went to dinner with Chris Nix, Kenny Sibal, and Lee Wyman, taking a taxi to Smith and Wollensky. The restaurant is a favorite of mine for its location, ambiance, and quality. This is a red meat and martini place, where the menus are cased in glass framed wooden displays. The prices are somewhat obnoxious, but the steak almost always calls to mind the "ignorance is bliss" scene from The Matrix. Afterward we walked to the Hancock Building, me enjoying the guilty pleasure of a fat cigar. We met a large contingent of Georgetown College students at The Cheesecake Factory. There's something delightfully wrong about ordering a massive dessert at midnight.

While returning to San Jose on Sunday night, my plane flew over a grayish cover of clouds for almost a half-hour, a carpet lit by a brilliant moon. As we began to descend, I thrilled at the prospect of carving through that gray wall, wondering what I'd see below. Sure enough, for almost a minute I waited as my window filled with cloud. Then gradually I gazed upon the clear and vividly lit city. I wondered at the fact that all those people below saw only a dreary cloud cover, maybe not even imagining that angelic moon glowing above.

I'm told that NCA will be held in San Diego next year, which is nice enough. But I'm delighted to hear that we're returning to Chicago in 2009. It's my favorite conference city, one I can't wait to see again.

(Mobile Phone Photos by Andrew Wood)

Iran Update

Gareth Porter writes in the The Asia Times that the September attack against an alleged nuclear site in Syria was, in fact, a message being sent to Iran.

Until late October, the accepted explanation about the September 6 Israeli air strike in Syria, constructed from a series of press leaks from US officials, was that it was prompted by dramatic satellite intelligence that Syria was building a nuclear facility with help from North Korea.

But new satellite evidence has discredited that narrative, suggesting a more plausible explanation for the strike: that it was a calculated effort by Israel and the United States to convince Iran that its nuclear facilities could be attacked as well.

Learn More: A warning shot for Iran, via Syria