Mark L. Van Name's Blog, page 264
November 19, 2010
On the road again: Barcelona, day 6
A very late bedtime and a very gray morning and early afternoon led to a very lazy final full day here, and that was just fine with me.
The middle of the day included a long time roaming Gaudi's Casa Batllo, which was simply amazing.
Dinner was at ABaC, a Michelin two-star restaurant. The food was excellent, but more on that later.
The reason for the short entry is that I have felt sick all day and now have a rather noticeable fever, so I'm going to crash. More later, when, with any luck at all, I will be back to normal.
The middle of the day included a long time roaming Gaudi's Casa Batllo, which was simply amazing.
Dinner was at ABaC, a Michelin two-star restaurant. The food was excellent, but more on that later.
The reason for the short entry is that I have felt sick all day and now have a rather noticeable fever, so I'm going to crash. More later, when, with any luck at all, I will be back to normal.
November 18, 2010
On the road again: Barcelona, day 5
I'm still processing the elBulli meal, but here are a few key tidbits to tide over those interested in it:
Roses, the closest town, was insanely beautiful, a place straight out of a James Bond movie. How pretty, you might ask? Check out these shots from the room's two balconies. (As always, you can click on a picture to see a bigger version.)
The rest of the day went to a strange Chinese lunch and then multiple hours at the Dali museum (excellent!) in Figueres, a lot of work, and a very fine dinner at Alkimia.
Now, more work.
* They served 38 courses, most of which were just a few bites.More will undoubtedly follow.
* The restaurant seats 40 guests; 45 chefs were working in the kitchen.
* Ferran Adria was supervising.
* I couldn't get a firm handle on the size of the wait staff, but in the room where I was, 20 guests were eating, and at least ten servers were working.
* My first and second favorite dishes were his first and second favorites, as I learned after the meal.
* No music was ever playing. The sounds were of people talking, laughing, gasping, exclaiming, and generally being amazed and amused.
* When I told Adria, via the interpreter, that the meal had touched both my heart and my mind, he smiled, bowed slightly, and in English said, "Good. Correct."
Roses, the closest town, was insanely beautiful, a place straight out of a James Bond movie. How pretty, you might ask? Check out these shots from the room's two balconies. (As always, you can click on a picture to see a bigger version.)
The rest of the day went to a strange Chinese lunch and then multiple hours at the Dali museum (excellent!) in Figueres, a lot of work, and a very fine dinner at Alkimia.
Now, more work.
November 17, 2010
On the road again: Barcelona, day 4
Behind me in the blackness in the photo is the Mediterranean, its waves beating a slow rhythm on the shore.
My sense of luck and of somehow not quite deserving to be there, as well as my dislike of having my picture taken, account for the expression on my face.
To my left stands the door inside El Bulli.
Inside was the most amazing meal I've ever eaten. I'll write more on it in other times, but as I said to Chef Adria after dinner--yes, I got to chat briefly, via an interpreter, with Ferran Adria--the meal touched both my heart and my mind. I have a lot to process--and not just in my stomach.
I feel very, very lucky for having been able to eat there before Adria closes the deservedly famous institution.
November 16, 2010
On the road again: Barcelona, day 3
Jamon Iberico de Bellota is a wonderful thing indeed, and as I did my last time here, I'm eating small amounts of it each time I get the chance. Today, this taste treat was part of both my meals, lunch and dinner, and I loved every little bite.
A big chunk of today went to more time with the works of Antoni Gaudi, about whose art I've written before. Suffice to say that once again I found La Sagrada Familia amazing, a work of genius, and deeply moving in many ways. The singular vision behind both it and Parc Guell, which I also revisited today, always makes me think hard about creativity, great works of art, and, of course, my own pale attempts at creation. Gaudi was almost certainly more than a bit of a loon, but he saw the world differently from everyone else and, as Hunter S. Thompson once said of another, he stomped the terra.
Tomorrow brings the dinner at El Bulli, the event that transformed this trip from desirable to mandatory. I'm not looking forward to driving the crowded Barcelona streets or the single-lane country roads that lead to the restaurant, but I am quite excited about the meal itself--which I'll be sitting down to eat in about 17 hours.
Hot damn!
A big chunk of today went to more time with the works of Antoni Gaudi, about whose art I've written before. Suffice to say that once again I found La Sagrada Familia amazing, a work of genius, and deeply moving in many ways. The singular vision behind both it and Parc Guell, which I also revisited today, always makes me think hard about creativity, great works of art, and, of course, my own pale attempts at creation. Gaudi was almost certainly more than a bit of a loon, but he saw the world differently from everyone else and, as Hunter S. Thompson once said of another, he stomped the terra.
Tomorrow brings the dinner at El Bulli, the event that transformed this trip from desirable to mandatory. I'm not looking forward to driving the crowded Barcelona streets or the single-lane country roads that lead to the restaurant, but I am quite excited about the meal itself--which I'll be sitting down to eat in about 17 hours.
Hot damn!
November 15, 2010
On the road again: Barcelona, day 2
I wish I could sleep well on planes. I really do. I can't manage it, though. The best I can do is awkward, uncomfortable, and unsatisfying dozing. Thus, when we landed this morning, I'd eaten the dinner and breakfast (both serviceable), watched a movie (the recent remake of The Day the Earth Stood Still, which I didn't hate the way most critics did), read (Matt Hilton's latest novel), and done some work.
To my great happiness, customs and luggage pick-up and immigration and the cab ride all proceeded without a hitch, so in relatively short order I was in my hotel, the W Barcelona. It and the lovely Hotel Arts Barcelona, where Scott and I stayed, stare at each other across the water like two champions preparing for battle. I love them both. From the outside, the W, with its amazing architecture and isolated location, exudes the rock-star-hotel vibe. It continues that feeling when you get inside, with a stunning lobby, bordello-red hallways, and impeccably designed and outfitted rooms.
After a nap and some work, we headed into the city for a long stroll down Las Ramblas and dinner at a restaurant we chose at random for its menu and look. Our choice proved to be wise, as the meal was very good. Highlights included the Iberico Bellota ham and the thin bread with brushings of oil and tomatoes that I've come to love, wonderful croquetas, and the cheesiest risotto I've ever tasted.
Tomorrow, some research, some work, some touristing, but now, some sleep.
To my great happiness, customs and luggage pick-up and immigration and the cab ride all proceeded without a hitch, so in relatively short order I was in my hotel, the W Barcelona. It and the lovely Hotel Arts Barcelona, where Scott and I stayed, stare at each other across the water like two champions preparing for battle. I love them both. From the outside, the W, with its amazing architecture and isolated location, exudes the rock-star-hotel vibe. It continues that feeling when you get inside, with a stunning lobby, bordello-red hallways, and impeccably designed and outfitted rooms.
After a nap and some work, we headed into the city for a long stroll down Las Ramblas and dinner at a restaurant we chose at random for its menu and look. Our choice proved to be wise, as the meal was very good. Highlights included the Iberico Bellota ham and the thin bread with brushings of oil and tomatoes that I've come to love, wonderful croquetas, and the cheesiest risotto I've ever tasted.
Tomorrow, some research, some work, some touristing, but now, some sleep.
November 14, 2010
On the road again: Barcelona, day 1
Well, really, there is no Barcelona for me today. Instead, I'm heading there and will arrive tomorrow after the usual fly-all-night trek. Still, the trip is ultimately to Barcelona, so that will be the title for these entries.
At this red-hot moment, I'm sitting in the JFK Admirals Club enjoying their free water, Diet Coke, and carrots. I do wish for Coke Zero and a broader selection of snacks, but I find such complaints hard to make, sitting as I am in the lap of airplane lounge luxury. I am living a life of such greater affluence and experience than the teenage me would ever have believed possible that I feel ashamed whenever I utter such complaints.
Speaking of teenagers, I have two, and I both like and love (there is a huge difference, of course) them greatly. It helps that I am stuck at 16 on the inside, which means that both kids are now aging past me. (Of course, I don't know yet what their internal ages are, so perhaps we'll end up close.)
Two recent interchanges, one spoken and one in email, should serve to illustrate why I enjoy my time and conversations with them so much. Each is silly, of course, but in a very different way from the other.
The first is a snippet from a recent conversation with Scott that began after Rana observed that he was clean-shaven.
It should be abundantly clear to anyone who knows me that yes, these are indeed my children.
At this red-hot moment, I'm sitting in the JFK Admirals Club enjoying their free water, Diet Coke, and carrots. I do wish for Coke Zero and a broader selection of snacks, but I find such complaints hard to make, sitting as I am in the lap of airplane lounge luxury. I am living a life of such greater affluence and experience than the teenage me would ever have believed possible that I feel ashamed whenever I utter such complaints.
Speaking of teenagers, I have two, and I both like and love (there is a huge difference, of course) them greatly. It helps that I am stuck at 16 on the inside, which means that both kids are now aging past me. (Of course, I don't know yet what their internal ages are, so perhaps we'll end up close.)
Two recent interchanges, one spoken and one in email, should serve to illustrate why I enjoy my time and conversations with them so much. Each is silly, of course, but in a very different way from the other.
The first is a snippet from a recent conversation with Scott that began after Rana observed that he was clean-shaven.
Scott: Yes, I shaved. In fact, I shaved a lot more than my face.The other is a recent email exchange between Sarah and me.
Me: I prefer to wax mine. Very smooth.
Scott: Nah. Shaving is better, because you can shave "THUG LIFE" into your pubes.
Me: Excellent point.
Sarah:None of these desserts, by the way, are for the Thanksgiving holiday. These are the pre-holiday desserts, the safety desserts to ensure that the holiday goes well. It is only sensible that we get them.
I am emailing you because you are the most sensible of the family when it comes to proper dessert policy. Scratch just released its holiday menu and having spent so much time there this semester I kind of want to share how delightful their food is with you guys (although it is definitely expensive). Is there anything that catches your eye? If so, I could order and pick it up - if not, I'll just bring a couple donut muffins back with me.
Me:
I'd have to vote for at least the Vanilla, Mexican, and Apple pies, as well as the Pecan and Gingerbread cakes.
Of course, I'm holding down the quantity to try to be sensible, as always.
I'm so proud that you have inherited this great sensibility.
It should be abundantly clear to anyone who knows me that yes, these are indeed my children.
November 13, 2010
That mysterious trip I mentioned a while ago
starts tomorrow, when I leave mid-afternoon. I'm heading to Spain, Barcelona to be precise, for some research for a special project I'm not going to announce for a while. I won't be back home until late Saturday night.
I'm also going to be doing something extremely special while I'm there: eating at El Bulli.
[insert here an entirely unmanly squee of foodie delight]
If you don't already know about El Bulli, feel free to Google it for a few minutes; I'll wait.
As you'll quickly learn, El Bulli is one of the most famous and highest rated restaurants in the world. It and Ferran Adria, its chef, are legends among foodies and chefs alike (not that the two groups are mutually exclusive). Adria led the development of molecular gastronomy and has continued to innovate throughout his career. A seat there is one of the hardest reservations in the world to get.
Yet it's closing soon, to reopen in 2014 in a new form. I won't even pretend to summarize Adria's reasons for this choice; you'll have to read them (and there seem to be several) for yourself.
Its closing, however, makes it doubly lucky that I'm getting this chance to eat there.
Wednesday night at 7:30, I'll be doing just that.
Two squees would be entirely too much for one post, so instead imagine here a more manly, fist-thumping, "Hell, yeah!"
I'm also going to be doing something extremely special while I'm there: eating at El Bulli.
[insert here an entirely unmanly squee of foodie delight]
If you don't already know about El Bulli, feel free to Google it for a few minutes; I'll wait.
As you'll quickly learn, El Bulli is one of the most famous and highest rated restaurants in the world. It and Ferran Adria, its chef, are legends among foodies and chefs alike (not that the two groups are mutually exclusive). Adria led the development of molecular gastronomy and has continued to innovate throughout his career. A seat there is one of the hardest reservations in the world to get.
Yet it's closing soon, to reopen in 2014 in a new form. I won't even pretend to summarize Adria's reasons for this choice; you'll have to read them (and there seem to be several) for yourself.
Its closing, however, makes it doubly lucky that I'm getting this chance to eat there.
Wednesday night at 7:30, I'll be doing just that.
Two squees would be entirely too much for one post, so instead imagine here a more manly, fist-thumping, "Hell, yeah!"
November 12, 2010
Me vs. the needles
As I mentioned Wednesday, while I was at the allergy clinic giving them extortion money so I could keep taking allergy shots getting my annual check-up, the woman at the front desk who had processed my paperwork moments earlier called my house and asked if I could come in to pick up my allergy serum. So, yesterday, I returned to do just that.
The appointment started off perfectly when this same receptionist greeted me by saying, "Hi, Mr. Van Name. Weren't you just in here yesterday?"
I'm very proud to say that I did not yell at her, dive through the open window and beat her head against the desk while screaming, "Yes, you idiot, because you made me come back when you could have just given me my serum then," or even point out that she had made the trip necessary. Instead, I forced a smile, admittedly the kind of thin-lipped, angry smile you make right before inserting the shiv between two ribs, and then I sat and waited.
My Asian nemesis scouted me from behind the receptionist for a few seconds before opening the door and waving me in. No words: we are past the time for niceties, he and I.
Before I could sit in the chair, he showed me the two vials of serum and grunted. No words; just a grunt.
I said what I always say: "Yes, that's my name. My address, though, is still wrong."
He grunted again and smiled.
Damn! I fell for it. Score one for my nemesis.
He came to my right arm, but I shook my head and instead pulled my left from my long-sleeved shirt. Not a whole point, but a quarter of one.
Unfortunately, he countered that small gain by wiggling each needle unnecessarily once it was in my arm. I showed no reaction, however, so he got no more than that quarter point.
He pointed to the door, and out I went. We both know the drill.
He greeted the next person with a pleasant smile and a "Would you like to come back now?" invitation.
Ten minutes later, he emerged to check to see whether I had reacted excessively to the serum. As always, he was carrying my serum and a tube of cream, in case I had reacted.
I showed him my arm.
He didn't bother to measure. He just said, "You pass."
I stared at the tube in his hand.
He opened it, squeezed some cream onto his index finger...and I put my arm back in my sleeve.
Got him!
He glared, knowing we had tied, then left, his finger aloft until he could wipe it clean.
Not a victory, but after my earlier error, I was happy to have the draw.
As I was walking up to my car door, I noticed a woman sitting in the passenger seat of the car next to mine, a late-model Elantra. She was leaning all the way back, almost horizontal. Her toes, sporting the chipped red paint of an abandoned barn, tapped quietly on the dash. She was talking into a cell phone.
As I drew closer, she smiled, pointed at the phone, and kept on talking. "Yeah, baby, stroke it. You can do it for me. That's right, I want it. Oh, you know I do."
I got in my car and drove off.
Just another trip to the allergy clinic.
The appointment started off perfectly when this same receptionist greeted me by saying, "Hi, Mr. Van Name. Weren't you just in here yesterday?"
I'm very proud to say that I did not yell at her, dive through the open window and beat her head against the desk while screaming, "Yes, you idiot, because you made me come back when you could have just given me my serum then," or even point out that she had made the trip necessary. Instead, I forced a smile, admittedly the kind of thin-lipped, angry smile you make right before inserting the shiv between two ribs, and then I sat and waited.
My Asian nemesis scouted me from behind the receptionist for a few seconds before opening the door and waving me in. No words: we are past the time for niceties, he and I.
Before I could sit in the chair, he showed me the two vials of serum and grunted. No words; just a grunt.
I said what I always say: "Yes, that's my name. My address, though, is still wrong."
He grunted again and smiled.
Damn! I fell for it. Score one for my nemesis.
He came to my right arm, but I shook my head and instead pulled my left from my long-sleeved shirt. Not a whole point, but a quarter of one.
Unfortunately, he countered that small gain by wiggling each needle unnecessarily once it was in my arm. I showed no reaction, however, so he got no more than that quarter point.
He pointed to the door, and out I went. We both know the drill.
He greeted the next person with a pleasant smile and a "Would you like to come back now?" invitation.
Ten minutes later, he emerged to check to see whether I had reacted excessively to the serum. As always, he was carrying my serum and a tube of cream, in case I had reacted.
I showed him my arm.
He didn't bother to measure. He just said, "You pass."
I stared at the tube in his hand.
He opened it, squeezed some cream onto his index finger...and I put my arm back in my sleeve.
Got him!
He glared, knowing we had tied, then left, his finger aloft until he could wipe it clean.
Not a victory, but after my earlier error, I was happy to have the draw.
As I was walking up to my car door, I noticed a woman sitting in the passenger seat of the car next to mine, a late-model Elantra. She was leaning all the way back, almost horizontal. Her toes, sporting the chipped red paint of an abandoned barn, tapped quietly on the dash. She was talking into a cell phone.
As I drew closer, she smiled, pointed at the phone, and kept on talking. "Yeah, baby, stroke it. You can do it for me. That's right, I want it. Oh, you know I do."
I got in my car and drove off.
Just another trip to the allergy clinic.
November 11, 2010
A few thoughts on Veterans Day
On the eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month of 1918, an armistice brought an end to the heavy fighting of the war to end all wars, World War I.
Would that it had been the last, but of course, many wars have followed it.
Today, we celebrated Veterans Day, though few people seem to remember that once it was Armistice Day, and few with whom I spoke today bothered to note the holiday.
I always note it, because though I never served in the military, many people I care about did. I'm going to focus on two.
One is my friend, Dave. He served in Viet Nam, and it messed him up. It still does. You can read his take on it here. He didn't believe in this war, but he did what he felt was his duty as a citizen. He paid a huge price. He still does.
The other is my stepfather, Edmund D. Livingston, Sr. Eddie died on July 19, 2000, while on vacation at the beach with all of us. He was a Marine in World War II. The day he died, he visited a Marine Corps base and an old battleship. In the war, he went ashore at Okinawa. He was wounded twice, but thanks to paperwork mess-ups, he received only one Purple Heart--a fact that angers me to this day. He was part of the occupation of Japan. The shrapnel he carried would still sometimes set off metal detectors over fifty years after he left the Marines. Ed paid hugely and many times for his service, but he wouldn't have dreamed of not serving when his country called.
Neither Dave nor Ed is the type of person who would seek a doctor's diagnosis, but I'd be stunned if PTSD didn't afflict them both. PTSD is a bitch; I know.
On this holiday, I don't want us just to thank the vets we know, or to think of those now gone. I want us to help those vets among us. I want all of us and our government to fully and openly acknowledge the traumas they endured and allocate enough funds to help them make it back to our world. (For a longer take on this topic, check out Aaron Sorkin's piece here.) It's not enough to say "thank you" to those who do the jobs most of us never want to touch; we must show that gratitude by welcoming them into the world they protected and helping them feel, after and despite all they've endured, that they finally once again belong.
Would that it had been the last, but of course, many wars have followed it.
Today, we celebrated Veterans Day, though few people seem to remember that once it was Armistice Day, and few with whom I spoke today bothered to note the holiday.
I always note it, because though I never served in the military, many people I care about did. I'm going to focus on two.
One is my friend, Dave. He served in Viet Nam, and it messed him up. It still does. You can read his take on it here. He didn't believe in this war, but he did what he felt was his duty as a citizen. He paid a huge price. He still does.
The other is my stepfather, Edmund D. Livingston, Sr. Eddie died on July 19, 2000, while on vacation at the beach with all of us. He was a Marine in World War II. The day he died, he visited a Marine Corps base and an old battleship. In the war, he went ashore at Okinawa. He was wounded twice, but thanks to paperwork mess-ups, he received only one Purple Heart--a fact that angers me to this day. He was part of the occupation of Japan. The shrapnel he carried would still sometimes set off metal detectors over fifty years after he left the Marines. Ed paid hugely and many times for his service, but he wouldn't have dreamed of not serving when his country called.
Neither Dave nor Ed is the type of person who would seek a doctor's diagnosis, but I'd be stunned if PTSD didn't afflict them both. PTSD is a bitch; I know.
On this holiday, I don't want us just to thank the vets we know, or to think of those now gone. I want us to help those vets among us. I want all of us and our government to fully and openly acknowledge the traumas they endured and allocate enough funds to help them make it back to our world. (For a longer take on this topic, check out Aaron Sorkin's piece here.) It's not enough to say "thank you" to those who do the jobs most of us never want to touch; we must show that gratitude by welcoming them into the world they protected and helping them feel, after and despite all they've endured, that they finally once again belong.
November 10, 2010
Me vs. the allergy clinic--again
The ENT firm I use is the only one that would let me give myself the allergy shots when I started taking them. I knew I'd never keep up the shots if I had to invest 90 minutes each time to take them (30 minutes drive each way, 10 minutes waiting in the office, 20 minutes you have to wait after receiving the shots), so self-administering the shots was vital. Now, I've been with this firm for eight years, and they have all my records, etc. I'm locked in.
I'd like to think that's why they treat me with such a cavalierly incompetent attitude, but sadly the real answer is probably more simple: they abuse patients because they can, and because they're incompetent at customer service.
Today, for example, was my annual allergy check-up. This piece of health-care ripoffery involves the same ritual each year:
She says, no.
When I get home, I find a voicemail message on my home office phone--the number I have asked them for 7.5 years to stop calling--telling me I can pick up my allergy serum at the same damn place I had been this morning.
The timestamp on the voicemail is 11:15 a.m.
I was in the examination room at that exact time, and the woman who called was the receptionist who handled my paperwork and told me I didn't need to do anything else.
Now, I have to make another trip and face my Chinese nemesis mano-a-mano in allergy test fu.
My only solace is the faint possibility that he's behind the whole thing and I truly am facing a master torturer in a boss fight of wills.
A guy's gotta have hope.
I'd like to think that's why they treat me with such a cavalierly incompetent attitude, but sadly the real answer is probably more simple: they abuse patients because they can, and because they're incompetent at customer service.
Today, for example, was my annual allergy check-up. This piece of health-care ripoffery involves the same ritual each year:
I arrive a few minutes late, hoping not to have to wait.On the way out, I ask the receptionist if there is anything else I need to do.
I wait a few minutes, frustrated as always with the utter lack of bandwidth or free wifi in the office.
A nurse deposits me in a small room, takes my pulse and blood pressure, and leaves.
I wait a few minutes more and begin to wonder if I could employ my otherwise useless iPhone as an edged weapon to kill the first enemy who walks through the door.
The doctor enters, shakes my hand, asks if everything is all right (it always is), and looks quickly in my ears, nose, and throat. (Wow, actual ENT-age.) Yes, indeed: all is well! One new prescription for an Epi-Pen, and one for more allergy shot needles, and I'm good to go.
Transaction time with the doctor: under four minutes.
Bill: over a hundred bucks. Yeah, sure, my insurance covers it, but, really?
She says, no.
When I get home, I find a voicemail message on my home office phone--the number I have asked them for 7.5 years to stop calling--telling me I can pick up my allergy serum at the same damn place I had been this morning.
The timestamp on the voicemail is 11:15 a.m.
I was in the examination room at that exact time, and the woman who called was the receptionist who handled my paperwork and told me I didn't need to do anything else.
Now, I have to make another trip and face my Chinese nemesis mano-a-mano in allergy test fu.
My only solace is the faint possibility that he's behind the whole thing and I truly am facing a master torturer in a boss fight of wills.
A guy's gotta have hope.
