Showing posts sorted by relevance for query thelma. Sort by date Show all posts
Showing posts sorted by relevance for query thelma. Sort by date Show all posts

Wednesday, 4 January 2017

Thelma and Louise

The road-trip has a revered place in literature. Maybe not in your literature: you may have read the entire works of Simenon or all the volumes of Proust’s à la recherché du temps perdu, which don’t seem to GO anywhere. Maybe it’s my peripatetic ‘navy-brat’ childhood or my long walks through Iberia, but I like travel books. Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance by Robert Pirsig [prev]; One’s Company by Peter Fleming; A Short Walk in the Hindu Kush by Eric Newby and the Lost Continent by Bill Bryson are embedded in my head not least because the last three at least made me laugh out loud. ZAMM isn’t a laughing matter but is nevertheless profound.  Of course the quintessence of road-trip in book form is Jack Kerouac’s On The Road which more or less gave the name to the genre.  And the road movie crystalizes the concept in under two hours: think Easy Rider or Thelma and Louise. Forget Bored of the Rings, though: far too much filler not enough laughs.
It’s not every week that I get a chance to go road-trip with my offspring. In 2004, The Boy and I walked the 100km from Portugal to Santiago de Compostella and my feet took years to recover from the brutal pace of day 3: 24th July 2004. Two years ago, Dau.II and I went on a journey to The Edge while making puddles in the bottom of a small boat on Lough Derg. We’re still recovering from the shared terror. This winter [can’t say this year anymore because it’s a new one] both the girls came home for Christmas which was wonderful. But all things must pass; and Dau.II had to go back to work before the New Year rush.

One of the peculiarities of Christmas gift giving within families is that, because they all love each other very much, they can get too much on the same wave-length. On my 13th Christmas I got two (2!) chemistry sets because two different rellies had recognised a developing Bob the Scientist before the recipient had recognised it in himself. Another year at about the same time, the five members of my nuclear family received twenty (20!) mugs at Christmas, some from external sources but many gifted internally. For Xmas 2016, Dau.II got a new set of four (4!) pillows to replace the ratty, lumpy, mitey, wretched things she’s been sleeping with for the last 3 years. She also got a large pair of throw cushions for her living room and the usual clatter of books, cheese, and a hot-water bottle. It would have been possible to schlep all this stuff on to the bus and off at the other end but I offered to drive her back to Cork instead. She said thanks and offered to pay me in grocer’s crates, of which her restaurant has accumulated a large and inconvenient store. Sometimes the crate has travelled so far through so many handlers and suppliers that is isn’t clear who owns the damned things.

On the last Thursday of 2016 we set off in the fore noon planning to get to Cork City by tea time. The great think about a long drive in the car is that there are no distractions (except for a bit of navigation, a bit of shopping and a bit of admiring how a crisp, sunny winter’s day impacts one’s mood) so we were able to talk round the houses about work, and life and balance; and food safety; and science and standard operating procedures SOPs; and of course the Universe and Everything.

We looked at the map and decided that rather than scudding past on the bus or being a hurry to get there in the car, we’d stop off in Ardmore, maybe the oldest ecclesiastical settlement in Ireland, and have a look at an invitingly sandy strand round the corner called Whiting Bay. And it was so. We paused in Ardmore long enough to hop widdershins on one leg round the medieval round tower [R]. Actually Not! That is a sure fire way to fall pregnant and neither of us wanted to have that happen at this time. The faded, eroded, medieval bas-relief sculptures that decorate the ruined ?cathedral? beside the tower are mournfully evocative of long, long ago. Although Ardmore is only a small village [pop about 300] we got hopelessly lost in a maze of narrow roads zig-zagging up the cliff-face but eventually escaped to Whiting Bay; which was worth seeing but not worth going to see.

As so we swept into Cork empty-handed: no buoys, no rope, no fish-boxes. But who needs fish-boxes when they are going to collect 25 fit-for-food-use grocery crates? An added bonus was that Young Bolivar, not seen since September, was working a shift in Dau.II’s restaurant and offered to help carry the crates out to the car. Just a perfick day, I’m glad I spent it with you. Damned glad we didn’t drive the car spectacularly off a cliff at the end, as well.

Friday, 6 April 2018

Thelma Louise and The Brother

Yesterday I had an awf'y big adventure. We had all my descendants on the farrrm for Easter and that was lovely but they went on their diaspora way on Tuesday. Dau.I was bound for Dublin, so I gave her a lift to the bus. On the way I mentioned that I was planning a trip to Dublin on Thursday with one of my BiNNfo students and could we meet for lunch? She demurred - Thursday she was starting a new job but . . . if I was coming up could I bring her Brother sewing machine [R] and leave it somewhere for her to collect after work?  When I left home yest morning, I loaded the machine in the back of the car, drove to The Institute to pick up student and then on and up the Dublin. BiNNfo has been doing a final year research project on the immunology of bats which has turned out really interesting and successful. I wanted him to show-case his work with a couple of my friends: one an immunologist in TCD and the other Ireland's GoTo person for bats in UCD.

The night before I left, I had a panic attack about parking the car in the centre of Dublin. I had no coins in the house to feed a parking meter, which is an absurdly inconvenient €2.90/hr. Should I throw the car in a car-park at €3.40/hr where at least I could pay by credit card? How far was the nearest car-park? Would it be full? Then a faint tinkling bell of relief rang in my 'mind' to suggest that prk and txt had come together in collision of convenience. And this turned out to be true, the Internet of Things now allows you to send a txt to 53311:
PARK yellow 120 CarReg M
which will take 2 x €2.90 + 0.20c and allow your car to park in the high-demand yellow zone from now until 120 minutes later. M is for Mobile; if you leave off that final M then the parking robot will call back to let you key in a credit card number. When we arrived near to TCD for our first meeting, I found a convenient parking spot 2 minutes walk from the venue. Then I sent the txt and could pretend that no money had been spent, and I certainly hadn't required a fistful of coins. After that meeting, we drove out to UCD and I did the same trick with the phonopark txt: I was feeling like an old hand at this stage. The technology for achieving this convenience has all there awhile: my phone effectively is a virtual coin-purse; the parking officers can scan number-plates; the plate can be looked up on the cloud to see if it is paid up or delinquent. That's clever enough but our second meeting over-ran the time and I was alerted to the fact that only 10 minutes remained on the clock. Rather than an undignified rushing out to a distant car with another fistful of coinage, I resent the txt to obtain a further hour of parking while sitting in the meeting. Decoupling the me from the physical location of the car and the car from the physical location of a pay-meter is amazing but now so entirely normal. And this can all be achieved with my button-phone! When I was a kid this sort of "Beam me cash, Scotty" thing was called science fiction.

I'm a simple old buffer and truth-to-tell, this cloud adventure with parking was the high point of my day. But the day was successful on a more important front in that my star student came away with two (2!) offers for an internship this coming summer. Students at The Institute are required to do a 12 week work-placement to qualify to graduate. Work-placement can be dull dull dull: stacking boxes in the warehouse of a pharmaceutical company or picking spuds at an agricultural research station. But the students suck it up like a cold bath before breakfast: good for you but not exactly fun. If you're that way inclined, doing actual science in a real laboratory for you internship has got to be preferable.

Anyway we were pretty stoked when we came away. On the way up to town we'd had a discussion about the ethics and economics of scientific publishing [prev on predatory publishers]; on the way home we had our own science to talk about. We'd had a number of suggestions from the meetings that need to be discussed and also the relative merits of working on immunology in a bat lab OR on bats in an immunology lab . . . OR to step sideways and take the toolkit acquired during the almost finished project into a different lab and be an asset there. I suggested that we all have different strengths and predilections and it was important to think about this rather than drifting into something just because it was available. By way of illustration, I told him my near death experience story to illustrate that I was a danger to myself and others in a laboratory and it was safer to have me tricking about with computers. Yada yada yada, until I am brought up short by a toll-booth in front of us demanding €1.90 for further progress down the motorway.  I'd been so taken with telling stories against myself that I'd missed the fork in the road [see Yakking on map above R] that separates Carlow traffic from Cork traffic.

So on top of a long but exciting day, I'd caused us to embark on a huge three-county cross-country dog-leg of a road trip. I started musing about how there were other places where I was a danger to myself and others: like being so distracted by story-telling that I didn't know which road I was driving on. Then I remembered the sewing machine! At one stage in Dublin, th' golldarn sewing machine and its owner had been 1 km apart, now they were receding from each other at about 100km/h. Cue Thelma and Louise . . . and The Brother.

Monday, 6 May 2019

up stakes new pastures

When Dau.I came back from foreign two year ago, The Beloved her mother went to England and rented a Renault Trafic to repatriate 5 years of accumulated 'history'. I don't think the load approached the 900kg laden weight limit but it certainly filled the 4 cu.m. interior space. Boxes of books, bookshelves, a couple of hand-painted junk-shop chairs, kitchen utensils, plates, mugs, rugs, blankets, sheets, clothes, hats, shoes. It's a long way from what the !ung consider essential for living in the Kalahari.  When I arrived in Dublin in 1973 fresh off the boat, I considered 20 lt of books to be essential hand-baggage for a new life, that and a modest suitcase of clothes. Eight months later, I had accreted a lot more stuff includiing books. After the year-end exams,I packed up everything with the intention of walking to Heuston Station from Landowne Road where I was then sharing a flat with 3 accountants and a geologist. I made about a100m before both arms where strettttched to the pavement with the lugging & heaving and I was at the taxi rank beside Jury's Hotel. Vrooommmmm! I think that was the 1st time I ever paid for a cab. One year later I was again moving my traps but elected to under-engineer a trolley to push a tea-chest full of material possessions until it collapsed long before destination. I clearly wasn't in the habit of a) using taxis b) shedding any of the accumulated gubbins. Thossse preciousss booksss.

Last week I was up in Dublin helping Dau.I move from deepest darkest Northside in the shadow of the M50 orbital motorway to Crumlin just south of the Grand Canal. On the scale of things this is almost city centre. It was a more civilised way of doing a moonlight flit to the new gaff, but even two carfuls each 1.5 cu.m. didn't finish the job. One of those English antique chairs emerged for loading; and a guitar with one string; a sewing machine; a packet of Spanish cooking chocolate unopened since a holday last year; a plastic tray in the shape of an anchor - for serving crisps at a nautical themed costume party. It wasn't quite pieces of string too small to keep but close. I can't talk: far from two carfuls of crap, we have two shedfuls of accumulated stuff at home up the mountains. When Javi came to stay with us when the girls were small, he cuckooed himself a shed by forcing a radical de-clutter on us. But like a beach cleared of sand after a big storm, that shed gradually filled up again after Javi left.

But in the further reaches of Casa Javi, I found an almost empty [some of the family can do book-triage] black bookcase with 3m of running shelf. It fits in the back of the Scenic [I checked] and will serve to get most of Dau.I's books out of packing crates. On one of the trips between Finglas and Crumlin, I told her some war-stories of moving stuff in the days before cars: like the Tale of the Tea-chest [above] and the time I bought a large second-hand bookcase on the far side of town and pushed it home balanced on the pedal of my bicycle. We also reflected on how neither nature or nurture seems to have had much effect on Dau.II who was konmari-ing before Mari Kondo was ever heard of. That young woman can go on a week's holiday packing everything she needs into one small shopping bag. When she came at Easter, the simnel cake [mmmmmgood] she'd baked took up more space than everying else she was carrying.

While we were Thelma and Louiseing round town, we did a Renault Scenic run for Dau.I's SO [hereinafter D1so] who has lived in Phibsborough for three years and is also moving into the new gaff in Crumlin. Much less matériel there. I sense that there may be a Javiesque inquisition in the future that will give Dau.I's things a bit of a haircut.

Sunday, 2 June 2019

Bobs bits n bobs

I'm in England this w/e, visiting my mother with Thelma & Louise Dau.I and Dau.II. As we're tooling along the by-ways, past various village greens, I'll probably start to hum some English ditties :-
Other Matter:

Sunday, 29 September 2019

Last Sept link fest

As you read this I'll be bumbling through South Wales with Dau.II on a bit of a Thelma and Louise. So . . .
Other matters:

Saturday, 19 October 2019

Dunmore Chronicles

My Grandfather was harbourmaster of Dunmore East in Co Waterford from the foundation of the [Free] State until he retired in 1947. That year my own father, his son, turned 30. Insofar as the younger man had a home, I guess it was Dunmore until he married in 1950. The woman he married, my aged mother, has recently turned in her cards as a self-catering, autonomous 99 y.o. and signed heraself into A Home about 5km from the village where she lived since 1983. It took a medical crisis and a trip to hospital than made everyone realise how exhausting it had been to cook and clean for herself being registered blind and increasingly wobbly. Dau.II and I did a Thelma and Louise a couple of weeks ago to help tidy up the house for sale.  We turned up a little framed photograph with broken glass in a desk drawer and I brought it away for rescue and restoration:
The little cutey is my father, aged 10ish in ?1927? He is sitting on the quayside in Dunmore not looking the least bit proprietal because his father was The Gaffer. It reminds me of The Boyhood of Raleigh, without the ruffs:
And less you think that my Old Man was a passive poser for pictures, I also came across this seascape:
That was painted by my father in the Summer of 1939, just before the Scheiße trifft den Fan with WWII. The good ship D3 in the forescape is one of a class modified from a design by famous naval architect Uffa Fox and built by my grandfather, I guess with help from his son when the latter wasn't at school in Co Down or Dartmouth or sailing the main. I've always been a little in awe of my grandfather, who knew me aged 2 but not vice versa, because he died the following year in 1957. He lived a riotously adventurous life and definitely could sew on a button. On the striking coincidence front, I had just returned from England when the man who occupied my father's bed in his capacity as son of the subsequent harbourmaster of Dunmore East sent me this clipping from The Munster Express 12 Jan 1940:
The principal in that obituary is the great-grandmother of The Beloved and Mr Patk Baldwin-Cardiff is Pat the Salt's father. When The Beloved and I met in 1973, we were a long way from our roots in East Waterford. Indeed it was weeks before we realised that there was any kind of connexion.

Tuesday, 11 June 2019

Abilene - a bad deal for all

Dau.I and Dau.II aka Thelma & Louise and I went on a million metre road trip last week-end to visit my aged mother. At least when we were aboard the ferry, we could all take our eyes off the road and have some downtime. Four hours is a long time to be looking at a featureless ocean and, as uncertain [puka puka] sailors none of us had the stomach to while away some of the time eating over-priced fish and chips. Someone had, however, thrown in a book of Times Jumbo Crossword Puzzles and we did a bit collectively towards solving the current puzzle. I was pretty sure of the answer to this clue:
34 Ac Town in Texas (7) A_I_E_ _
But checked on Google, to be sure to be sure which offered Abilene . . . Paradox. Which was intriguing because I'd never heard of it.

It turns out to be a malign subset of groupthink. Groupthink is where, in an effort to fit in with those around you, you find yourself agreeing to some daft or dysfunctional outcome. The Abilene Paradox is named for a story where one member of a family in Texas suggests driving the two hours in to Abilene [R it's a long long way to Abilene] for dinner. Another relative says that sounds swell. The next almost sounds enthusiastic and the final person agrees wholeheartedly. They head off to Abilene, get caught in a dust-storm, have a crappy meal at the only place in town still open and return home at midnight feeling 'dissatisfied'. In the post mortem, it turns out that they have all been really terrible in their ability to communicate their true thoughts and desires to their nearest and dearest. Assertiveness training required all round!

About 15 years ago, someone at work suggested that we might do a Kris Kringle = Secret Santa at the annual December office party. A couple of other people had heard about such things and a couple more had actually participated in one. Suddenly everyone is agreeing that we should all do this at the office party. I find the whole charade embarrassing and intrusive: the only value in doing a Kris Kringle is if you can use it to be intentionally and anonymously cruel to the people who really annoy you at work. KKs also came up with Dau.I and Dau.II on our jaunt through England. One of them suggested it was A Good Thing because it meant that you only had to buy one present for your workmates at Christmas.  Here's A Better Thing: don't buy any presents for your colleagues at Christmas: keep that sort of conspicious fatuous consumption within the family. Crappy [and hilarious?] plastic presents, which cost €5 and have a half-life of 5 minutes, do nothing good for the planet.

This is another peculiar example of how the human mind ticks in order to feel happy about itself - prev: Gell-Mann Amnesia.

Thursday, 27 September 2018

I can work . . .

. . . I'm an African woman, give me a job and I can Work. That's a quote from a CBC piece about crossing the US-Canadian border just N of Plattsburg NY.  It just broke my heart. Maybe because these Nigerian and Haitian asylum-seekers are my sort of people: articulate, educated, wanting a better life for their children. They'd rather be banged-up arrested in Canada and put through the mill of bureaucratic scrutiny with a very real chance of being deported at the end of the process. I've deleted the banged-up [slang for imprisonment] because I am fairly confident that the RCMP are going to do their job with efficiency and compassion and without shooting anybody because they're black. Roxham Road [sat-map]is an illegal [accès interdit aux pietons] crossing point but there are tents on the Canadian side;  and police-officers officers are deployed according to the Greyhound bus schedule for arrivals in Plattsburg. taxi-drivers make a handsome living from the 40km one-way fare to a place in the woods. Here's a piece about what actually happens Canada-side nowadays and how the process differs from the USA.
My empathy is also driven by the fact that in 1981, I also made an illegal crossing of the US-Canadian border. My boss and I were on a field trip in the big old Ford Galaxy [a bit like Thelma and Louise without the cliff-edge ending] from Boston up north to Montreal, Trois Rivières, Québec, Caribou, ME and so home. We spent one night in Edmundston, NB and were fossicking around gathering data. Neil spent a few teenage years just down the road in Caribou, Maine and so was quite at home. He suggested that we stroll across the St John River and get a bite to eat in Madawaska ME. We presented ourselves to the US Customs and Immigration with a strong waft of The Patriarchy about us. The official at the desk waved us through, we loafed around, had dinner and then walked back to our temporary digs in Canada. My Visa to the US clearly said, Student and Multiple Entry and I was definitely cleared for Canada, so we thought no more about it.

The next morning we were back again, this time with the car, the same official was unaccountably delighted to see us. It turned out that he'd got a bollicking from his supervisor the night before for allowing an undocumented alien to cross the border even if accompanied by a [patriarchal] US Citizen. According to the official record, the said Alien was still in the USA doing who-knows-what. My miraculous re-appearance from the Canadian side allowed him to balance his books. Seemingly, he should have made me fill out Form 1032/A/56 so that the number of Multiple Entries on my visa could be clocked for statistical purposes. Those were much easier pre-9/11 times especially to-and-fro to Canada. It must be desperately stressful now. Making the bureaucrats work.

Monday, 22 February 2021

What I meant was

I was on a Thelma & Louise last week with an inexperienced driver and someone else who got up to 3rd gear doing circuits of a bucketty 1 hectare field when she was 12. It was fine: there were no cops chasing us . . . partly because we elected to drive through the midle of Midleton and get some mentored experience of town-driving and avoid-not-evade a known Garda checkpoint on the Midleton by-pass. And although we went along the Déise Coast Road nobody drove over a cliff. That was all good.

We started talking about what is forbidden according to the RSA Road Safety Authority but actually common on Irish (and other) roads . . . and maybe even useful for normal, safety, efficient, driving??? In any such discussion you have to be careful of the usual me-exceptionalism which applies to pretty much everyone pretty much everywhere. Parking in Disabled spots because I'll just be a minute; that sort of thing.

We were cruisin' along a main N road at 80km/h when the speed-limit was 100km/h. Suddenly a big-arsed car overtook us by following the jink and swerve get out of the way y'dodderer protocol preferred by such creatures. I explained that, although it was strictly illegal, it was common practice, on straight sections of main roads in Ireland, for slower cars to drift onto the hard-shoulder to make room for those in a tearing hurry. Obligingly the silver car ahead of us proceeded to demonstrate a practiced drift-to-verge manoeuvre to give sea-room to big-arse.

Indicator lights are just that: indicators. I can't hear the dashboard tick of the indicators on my Yaris, because I R Old, so I often pootle along a straight road with no turnings telling everyone I'm about to turn. I am not the only one. A good rule of thumb is to ignore the indicators of all cars negotiating roundabouts. No advantage to lurching into the path of another car because they were indicating a left-turn. I am the only person who, to facilitate inter-driver comms, actually points at the direction I intend to take. That gives more confidence that I am actually going there rather than what my indicators are doing.

It is unsafe and illegal to make any hand-gestures Except!! to other drivers because they are open to mis-interpretation. ditto flashing lights: in Ireland, in city traffic, a super-brief flash of the headlights is an after you message; in Greece head-light flashes more usually mean stand aside, I'm coming through. But nuance is all: the length of the flash differs in the two jurisdictions. In Ireland a double-flash to oncoming traffic can mean speed-trap ahead OR rocks/sheep on the road. In urban traffic, where everything is much slower [although plenty fast enough to kill pedestrians] hand gestures do lubricate the social niceties and the flow of traffic. Humans have been using gesture since we were hunting mammoths so the body-language, and facial expression can add an awful lot of quite nuanced information to the basic hand gesture. In my 20s I had a couple of jobs driving vans for money and racked up a lot of experience for getting through my assigned drops as efficiently as possible; much of it by using non-verbal comms with other road users.

Thursday, 3 September 2020

The Best Day

Tuesday was the 1st of September: the day when, in a normal year, everyone who works at The Institute has to sign in to show that they are present and available for work . . . and not still sipping a pina colada [as R] in  a bar on the Costa del Rico. We weren't expected to do that, but we were requested-and-required to sign in to a Zoom call at 1500hrs and find out what's in store for us and the students for the 2020-2021 academic year. Our wireless "broad"band at home is so sketchy that I had in the Spring driven into work to Zoom at my desk.

Not Tuesday! The Beloved has a life too; and part of that is minding her antient father Pat the Salt - and keeping polished the remains of his collection of marbles. Tuesday was in the middle of a Week-On, so she was i/c; but she had a diary cascade of Zoomy busy events cluttering the morning and forenoon. Accordingly, I offered to take Pat off-site for a Thelma & Louise Pat & Bob out along Costa na Déise to visit some of his old haunts. And it was so-ho-ho


As we came round a cliff-top corner West of Boatstrand [Trá na mBád], we saw [above with wheel-barrow for scale] four people working diligently creating a mandala on the low-tide sand of Kilmurrin Cove. I like that sort of endeavour very much: you have a few hours to create something striking with hard physical work and then it's >!plooosh!< all gone. The antidote to hubris. I didn't abandon Pat and stride across the beach to help. I think it must be the work of Sean Corcoran who has a habit of creating these ephemera

Five minutes later we pulled into Pat's old gaff on the ridge above Bonmahon. It wasn't really sunny but it wasn't properly overcast either and there was a drying warm wind from the West. I parked the Red Yaris where Pat could see the back garden and started to mow the getting-leggy grass. After I'd done one section, I asked if he was ready for coffee and flapjacks - because it's so tiring watching other folk at work. I then declared Café Baldwin to be Open and unpacked him from the car for some of that fresh sea-breeze . . . and decaf n flaps. Then it was one man went to mow for another 40 minutes. I should add that Pat was mowing the grass - about 10 ares of it - without drive-wheels, let alone a ride-on, until the age of 85. Then he announced that a) he was not.going.to.mow.any.more b) he wasn't going to drive the car any more either.  That's when Dau.II and I started to do The Pension Run: mowing the grass for our dinner.
When we got home in time for my Haranguing The Troops Zoom, Pat told everyone who would listen that it had been The Best Day and how we had spent hours mowing the lawn, trimming the hedges, cutting down trees. I was grateful for the bigging up because I was invited to stay for dinner.  The Best Day, mind, not A Perfect Day.

Sunday, 3 August 2014

Gusset plate

The Interstate network across the USA was an amazing piece of infrastructural engineering provided by the Federal government to link the 50 separate countries that make up the republic. Although strictly the section in Hawaii and Alaska should surely be Intrastate highways. It was obvious that such network would benefit trade and travel and tie the nation(s) together.  President Eisenhower signed the enabling legislation into effect in 1956 and 35 years later the initial plan was completed, at which time nearly 80,000km of highway criss-crosssed the country. Road-building is both nirvana and bread-and-butter for civil engineers with all sorts of problems for which creative, robust, redundant solutions must be found. Many of the problems involve the destructive power of water; and drains, culverts and bridges are integral to any highway project. The Interstate project was the terrestrial NASA of its time, creating thousands of jobs and boosting the US economy.  It required the shifting of 30 billion cu.m of earth - about 100x more than for the Panama Canal and contributed enormously to the global carbon footprint because "The concrete used to construct the Interstate System could build a wall nine feet thick and 50 feet high around the world’s equator. "

President Eisenhower was personally and particularly interested because as a young US Army Lieutenant in 1919 he had been part of a logistics experiment in which the US military wanted to see how many soldiers how quickly could they ship from the East to the West coast in the event of war. The answer was a very disturbing not very many, not very fast.

The 50,000 bridges, 25% of which were built at the height of NASA/Interstate mania in the late 1960s, were mostly made of steel because it was desirable to support the US Steel industry where a lot of blue-collar voters were employed.  This was back in the day when Americans built things and created hardware before this dirty dangerous and physically demanding work was peeled off to the Third World and the American economy, like that of Europe, started to subsist on shifting electrons rather than trainloads of coal.  It was a huge pork-barrel and lots of engineering and construction firms got their forks out.  Nothing lasts forever, except Roman aqueducts, and a lot of that hardware is now reaching the end of its useful life. In 2006 Presdent Bush signed a new law to authorise a spend of $300 billion for upgrades. in some cases this was boondoggle. There have, nevertheless, in recent years, been some catastrophic collapses and they make for interesting reading for scientists and engineers and anyone who does the best they can with the material world.

One visually obvious problem is spalling in reinforced concrete, not caused by heat but by the corrosion of the interior steel rods which expand as they oxidise and eventually pop off the exterior concrete which exposed more steel to the air and water.  It is not helped by firing out salt and other de-icing agents every winter, the electrolytes of which greatly speed up the process.  But Engineers build with redundancy and you can lose a certain amount of the volume of the supporting structures and still be within engineering specification.  Another problem is that nobody in 1956 could imagine the volume of traffic at certain key bottle necks in the system.  It's known by anyone who has watched Thelma and Louise or Paris, Texas (Whoop whoop Wenders alert) that you can go for miles and miles without meeting another car on much of the network but at places like Bridge 9340 in across the Mississippi in Minneapolis as many as 140,000 vehicles a day would be travelling along I-35W and most of those in the crush of rush-hour.

On the evening of 1st August 2007, Bridge 9340 was jammers as usual, actually worse than usual because they had closed 4/8 lanes of the deck to repair the surface.  Like many bridges in the Northern states it took a pounding in the winter with the salt, grit and de-icing solutions. So resurfacing was a regular requirement but it required that 250 tons of additional weight (sand, cement, water, machinery) was also on the bridge; not to mention an extra 50mm of concrete above the original specs that had somehow accumulated on the road bed from previous repairs.  ANNyway, at 1805hrs the centre span over the Mississippi collapsed and dumped more than 100 vehicles including a loaded school bus, their occupants and a score of construction workers 30 meters down into the river.  The emergency services from city, county, state and surrounding municipalities responded with commendable speed and efficiency, not least because such a collapse was one of the exercises that they had all carried out together. So only 13 people died and 100 were seriously enough injured to go to hospital.

It turned out that fatigue cracks had appeared in many of the spans over the years but that bracing these by drilling additional steel plates was deemed likely to cause more stress, more immediately than leaving them be.  The cracks had holes drilled in their ends to limit propagation.  The accident investigators finished up pointing the finger at inadequately specified (13mm)  'gusset plates' which hold the trusses together with steel bolts. Inspectors had noticed and photographed bulging gusset plates under the road-deck as early as 2003 but just added that to their conclusion that the bridge, along with dozens of others across the US, was 'structurally deficient' but reached the "minimum tolerable limits to be left in place as it is".  4% (N=4000!) of the bridges classified as 'heavily used' are reckoned to be in less good condition than the bridge over I-35W.  We're going to Boston in a couple of weeks time, I shall be whistling nonchalantly as we cruise along the elevated sections of I-90.

Tuesday, 27 November 2018

When duty whispers low thou must

. . . the youth replies "I can" [Ralph Waldo Emerson]. It was the last weekend in the month, must be a Film Soc night. Was to have been on Saturday but it was bumped 24 hours so that our neighbour Mike could rest in peace in the church next door - and tea and sangwiches could be served in the hall where we usually show films. For November, the selection committee for the Blackstairs Films-with-subtitles Society picked Wajib,  a road movie by Palestinian director Annemarie Jacir. Thelma and Louise it ain't; but it's an interesting unpicking of the challenges of living with other people while being true to your own values.

Shadi comes home to Nazareth to help the family prepare for his younger sister's wedding. Nazareth is a Palestinian town embedded in the North of Israel so it's a bit like living in a Catholic town in the North of Ireland 40 years ago: it's hard to drive around town without seeing dozens of squaddies in uniform. It's edgy because you know that the conscripts' weapons have a magazine of live rounds and you hope they have the safety catch ON. But it is also the new normal and you can't be having an adrenalin rush at every encounter: you'd be wrung out by lunch-time. Shadi has been living in Italy for the last several years a) because he's educated and there are no jobs for Christian designers in Israel and b) because he'd been an angry young man who bridled at the inequities of the place where he was brought up. He sticks out at home because he wears red trousers, a pink shirt and his long hair tied up in a bun. But he casts fresh exile's eyes on the invisible background of his birth-place: the streets are awash with domestic refuse . . . and soldiers in uniform come into the same falafel-and-houmous place where him and his Dad go for a mid-morning snack. It's like the propaganda gables [above R] in housing estates in The North in the 1970s - they were just there for the kids who lived round the corner.

It's not an exciting film because there are no car chases, indeed chunks of time passes as Shadi and his Dad sit in gridlock. They are in the car together because of Wajib - Duty - that requires the family to hand deliver each wedding invitation and accept tea, another tea, more tea and cakes in return. They also have to stand a barrage of polite enquiry and unspoken tsk tsk criticism of their choices, their morals and their standing in society. And who gets an invitation? There is a list decided by quite rigid protocol, which is adhered to lest offense be taken. They have to invite singers who can't carry a tune; Dad's boss who was mixed up in Shadi's enforced exile; all those yahoos from the groom's family; the widowed aunt whom protocol demands cannot attend because she is a single woman; the cousins because they are cousins. Don't even think how much this is all going to cost.

And all the time, both father and son have to button their lips about the failings of others and soldier on through the social mine-field that is a small tight-knit society. The stress exposes the generational difference: the younger man can act on his principles with righteous anger because he has nothing to lose but his life; and all young men know they will live forever. The father has far more hostages to irredeemable  misfortune: his children, his home, his carefully built standing in society (he's a teacher). His principles are tempered by pragmatism, and perhaps by compassion: it's easier for everyone if you tell a few white lies so that your neighbour's cosy belief system is not challenged. Just like any community, in fact.

If you're intrigued by the tribulations of living in Israel and like falafel you might check out the late lamented Anthony Bourdain's 45min programme about eating in Jerusalem.