To the tune of what sounded to me like King Crimson's "Moonchild" -- a bunch of acoustic instruments plunked haltingly by medieval court musicians and occasionally dropped -- the "penguins" marched Tuesday in a bit of pomp before greater austerity sets in.
It is the President's annual Independence Day reception -- several hundred people from all walks of life (but oddly enough, mostly politics) file past the First Couple, wishing them well or complimenting them or sometimes, outlining an extremely concise business proposition. Or vice versa.
In our circle of friends, people throw little informal parties and make comments on the proceedings -- it's supposed to be all about the women's dresses, some of which are fanciful, others atrocious, but in the hands of virtuoso commenters, it can just as easily take in any cultural reference you might think of. It's as close as it gets to Mystery Science Theatre. Since there is no audio of the little exchanges that take place, the possibilities for suggestion are endless.
I took no notice of what anyone was wearing. I was glad to see that the people I knew were, as usual, classy and tasteful. I felt sad for the people who came alone. I studied faces for signs of fatigue -- economy fatigue, even metal fatigue. I struggled to read lips -- what could Evelin Sepp possibly be vouchsafing to the President and his wife? Would anyone Twitter as they were still in the First Couple's thrall?
Some of the more unfamiliar names will for ever be associated with the wrong faces for me, because the announcer calls out the names as the TV camera lingers on the previous couple. It's much the same effect as the "next stop" announcement on Tallinn's buses and trolleys -- it comes before the bus has stopped for the current stop.
Good speech from the Prez (on paper, he goes deeper than Obama), which was in the spirit of collective self-sacrifice and persuasively argued that Estonia's politicians shouldn't be held accountable for the crisis.
Key word: "solidarity", mentioned 11 times -- there hasn't been such an outpouring since Gdansk ca 1981. Shocker line that I guess really isn't when ya think about it: "We have to acknowledge that the election promises of 2007 no longer count."
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
Saturday, February 21, 2009
Local prediction markets?
I wanted to devote a post to the economy. I noticed that there hasn't been much talk about the crisis. Someone should really address this.
Seriously, though, there is a certain quality lacking in coverage, and it's partially responsible for the quicksand, car-wreck-in-slow-motion effect that I'm experienced and frustrated by. For one thing, the lack of authoritative English-language local coverage of the economy.
Even in Estonian, I find myself turning to the comments section in the newspapers to get the "inside scoop", the conventional wisdom, the popular take... Even a well-reported story is not always enough -- I want to know: what does Smartass or Pimplebrain think? But are the comments truly useful? I learn things, but much may be self-delusion.
A symptom of the lack of good English writing on the economy is that the Estonian English-language commentarium's centre of gravity is shifting to the unlikeliest of places -- Baltic Business News. (The articles themselves are written in bad English -- has anybody noticed that?)
A number of relatively lucid and articulate fingers, even native-English-thinking minds congregate there, and hash out what is going on.
My head starts to spin after about 20 comments. No one is necessarily a crank or particularly off-base, yet they come up with completely divergent explanations.
Not only do I not know whether devaluation is a serious possibility in Estonia, I don't even know if my local USD account is safe. I have it on good (though anonymous) authority that it could be either way.
No one agrees on whether the Baltic bubble is separate from the worldwide bubble, or is it the local version of the same thing.
To me, the situation is a writ-small of the whole fragmented media space. In short, too many blogs, and too many anonymous comments.
Maybe everyone brings enough street smarts and connectivity to the table so that reality begins taking shape, mosaic-style, like a crowd painting at the Olympic opening ceremonies, or the picture of James Blunt's face on the Tallinn tour poster. (I hope that reality does not turn out to be James Blunt.) But it's hard to know. And how would one person know -- they would only know their little part of the mosaic.
What I miss most is a smart, slick and slim independent business weekly on the Baltics.
Yeah, who doesn't miss the 20th century sometimes? That publication's probably not going to happen (the economy is down!) but something that would be incredibly useful is Intrade-like, local prediction markets -- to help quantify the situation, instead of just anonymous comments or polls.
I don't know how governments would view such metamarkets...certainly it would be nearly impossible to keep from it being overrun by outside speculators. But even that might be useful, if it brings things to a real head (a true crisis, as opposed to the current interminable "crisis", which is just sloppy use of language) and helps resolve things faster.
**
Common sense says the recession will be just a recession, and everything will average out to about a 5-10% drop in output. Then again, old habits, overpopulation, too many young males in some places in the world, a rickety environment all make me wonder whether the end of the recession will only come by another means. So there's the dark view.
Everywhere there is the spectre of chain reaction, that already makes everything scarier and more protracted than it should be.
Look at what Ukraine and Russia got up to, over a relatively uncomplex supply contract issue. Electronic dispatches move at light speed, but it takes 48 hours for gas to reach Europe after a valve is turned. Gas was supposedly restored about 5 times before it actually was.
With other goods, the lag time is worse. We know how recycled waste is still piling up in US ports because China doesn't need it, and how unsold new Toyotas are accumulating in lots.
We know all the starting positions. We know that China is the Great Hoarder, that Eastern Europe and the US, among others are the profligate Spenders. That the price of oil is the big question mark. That no one wants to give up their traditional Roles.
So what will happen?
I think that one thing is fairly sure -- some sort of small deus ex machina that no one was expecting will make the difference and tip things a certain way.
Prediction markets might not be that, but they would be another kind of god, a vox dei.
Seriously, though, there is a certain quality lacking in coverage, and it's partially responsible for the quicksand, car-wreck-in-slow-motion effect that I'm experienced and frustrated by. For one thing, the lack of authoritative English-language local coverage of the economy.
Even in Estonian, I find myself turning to the comments section in the newspapers to get the "inside scoop", the conventional wisdom, the popular take... Even a well-reported story is not always enough -- I want to know: what does Smartass or Pimplebrain think? But are the comments truly useful? I learn things, but much may be self-delusion.
A symptom of the lack of good English writing on the economy is that the Estonian English-language commentarium's centre of gravity is shifting to the unlikeliest of places -- Baltic Business News. (The articles themselves are written in bad English -- has anybody noticed that?)
A number of relatively lucid and articulate fingers, even native-English-thinking minds congregate there, and hash out what is going on.
My head starts to spin after about 20 comments. No one is necessarily a crank or particularly off-base, yet they come up with completely divergent explanations.
Not only do I not know whether devaluation is a serious possibility in Estonia, I don't even know if my local USD account is safe. I have it on good (though anonymous) authority that it could be either way.
No one agrees on whether the Baltic bubble is separate from the worldwide bubble, or is it the local version of the same thing.
To me, the situation is a writ-small of the whole fragmented media space. In short, too many blogs, and too many anonymous comments.
Maybe everyone brings enough street smarts and connectivity to the table so that reality begins taking shape, mosaic-style, like a crowd painting at the Olympic opening ceremonies, or the picture of James Blunt's face on the Tallinn tour poster. (I hope that reality does not turn out to be James Blunt.) But it's hard to know. And how would one person know -- they would only know their little part of the mosaic.
What I miss most is a smart, slick and slim independent business weekly on the Baltics.
Yeah, who doesn't miss the 20th century sometimes? That publication's probably not going to happen (the economy is down!) but something that would be incredibly useful is Intrade-like, local prediction markets -- to help quantify the situation, instead of just anonymous comments or polls.
I don't know how governments would view such metamarkets...certainly it would be nearly impossible to keep from it being overrun by outside speculators. But even that might be useful, if it brings things to a real head (a true crisis, as opposed to the current interminable "crisis", which is just sloppy use of language) and helps resolve things faster.
**
Common sense says the recession will be just a recession, and everything will average out to about a 5-10% drop in output. Then again, old habits, overpopulation, too many young males in some places in the world, a rickety environment all make me wonder whether the end of the recession will only come by another means. So there's the dark view.
Everywhere there is the spectre of chain reaction, that already makes everything scarier and more protracted than it should be.
Look at what Ukraine and Russia got up to, over a relatively uncomplex supply contract issue. Electronic dispatches move at light speed, but it takes 48 hours for gas to reach Europe after a valve is turned. Gas was supposedly restored about 5 times before it actually was.
With other goods, the lag time is worse. We know how recycled waste is still piling up in US ports because China doesn't need it, and how unsold new Toyotas are accumulating in lots.
We know all the starting positions. We know that China is the Great Hoarder, that Eastern Europe and the US, among others are the profligate Spenders. That the price of oil is the big question mark. That no one wants to give up their traditional Roles.
So what will happen?
I think that one thing is fairly sure -- some sort of small deus ex machina that no one was expecting will make the difference and tip things a certain way.
Prediction markets might not be that, but they would be another kind of god, a vox dei.
Friday, February 20, 2009
Golden advice
I'm going to keep on listening to my cousin for financial advice, wherever he is.
My cousin is always doing something in some country. He is living proof of the old saying that an Estonian is in every harbour in the world. I believe that is the saying.
Many years ago, after he had finished business school in Estonia and made his way into the wide world, I heard he was in Dublin. Because he had once had an unsuccessful stint at a fast food outlet in Brysonville, N.C. when a lad on a work visa programme, I feared he had become one of the exploited Estonian potato pickers in Ireland. Then I Googled him and his LinkedIn profile said he was a derivatives trader in Porto. Literally a couple hours later, he called me from an undisclosed location; he finally admitted he was working at the Bank of Ireland and, yes, he had his own computer there. Apparently, like some electronic funds, he can be in two places at once.
I visited his Orkut profile and he was talking in the messages section to a real princess of Sweden and she was answering. It was like they were characters in Moliere.
He'll sometimes, in a blue moon, call me on Skype with some proposition, always a little sketchy, often involving visas. I learn new country codes from his calls. He was in China -- all he said was that he was in a seaside city with good air. Didn't know it existed. Apparently there is one city like that; I asked Xin, the Chinese guy I met in Firenze, and he answered immediately: Chengdu, and then he made a little wistful grimace.
Anyway, by the time I had pinpointed him, my cousin was long gone, to South Korea.
He called me in mid-November from China -- now he was teaching English -- asking if I had bought gold yet. He said he was converting his earnings into gold. I muttered something about possibly putting 10% into "some ingots".
Gold started climbing no more than 5 days later and now it's almost 50% higher than it was. I gave my relatives some 5-gram plates for Christmas, so I did catch most of the rise.
I hope the Estonian central bank also bought some. They've been gold-shy. In the early part of this decade, they had about 30 times less than Latvia or Lithuania.
My cousin is always doing something in some country. He is living proof of the old saying that an Estonian is in every harbour in the world. I believe that is the saying.
Many years ago, after he had finished business school in Estonia and made his way into the wide world, I heard he was in Dublin. Because he had once had an unsuccessful stint at a fast food outlet in Brysonville, N.C. when a lad on a work visa programme, I feared he had become one of the exploited Estonian potato pickers in Ireland. Then I Googled him and his LinkedIn profile said he was a derivatives trader in Porto. Literally a couple hours later, he called me from an undisclosed location; he finally admitted he was working at the Bank of Ireland and, yes, he had his own computer there. Apparently, like some electronic funds, he can be in two places at once.
I visited his Orkut profile and he was talking in the messages section to a real princess of Sweden and she was answering. It was like they were characters in Moliere.
He'll sometimes, in a blue moon, call me on Skype with some proposition, always a little sketchy, often involving visas. I learn new country codes from his calls. He was in China -- all he said was that he was in a seaside city with good air. Didn't know it existed. Apparently there is one city like that; I asked Xin, the Chinese guy I met in Firenze, and he answered immediately: Chengdu, and then he made a little wistful grimace.
Anyway, by the time I had pinpointed him, my cousin was long gone, to South Korea.
He called me in mid-November from China -- now he was teaching English -- asking if I had bought gold yet. He said he was converting his earnings into gold. I muttered something about possibly putting 10% into "some ingots".
Gold started climbing no more than 5 days later and now it's almost 50% higher than it was. I gave my relatives some 5-gram plates for Christmas, so I did catch most of the rise.
I hope the Estonian central bank also bought some. They've been gold-shy. In the early part of this decade, they had about 30 times less than Latvia or Lithuania.
Wednesday, February 18, 2009
God particle hijinks
Good God! A swift downturn is going around the globe, forcing companies and people to do the very types of things that can only accelerate and reinforce the downturn, and yet in some shady suburb near a campus, teams of scientists are after something that the press is calling a God particle (without understanding why it was originally called that).
It's a misnomer in some sense, because it would have really little practical (or divine) value, and we wouldn't be closer to a grand unified theory that would explain gravity. So I have no idea why the Higgs boson is a God particle, except finding it would apparently produce huge sighs of relief -- "Thank God, there's a probability we're still on the right track!" -- and that maybe there will still be funding.
And then the same scientists would be off to find the next, even-smaller particle.
Forgive me, but I'm a flat-earther when it comes to anything below quantum size. If you want to train a powerful microscope at a single pixel on your computer screen and try to tell me what it is made of based on the pulses of energy that periodically pass through it, I wish you well.
But seriously, doesn't it seem that the description of the subatomic world has degenerated into some kind of mad shaggy-dog story? We're bending backwards, inventing additional dimensions and parameters. It's like one of those offshoots of Hinduism with all sorts of minor godheads and planes. It used to be so simple and elegant when it was just Buddhism.
It seems there was more elegance in the early 20th century, when dew-eyed wunderkinder like Einstein were coming up with their opuses -- and warmongers were funding a race for a very concrete technology for world domination. Now it's just a pro forma grudge match to find something that doesn't even exist.
My useful tip for finding small particles:
IT'S WHEREVER THE %&/% WAVE FUNCTION SUGGESTS IT WILL MOST PROBABLY BE LOCATED!!!
It's a misnomer in some sense, because it would have really little practical (or divine) value, and we wouldn't be closer to a grand unified theory that would explain gravity. So I have no idea why the Higgs boson is a God particle, except finding it would apparently produce huge sighs of relief -- "Thank God, there's a probability we're still on the right track!" -- and that maybe there will still be funding.
And then the same scientists would be off to find the next, even-smaller particle.
Forgive me, but I'm a flat-earther when it comes to anything below quantum size. If you want to train a powerful microscope at a single pixel on your computer screen and try to tell me what it is made of based on the pulses of energy that periodically pass through it, I wish you well.
But seriously, doesn't it seem that the description of the subatomic world has degenerated into some kind of mad shaggy-dog story? We're bending backwards, inventing additional dimensions and parameters. It's like one of those offshoots of Hinduism with all sorts of minor godheads and planes. It used to be so simple and elegant when it was just Buddhism.
It seems there was more elegance in the early 20th century, when dew-eyed wunderkinder like Einstein were coming up with their opuses -- and warmongers were funding a race for a very concrete technology for world domination. Now it's just a pro forma grudge match to find something that doesn't even exist.
My useful tip for finding small particles:
IT'S WHEREVER THE %&/% WAVE FUNCTION SUGGESTS IT WILL MOST PROBABLY BE LOCATED!!!
Sunday, February 15, 2009
Our apartment transformed
A small non-profit social space opened in our old apartment on Süda on Feb. 14. It was a bit of a strange place to live full-time, but it has been transformed into a hub of activity and it doesn't seem overcrowded even with 10 people in there.
We attended the grand opening yesterday. A violinist played reels. (I tried to accompany her on rhythm guitar.) There was a rowing machine race, various arts and crafts.
As of now, it's far from established, but I am pleased -- this was the best solution as far as finding a tenant.
The idea is that if you are in Tallinn with your kids, you can drop by and give them something to do, perhaps have a cup of coffee while getting some work done on your laptop or even run an errand in the neighbourhood.
It all works on the "suggested donation" principle. They have licensed staff and are legit, but the organizers, MTÜ Pererahvas, are taking pains to keep it distinct from a paid commercial service (such as Ema Lapse Keskus) for the time being, because it is in the centre -- they don't want total strangers loitering, and mainly they don't want people to expect that if they pay x kroons they will get x amount of service. It's not a daycare centre, but a social space.
Saturday, February 14, 2009
Challenges of Western civilization
Our return was interesting as usual and good for an imperceptible rise in blood pressure. Our Morocco guidebook’s introduction was full of warnings that Morocco can be a challenge although rewarding. So why is it that the problems posed by Western civilization are far more thorny for me?
It started before we even left African airspace. Thomas Cook Airlines informed everyone that that morning in Sweden, they had failed to load the bread for the in-filght meal. Yeah, well, I couldn’t find my sunglasses the day before – so what? Why were they telling me about a mistake at Arlanda? That would have left the Morocco-bound passengers breadless, but you mean to tell me that they couldn’t pick up some replacement bread at a local market in Agadir in the three hours that the plane was refuelling? It costs about 15 cents a loaf and is excellent. Croissants cost 20 cents.
At the very least, they could have offered free drinks to the passengers who had to eat their cream cheese and Camembert with spoon. But no. Instead, during the second half of the flight, the flight attendants annoyed everyone by trying to sell us things we didn’t need – even lottery tickets. It was pathetic. If the flight had been any longer, they would have come around enticing us with three-card monte. Thomas Cook Scandinavia was by far the biggest hustle and hassle of the week in Morocco.
We got into Arlanda at around 9pm, to a smattering of applause. (I’ve always wondered why people applaud a landing and sometimes they do not.)
I left the family in the warmth of Terminal 5 and took the Most Expensive Cab Ride in the Universe to the long-term parking in Märsta, about 3 miles away. Actually it was only the Most Expensive Metered Cab Ride in the Universe; the most expensive ride would have been a 250 kronor ($35) offer. Not only did this guy quote this price with a straight face; he refused to haggle and got all defensive when I counter-offered 150 kronor.
The next thing to happen is that as I returned to Terminal 5, I faced a choice of three parking lots and one garage. I had to go inside the terminal with a bag full of winter clothes for the kids, so being a good citizen in the post-9/11 age, I didn’t want to leave the car idling outside.***
I entered one of the parking lots, pushed a button for a card from an unmarked machine and after spiralling around on the access roads, found myself about 500 m from Terminal 5. When I drove out fifteen minutes later, I put the card in a different machine and it asked for 80 kronor ($12). Hint: as long as you have a computer in charge of things, perhaps program a courtesy option so that people who mistakenly enter can get out less than 30 minutes later without damaging themselves or airport property?
Q: Why are we are in a "recession"? A: Madoff is an insignificant tip of the iceberg.
Luckily the cash haemorrhaging ended there, but not necessarily the potentialproblems. We drove to Kista, a strategic stop 2/3 of the way to Stockholm. We stayed at the Ibis Hotel this time. Here another classic challenge of Western civilization was narrowly averted. It was past 10pm, the reception didn’t take cash (and since does one have to pay in advance for a card-secured reservation anyway?), yet I barely had enough on the card. Had I lacked funds, I would have had to go online to transfer funds to the card. But the only way to purchase online time at the Ibis? Why, with the credit card of course.
We could have easily run afoul of another problem – the ban on more than three people in a room, dictated by some higher authority. I don’t know what families with more than one child do when they travel in Sweden. If a hotel doesn’t have the creature known as a Family Room (usually about $150 rather than $100) you can’t really stay there.
Back when I was in better-citizen mode, I even called Ibis Arlanda to ask about a room for two adults and two kids. No, said the receptionist, you would have to book an extra room. "If there is a fire,“ she said, followed by some specious explanation, which I didn’t really listen to because I thought she was full of shit and I already had the image of the Ibis in flames in my mind.
Anyway, the challenges got easier. The clerk turned a blind eye to the caravan trooping past her. And the Ibis at Kista was motellish but pleasant with Nordic interior design – don’t see why some of the reviews are negative.
We slept late, went to the food court of the Kista Galleria for breakfast, which was lunch for everyone else, everyone else being most of Greater Stockholm.
Food is good there – pricey but umpteen ethnicities to choose from and huge portions with beverage included.
I eavesdropped on an American from DC talk about his dot-com, life in Sweden, etc.
This may sound creepy but it was the perfect eavesdropping experience – he was talking to a Swedish co-worker, I think, and being very candid. I think I even motioned for my wife to be quiet at one point -- I wanted to hear the guy’s take on Obama. Luckily my wife was listening fairly intently herself so she didn’t mind.
We didn’t have time to do anything in Stockholm except go back and forth on E4/E20 looking for the point where E20 splits off to the harbour. We missed it the first time and stupidly ended up driving about 20 km toward Helsingborg.
I don’t know if this happens to readers, but often a highway that is east-west on your map is listed as N or S on road signs?
Most hilarious on-ship experience -- and I'm sorry I didn't snap an iSight pic -- the tax-free catalogue's wine descriptions in Estonian. "Tostat, sofistikerat" (Swedish for roasted flavour, sophisticated) was translated "kergelt röstine, märg leib" (lightly toasted, wet bread). I know not why.
*** As it turned out, they did have some parking spaces that could be used free of charge for a couple minutes for passenger pickup.
It started before we even left African airspace. Thomas Cook Airlines informed everyone that that morning in Sweden, they had failed to load the bread for the in-filght meal. Yeah, well, I couldn’t find my sunglasses the day before – so what? Why were they telling me about a mistake at Arlanda? That would have left the Morocco-bound passengers breadless, but you mean to tell me that they couldn’t pick up some replacement bread at a local market in Agadir in the three hours that the plane was refuelling? It costs about 15 cents a loaf and is excellent. Croissants cost 20 cents.
At the very least, they could have offered free drinks to the passengers who had to eat their cream cheese and Camembert with spoon. But no. Instead, during the second half of the flight, the flight attendants annoyed everyone by trying to sell us things we didn’t need – even lottery tickets. It was pathetic. If the flight had been any longer, they would have come around enticing us with three-card monte. Thomas Cook Scandinavia was by far the biggest hustle and hassle of the week in Morocco.
We got into Arlanda at around 9pm, to a smattering of applause. (I’ve always wondered why people applaud a landing and sometimes they do not.)
I left the family in the warmth of Terminal 5 and took the Most Expensive Cab Ride in the Universe to the long-term parking in Märsta, about 3 miles away. Actually it was only the Most Expensive Metered Cab Ride in the Universe; the most expensive ride would have been a 250 kronor ($35) offer. Not only did this guy quote this price with a straight face; he refused to haggle and got all defensive when I counter-offered 150 kronor.
The next thing to happen is that as I returned to Terminal 5, I faced a choice of three parking lots and one garage. I had to go inside the terminal with a bag full of winter clothes for the kids, so being a good citizen in the post-9/11 age, I didn’t want to leave the car idling outside.***
I entered one of the parking lots, pushed a button for a card from an unmarked machine and after spiralling around on the access roads, found myself about 500 m from Terminal 5. When I drove out fifteen minutes later, I put the card in a different machine and it asked for 80 kronor ($12). Hint: as long as you have a computer in charge of things, perhaps program a courtesy option so that people who mistakenly enter can get out less than 30 minutes later without damaging themselves or airport property?
Q: Why are we are in a "recession"? A: Madoff is an insignificant tip of the iceberg.
Luckily the cash haemorrhaging ended there, but not necessarily the potentialproblems. We drove to Kista, a strategic stop 2/3 of the way to Stockholm. We stayed at the Ibis Hotel this time. Here another classic challenge of Western civilization was narrowly averted. It was past 10pm, the reception didn’t take cash (and since does one have to pay in advance for a card-secured reservation anyway?), yet I barely had enough on the card. Had I lacked funds, I would have had to go online to transfer funds to the card. But the only way to purchase online time at the Ibis? Why, with the credit card of course.
We could have easily run afoul of another problem – the ban on more than three people in a room, dictated by some higher authority. I don’t know what families with more than one child do when they travel in Sweden. If a hotel doesn’t have the creature known as a Family Room (usually about $150 rather than $100) you can’t really stay there.
Back when I was in better-citizen mode, I even called Ibis Arlanda to ask about a room for two adults and two kids. No, said the receptionist, you would have to book an extra room. "If there is a fire,“ she said, followed by some specious explanation, which I didn’t really listen to because I thought she was full of shit and I already had the image of the Ibis in flames in my mind.
Anyway, the challenges got easier. The clerk turned a blind eye to the caravan trooping past her. And the Ibis at Kista was motellish but pleasant with Nordic interior design – don’t see why some of the reviews are negative.
We slept late, went to the food court of the Kista Galleria for breakfast, which was lunch for everyone else, everyone else being most of Greater Stockholm.
Food is good there – pricey but umpteen ethnicities to choose from and huge portions with beverage included.
I eavesdropped on an American from DC talk about his dot-com, life in Sweden, etc.
This may sound creepy but it was the perfect eavesdropping experience – he was talking to a Swedish co-worker, I think, and being very candid. I think I even motioned for my wife to be quiet at one point -- I wanted to hear the guy’s take on Obama. Luckily my wife was listening fairly intently herself so she didn’t mind.
We didn’t have time to do anything in Stockholm except go back and forth on E4/E20 looking for the point where E20 splits off to the harbour. We missed it the first time and stupidly ended up driving about 20 km toward Helsingborg.
I don’t know if this happens to readers, but often a highway that is east-west on your map is listed as N or S on road signs?
Most hilarious on-ship experience -- and I'm sorry I didn't snap an iSight pic -- the tax-free catalogue's wine descriptions in Estonian. "Tostat, sofistikerat" (Swedish for roasted flavour, sophisticated) was translated "kergelt röstine, märg leib" (lightly toasted, wet bread). I know not why.
*** As it turned out, they did have some parking spaces that could be used free of charge for a couple minutes for passenger pickup.
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
Last full day
Finding a beach like this at the northern city limits on our last day was a little bittersweet. Besides 150 ft high dunes, there was a rock formation with caves which slowly filled with water as the tide came in.
Not wishing a repeat of yesterday's Diabat debacle, I scouted the beach out on an early-morning run. We made the 2 km trip from the north gate of the medina in two taxis, as usual. We took a horse-drawn caleche back, not a tourist conveyance but a practical vehicle that cost about the same as the two taxis and allowed us to ride together.
We ate lunch at Ferdaouss, a restaurant that gets positive reviews. The cool, dim interior and tasteful decor was welcome, but I found it to be unimpressive, with Muzak that could have been at a Chinese restaurant in the US suburbs. Highlight was a braised eggplant appetizer -- how come mine never ends up that tender? Chevreau (OK, goat) with onions, chickpeas and raisins was good, though with a scorched taste in the sauce that wasn't pleasing. I had had goat before at a California parking lot taco stand, I like it more than lamb. Couscous was an uninteresting slurry, I kept on spooning the gravy or sauce over it, but there was no magic. I suppose it was the real thing, texture-wise, so that was instructive. When I make it, it is more like polenta. Pastilla, the sweet and savoury Moroccan pigeon pie, was not on the menu, so that will have to wait until next time.
A henna artist took advantage of me as I was standing on the boardwalk with baby in sling, waiting for wife and other kid to come back from the souq. Before I could say merci non, blobs of semi-permanent ink had been applied to my forearm in the shape of a scorpion with a suspicious Arabic inscription. I'm glad it's long-sleeves weather in Stockholm; it's going to take more than a couple saunas before it wears off.
This extortive experience got me fired up for my own last-minute trip to the souq, where the very first spice dealer I passed tried to railroad me into a purchase of stale premixed spice. I insisted I was only looking for argan oil and merguez (sausage), which was true. But some spice dealers are businessmen, not just specialists. He disappeared, leaving me in the back room of his stall with his child of about 5, who was doing her English homework, and duly came back with a bottle of argan oil, at the premium tourist price of about 10 euros for 250 mL. (All the guidebooks say to buy argan oil with a label on it, and this one did, but who doesn't have access to a colour printer these days?) I couldn't get him down in price, as it was his friends' oil. I walked out, buying a minuscule amount of spices as my ticket out; as just walking out would be interpreted as a countermove in a bargaining session.
The next stall had a bottle of argan oil with an even more minimalistic label. I asked what cooperative it was made at, and he said it was made by one woman, which is a story I had never heard before. The single-woman "I don't need no cooperative" method had produced a liquid that was suspiciously transparent, like light olive oil. This bottle was a single exemplar, said the salesman. It could not be opened for tasting. It also cost 10 euros though I could get him down to about 7. He could, however, let me taste another bottle and fetched it. It was the same as the first salesman's bottle. This indeed proved to be good argan oil (which I can't yet differentiate from roasted hazelnut oil, but the latter would probably be worth as much). If it's identical, I said, I'll take this one, but I'm not paying more than 6 euros. I walked away again, but he called me back, saying I definitely wanted the oil made by the lone woman, as she was a legend in her village.
After some more back-and-forth, he said he would let me taste the oil. It turned out to probably be sunflower oil, it had no nuttiness. Too bad -- I didn't want to "defeat" the salesman, and call his bluff; I just wanted to buy the good oil for cheap. I said I would go walk around, smoke a cigarette (I don't smoke, but it seemed like after a tense battle, it would be something you would do). "What kind of cigarette," said the salesman, and he was off on everybody's favourite Moroccan sideline. Seems to be an unwritten rule: when all else fails, offer the hash.
I bought 500 ml of bulk argan oil from an olive seller for about 10 euros.
Finally, a photograph from the wife's Olympus -- replace the Mercedes grand taxi with a Russian sedan and one citadel with another and you could have a picture of Tallinn, at least the aesthetics and colours are like one of Priit Vesilind's photographs from ca 1980.
Sunday, February 8, 2009
A couple random things about Morocco
1. Have yet to see a TV on anywhere.
2. Plenty of tourism, but surprisingly little gentrification as I recognize it. A couple galleries, some artisan/Master's Courtyard areas, a place called Wok Wok near the main square, and 2 km down the beach, a very laid-back terrace cafe geared to the French and their children, which has WiFi.
3. People are always looking out for kids. In cafes, they move away when they light up. The salesman who invited us back for green tea poured Morgan's beverage from glass to glass a hundred times or so to cool it off.
4. There's a big difference between muezzins, just as with church bells. Except unlike a church bell, I imagine what their faces look like. The guy in the nouvelle ville near the beach sounds very mellow, and I envision him riding a dolphin catamaran, Funkadelic style, while the guys in the mosque in the medina are tenors and shrill. The sound quality is that of a megaphone.
5. There is no drop-off in the amount of street traffic when the muezzin comes on. Pretty secular place.
6. Croissants are good here, but pain au chocolat filing is not very chocolaty. Coffee is generally robusta, it's strong and I drink it sweet.
7. Petits taxis in Essouira refuse to take more than three passengers, even if the fourth is a baby. No exceptions. This can be a logistical drag.
8. Essaouira is still a living breathing place, but Jimi Hendrix would roll over in his grave to see what has become of Diabat, the village on the other side of the river where he held court in 1969 or 1970. The five-star hotel construction is going ahead. The land is private and the beach is basically behind barbed wire, although you can probably walk down the river bank to get there. Bummer today -- we took two petits taxis there from Essaouira and found ourselves stranded. No tourists saying "dude", no happy empowered villagers gathering and pressing argan nuts, just a near ghost town and construction site. Had to walk 3 km to the main road and finally flagged down a local bus back to Essaouira.
9. People no longer assume that any European speaks French. They often try English first.
10. "Amlou" is an excellent local spread -- almond butter and honey in a base of argan oil. I wouldn't mind if it wasn't real argan oil, but some of the varieties at the souq have peanuts as well as almonds, which is not nearly the same.
11. We have yet to eat dinner at a restaurant -- we had a local woman cook a chicken-preserved lemon-olive tagine for us, which I always wanted to try.
12. A good tactic is to buy fish at one of the markets, have it cleaned, specify "for tagine". Buy spice mix from spice merchant, usually a stone's throw away, rub fish. Saute some vegetables, throw on top of fish and bake in covered dish.
13. Bought some roe at market for 20 dh, ran home and salted and fried in butter, olive oil until medium rare. Best snack so far.
14. I don't know the species of any of the fish or roe I've eaten.
15. I feel odd wearing shorts, and keep pulling them down home-boy style, to cover the knees.
16. Water is about 18 degrees C. If it were 15 or 16 like in California, I would go comfortably numb and could stay in for a while, but 18 is just cold.
2. Plenty of tourism, but surprisingly little gentrification as I recognize it. A couple galleries, some artisan/Master's Courtyard areas, a place called Wok Wok near the main square, and 2 km down the beach, a very laid-back terrace cafe geared to the French and their children, which has WiFi.
3. People are always looking out for kids. In cafes, they move away when they light up. The salesman who invited us back for green tea poured Morgan's beverage from glass to glass a hundred times or so to cool it off.
4. There's a big difference between muezzins, just as with church bells. Except unlike a church bell, I imagine what their faces look like. The guy in the nouvelle ville near the beach sounds very mellow, and I envision him riding a dolphin catamaran, Funkadelic style, while the guys in the mosque in the medina are tenors and shrill. The sound quality is that of a megaphone.
5. There is no drop-off in the amount of street traffic when the muezzin comes on. Pretty secular place.
6. Croissants are good here, but pain au chocolat filing is not very chocolaty. Coffee is generally robusta, it's strong and I drink it sweet.
7. Petits taxis in Essouira refuse to take more than three passengers, even if the fourth is a baby. No exceptions. This can be a logistical drag.
8. Essaouira is still a living breathing place, but Jimi Hendrix would roll over in his grave to see what has become of Diabat, the village on the other side of the river where he held court in 1969 or 1970. The five-star hotel construction is going ahead. The land is private and the beach is basically behind barbed wire, although you can probably walk down the river bank to get there. Bummer today -- we took two petits taxis there from Essaouira and found ourselves stranded. No tourists saying "dude", no happy empowered villagers gathering and pressing argan nuts, just a near ghost town and construction site. Had to walk 3 km to the main road and finally flagged down a local bus back to Essaouira.
9. People no longer assume that any European speaks French. They often try English first.
10. "Amlou" is an excellent local spread -- almond butter and honey in a base of argan oil. I wouldn't mind if it wasn't real argan oil, but some of the varieties at the souq have peanuts as well as almonds, which is not nearly the same.
11. We have yet to eat dinner at a restaurant -- we had a local woman cook a chicken-preserved lemon-olive tagine for us, which I always wanted to try.
12. A good tactic is to buy fish at one of the markets, have it cleaned, specify "for tagine". Buy spice mix from spice merchant, usually a stone's throw away, rub fish. Saute some vegetables, throw on top of fish and bake in covered dish.
13. Bought some roe at market for 20 dh, ran home and salted and fried in butter, olive oil until medium rare. Best snack so far.
14. I don't know the species of any of the fish or roe I've eaten.
15. I feel odd wearing shorts, and keep pulling them down home-boy style, to cover the knees.
16. Water is about 18 degrees C. If it were 15 or 16 like in California, I would go comfortably numb and could stay in for a while, but 18 is just cold.
Saturday, February 7, 2009
I should note that these were taken by my wife on the southwestern ramparts of Essaouira. Some sand got in my cheap digital Olympus so more landfill fodder and no more video for this trip.
The rain is finally gone (it wasn't incessant anyway) and tomorrow is supposed to be 26 or around 80 degrees before returning to a more seasonable seventy. It's been Estonian summer weather otherwise, no complaints. Still no fish in the market really or windsurfers, but all quite enjoyable.
No squeegeeing the open atrium this morning, but a different challenge: a rolling blackout that affected only one storey of the house -- must be some imaginative wiring as all the circuit breakers were OK. Thanks for your comments, I'll probably post once or twice more.
The main square, as it's called, lined with colonial-style cafes.
I don't see many black jellabahs. Most are khaki or vertical-striped.
The rain is finally gone (it wasn't incessant anyway) and tomorrow is supposed to be 26 or around 80 degrees before returning to a more seasonable seventy. It's been Estonian summer weather otherwise, no complaints. Still no fish in the market really or windsurfers, but all quite enjoyable.
No squeegeeing the open atrium this morning, but a different challenge: a rolling blackout that affected only one storey of the house -- must be some imaginative wiring as all the circuit breakers were OK. Thanks for your comments, I'll probably post once or twice more.
The main square, as it's called, lined with colonial-style cafes.
I don't see many black jellabahs. Most are khaki or vertical-striped.
Friday, February 6, 2009
How are you, my friend
Essaouira is laid-back and considered relatively hassle-free, and it is, but being clueless new faces in town, we had some encounters yesterday in the main square between the old town and beach.
Umbrella sellers in Italy go for people with no umbrellas during downpours, but here the sunglasses sellers flog their imitation Ray-Bans and D&G at people who are already wearing sunglasses on partly cloudy days.
If you don't head them off with a firm no (the wife's "Allo? Non merci" was effective -- I think she barely restrained herself saying "Allo, McFly") these guys don't take no for an answer. They'll give you the merch and foil your efforts to give it back. They'll prey on your family, though often they'll ignore the female members completely, even if you tell them the wife has the purse strings.
Hashish is also in the mix, in bizarre ways. As we crossed the plaza and prepared to hit the sand, a guy came running toward us with a platter of cookies as if we were long-lost friends and he had just baked them. I sampled a macaroon. The price of 20 dh for six cookies seemed a little steep, but not much more than you would pay for Finnish cookies in Estonia. So I bought six, even though it was slimy how he tossed extra cookies into my bag and reeled off the prices as if doing wacky-times-tables.
Rather than going our separate ways, he took a different tack. The middle row of cookies, which didn't look or smell any different, were apparently a potent variety of space cake. I found this strange. There we are, a family, and I have sampled his wares, and now it turns out some of the cookies are hallucinogenic. Maybe herding a small child around an unfamiliar city after space cake is his idea of safe fun, but I'd say he did his business a disservice.
There were a couple more. I was walking in the fish grill market (not the fish souq but the more commercial pick n grill area near the port) with Morgan on my shoulders at 5pm and one guy made a rolling motion with his fingers and said "smoke smoke" like a ventriloquist. It was just like Amsterdam.
At the fishing port, I talked to one Sahid, who seemed to be a grizzled old fisherman who was idling by one of the many boats. Then he asked me what my metier was. What I am doing this apres-midi? I asked in bad French, mishearing. Because it sounded like he was offering to take us out on the water. No, your job, he said, what do you do?
I told him I was an ecrivain, only because I couldn't remember the word for translator or copy editor. This must have triggered an association (Burroughs, Gysin, Kerouac?) because all of a sudden he started talking about how I can fish everyday with him, and I looked down and what do you know, a hash spliff was smouldering in his fingers, I don't even know when he had managed to light it. He flashed me a seven or eight gram chunk under the folds of his coat.
How could I have been so stupid? All of a sudden, Sahid turned from authentic fisherman into just another zombie hustler who can't take no for an answer, he winked after every line like a tic. I finally got out of it by repeating demain, demain -- tomorrow.
I figured Sahid might confine his domain to the port, but Essaouira is small, and what do you know, we didn't have to wait for demain. I ran into an old man in the medina just before we -- now all four of us, with pram -- turned into the blind alley where our house is. "Demain, demain, eh?" and winked. Oh my God -- it was Sahid. I summoned a firm non merci (finally) and he vanished, but I don't like the fact he now knows what street we live on...
That said, the city is not really seedy at all, seems there's about 10 shady guys. The beach is calm and there were many more jewellery sellers in Mexico.
Thursday, February 5, 2009
Stockholm-Göteborg-Agadir-Essaouira
The weather has been bad on Morocco's Atlantic coast; hopefully the worst is behind us. Agadir, the European tourist concrete jungle where we landed, was hazy-sunny with T-storms and 18 degrees, but the wind was high there, too, and the surf looked rough. As we travelled north along the coast, it got cooler and rainier.
It has rained so much in Essaouira that parts of it look almost like Venice when we visited in November. Before cutting inland, the road out of Agadir passed by miles of wild Atlantic beach with 10-foot surf -- I guess reef breaks or underwater cliffs. The water was yellow with churning sand and it looked like new sandbars were in the process of formation. Based on wunderground.com, we thought it had just been cool and rainy, but it really has been storming, and even the fishing boats at Essouira have been laid up and the fish markets are said to be fairly bare.
Everything went really smoothly from Tallinn-Stockholm ferry...the kids' museum in Stockholm...flights were more or less on schedule.
We were picked up at Agadir airport by the excellent Isham, a friendly, cosmopolitan-seeming Marrakshi. Because it was a three-hour drive to Essaouira, we stopped at a supermarket at a surfer village outside Agadir and since I had gone inside the shop, Isham went with Morgan to pee, my wife freaking out when they disappeared for a while but then they came back and he had bought Morgan a Snickers.
170 km later, we arrived in Essaouira at Place Hassan Moulay, just outside the medina, and the infamous wind was every bit was ferocious as they said it would be.
We're renting a small riad, or townhouse, in the medina, which is a lot better deal than a hotel. The riad has a open atrium/stairwell and a room on each floor and an amazing interior design. It's a little impractical for kids, and I'm nervous about the long flights of tiled stairs, but it has some good features.
One of the owners (an extremely nativized English couple) took me on a whirlwind tour of the medina, mainly from the point of subsistence and shopping tips -- I tried my best to keep up and retain as much information as possible, but it wasn't easy. Luckily the medina, though labyrinthine, has an 18th century European military-style layout; it's not Fes or Marrakech, where apparenrly people get lost and sometimes never surface.
I hadn't even studied the local currency or coins when I embarked on the tour of the medina with Graham. My French also completely deserted me, so it was probably a pretty pathetic sight. Every merchant was honest, though. I'm pretty sure I bought a bottle of Morcocan gris wine for 45 darahim (about 60 Estonian kroons or 5 USD). Who knew there was wine in Morocco, anyway? I hadn't considered drinking here, but after 48 hours on the road since Tallinn, it was just the thing; I'm glad we arrived Thursday and not Friday. Then we popped into a bakery that was a dark hovel with a glowing kiln and I sorted through a bunch of bread by hand to pick the ones I wanted, all of them still oven-temperature, paying about 2 EEK for three loaves. This is where it started hitting me that I was in a medieval village. Supposedly there is a supermarket in the new town, but I doubt I will make it there...
It has rained so much in Essaouira that parts of it look almost like Venice when we visited in November. Before cutting inland, the road out of Agadir passed by miles of wild Atlantic beach with 10-foot surf -- I guess reef breaks or underwater cliffs. The water was yellow with churning sand and it looked like new sandbars were in the process of formation. Based on wunderground.com, we thought it had just been cool and rainy, but it really has been storming, and even the fishing boats at Essouira have been laid up and the fish markets are said to be fairly bare.
Everything went really smoothly from Tallinn-Stockholm ferry...the kids' museum in Stockholm...flights were more or less on schedule.
We were picked up at Agadir airport by the excellent Isham, a friendly, cosmopolitan-seeming Marrakshi. Because it was a three-hour drive to Essaouira, we stopped at a supermarket at a surfer village outside Agadir and since I had gone inside the shop, Isham went with Morgan to pee, my wife freaking out when they disappeared for a while but then they came back and he had bought Morgan a Snickers.
170 km later, we arrived in Essaouira at Place Hassan Moulay, just outside the medina, and the infamous wind was every bit was ferocious as they said it would be.
We're renting a small riad, or townhouse, in the medina, which is a lot better deal than a hotel. The riad has a open atrium/stairwell and a room on each floor and an amazing interior design. It's a little impractical for kids, and I'm nervous about the long flights of tiled stairs, but it has some good features.
One of the owners (an extremely nativized English couple) took me on a whirlwind tour of the medina, mainly from the point of subsistence and shopping tips -- I tried my best to keep up and retain as much information as possible, but it wasn't easy. Luckily the medina, though labyrinthine, has an 18th century European military-style layout; it's not Fes or Marrakech, where apparenrly people get lost and sometimes never surface.
I hadn't even studied the local currency or coins when I embarked on the tour of the medina with Graham. My French also completely deserted me, so it was probably a pretty pathetic sight. Every merchant was honest, though. I'm pretty sure I bought a bottle of Morcocan gris wine for 45 darahim (about 60 Estonian kroons or 5 USD). Who knew there was wine in Morocco, anyway? I hadn't considered drinking here, but after 48 hours on the road since Tallinn, it was just the thing; I'm glad we arrived Thursday and not Friday. Then we popped into a bakery that was a dark hovel with a glowing kiln and I sorted through a bunch of bread by hand to pick the ones I wanted, all of them still oven-temperature, paying about 2 EEK for three loaves. This is where it started hitting me that I was in a medieval village. Supposedly there is a supermarket in the new town, but I doubt I will make it there...
Monday, February 2, 2009
REVIEW: US passport.
My new US passport, which I'll have for the next 10 years, is attractive in the manner of an expensive philatelic collector's item.
The covers are also heavy-duty -- "sensitive electronics", the inside of the back cover states and warns not to put in freezer. A cursory investigation with a magnet and powerful light found nothing, but this baby isn't going swimming anyway -- it's much too nice.
The chip, if there is one, does not play the national anthem when you open the cover. I was hoping for Aretha. This was a small disappointment. Nor is the passport truly interactive. Like an iPod Touch, it has no microphone, for example.
However, someone -- a physician named F. Scott Key I believe -- has taken fountain pen to the inside of the cover. If I can make out the handwriting, it says, "O snap, does that stem spangles beamer get wove."
Whatever that means, it's a nice personal touch in a passport that is loaded with things to look at.
If this passport were a waitperson at a burger bar, it would be wearing about 48 pieces of flair.
There is a profusion of quotations, one at the top of each pair of facing visa pages.
These, of course, are designed to get foreign border officials thinking about the relative merits of America. Look for a stream of defections and confiscated passports -- because they're powerful quotations.
They're from a rainbow coalition of folks -- one Native American (on the wildlife page), one African-American, one Asian American, one woman, one Democrat, one Republican, one Founding Father, one war hero, one war hero/Democrat. And so on, for 28 pages.
If you order extra visa pages, you can get the openly gay Republican war hero's take on freedom.
Also on each visa page: a Thomas Kinkade inspired mural of American iconography, as if challenging foreign border checkpoint officials to use brighter ink to keep up.
That white-headed eagle from the Colbert Report's opening credits appears on the signature page.
I wouldn't allow a bird near grains of wheat, but I suppose it is a trained bird.
The covers are also heavy-duty -- "sensitive electronics", the inside of the back cover states and warns not to put in freezer. A cursory investigation with a magnet and powerful light found nothing, but this baby isn't going swimming anyway -- it's much too nice.
The chip, if there is one, does not play the national anthem when you open the cover. I was hoping for Aretha. This was a small disappointment. Nor is the passport truly interactive. Like an iPod Touch, it has no microphone, for example.
However, someone -- a physician named F. Scott Key I believe -- has taken fountain pen to the inside of the cover. If I can make out the handwriting, it says, "O snap, does that stem spangles beamer get wove."
Whatever that means, it's a nice personal touch in a passport that is loaded with things to look at.
If this passport were a waitperson at a burger bar, it would be wearing about 48 pieces of flair.
There is a profusion of quotations, one at the top of each pair of facing visa pages.
These, of course, are designed to get foreign border officials thinking about the relative merits of America. Look for a stream of defections and confiscated passports -- because they're powerful quotations.
They're from a rainbow coalition of folks -- one Native American (on the wildlife page), one African-American, one Asian American, one woman, one Democrat, one Republican, one Founding Father, one war hero, one war hero/Democrat. And so on, for 28 pages.
If you order extra visa pages, you can get the openly gay Republican war hero's take on freedom.
Also on each visa page: a Thomas Kinkade inspired mural of American iconography, as if challenging foreign border checkpoint officials to use brighter ink to keep up.
That white-headed eagle from the Colbert Report's opening credits appears on the signature page.
I wouldn't allow a bird near grains of wheat, but I suppose it is a trained bird.
Sunday, February 1, 2009
O Cafe!
O Cafe!
who nurtured my Muse
and fed my Wiener Blut
with your dark murk
O Cafe!
where many a Plot was fabricated
and Derivative Work committed to Memory-Stick!
Desalon'd, unensconc'd,
we stand as one at the window -- in the relative proximity of the new cafe --
as you are, um,
unceremoniously hauled away on a flatbed truck.
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