adam.oliner.net

In the thickest Scottish accent I’ve ever heard, as he drives me to my hotel, my cabbie asks what I think of Bush. I answer cautiously that I am not his biggest fan. “Fuckin’ prick, ‘e is, that one!” My cabbie yells over his shoulder. I laugh, and we discuss the exit of Tony Blair and the inauguration of a Scottish Prime Minister.

My paper talk goes well, and I post the manuscript and slides on my Research page. I make a surprise announcement at the end that we are able to release our data; there is much rejoicing.

I decide to skip a portion of the afternoon sessions to be a tourist. I hop into a cab from the Hilton and ask for the Scotch Whiskey Heritage Center. There is a pause. He mumbles something and starts driving. I say again, half-question, half-repetition, “Scotch Whiskey Heritage Center?”

“Scaaatch,” the cabbie retorts, mocking my American pronunciation.

“Scotch whiskey,” I try again in my best Scottish imitation.

“I understood ya’, I joos had ta think about it a wee bit.”

At the booze museum (for what else is it, really?), I meet a Canadian named Dean with whom I have lunch after the tour. We do a flight of scotch drams from the four regions of Scotland: Lowlands, Highlands, Speyside, and the Islands. According to an extremely scientific blind experiment, I can identify two of the four by smell, and all four after tasting. I win a 1 pound bet with him about whether our waitress was Scottish or Irish. Sláinte mhath!

The conference excursion takes us to Stirling Castle, where we have a guided tour followed by champagne in the garden and a banquet in The Great Hall. The meal begins with an Ode to Haggis. A bagpipist, instrument singing, leads in a waiter holding a plate of haggis aloft. The plate is adorned with napkins curled up like the ends of a viking long boat. The musician then recites Burns’s “Address to a Haggis“, in the most exaggerated accent he can muster.

The Edinburgh chapter of my travels is nearly at a close, and I will depart for London shortly after I post this. Pictures forthcoming once I settle in London and move them off my camera. I should really get a flickr account…

There are three elements to my Irritability Trifecta. They are heat, hunger, and exhaustion. With any one, I get a bit whiny. I’m not ashamed to admit it. Any two and you ought to wait before asking a favor. The trifecta is me at my most grumpy and stabby. This story begins with me at one out of three; I am on a red-eye from Los Angeles, having gotten only a couple of hours sleep.

As we descend into Heathrow, I see raindrops streaking the windows. Ah, raining in London: how predictably quaint. It was my brilliant idea to take a train from the airport to Edinburgh, rather than flying, so that I could spice up my trip with a pleasant tour of the English countryside. I take a light rail to Paddington, and then the Tube to King’s Cross, from where my train is to depart. The station is packed with people, and most of them look cross, or concerned, or disappointed. I sidle through the crowd to check the light board for the next train to Scotland. It reads thus: Canceled, Canceled, Canceled, Canceled, and so on down the line. The enormous flat-screens flash BBC images of the severe flooding that has washed out roads, and railroad tracks, all up and down the flourishing, green countryside.

“We advise you not to travel to Edinburgh tonight,” a gentleman with the GNER tells me. I advise him, in my turn, that I will be ignoring his well-meant words, wholesale, and seeking passage to my destination. We dance the frustrated-customer-and-powerless-terminal-operator jig for a couple of minutes, and I emerge with a ticket to Edinburgh that will leave “sometime” and take “probably a very long time”. The flooded sections slow the train to a few miles per hour, I learn.

Ticket in hand, I go stand dutifully underneath the giant light board with the throngs of passengers awaiting further instructions. The amber colors flicker and a single train is announced: Edinburgh-bound, Track 5. I bob and weave through the current of people as they rush toward the train (FCFS), my giant suitcase trailing heavily behind me as I curse myself for packing like a woman. I dive into a car and slump down in my seat, exhausted and, I realize as the train pulls away from King’s cross, hungry.

Sufficiently displeased with my condition, airline-rested and fed as I am, I immerse myself in The Forever War, by Joe Haldeman. A revered classic, to be sure, but I also took a writing course from Joe at MIT and felt ashamed to have never read anything he wrote. I finish the book on the train, pleased with the experience. The rain takes a break to allow the summer sun to blaze down through my west-facing window, driving me into a sweat and completing the trifecta. I stare out the window, pointedly.

Soon, though, the clouds roll over the sun again and food service sates my animal hunger. My status downgraded to whiny, I write this post. The train ride takes about seven hours. Total travel time to Edinburgh from home is roughly 24 hours, subjective time.

The countryside really is quite lovely. Speckled with white sheep and rising near Edinburgh into seaside cliffs and crumbling stone walls. Rolling, green, and well-watered.

I will be going on at least ten trips over the next three months, starting with San Diego last week for a conference. This Sunday I leave for Edinburgh, UK for another conference, followed by some fun times in London with Sisi and Yong-Hwa. There’s also DC, Portland, Vegas, Anaheim, Vermont, Massachusetts, Burning Man, and assorted camping trips. I don’t know if that will translate into more blogging or less, but I promise to keep you abreast of any and all debauchery.

At least three of the trips (Edinburgh, DC, and Anaheim) involve me giving a talk of some form, which means I have to convincingly feign cognizance. Sean is tying the knot in Portland, which will either make him a married man or qualify him to become an eagle scout. Or a sailor. Vegas is the MIT Pi Reunion, roughly 3.14 years after our graduation; I’ve got a room at the Wynn and tickets to Cirque. Vermont is a revivification of an old tradition, except in a better house and with people who care about each others well-being. I haven’t seen my family in a solid while, so I’ll be stopping there afterwards to raid the fridge and reluctantly (but with secret glee) accept numerous hugs.

Preparations for Burning Man have been ongoing for months now, beginning with the building of a 40′ diameter geodesic dome out of metal conduit piping (our trial assembly). The current projects involve making a cover for the dome, so that we can live inside of it happily, and designing the art car, which will apparently have wings. I joined up with a camp called DeMaTerial, which has gone to Burning Man before and includes several of my friends. I’m a playa virgin, so this will be a new experience.

I’ve been making an effort to leave my comfort zone whenever possible. I think it helps me grow as a person and inspires new ideas. Somewhere between Scotch tasting in the Scottish highlands and living in the Nevada desert in a colorful hemisphere of pipes and hotel sheets, I ought to be planted firmly outside of that comfort zone.

I hope it inspires more than just discomfort.

I don’t recall how the events of that day actually transpired, but I imagine this account approaches genuine. The pictures are from several years ago, which gives me some liberty to massage the details. I will be seeing Yong-Hwa again at the beginning of next month when I visit London, at which time, by sheer coincidence, Jason will also be in town. Will they confront me with my historical inaccuracies? Will I again fall victim to her trickery? Will the “British Festival of Stuff Adam Loves” be as amazing as she promises?

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The only way to kill an idea is with a better idea.

Let’s take terrorism as an example. The idea is simple: effect social or political change by manipulating a community using violence or the threat of violence. That is, by using fear. Our government has taken up the notion that they might destroy this idea by killing people and blowing up buildings. Also by moving people around and by creating new buildings. This will fail.

The President has never described what victory in the War on Terror looks like, with any specificity. There won’t be a white flag, or some glittering dawn on which the terrorists of the world will throw up their hands and say, “Oh well, we gave violence a shot. Let’s try spreading our message with catchy pop lyrics.” The War will not end when bin Laden dies, nor when we kill Al Qaeda’s #2 for the umpteenth time (we’ve done that so many times it’s a joke). Ideas don’t die when their inventors or proponents do.

You would think, of all people, that Christians would understand the ineffectiveness of killing the central adherent to an ideology.

Of course, I could be wrong. Perhaps the military will finally locate and kill Osama bin Laden, and instead of unifying Islamic extremists behind a globally recognized martyr, it will shatter their confidence and sense of purpose, rendering them impotent to terrify Americans. Perhaps we will manage to find and slaughter every last person who believes violence can effect social change, without a hint of irony or hypocrisy, and maybe we’ll manage to do so without creating any new terrorists. It could happen.

After all, we killed Jesus and totally nipped that Christianity thing in the bud.