Our Not-So-Random Choices

Sitting on Main street, post-dinner with a cup of delectable gelato, I pointed out that we hadn't been to most of the restaurants even though we live within a mile and eat out every weekend. I went a step further and blamed Yelp for destroying the joy of randomly walking into a restaurant that looked clean and crowded. Now, we only go to places with 4 or more stars with 50+ reviews and those places are few and far in between even in the Bay Area. We have one favorite place for each cuisine and that my friend is where we go.

This loss of randomness is not just from our culinary sojourns. As we browse movies on Netflix, hubby opens up Imdb and picks out movies with high ratings for our weekend watches. We have never walked into a movie theatre without knowing what rottentomatoes thinks of our movie pick.

We have rarely been disappointed in our following-the-herd choices. There are always exceptions - like that 4.5 star Sushi place that gave us food poisoning and the 89% rated Bridesmaid movie that bored us to tears. But other than those - our safe choices have made for delicious dinners and intellectually stimulating movies.

So, here is the question - are we missing out by being less spontaneous ? Or is spontanity really over-rated? Afterall who would want to find that their random pick Thai place was a terrible idea the hard way.

As I mulled over the importance of randomness - hubby gently pointed out that I always order the same thing at all the restaurants. Touche - I really shouldn't be the one complaining about loss of randomness.

Things I don't know about Wine.

Here is what tripadvisor.com should tell you about your upcoming trip to Wine Country, Napa & Sonoma. They should tell you to scour the internet for wine-small talk and start pouring over the Food&Wine magazine. Otherwise, you might end up with a vacant look when someone mentions Robert Mondavi , and that is unforgivable mistake. Worse still, you could be like me and offend the high-and-mighty wine pourers at the famous tasting-rooms with what you think is a perfectly intelligent question. Whoever said - "There's no stupid question" - was misguided. Here is a snippet on my Domaine Chandon conversation.

ME: What wine is this?

WINE POURER: This is the etoile Rose. You will taste the flavors of plum, red raspberries, truffle and cocoa. (Looks patiently and expectantly at me as I take my sip)

ME: Ahh, umm cocoa u say. So - when in the wine making process are these fruits etc added for the flavor. (In my head - yay for smart question)

WINE POURER: (Look of utter horror and disappointment) NO NO NO we don't ADD ANYTHING to the wine. NOTHING. These flavors are just descriptors of what you should be tasting. (Walks away)

We finished our tasting, with another wine-pourer who we hoped hadn't listened to the above snippet. We left as fast as we could and jumped on the Napa Wine Train where the waitress regaled us with scandalous stories of famous Napa people. She spoke lovingly of Mondavi's eccentricities and though I didn't know who he was - I nodded sagely with the required look of interest and awe. The food was delicious and I stayed away from all wine-talk for the rest of the evening.

The next day, we skipped the wine and headed to the Russian River for some canoeing. Here, thank goodness, there was no mention of Chardonnay, Sauvigon or the cocoa flavor of wines.

The Bookish meets the Bookie.

Many people like reading Books - different kinds of books. Most have a favorite way of reading them. My mom, for example, loves Agatha Christie but she reads the first few chapters followed by the end chapters and then settles leisurely into reading the rest of the book. Kills the whole point of reading a good mystery book, if you ask me - but that's how she reads.

My particular brand of book related quirkiness - is superficially picking them. I absolutely LOVE books with an imaginative title. Don't judge a book by it's cover be damned - a good title and I'm sold! OK, before you (non-existent readers of my blog) impale me for liberally using the word good - let me insert a quick disclaimer - Good title is something that tweaks my imagination. Anne Perry's Funeral in Blue is how I started reading her books. I have to admit that the only thing memorable about that book was the title. But isn't it an awesome title?! A few months ago, I picked up another lovely titled book - Solitude of Prime Numbers. A trifle depressing, but the book was decent - definitely not as smashing as it's title. Here's a recent winner picked on title alone - Carson McCullers' Heart is a Lonely Hunter. The book is haunting and her characters lingered long after I had closed the book and moved onto household chores. Though the title is the reason I read it the first time, it will definitely not be the only reason I pick up Carson's book again.

I am the 'will-try-anything' kind of book reader, but I don't retain the leisure reads in my collection. I actually have less than 10 books that I own - and some of them are in appalling condition (courtesy buying 2nd hand books). What do I do with the ones I bought but don't want to keep - well I give them away either to friends looking for a summer (or winter) read, or to libraries, or just leave them in the plane/train while travelling. I read a long long time ago, that the British usually take a book with them on the tube and when done they just leave it there for another reader foraging for a book. While the bookshops probably hate the Brits for reducing their sales, I LOVED this idea of just leaving the book for another bored traveller. I secretly wish someone would do the same for me: Sitting at Dallas airport waiting patiently to board my plane - I would set sight on an almost-new book lying invitingly on a nearby seat, courtesy of the gentleman who just boarded his flight to Heathrow.

No entry about books can be complete - without a mention about an author. Remember my mention of the guilty pleasure mystery novels by Anne Perry - well turns out the authoress is also a convicted murderess. I flailed around in my queasiness for a month reading everything about her tainted pre-teen past. Maybe that's the difference between a writer and a reader - one who has experienced first hand and the other whose imagination (with a little help) is trying to live the experience vicariously.

[PS: Dedicated to my friend who wanted me to write about Books. Thanks for the idea]

On the boat.

We were out on the Lake - looking out of small, grimy glass windows trying to make out the shapes of islands in the distance while the forced high-pitched voice of the tour guide threw out statstics in the background. Every word sounded like it had 3 invisible exclamation points tacked on to the end of it - like those tweens twittering with their omg!!! fish!!! is !!! awesome!!!
I was thankful when the boat captain pushed the throttle and the large engines roared loud enough to drown out the guide and her exclamation points. A few minutes later she stopped talking - finally aware that noone could really hear her. Then the captain shut of the engine letting the boat bob in the silent lake waters moving rhythmically with the flow. The silence was overwhelming. Surrounded by snow capped mountains in July, bobbing up and down in the soft blue waters of Yellowstone lake - even the wind calmed down to a breeze allowing us city-dwellers a few moments of complete solitude amidst unforgetable beauty. We bobbed up and down for a few minutes and not one person on that boat made a sound.
Every trip has a moment - a moment that captures the essense of the trip. A moment that remains stamped on our memories long after we have forgotten the dates, faces and packed itiniaries. Those few mins on a boat in the middle of a lake with no civilization in any direction as far as the eye could roam - those were the moments from my Yellowstone trip.

Why Private Lives shouldn't be Public

The private lives of important people are often considered a yardstick of their professional abilities. Perhaps it’s based on the thought, that what we do to the people we love most (including ourselves) when we believe no one else will judge us or see– are the clearest windows into our character, our morals and our values. Yet, what makes news is not the success of our marriages, our roles as friends, spouses or children – but our failures in those roles. When private lives become public and the imperfections of our private decisions come into the spot-light, they stand alone, out of context and no longer balanced by the rights in our lives. They are just glaring failures of us, not as entrepreneurs or businessmen or politicians, but as men and women. Why would anyone ever like that person, much less vote for that person? Private failures belong to the people they happened to, and are not to be judged by the world at large. Those failures - they didn’t happen to the world.

Happy Thanksgiving

It's a little late to talk about Thanksgiving break - but better late than never no?

For Thanksgiving I flew from Iowa to Philadelphia on my way to New York. I really needed an excuse to visit Philadelphia - the first city I lived in the US, the city with the pink fountain and the large parks. In Philly I grew out of my teenage years, made life-long friends, held my first job and did a lot more of those 'first' kind of things. My friend and I had dinner at one of our favorite creperies and for breakfast we went to a quaint Belgian Waffle cafe. The hard sugar coated waffles (the owner assured us in a very American accent that this was authentic Belgian) and cups of steaming creamy coffee made this breakfast light and delectable. Alas, Philly was only a day stop to my journey to upstate New York. I decided to travel the distance between Philly and New York on a Greyhound. Greyhound never disappoints... the passengers were an electic mix of students, professionals, artists etc in all shapes and sizes. The driver of the wonderful Bus number 4901 was a African American lady who made it painfully obvious that she would much rather be at home instead of driving the bus between Philly and New York. We started fourty mins late and within a half hour, found ourselves stuck between another Trailways bus and a few SUVs for what turned out to be a 1hr traffic jam. While the passengers (including myself) were mostly dozing off to the soft sounds of rain on the dirt-stained windows, our driver was increasingly annoyed with the sound of some passenger's 'loud'music. Of course we at the back couldn't hear any music. After a lot of false starts and stops we approached the NY Lincoln Tunnel - The very last barrier between New Jersey and New York. Unfortunately, this was the moment that our driver decided that she had had enough of the 'loud music' and was going to pull over till the passenger in question turned off their music. We all turned our sleepy eyes to the front of the bus and tried extremely hard to pin down the culprit who was between us and home. The traditionally 2hr ride was already approaching 5hrs. 20 mins later the driver restarted the car and tried to get back on the road .. but the traffic being as it was, there was no space to let in a huge bus. So mins away from Lincoln Tunnel we waiting patiently for 40 mins till the driver got back on the road. I could hear the muted swears of many passengers yet noone really wanted the driver to pull over again. I felt like I was in school when no matter how unfair you think the teacher is - you don't argue with them for fear of detention. Once we entered the Tunnel our almost-snail speed decreased further - now rivalving a rock. In the next hour we inched forward until finally I literally saw light (street lights) at the end of the tunnel. Six and a half hours later, I finally arrived in New York City. Thankfully my family decided that they had had enough of waiting for the bus and came to pick me up. Another hour later, I found myself home with home cooked meals and the smell of Thanksgiving baking in progress. Next time when stopping in Philly during Thanksgiving - I'm taking the train. :)

Visiting the coast

No one walks in Iowa. I realised this while trying to get some bread at my neighborhood Caseys when the sidewalk suddenly disappeared into a patch of mud and never made it out. Boston in the Fall was like a breath of fresh air to this city-deprived girl. We walked around in charming squares listening to music, window-shopped and ate from the shops huddled around Quincy Market. I even modeled for a woman demonstrating how to wrap a dress in a 100 different ways. 10 looks later we fled to the Aquarium. We nudged our way through a pack of French tourists blocking the door of an Italian cafe and inhaled the delicious aromas of soft bread, dripping with olive oil and parmesan cheese. Fairly stuffed, we walked around Northend sampling from the famous pastry and gelato joints. I watched as a bunch of guys played frisbee in the twilight, and the streetlamps flickered on in corners. Couples sat in parks sipping their coffees and the crowds drifted from the parks to the resturants and pubs. I lay in bed that night listening to crowds below us laughing into the wee hours of the morning. We joined the college crowd for a heart breakfast on a Sunday morning with endless refills of fresh coffee. I another few hours it was over. My vacation felt like going home ... like pretending I had never moved out of the East Coast. I was sad to leave.. I miss the broad sidewalks that stretch along the streets, parks and river. I miss the walks.