Wheelers

As recommended by the NYT, we lunch at Wheelers which has been serving since 1857. The restaurant has a small fish-bar that seats six and we are lucky to arrive early and get three stools together. Before us behind the counter: jellied eels, octopus chunks, salted haddock, lobster, crab, smoked and raw salmon, cockles, lemons, sea snails, giant and miniature shrimps, crayfish and various salads,+oysters, which are divine. The only condiment vinegar, of course. We really pig out - I should say I really pig out because most of the dishes a bit too fishy for the kids. After our many multiple appetisers we have crab and salmon cakes which are simple and magical - served with a small plum sauce and lite herbs. Seated next to us first are a young couple drinking own-wine and smooching between bites (Eitan turns his head) then a grubby set who, I overhear, visiting from Harvard. Meanwhile locals pass through order Styrofoam cups of whatever and I revel in their accents: "gimme a few of them, luv" and of course our grouchie female server simply won't tolerate the kids loudness or my friendly overtures - she serves us what we want and refuses to make a recommendation: "them is all good" she assures me with a sullen look. Wheelers is similar to The Swan Oyster Depot in San Francisco which I know Stan loves - unlike Swans, Wheelers is cozier nor offers a seafood salad with blue-cheese, which I think an American classic. Wheelers also does not serve fish 'n chips and an elderly couple told to pitch their tent down the block at another serving restaurant. In a word: sublime.

Eitan: "Can we go bowling until midnight?"

Another Town, Another Church

We stroll the historic high-street which is charming and feels removed from modern Britain. Local shops include the cheesery, butchers, fruit and veg and nick-nacks - this the way it is in Paris but never here. There are plenty of tourists mingling with "old-age pensioners" (a derogatory expression if ever there was one) and I catch a couple somewhat confused that I take their picture. By far my favorite is the model-train shop. Inside, hundreds and hundreds of box-cars, cabooses and front-engines line the wall, all of similar scale and meant for the same track. I chat with the proprietor who is in his late 50s I would guess, and owns a maticulous white goatee as I would expect. He has a twinkle in his eye and essoteric knowledge - we move from trains to kit-rockets, which I once built with older neighbor Todd then blasted off at the Berkeley Arena. Today, my friend strokes his white chin and laments that hobbiest have a hard time - "model rockets can no longer be found locally," he informs me though I fail to ask if there were plenty such shops 50 years ago, as it seems like there would be. In honesty, I cannot remember the last cool specialty store - our high streets all the same combo of Boots, WH Smith, Waitrose and Starbucks or Cafe Nero. In Whitstable there is not one chain, to my relief. The kids have their allowance of £3 to blow, which they do - Madeleine two more buddies and Eitan an arrow-ship sling shot. He gloats about his deal, which leaves him with £1.50 and a power-play at the candy-store. Poor Madeleine, but I give in and buy her a bag.

I Want To Go To The Seaside (Kooks)

Everybody in a good mood and happy to have a change from the routine - or at least football camp for Madeleine. Sonnet stays in London to catch-up on work and have some time to herself boy do I know that need. She starts with a body massage and I note that her text messages seem a bit, er, giddy. I think this the first time Sonnet has been alone since, like, ever. Or at least our marriage. Sort of an interesting thought.

The tide range at Whitstable harbour varies from about eight feet on neap tides and 15 feet on spring tides. The incoming (flow) tide flows from east to west towards the river Swale, while the outgoing (ebb) tide from west to east or towards Herne Bay. At mid-tide, the water can be flowing at close to three knots. To prevent flooding, wood jetties separate the beach divided into 20 meter squares which I assume prevent a tidal sweep onto the city front. I've seen something similar on the Long Island shoreline but never so close together.

Whitstable

We split London yesterday afternoon for Whitstable in Northeast Kent or Southeast England. The drive should take less than 2 hours but since we are on the M25 there is traffic and so forever. We are in Whitstabel because last Sunday's NYT's Travel Section did a profile on the town and so I thought - why not? The town is known as the "Pearl of Kent" and famous for its oysters, which have been collected since at least the Romans. The town itself dates back to before the writing of the Doomsday Book, which is pretty cool and connects us to Chichester. I am told after a decline, the oyster fishery industry now thrives. And on to oysters: last night Eitan and Madeleine try their first. Says Eitan: "a bit awkward but I guess OK." He does not venture a second. Madeleine seems to love them - "it tastes like the sea, dad!" We stay at the Hotel Continental which overlooks the water and indeed the oysters are some of the best I have ever had. A nice warm up for sure. Feeling very Bri-tu-ish.

This morning kids up 6AM - pow! -and we are beach-combing by seven. Both fill a pale-full with white shells which are later deposited at the front desk. The receptionist smiles at her own childhood memories, I imagine - she enjoys the kids enthusiasm anyways. We then stroll a few hundred years to the local pool - nice and clean, thankfully - where Eitan swims 32 laps of the 25 meters. His crawl is coming along and the easier he goes the faster, which is the big secret of swimming and most things in life. Madeleine and I play "jaws of death" and then guess-the-fish, a game she invents where I have to guess the... fish. Or crustacean. This allows for a fun goof as I toss every under-water sea creature I can think of in her direction, to her frustration. But sometimes it works: Madeleine's interpretation of a jelly-fish with feet and arms dangling I guess first try. Brils. I remember vaguely doing this with my mom at Strawberry Canyon or some other place. We discover a nearby bowling rink and believe you me we are are going back.

Self Portrait V

Friday. Britain's national debt, I read, could be reach £2 trillion or £33,000 per man, woman and child. Who can forget the National Debt Clock in Times Square from Reagan? I don't recall the per household liability peak, but the clock removed following Clinton's balanced federal budget. The swings are mind-boggling, really - these numbers should take a generation to shift but here we are again at the bottom of the barrel. No wonder nobody really seems to care or if they do - so what? The stim-u-lator will lower taxes to the middle class, which is at least better than only the top 1%. Many economist so hope we buy ourselves out of this ticket but unlikely: with no savings whatsoever Americans are likely to ... save. En masse. Or at least pay their utility bills. Remember Bush's one-off cash-cheque last year? Neither do I. In fact, I can't even say the amount - six hundred bucks maybe? - and cost the government billions. Straight to the utilities. Or gas. Or the mortgage. The cash-back plan like throwing a deck chair off the Titanic. Bush being the ship's captain. I do think the US recession will turn for the better sometime next year as it has always done since I have been alive. The lingering perception, however, will last perhaps years beyond like 1989-92 when housing prices bottomed in 1995 and some cities like LA, even later. At least we can look forward to spring and happily, daffodils poking themselves into the sun. Life isn't all bad. In fact, it is pretty good.

It's Fashion

New York Fashion Week ends today following a week of summer displays - like pictured, forcing my lament: I'm going to the wrong beaches. 

The Big Show takes place in Bryant Park where it moved in 1993 having before that begun in 1943 as the world's first organized fashion week to attract attention away from the French during World War II, when industry insiders unable to travel to Paris. 

The circus moves to London next week, which has Sonnet in a flutter - the museum and her colleagues are also buzzy about hats, whose display opens around the same time. Sonnet informs me that it is "all about the fantasy" (I think: gay) which is well anticipated in this environment, escapism and all that. It is easy to be dismissive - hats? - until seeing the beauty behind something so simple and every-day. It is not only the garment, you see, but the full expression - the model's oiled hair, bared shoulder and sparkling smile+the accompanying outfit netting a sensation. Fun. 

Sonnet's colleague Oriel has been working (running?) non-stop in preparation these past few months and the pre-marketing seems everywhere. But back to the runways: having been to several many of the catwalks with Sonnet and even back-stage on occassion with the models, the thing that strikes me is: how bored the girls are. And young, generally under 19. The bam! they are on display in front of the most critical eye under a bright spotlight being simply revered, loved. Whom am I to wonder if the affection is for all the wrong reasons? Did you know there is a fashion-week in Columbus, Ohio? Snort!

Madeleine sings: "Here comes the bride, a thousand meters wide!"
(she repeats over and over and over until I scream at her to stop)

Eitan has the giggles so badly right now he cannot speak. And for no apparent reason. I look at him blankly but it is hard not to join his fun. Does one ever feel this good again?

Photo from the web, uncredited.

Ray

Here is Ray with a Kalashnikov rifle in Gilgit in August '97. I met him in graduate school when I was a student in his modern political economy class. When Ray detailed his plans to return to Central Asia I was hooked. Munir, who guided us through our trip, notes today: "things are worrisome in North West Frontier Province of Pakistan that is called NWFP. However Gilgit and Baltistan are safe as they were at the time of your visit. " Here is Ray's bio below. Me, I am just grateful we got to spend a month together exploring the Roof of the World.

"A lawyer and political scientist, Professor Horton teaches the course Modern Political Economy. A member of the Columbia Business School faculty since 1970, he served two years while on leave from the School as Executive Director of the Temporary Commission on City Finances during the New York City fiscal crisis, and later served 15 years as Director of Research and President of the Citizens Budget Commission. His publications on municipal finance and management include 14 books, numerous journal articles and policy studies. In 1983, he founded the Public and Nonprofit Management Program at the School. In 1998, that program morphed into the Social Enterprise Program, which Horton directed until 2009. In 2009, he was named Faculty Director of Social Enterprise programs in the School’s Executive Education division. As part of his executive education responsibilities, Professor Horton directs custom programs for the Center for Curatorial Leadership and the King Khalid Foundation."

Your Money At Work

Here is a selection of of what California will get under the stim-u-lator focused on infrastructure and education; there are other areas too like tax-cuts, but the below items mission-critical (in my opinion):

• $2.6 billion in highway funding that could also be used rail and port infrastructure
• $1.1 billion for investments in mass transit
• $444.8 million to address the backlog of drinking water and clean water infrastructure needs
• $4.6 billion to local school districts and public colleges and universities
• $82.7 million for Head Start to prepare children to succeed in school
• $1.2 billion for Special Education Part B State Grants to help improve educational outcomes for individuals with disabilities
• $74.2 million in education technology funds to purchase up-to-date computers and software and provide professional development to ensure the technology is used effectively in the classroom
• $1.6 billion for Title I Education for the Disadvantaged to help close the achievement gap and enable disadvantaged students to reach their potential

Go-bama! What do we say about these conservative Governors who threaten not to take funds from the stimulus plan? Imagine their middle-class contituents, worried about a job or family, and told that the rest of the country to benefit from Federal tax-dollars accept you. Hmm... this does not seem like a particularly astute vote-getting strategy. In fact, it sounds plane stupid which, I might suggest, consistent with Republican rich-tax-cut-and-spend-blah-blah-blah agenda these last eight years (note that I say "Republican agenda" and not "Republicans" since I have been warned by several family Republicans whom I respect to curtail any direct attacks. Fair enough.)

1950s post-card from the State of California.

Teenagers And A Deal

After yoga I pick the kids up from football camp - it is their half-term recess and they have a week no school. Eitan has a play date so I take Madeleine for pizza. She is not in an especially talkative mood and my jet-lag does not enliven the conversation either. Sometimes it can be like pulling teeth but the key thing, I remind myself, is the later. My older friend Dale (not to be confused with the other Dale) has lived through two teenagers and I know it has not been easy. His older, beautiful daughter had cancer and thankfully she appears rid of it entirely. Dale on occasion gives me parenting advice and notes that with older children nothing can be forced. Sometimes this nets periods of silence, Dale says, which should not be breached even if otherwise awkward. Teens have to be comfortable sharing their private stuff, and us parents must accept that it may be only a fraction of the whole. And still be fully behind them. So back to today: it is my hope that the trust established over pepporoni pizza goes far when the kids A) get arrested, B) become or get somebody knocked up, or C) caught with dope. It is my aim to react with something other than a good grounding and complete despair and while I don't anticipate such things, a good policy prepares for extremes. We experimented and survived somehow (maybe not A and B). Smart kids in nice neighborhoods get in trouble, for sure. The families I admired from Berkeley always seemed somehow supportive of whatever, and I wish this to be the case with us.

Madeleine, desperate for ten-pounds to buy some faux glasses, negotiates a deal: "If you give me ten pounds now, I will repay you plus you only have to give me one pound allowance this week end." Madeleine's allowance otherwise three quid, so I would pocket the difference, if I understand her correctly. Annualised, these terms worse than Sicily; it does provide a nice value to liquidity though. She gets credit for being creative but otherwise no-go.

London Encore

And here I am - just like that - back in the UK. 


 Eastwards is a tough flight from New York - not quite long enough to sleep on the overnight+wet or grey on arrival and worst of all: rush-hour traffic. But it feels genuinely good to be here and I chat with the taxi-driver about the state of the world and London. You can imagine. Radio 4 and John Humphries in the background and now part of my fabric. By contrast, New York's entrance is dramatic - the Triborough Bridge (great name for a bridge) serves up an endless skyline to the South and a brilliant contrast to everything else belching smoke or going clackity-clack. 


New York's sheer infrastructure dazzles with its neon, steel, poster giants, concrete and cement as far as the eye can see - tune in Gerschwin's Rhapsody as I pass the Lucky Strike billboard and the picture complete (though Lucky now a Discovery Channel). 


London, meanwhile, has its elevated M4 which passes 15 meters over the roofline and built in '67 as a necessity to connect the airport to Central London. Mostly the scenery dreary with the the occasional new construction taking advantage of the proximity to the airport. Glaxo-Smith-Kline, for instance, is impossibly modern and bendy whose curves emphasized by the dilapidated, post-war neighbors. 


Closer to the center, we see more glass than brick and London starts to feel cosmopolitan somehow. Since the buildings not high by NY or Big City standards, there is a human scale to the madness - it becomes easy to imagine work-places, homes and whatever. Even more cool to consider the various enthnic groups spread across the city's vast real-estate (180 languages and etc.) My best part is knowing Sonnet and the kids await my return.

Madeleine on a new house: "It would be great if we moved to Chinatown."

Photo of parliament from the London Tourist Board.

On Envy

I change my monkey-photo to Planet Of The Apes. These apes got along afterall.

Monkeys, one observes, are happy to be rewarded for their work with cucumber slices unless one of the group receives grapes. Then they get snarky and no longer do the work. It turns out that envy, or the 6th deadly sin and probably the least acknowledged, is passed along via evolution. More, reports the NYT, the vibe's unpleasant sensation equal to its opposite or schadenfreude - seeing your rival stumble. This measured by brain activity. I read this BTW awaiting Katie's doctor appointment and wonder about the past eight-years: Americans (and Brits), driven to keep up with the Joneses, did stupid things like buy unaffordable houses or Humvees. 


 It's too easy to call these people assholes (and many are) but our system's deep inequalities, accelerated during Bush and hyper-visible in our mythology (90210! Baywatch! The Sopranos!) have turned many citizens into twitching miseries (very different, mind you, than the more socially tolerable jealousy). Personally I have seen MBAs making $millions hateful of their status because it ain't more. 


 Of course envy is not an American phenomenon - in Nairobi I met seven Kenyon runners under 2:15 for the marathon and several unhappy about not making the elite squad. Yet those Africans work together and their comparisons did not seem corrosive. The runners happy to be blessed, alive and... running. Pretty simple. So today Barack signs the stim-u-lator and we will see how the country manages its schadenfreude.

Madeleine and Eitan at the age when they compare everything. It generally effects their happiness - for instance, the other night Madeleine thought Eitan's ice cream more and she could not enjoy her desert. Brother. As a parent, it is my job to cut this off somehow at the quick so it does not dog them the rest of their lives. Oh boy, seen and done that before.

Sheridan Square

This photo where Sheridan and West Fourth Streets join at Seventh Avenue. In my mind the heart of Greenwich Village and around the corner from Waverly Place and Sixth Avenue where I enjoyed - ? - my first apartment. I am pretty sure it was a tenement once and Mark, who found the flat while I was in Africa with my family, lived in a walk-in closet complete with loft. But that is another story and now he lives in Greenwich, Connecticut. I remember my first-time arrival, driving up Sixth Avenue looking for 373 and thinking: this cannot possibly be it - more generally, I think I would have preferred less humid, more friendly Africa thank you very much. So today the only thing to change is the passer-byes; the buildings and my memories fixed circa 1989-90 when everything raw though happily I have a number of dear friends whom keep that epoque alive like Erik, Brad, JD, Todd and Kelly and others - without them, who would share the humour of the mad transition post college?

Washington Square

I take a few hours to myself and head downtown to buy a pair of kicks - which I do: New Balance, blue. The sales clerk has a big afro and I overhear her speak french so I nudge my way in. Turns out she is from Morocco, which she makes me guess. Since I have been there, we bond and again I get to use my French. This never happens in London BTW where I am told over 180 languages spoken. Go figure. I eventually meet Washington Square on a beautiful and clear New York afternoon and snap this photo at MacDougal and Washington Square North. Stately, next to derelict. I am surprised to find several mews blocks which are prevalent in London and never seen by me in New York - these are usually private streets with connected row houses no more than several stories. Here, they are surrounded by the taller mid-century condominiums and NYU. Their isolation from the hustle-bustle makes them kinda interesting I suppose - like being in a zoo, perhaps too since all the street-walkers like me curious. So my house and Wash Square - here is what I learn: it used to be a farm. Then a burial ground until the New York purchased the land around 1800 and turned it into a military parade ground where volunteer militia companies responsible for the nation's defense trained. By the 1830s, the surrounding houses had become the most desirable in the city, and I bet damn nice to live in one today. I can dream if only for a minute strolling by.

In One Word: Production

In an attempt to understand this idea of scale when it comes to the stimulus, I turn to Paul Krugman, who has been reporting ahead of the curve. His observation: no wealth created in America during Bush - only artificial pricing drawn from easy-credit. Today's correction consistent with the 1930s and Japan though not yet as deep. Krugman notes that FDR's New Deal started the country towards recovery but we owe are today to World War II. The US government footed war production entirely, borrowing 120% against GDP versus 8% or so today. In return, of course, we helped create the largest market imaginable for our goods and eventually services like accounting and banking... boy, does Europe wish we stopped at the 747s and Microsoft. Krugman concludes that without an equally massive works program it will take a generation or more to pay down our $trillions. What would the Gipper be thinking now?

I imagine that I am the only person, really, who cares about these pithy observations on the economy so why? Well, it helps me boil down the endless chatter to something I understand and I don;t care that my missives selfish or self-serving. There you have it. Also Madeleine and Eitan may read this very blog one day+I wish them to know what was happening inside the dark hole since they will be paying for it.

The photo BTW appeared in 1942 and widely circulated particularly in LIFE Magazine in 17 September 1942 and the Illustrated London News in the next month. It shows 4,500 aircraft models suspended from Chicago’s Union Station. The inspiration derived from FDR's assertion that America would produce 185,000 war-focused aircraft in 1942 and 1943.

KT @ Diner

Another day, another omelet. Here we map out her work-day and discuss strategy. My morning otherwise begins at the Riverbank State Park in Harlem where I head at the crack of dawn to swim laps in their fabulous 50-meter pool (another one - last time it was Asphalt Green on the Upper East Side). The sports center on 28-acres (bigger then Columbia with 21) and 21-meters above the Hudson River from 137th to 145 Street, on the West Side Highway. To get here, I cross one of two connecting bridges over fast moving traffic which is a bit worrisome but once on the island I feel completely free of NYC though the skyline ever-present. I also learn that this the only state park in Manhattan, and since space is dear, dear reader, it is built over the North River Wastewater Treatment Plant, which processes 125 million gallons of wastewater every day when dry and designed to handle up to 340 million gallons a day when the weather is wet. Only in New York. The plant was imagined in the 1950s and completed in 1991 after presumably working its way up the Hudson until it found Harlem, offering (I imagine) the least civic resistance. In return, they got a good park.

So at 7AM I enter the Aquatics Center to find a black receptionist who tells me I must have A) a swim suit and B) a lock. Since I don;t have B, she directs to buy one, which I do. I tell her I need a back-up plan for the combo, which I will surely forget, and ask her to write it down behind her desk. She looks at me warily. I swim 2500 meters and on my way out, tell her: "you can relax." She breaks into a huge grin and "you remembered the combination" and we both crack up and wish each other a good day. There is magic in these little things that make others happy.

Upper West Side

Here are some rocks from 87th and Broadway, not far from where I lived way-back-when and boy has it changed. 

1989, my first year in New York, set the dubious record for most murders - surpassed the following year at over two thousand. It was generally understood that anything above above 90th was dangerous and newly arrived white kids from Ivy League schools whispered about Harlem's beginning and, presumably, civilisation's end. It is hard to imagine today as Katie's 104th and Amsterdam thrives - I love her Korean veggie where I automatically buy papaya, pineapple and mango and sometimes pomegranate along with remarkably fresh produce. 

We go to a fancy Thai on 111th and then there are the diners - not like I knew them with their 24 hour earnesty and working man's toast - no, these places are chic and offer goat-cheese omelets, caramelised onions and Italian sausage. What is surprising about this neighborhood is why it has taken so long? 

Columbia U. begins at 114th and is one of the world's most prestigious institutions - it is shocking to think that in 1990 the business school considered re-locating to Westchester. Today, it is expanding to "SoHa" (South of Harlem) or North of 125th Street up to 140th where new students promised a dorm and state-of-the-art facilities. By 1995 and my return for graduate school, gentrification well on the march. 

Riverside Drive, always proper, now serviced by upscale Fairway while sushi restaurants popping up left-and-right in Morningside Heights. Harlem now a sweet-spot of rustic brown-stones, compelling Americana, ethnic mixture and affordable. By recently, many of my friends talking about fixer-uppers with multiple floors for only a million dollars (cheap when compared to the same price for a down-scale two-bedroom apartment farther South). Anybody who wants to catch the area's nadir should watch De Niro's "Taxi Driver" whose final bloody shoot-out inside a derelict on 87th and Columbus - Scorcese was afraid of the ceiling collapsing underneath his filming equipment.

For some reason New Yorkers and everybody loves to romanticise the city in the 1970s - its grittiness, grime and deserted spaces somehow a cool backdrop for Popeye Doyle. I think also viewed as a decade of artistic freedom, sex and unity - James Baldwin and Ralph Ellison and all that. Me, I am glad there is no graffiti on the subways and the place as safe as anywhere- safer than London, in fact. I hope we are not going back to those bad-days given the recession which will hit any city harder than average and the Big Apple worse. I have enjoyed dinner-party discussion re NY's wealthful "sterility" somehow being oppressive. Well to them I say: find yourself in the Bronx. I was around in '90 when every day was a killing.

Empire Diner

Katie and I lunch at 3:30PM and discuss the media collapse, which has happened in the last twelve months and continues downward. I renewed my subscription, for instance, to the International Herald Tribune last week and thought for the first time: why? I get the same, and in fact more news from NYT.com or their RSS then from the paper. And a year's subscription not cheap at £350. I proceed because I like sitting at breakfast surrounded by kids and cereal and disappear in the newsprint. This a luxury which may be gone in several years I appreciate but where does it go? Katie thinks readership will fragment into extremes between professional and for-pay sources and extremist wackos driven by their passions and not caring particularly about writing for free; in the process, we lose a national identity. For me, I imagine a number of national titles, perhaps the NYT and WSJ or USA Today and everything else gone, like the sad case of the Chicago Tribune (though Sam Zell proves himself not the genius but fool). These entities likely become non-profit and receive foundation or grant support. What is for sure is that journalists and researches leaving in droves reducing coverage and probably quality. Accelerating the motion, bloggers "borrow" stories while stealing readers. Ultimately media brands mean something - accuracy, at the minimum. Once we are all online swapping, sharing and editing feeds who ensures we view the truth? As Katie says, we are sub-priming the news.

Katie buys a bunch of computer crap and I go to H&H bagels to pass the time and avoid the, ahem, negotiations. Unable to get a cab on Saturday late afternoon we must bus it to the Upper West. Groan.