Hamburgers, Soap Operas, and Community

When I think of a good hamburger, my mind instantly goes to Rhea's. There are two things that make the city of Roswell known to the world: aliens and the Rhea's special. Granted, Roswell, GA is not the supposed landing site of ET, but no one forgets us because of our chance affiliation. Then there's Rhea's (pronounced rays), the best burger in town. Sure, you may not have heard of it, but everyone in Roswell has, and in our eyes, that makes it great.

Today I paid a visit to Rhea's III, the latest and largest of the Rhea's locations. Jimmy Rhea, of Pakistan, started the burger joint in the back of a corner grocery barely large enough to contain two or three small tables and a bench area. Apparently living in Pakistan is excellent preparation for making tasty burgers, and other Pakistanis now run the newer Rhea's III location scrumptiously. (They might be family of Jimmy's, but it doesn't seem like it). They're good people; always waving at you like you're their best friend even if you have never been there before.

It was a bit nostalgic for me today, as it was probably my last visit before leaving. All the sights and sounds were there just like usual. There was hardly a soul there when I arrived, opting for an early lunch. So instead of the chitter chatter of burger munching patrons, I was greated with the breathy sighs and overdramatic gesturing of Spanish soap operas playing on the TV. Although sometimes tuned elsewhere, the employees often have these telenovelas on when I dine there. Apparently Spanish soaps are wildly popular in many third and second world countries. In his book Snow, describing the conflicting traditional values and secularism of Turkey, nobel laureate Orhan Pamuk makes a central feature of this point. Work and play in the small town of Kars cease every evening to watch the latest installment of "Mariana;" indeed, the show is a unifying piece of secularism in the town torn by islamist politics. Perhaps it is a form of wishful thinking: if only the drama of our lives could be so trivial; if only hunger and poverty were replaced by upper class intrigue and scandal.

My friend at Rhea's III told me today that business had been really slow lately. Summer is over - no more bored high schoolers stopping in all the time for lunch. And soon they will be losing me to school as well. Whatever will become of Rhea's in this sluggish economy? This is particularly worrisome to me because of what Rhea's represents. Roswell used to be a small little town with lots of trees, green space, and the like. Now, the horse farm is gone, replaced by a bevy of stores and restaurants, most of them chains. But Rhea's stands as a beacon of local uniqueness amidst the international businesses. With its homey atmosphere, its rabbit ear TV that gets horrible reception, its telenovelas, and the occasional greasy spot on the table from the last guest, Rhea's is the sort of place the helps distinguish Roswell as a community within the endless Atlanta suburbs. In this age when neighbors often don't recognize each other in the grocery store, we need a little dose of goodwill towards our fellow man, and local burger joints are a prime place to cultivate that.

Americans traveling to poorer countries often note how friendly everyone is, how generous and caring about neighbors and strangers alike. Perhaps if we knew our neighbors, we would be nice to them in public. But in America it does not surprise me to hear of a neighbor cussing out another neighbor while progressing through traffic some morning. In fact, I personally have been flicked off and yelled at by a neighbor passing on the road, although he surely had no idea I lived just a bit down the road from him. We can do things like that because local community has broken down so much - there is so little social pressure and shame to stop irate neighbors from pouring out obscenity on each other. It is easy to yell and scream at someone you don't know, someone you don't have to deal with at the weekend pool party. But these days, we hardly have to deal with anyone (unfortunately, even sometimes including family in this new era of ipods, the great intra-automobile isolator). In less developed countries, community is still an important facet of society, and forms the backbone of survival in many places. So what is commonplace in poorer regions (civility toward your neighbor), is becoming exceptional here.

So here we are, talking about how great our developments are, telling other countries to be more like us. And they want to. With the exception of countries on par with us economically, much of the world would kill for the American way of life. Understandably so - we have comforts galore, all the food we need (too much sometimes), tv, music, cars - you name it. But they have something many of us don't - a bond with their neighbors. They watch "Mariana," quietly hoping for a better life, dreaming about the riches and comfort they see. After all, even Spanish soap operas aspire to American pomp. But when they do climb up the economic ladder a little more, will they end up like many of us, not knowing what it is to be a neighbor, caring only for self? I hope not.

Don't get me wrong - America is great, and we truly are blessed who live here. And there are certainly still good neighbors out there. But it seems like we have begun to confuse materialism with the American dream. We forget the joy of giving and even forget the fun of kinship. If we were just a little less concerned about getting everything we can as fast as we can, perhaps then we would realize that no slight traffic delay is worth the bird, and the time it takes to befriend neighbors is well worth it. Of everyone I know, my sister is best at loving her neighbor. In fact, the one time I remember participating in the greeting of new neighbors was when she suggested we take them some cookies and coke for a break as they moved in. Little did I know that they would be the best neighbors we would ever have, friends for years to come. Who knows what course our friendship would have taken if my sister had not suggested we do something so foreign to me, but common to many less fortunate than I. So maybe stop by Rhea's as a refresher on friendliness - be sure to say hi to the cook - and make a friend. Know your neighbor.

Zap!

I lower the barrel of my weapon, poised for ambush on the unsuspecting adversary. I fire! A ray of light blasts past the adversary, alerting him of my presence - I have lost the element of surprise. From then on it's a grueling fight to the death; one moment I gain the upper hand, the next, my adversary has evaded my grasp and taken control. But after attacking from all conceivable angles, finally I am rewarded: "Beep." The item is added to the wedding registry.

So goes the grim battle, fought by many a brave husband-to-be in the glittery aisles of Bed, Bath, and Beyond, Macy's, and Target. For some of us, the registry scanner may be the only weapon we ever handle for more than an hour, so better enjoy it. Filling the wedding registry with superfluous kitchen gadgets, oversized hatchets, and sporting ware is what we do best. This is also our chance to get back in touch with nature, procuring all our camping needs, and to build the perfect home entertainment system, complete with surround sound. After all, it's not every day a young boy (no man with a registry scanner can contain his inner child for very long) gets to run around stores zapping things. It's like free laser tag, perhaps with slightly less vigorous foes, but who notices? Some may call it heaven. I call it....heaven.

Unfortunately, it seems technology has surpassed us menfolk with a nifty little thing called the "internet." Within this wily invisible realm the women are really in control. Sure, we men like to shoot all the stuff in the store, but after that, we forget about that registry thing until we get to unholster our weapon once more. Meanwhile, the prudent womenfolk have logged onto the "internet" and swiftly pruned away the circular saws and automatic barbeque sauce dispensers, leaving us utterly disappointed and distraught when we are forced to apply our barbeque sauce manually. Blast you "internet!"

So here I am, a married man, sans hacksaw, but still happily connected to all ten of my fingers. I haven't been married even three months yet, but I can tell you now that my wife is definitely the brains of the operation. It was apparent from our time in the trenches of Target; I may have rashly acted on my boyish yearnings, but she had the big picture under control. In fact, she probably expected that I would run around like a hooligan, zapping things left and right, and just calmly took it in stride. She knew I would never need or even want half of the things I might zap, so she wisely eliminated them.

Later, post-wedding, we had a number of gift cards to help finish off our registry needs. One Saturday we headed over to the local BB&B (that, I must say, is managed by a buffoon, but I shan't name names or places), to buy some random necessities, including some bed linens. I wandered around the section, appalled by the prices that this store was asking for a few pieces of cloth and almost jumped out of my skin when my wife pointed out a set of sheets for $60. $60!!!! That can buy at least three books, and maybe a latté to add to the ambience. There was no way in Burkina Faso that I was going to spend $60 on some bed stuff manufactured for 42 cents in Thailand. Thus, in my frugal wisdom, I suggested some other sheets, topping out at only $40 (I would have preferred even cheaper ones, but there simply weren't any). By that point I was ready to befriend Oscar the Grouch and take up residence in a trash can, permanently misanthropic and anti-expensive sheets. So, in my one flash of inspiration for the day, I suggested that maybe I should go down a few stores to Borders and let my wife finish up with the purchases here. Of course, she was more than willing for me to leave.

Well, it turns out that $40 set of sheets was actually just one sheet, and the whole set would have cost upwards of $120. The $60 set was one of the cheapest options, but I obviously wouldn't have noticed. Needless to say, that's what we ended up purchasing. Hopefully I will learn early to heed my wife's advice, especially when I am flustered by frugal frustration. In my own defense, though, I think my judgment of math textbooks and my knowledge of a certain octopus, genus Vampyroteuthis, may be superior to hers. Maybe.

So to all you fiancés out there, don't worry; your over-enthusiastic zapping will not lead to a home filled with horseshoes and combination water purifier/bear trap/zip line harnesses. And have fun! You may never be able to zap to your heart's content at any other time in your life. So take advantage of the fact that you are encouraged to zap, and you have wise oversight (probably much better than the oversight afforded by the most powerful, wealthy government in the world). If your wife-to-be is anything like mine, the situation is under control.

Is it cheaper in Kamchatka?

When something good appears as a possibility on the horizon, I seldom accept its reality until the very last minute. There are too many things that could go wrong, too many plans that could change. Some might call me a pessimist, though I think anyone who knows me would deny this claim. Rather, I simply do not wish to get overly excited only to be let down if it doesn't work out. Well, today I received a 220 dollar sticker, and now I'm pretty sure I'll actually be going to Oxford.

That pricey scrap of adhesive paper was my student visa for the UK. After many months of the opportunity on the horizon, I can now be fairly certain it will really happen. But it was no walk in the park. There were so many stages of clearance that I was nearly overwhelmed - acceptance to Oxford, acceptance to a particular college (a subunit of the university), loan clearance from the feds, financial clearance from my college, and finally, the grand-daddy of them all - visas.

The visa application process is the bureaucratic equivalent of Chinese water torture. After already having presented mountains of financial evidence to my college in order to be fully accepted, the UK government suddenly wanted me to do it all over again, and they wanted even more evidence than my college. It wasn't entirely logical to me - I know that the UK does not want me showing up on the doorstep of Parliament asking for welfare, but really, they should not be so concerned. After all, Oxford wouldn't let me come if they thought I would be unable to pay. But that doesn't seem to make much difference to the government.

What made the process particularly bothersome, though, was the lack of clarity about details of the application. They do have a good overview of how to apply for a visa on their website, but when a particular question was left unanswered, you were left with very few options. Hmm, shall I call the visa info service line that is $3 per minute, or should I go for the more egalitarian $12 flat fee? The variety was staggering. Then I realized that the $3 option was only available to me if I lived in Fiji, Azerbaijan, or the northwestern corner of Cheyenne, Wyoming, and then only on Tuesday evenings after 9:27.

Regardless, I called because I had important questions. While talking to the friendly telephonist in Bangladesh, hearing all of my words quickly echoed back to me at about twice their issued volume, I discovered that since the info services were not actually part of the British government (obviously having been outsourced), they could tell me nothing more than what was already on the UK website. But they would happily tell me what I already knew with plenty of static for only $12 flat fee (or $3 a minute from southern Waziristan province). Lovely.

Thus, after not having my questions answered, I just gathered what I thought important and prepared to send it off. After delving into the bowels of the earth to find all the necessary documents, my wife and I sent off more than 70 pages for our visa applications. I can't imagine how big the application would have been if I were not a resident of the United States, being on quite perky terms with our British brethren. Then the pain mounted even further.

I am normally the poster child of patience, as my family will surely attest. I never had to have anything RIGHT NOW as a kid. Take, for example, the time when I was at Disney World and waited easily a minute and a half after arriving to start begging for Dad to buy me that awesome invisible dog leash - easily. But when it comes to waiting for a visa for a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to study at Oxford, I'm toast. I simply can't take the pressure. A week and a day after the British Consulate received our application (confirmed by UPS), we got an email telling us they had received it. You may think that is good, but the email was so vague about processing times that it appeared we might not get the visas back in time to fly out if they had really just received the application. And we had sent it to them with double the amount of time they said that would be required to process the application. Not only would our overnight mailing a week earlier have been fruitless, but our super cheap non-refundable, non-changeable student airfare would also be flushed down the tube. All was clearly lost.

But then today, several days before we expected the visas to return even under good conditions, they showed up. It was a relief, to say the least. All of my fretting was for naught and we're going to England. I probably should have seen it coming. During the clearance process with Oxford this summer, the admissions contact at my college told me that Econ students from the US often worry excessively about getting everything worked out. I think she was just being nice, trying to make me feel like I was one of many. Whether or not there are many like me, and whether or not I am a pessimist, I surely caused myself more pain than necessary by worrying. We can do our best and that's it - nothing is going to change by worrying about it. And apparently, even the most obnoxious of bureaucratic processes can work out better than expected. I suppose the British government is not so bad after all.

So, here's to another notch in the belt of obvious lessons from (hopefully) comical stories. Maybe one of these days I'll come up with some idea that's not at least 5000 years old. Or maybe it's better to just heed the old ideas in the first place.

But hey, I'm going to England!

Anticipation

I picture it like this: a small alleyway of cobblestone curving out of sight just ahead, warm light from a lantern cast against the heavy blue of dusk, and an a cappella choir singing soothing carols as I sip on tea at a café with my wife. I will often ramble through the streets and glimpse a group of children skipping around and singing in Old English, as is proper for any young Brit. Likewise on my daily horse rides through the countryside, I will happen upon many peasant farmers, plowing the land with mules and whistling folk tunes. Around the bend will be their lord's castle, all abustle with activity - bakers and vendors and cobblers and whatnot. And I will return at night to my humble abode where I shall sit and read my correspondence from the far reaches of Tartary, having been sent nearly three months earlier. Yes, this is surely the life that awaits me in England.

Then I shall realize, whilst drinking my tea, that the urge has arisen and will enquire the butler as to the whereabouts of the watercloset: "Where be-ist the WC, good fellow?"
"Se brim banhus?"
Stunned by this man's audacity whereby he shuns my question, I retort, "Heavens! Shame upon your family, and where ever is your lord with whom I shall lodge formal complaint regarding your impunity?"
"Se domne?"
After which I give up and go searching myself, only to realize that there is no WC, nor in fact any closets, and indeed no water running anywhere within the block. And I realize I can really go on no longer in this daydream without proper sanitation; hence, I vacate the premises until my mind has had the chance to sufficiently forget my dependence on modernity.

I have never been to Oxford, so I only have my daydreams and the various pictures I have seen to help me anticipate life there. Unfortunately, in my saner moments, I know it will be nothing like I have imagined - for one thing, those knightly chaps in the fringes of my mind's eye probably won't be around, nor will horses occasionally plod into the scene obscuring my view of the choir. And I suppose I won't be wearing something akin to a friar's cloak. Details, details.

What matters, of course, is that the sentiment will be completely as I have imagined, 100 percent. Oxford oozes romance, it simply must, for that is how I see it. Every picture I have seen, adequately staged by photographers or tourists alike, screams "OLD," which is naturally all I want it to be. Everything old is good, and Oxford is very old, so it must be very good. At least, that's what my stare-off-into-nowhere moments tell me. Life there will be perfect. And I have good reason to believe it will be. After all, wasn't Edinburgh perfect, just as I thought it would be...except for the drunk Irishmen in the room next door at three in the morning. And wasn't Paris bliss...minus the psycho-grumpy concierge. In reality, they were both wonderful, but not at all what I expected.

This time, in Oxford, everything will be completely different. I am married, I will be in school, and I will actually be living there, not just visiting. I simply cannot wait. This is the chance for my most ridiculous medieval romantic daydreams to actually occur. I will be daily walking a city laden with history, they say you can almost breathe it in, perhaps like Georgia's humidity. My college is situated in a fairly new building, as they describe it, only dating from the 1800s - practically newborn. Although America is wonderful, there is something intensely invigorating about going to live among, between, next to, around, on top of, and inside really old stuff. But if experience is any guide, it will be nothing like I expect. After all, I am going to be working on a master's degree, and most grad students I have known were feverishly busy with school all the time. And given the cost of living in England, I will probably not be able to ring Alfred for tea in the afternoon. I might actually have to get it myself (heaven forbid!). And I admit, my daydreams are an absurd mixture of eras, squelching all of the past fourteen centuries into a single picture. Oh, I forgot to tell you - Beowulf leaps across rooftops battling Grendel in the background of my cobblestone scene.

As our departure nears, reality sets in. We will have to pay bills and cook and work and all the usual things we would do here, and we probably will not witness legend in the making. But it will still be glorious, even if it isn't what I expect. It's not every day I get the chance to live in England, and I intend to enjoy it, down to the very last scone.

Of Sweat and Stinginess

Some call it the "slick," others the "slice;" I prefer "slizzle." But by whatever name, the Student Learning Center, or SLC, is at the heart of UGA and near to the heart of most students. Being quite new, it has the latest in technology (including floppy drives, eight track players, and VCRs), a student-friendly staff, and air conditioning, which is of course the most important. I have always been extremely fond of the SLC from the first time I saw it. It is a beacon of traditional architecture, in stark contrast to the hideous Caldwell Hall and the old Ag Hill buildings. In those days, it seems it was chic to be ugly. And I will never forget pulling all-nighters in the SLC during finals season with many other students, all hoping that cramming might work this time.

But truly, it's the air conditioning that makes it. Unlike some places, Georgia is still obscenely hot when college gets under way - in fact, the last dying breath of summer may not come until two or three months after arriving in Athens. And summer comes early every year too. Come April, the heat is on. So as a perpetually perspiring male, and might I add that I perspire profusely even for those of the male persuasion, pacifying my pores is no perfunctory point, but is rather of particular importance. (But I do love alliteration!) Hence, my affinity for the SLC, one of very few buildings on campus guaranteed to be sufficiently frosty to assuage my heat-laden body on a toasty day in Georgia.

On one such day I found myself slogging to the SLC from Myers Hall, not too far really, but it was crazy hot. I stumbled into the SLC, steam rising from my body as from a manhole after a storm. But I had reached my sanctuary, my igloo of paradise, so all was well. Or so I thought. On this day, as I often did on hot days, I arrived to class early to provide a buffer of cool-down time. So I walked to the central staircase and began a slow ascent to my third floor recuperation area. After the first turn I started having this nagging feeling; maybe I had forgotten my homework. Or maybe I had forgotten to brush my teeth - unlikely. (I am a colossus of dental hygiene...sort of.) After a brief pause to consider, I continued on, unaware of my impending doom.

Rounding the next turn, I knew something was wrong. The uncertain feeling had started in my feet, promising to climb as soon as my memory kicked in. (Did I leave the coffee pot on?) But strangely, the hint of oddity just lingered at my toes, growing stronger by the moment. Then suddenly, with only one step to the third floor landing, the cheapo flip-flop on my right foot exploded, the button shooting off into oblivion. As I stumbled over myself, my left foot followed suit, launching pseudo-plastic down the hallway towards unexpecting passersby. So there I was, sprawled on the ground, awkward as a platypus, and worst of all, I had no footwear! I sat there thinking about how to fix this awful predicament, completely stupefied. My fellow students walked by, shaking their heads, knowing the terrible shame I bore - the shame of three dollar flip-flops.

Eventually, I had the good sense to try stapling my fallen comrades back together - bad idea. I ended up walking home barefoot after class. And to think this could have been prevented had I not been quite so stingy. Now don't get me wrong, I am a staunch supporter of the bargain bin, and the paparazzi often catch me peeking at the clearance rack. But this was not my first bargain flip-flop mishap. To be honest, it was the fifth or sixth such accessory death in the prior six months. It was like I kept retelling that bad joke that no one laughs at. Over and over. And over. Again.

Well, after hearing of my plight, a few of my friends decided it would be wise to help me change my stingy ways. That Christmas, I received my first pair of real flip flops - Reefs. These actually had a sole, a novel idea indeed, and they were so comfortable, almost as good as the refreshing climate control of the SLC. And what was really amazing - they lasted me almost two years! Yes, you heard me right, two years. I normally started bruising my feet on stones by just walking around after about three weeks in clearance flip flops, and holes shortly followed.

So let's do some math, shall we? I paid $3-5 for bargain flip flops about once a month (and I wear flip flops year round) - that's around $50 a year. My friends got my $30 Reefs that lasted almost two years. The choice is easy my friends. Since then I have stepped one notch higher to Chacos - the king of sandals. I can hike in them, raft in them, run in them if I wanted, and they are about 378,091 times more comfortable than any other shoe I've ever owned. All this, and they last forever. I wear mine almost every day of the year, and after a year and a half, I cannot notice any major signs of wear yet! Unbelievable. They are kind of steep (anywhere from $60-100, depending on sales), but they last forever and put you in shoe heaven.

Cheap shoes had been just one part of my frugal way of life. I grew up with the mentality that cheap equals good. Saving money is what it's all about - splurging is discouraged, discounts and coupons are the proper way to shop. And for the most part, that's true. Living frugally encourages responsibility and good decision-making. And despite my occassionally over-eager spending, I still maintain a general caution with my money. But at some point, frugality enters the realm of stinginess. Then, the merits of more expensive items (or of being generous with others) are neglected simply to spend less. Many people who grew up like me don't realize that sometimes it actually saves (both money and face) to spend a little more now on the good stuff rather than buying the cheap stuff five hundred times separately. And generosity must never be forgotten - we are nothing if we are unwilling to share our bounty with family, friends, and those in need. But even if you had no companions with whom to share, you could still avoid an SLC faceplant and be more comfortable, all while saving money. I'm never going back. Thank God I have friends who buy me flip flops.

Where's Georgia again?

A few months ago on a flight back home from the Caribbean, I sat next to a nice gentleman who we will call Elmer. Elmer had a family with him, a wife and a few young kids who sat in the row in front of us. They were all quite nice and I enjoyed our conversation - it is always pleasant to have a few words with a fellow comrade while sealed in a metal cylinder hurtling through the air faster than the speed of sound.

Well, as we were on an international voyage (to be fair, it wasn't really international coming back from Puerto Rico, a commonwealth of the US), we naturally talked about where else in the world we had been. Elmer had been a place or two, mostly in and around the US though. And I told him of my two trips to Europe and the upcoming move to Oxford. Whenever I talk about travel with anyone, I like to emphasize how wonderful Scotland is, because truly, it is amazing. I love everything about that country, so verdant, such fantastic history mixed with modern comforts; you should go, dear reader. So I rambled on a bit about the glory of Scotland and Elmer seemed at least nominally interested. Then came that fateful moment, the point of no return after which our conversation had an undeniably different tone. "Scotland, that's up there near New Zealand, right?" asked a curious Elmer. Now I admit that I sometimes assume certain things to be common knowledge which just aren't; some friendly readers may recall incidents involving the Bikini Atoll and the Simon and Garfunkel song "Scarborough Fair." But generally I can chalk those up to the eclectic conversations I had in my family growing up (and still have to this day) where dinner time topics could range from the doctrine of predestination to the theory of relativity and back all before I finished my mashed potatoes. This time, though, I knew he must surely jest - "Ha ha!" I laughed, expecting his face to light with the knowing glow of a joke well-placed. But Elmer did not reciprocate, and within a second I knew I had taken the bait for a joke that did not exist. I tried to recover, "Oh, ya know, they're not too close really...." Awkward silence. Poor Elmer - I think I could probably work on my tact some more.

Well, I hope you, dear reader, are aware that New Zealand is possibly the very farthest away on this Earth that you can get from Scotland. Perhaps Australia is more directly opposite, or maybe somewhere in the ocean, but the two nations are surely not neighborly. I felt bad for Elmer, really, and for some time to come I wondered if this was another mashed-potato moment. Maybe no one really knows where New Zealand is - I mean, who really keeps up with our antipodean cousins anyway (more to come on this in a future blog)? But since then, I have been assured by many diverse friends that most people at least know that Scots and Kiwis (as New Zealanders call themselves) inhabit very different, distant lands.

This unfortunate occurence came to mind recently with the onset of the Russo-Georgian conflict. Although I never encountered anyone in recent weeks who admitted a lack of knowledge of Georgian geography, I read many news articles that mentioned the general American unawareness of where in the world Georgia was, the country, that is. I probably would not have known either had it not been for a recent fascination with central Asia and the Caucasus region (and it didn't hurt that many James Bond and other spy video games involve post-Soviet states). Now I understand that people didn't know where Georgia is - not many of us will ever go there and it would not have much impact on the US in normal circumstances. But our lack of geographic knowledge in this instance and in the case of Elmer betray a general ignorance in the field among Americans. To be frank, it is really sad that so much of the world can name the US capital and many of our important cities, knowing fairly accurately where each of them is, when most Americans don't know even half of our own country's state capitals. There is no hope for world geography if we can't even master the domestic realm.

Now forgive me, dear reader, if you indeed have a strong grasp of world geography; in fact, I applaud you. I do not mean to say that all Americans fall short in this area; I do mean to point out that in general, we fail to teach geography adequately in our schools. In high school, I was not required to take a class in geography, nor in college; in fact, when I went through high school, geography carried the connotation of a low-level class, the sort of course that you exempt if you are "smart enough," to be blunt, though I know that is not the case in all schools. But no one ever tested me in geographic knowledge; for all they knew, I could have graduated high school thinking New Zealand and Scotland were landlocked neighbors in western Africa. Likewise, perhaps I still think that Seattle, Portland, San Francisco, Chicago, and Philadelphia are the capitals of Washington, Oregon, California, Illinois, and Pennsylvania, respectively. (The true capitals are Olympia, Salem, Sacramento, Springfield, and Harrisburg.) I know of many, including myself at times, who think the capitals are simply the largest cities around. In college, geography seemed to be so focused on human migrations and anthropology that students still did not learn where anything was. Why does it matter where people groups ended up in Europe if we could not locate them now based on current landmarks?

Unfortunately, I don't presume to have the readership or the influence to spawn a new day in geography education in America. But truly, this is one field in which we are woefully ignorant. So next time you find yourself or a friend asking "Where's Georgia again?", pull out an atlas and have a look around.

Play It Again Sam

Music has always been one of the most emotive forces in my life, especially classical music. I began listening to Baroque music after my oldest brother bought a CD with Bach, Pachelbel, Vivaldi and the like - I think he wanted mood music to play in the car for a big date. But regardless, he was the cool, older brother in high school, and what he did, I did. So I checked it out. Somehow, certain pieces got into me enough to cause interest, even though I found most of the tracks entirely too boring. Harpsichords - I don't think so.

Shortly thereafter my brother graduated from high school and I was left without any classical influence at home. So like any middle schooler without a good influence, I experimented. I tried out all sorts of exotic and tempting composers: Beethoven, Brahms, Rachmaninoff - even those sensuous Impressionists. I was lost forever to the temptations of the Romantic era and beyond.

Obviously, this wasn't quite a tragedy, and I remember with fondness my middle school and high school musical discoveries. But among all the variety, one composer, and one piece, clearly towered above the rest: Rachmaninoff and his second Piano Concerto. I listened to this powerful piece over and over one winter in middle school; its melancholy melodies are forever molded together with the overcast skies of that season. To this day, when I hear any portion of that beautiful creation, I am transported back to my bedroom where I would sit and stare out the window upon the gray skies and listen. I could never listen too much because the emotion was intensely mournful, though somehow pleasing. At the end of many other pieces, the listener feels a sense of completion and is ready to move on to the next moment in time, but Rachmaninoff always left me feeling slightly unfulfilled, as if he beckoned for me to return at some later date to relive the whole experience just one more time. And I kept coming back, not because I wanted to catch a glimpse of completion, but because I knew this sense of incompletion in mourning was proper to our existence. I could not have placed the feeling at the time, but it resonated deep within me - unfinished work is profoundly human.

Whether or not musicologists would agree with me, death and mourning seem to be wrapped up in the essence of Russian music. In fact, all of Russian society seems to reflect that connection: alcoholism is rampant, violence and corruption are mainstays, and the arts simply interpret this fog over Russian life. The brutal winters probably do not help the mood in Moscow and St Petersburg either. But in a way, the harsh setting has allowed some of their great artists like Rachmaninoff to present a kind of prophetic vision of life near death. And this is why their music can be so powerful.

It is human nature that when someone is nearing death, he begins to realize that often what he has striven for is fruitless and what is worthwhile he has left unfinished. Who among us, dear reader, has not witnessed personally or heard witness of a relative on his death bed telling posterity to love their family and spend time with them, to come home early from the office to play ball with the kids, to keep the lower paying job in place of the more lucrative one that demands working nights and weekends? Everything is put in its proper place when the trappings of this life no longer matter, when the Rolls Royce and the Saturn are both sitting in the hospital parking lot side by side, empty. And I have never known a more poignant representation of this reality than in Rachmaninoff. It does not matter what came before the end because you want more regardless. But it's over - there is no more. This feeling of emptiness, of unfinished finality everlasting that I heard in Rachmaninoff was ruthless like the Russian winter.

No wonder I can still recreate the mournful skies out my window and the feeling of solitude in my bedroom as I replayed the tracks. What the Russian great had captured in his music was a feeling built into humanity; I was simply encountering it early and I didn't know how to escape it.

Obviously, I am still with you to this day and I have not suffered irreparable damage from my first real encounter with the prospect of my life's end. We all face it at some point, often more than once before we return to the dust. But my perspective has changed since my younger years. Now when I hear Rachmaninoff, I can remember what it thrust before me in yesteryear and remain unmoved. There is something more, dear reader. We are not meant to live as if we could never finish; when we come to the end, we do not have to leave begging for another playback.

Among my generation, thoughts of death seem to be few and far between. Occasionally an elderly relative will pass away or a tragic accident will end the life of a peer, but after a short period, death recedes, along with all of its troubling issues. To be frank, we often forsake those things we know to be most valuable because there are no ubiquitous reminders. Everything tells us to push the difficult issues to the side and face them only when you must. But then, when face them we must, we are too often unready.

Life at its best is joyful, and we should strive to live joyful lives, but we all need reminders about what lies ahead. Rachmaninoff was the first of many such reminders that caused me to reevaluate what I value most. These reminders can come in many forms, and heed them we must. For there are many questions of import in this life that we all must face, and as I learned in middle school, procrastinating never makes them easier.