I’m living in a Fellini film right now – alas, without the postwar Italian film stars and casual elegance, but with all of the absurdity, including the occasional unwanted bacchanal, bacchanals being particularly ill-suited to sheltering in place. But they happen nevertheless. I’m living in a palace by a lake, but it’s owned by a prince who feels unconstrained by commonplace rules, and every now and again he shows up in his Ferrari, accompanied by friends and family in Bentleys and Range Rovers, bringing platters of barbecue (the southern US equivalent of antipasti, I suppose), and proceeding to celebrate life with boats and jet skis and pool floaters and beer. As he is my patrone, I can only stand two meters away and encourage him, give him advice as to markets and contracts and the correct fuel mix on an inboard engine, and marvel.
Perceptions of loss
There was an entertaining article in the New York Times on Monday about a recent Russian submarine disaster. 17 sailors lost their lives but no one, except of course the crew and the Russian chain of command, really knows why or how. The submarine was designed to dive much deeper than any other manned navy submersible ever built, and had skids designed to allow it to creep along the muddy bottoms of the world’s seafloors where it would… do the kinds of nefarious stuff one might do on the bottom of the world’s seafloors. Experts believe it most likely was designed to search for, and in times of war or tension, cut the cables on the seabed which link continents and countries to one another, or which link the deep sea listening devices across the North Atlantic with NATO designed to listen for other kinds of submarines, or, even in peacetime, simply test the West and its willingness to develop countermeasures.
Madeleines in the oven
Of course Proust has a more refined set of memories, and indeed a more refined sensory palette, than I have. He tasted and the world came into being. I can only breathe. But still, scents matter.
Logistics
I had the rare pleasure of an approach pattern into O’Hare today from the west. I think something like 90% of approaches into O’Hare come from the east, which usually is a good thing because I tend to fly transcontinental via Chicago east to west, and an eastern approach saves time; west to east, I try to go from one coast to the other because it’s usually a red-eye and you want the longest flight possible in order to get something approaching a normal night’s sleep. East to west, though, it’s probably going to be an end-of-day flight, and all you want is speed and a short layover. That means you’re going to go through Chicago if you’re a United frequent flyer such as myself.
Panic!
I’m heading back east again – same thing we do every other week, Pinky, try to rule the world – and the airport here in Seattle is quiet. No surprise, really; frankly I was more surprised last Thursday when I was on two completely packed flights, Atlanta to Chicago, Chicago to Seattle. I fly enough that normally I get upgraded without a second glance, and the pilot will come out during the flight and thank me for my continuing custom. No chance last week: I had two middle seats and kept them.