Clothes, market, clothes

Well, I am officially finished with the sales in Paris, even if Paris isn't yet through. I have found my share of beautiful clothing and beautiful underclothing, and have spent the weekend parading my newfound embellishment much to the pleasure of my amused significant other. Of course, it doesn't actually mean anything, but making myself up, wrapping myself in swaths of soft, delicious fabric has its pleasures. The game is always on.

Sunday, I decided to explore a clothes market, near Arts et Métiers. What a sorry sight awaited me. This ws the anti-sales area. Only 3 vendors surveyed their racks of grandmotherly coats, polyester pants, and leather jackets. This was their daily market, and it was dying. The interior space was vast, and lines for tennis courts traced the floor under their feet. There was emptiness, so contrary to the market culture that France has long valued. I know there are other clothing markets elsewhere, but this one touched me. It was like seeing an elderly relative breathe her last.

Nothing to do with the food market near Nation. Because it was the marché guadeloupien, the air was filled with the scent of exotic spices, bright colors, new flavors, and foreign tongues. There was life, movement, and purpose. Perhaps change is a good thing, even if it is sometimes difficult to accept. Out with the old, in with the new. People don't want to go to Arts et Métiers for their clothing anymore, why bother when the Galéries Lafayettes are just a stone's throw away? And why do your grocery shopping in a stuffy, cramped supermarket, when the outdoor market offers more freshness than you could ever find in a box?

Wrong and wrong

I consider myself a reasonable person most of the time. I can admit when I am wrong and change my actions accordingly. I like to choose my battles, instead of transform my life into a battlefield. But this person I must meet with today baffles me. He is a wealthy man, he is successful, and he has chosen to take issue with a $100 bill for a book. He believes he is not obligated to pay the $25 international shipping and handling charge, and wishes a discounted price for the book.

Perhaps I am being sheepish, not defending my rights enough. But he should pay the bill. I looked on this publisher's websiste, and yes, they were offering a discount for a book on mediation, but that is not what the man ordered! He ordered a book about alternative dispute resolution in general. Not the same thing.

Today, we received an e-mail from the publisher conceding a 20% reduction, but no reduction of shipping charges. Mr PEJ will not be happy, but then again, he never took the time to look at his order confirmation with the important figures listed within, nor does he have the time to pick this sort of ant fight.

This is small stuff, and when it sours people's afternoons, I see no point in arguing. It's a book, they sell, we buy. There bigger fish to fry in the Parisian sea.

Les soldissimes!

These are strange times. "What?" the interrogative spirit may ask. Why, the season of sales in France. Already, I fail to grasp the concept of government-sanctioned sales, but I find myself waiting in front of the Zara store on the Boulevard Haussmann in Paris nonetheless. I had called at 10pm two days before the beginning of the sales to verify that they were indeed opening early. Great, I could get my shopping done before work, and avoid the crowds as well!!

Well--that was what everyone else was thinking. I arrived at Zara at 7:30am, and I was not the first one there. By 8am, the crowds gathered around store entrances such as the Galeries Lafayette and H&M had swelled to nearly 50 at each one. Emotions ran high when the crowd at Zara saw the doors swing open around them, and Zara's remained closed. I felt a little antsy myself.... Finally, at 8:03am, one large metal door swung open, and 50 eager early shoppers squeezed through as the store employee desperately tried to both dodge them and open the second door. As for me, after one quiet push along the edge of the crowd, I was in.

I will admit, I had scoped out the store the weekend before sales to find the items I liked best, but during sales, stores empty their inventory, stuffing the front hangers with clothes. I knew what I wanted, so I quickly spied two skirts, and then darted upstairs to gather the shirts and dress I had chosen the weekend before. All right, I will admit it, I am crazy. But no more so than my fellow clawing, clothing-hungry camarades.

I was also short on time, with only one hour allotted to shopping before beginning work. So much the better, I could have stayed for hours. I ended up with exactly what I wanted, and some things left behind, either because they were not practical, or because i felt low on cash. No matter, it was a rewarding experience. I left Zara exactly one hour later, my small bag full, my list crossed out.

The sales are not over, so I may be back...you can catch me on the Boulevard Haussmann or Les Halles.

Unisex bathrooms

I finally have the chance to live one of those experiences many of us only dream about—unisex restrooms. My office has one. The head partner at my firm is a man, and I think he has a stigma against using the restroom when other people are around. I could understand that, since there are only two other men in the office, and about ten women. All of the awkwardness I imagined comes with sharing a bathroom with ALL of your colleagues was real. I never knew what to say, we would always smile and say hello, and then lock ourselves away for a bit of privacy. You never know who you may run into. My biggest fear certainly was that I would run into the head partner. He is a tall man, quite distinguished, and he knows he makes an imposing figure.

Well, during my second week on the job, it happened. He and the other head partner, a longtime friend, were in the restroom preparing to go out for lunch. I walked in, but by the time I realized who was there it was too late. “Hello PEJ!” I tried to muster cheerily. He smiled at me in that distinguished way, and tried to strike up a conversation! “Oh please no,” I was thinking. “Not here.”

“What do you think the chances are of having an Asian president one day?”

I started my answer succinctly, one sentence. Maybe two. Not any time soon. Not very many Asians gravitate toward a public life. But it was in the bathroom, and I wanted to leave.

So there it is, folks. Unisex bathrooms.

Life, Death, and Health

Sometimes, it's not so easy to distinguish that line between life and death. Modern technology has blurred the boundaries with terms such as "brain dead" or "artificial respiration." Can a person who depends on artificial respiration be *truly* alive? Or dead for that matter?

I have always found it interesting when people state their cholesterol, blood pressure, red blood cell count, vision stats, etc. as a measure of their health. I've never worried about this so much; life is far too subjective for that. Of course, who would you think is "healthier"? The person who spends 2 hours in the gym, carefully weighs her food portions, deprives herself of a scoop of ice cream because it will "make you fat," spouts the idea that "carbs are bad!" but then secretly binges on a batch of brownies because she craves a treat so badly? Or what about the self-assured
person who will take pleasure in all of her activities, including eating, practices activities she enjoys, is not afraid of taking dessert, and is passionate about gardening, painting, and fluffy puppies?

Let us not measure life by standards that others have established for us. Living "healthily" does not mean following every new diet some "doctor" has approved. It does not mean going to the gym for 20 hours a week, unless, of course, you ENJOY it. Living means loving those you care for, and letting them know it. When you are on your deathbed, what do you want to be proud of? How accurately you could count the calories in your bowl of Cheerios? Or how many friendships you have developed, and how many languages, experiences, new places you discovered?

Balance is the key, my friends. And immunity to fads. Life is far too precious to waste on small-mindedness. We all are capable of accomplishing so much. Live, live, live. So when you must approach that line between life and death, you can be proud of what you have achieved.

Speed

True story? Dunno, but it sounds plausible.

- - -

There were a lot of things we couldn't do in an SR-71, but we were the fastest guys on the block and loved reminding our fellow aviators of this fact. People often asked us if, because of this fact, it was fun to fly the jet. Fun would not be the first word I would use to describe flying this plane. Intense, maybe. Even cerebral. But there was one day in our Sled experience when we would have to say that it was pure fun to be the fastest guys out there, at least for a moment.

It occurred when Walt and I were flying our final training sortie. We needed 100 hours in the jet to complete our training and attain Mission Ready status. Somewhere over Colorado we had passed the century mark. We had made the turn in Arizona and the jet was performing flawlessly. My gauges were wired in the front seat and we were starting to feel pretty good about ourselves, not only because we would soon be flying real missions but because we had gained a great deal of confidence in the plane in the past ten months. Ripping across the barren deserts 80,000 feet below us, I could already see the coast of California from the Arizona border. I was, finally, after many humbling months of simulators and study, ahead of the jet.

I was beginning to feel a bit sorry for Walter in the back seat. There he was, with no really good view of the incredible sights before us, tasked with monitoring four different radios. This was good practice for him for when we began flying real missions, when a priority transmission from headquarters could be vital. It had been difficult, too, for me to relinquish control of the radios, as during my entire flying career I had controlled my own transmissions. But it was part of the division of duties in this plane and I had adjusted to it. I still insisted on talking on the radio while we were on the ground, however. Walt was so good at many things, but he couldn't match my expertise at sounding smooth on the radios, a skill that had been honed sharply with years in fighter squadrons where the slightest radio miscue was grounds for beheading. He understood that and allowed me that luxury. Just to get a sense of what Walt had to contend with, I pulled the radio toggle switches and monitored the frequencies along with him. The predominant radio chatter was from Los Angeles Center, far below us, controlling daily traffic in their sector. While they had us on their scope (albeit briefly), we were in uncontrolled airspace and normally would not talk to them unless we needed to descend into their airspace.

We listened as the shaky voice of a lone Cessna pilot asked Center for a readout of his ground speed.

Center replied: "November Charlie 175, I'm showing you at ninety knots on the ground."

Now the thing to understand about Center controllers, was that whether they were talking to a rookie pilot in a Cessna, or to Air Force One, they always spoke in the exact same, calm, deep, professional, tone that made one feel important. I referred to it as the "HoustonCenterVoice." I have always felt that after years of seeing documentaries on this country's space program and listening to the calm and distinct voice of the HoustonCenterControllers, that all other controllers since then wanted to sound like that... and that they basically did. And it didn't matter what sector of the country we would be flying in, it always seemed like the same guy was talking. Over the years that tone of voice had become somewhat of a comforting sound to pilots everywhere. Conversely, over the years, pilots always wanted to ensure that, when transmitting, they sounded like Chuck Yeager, or at least like John Wayne. Better to die than sound bad on the radios.

Just moments after the Cessna's inquiry, a Twin Beech piped up on frequency, in a rather superior tone, asking for his ground speed.

"Ah, Twin Beach: I have you at one hundred and twenty-five knots of ground speed."

Boy, I thought, the Beechcraft really must think he is dazzling his Cessna brethren.

Then out of the blue, a Navy F-18 pilot out of NAS Lemoore came up on frequency. You knew right away it was a Navy jock because he sounded very cool on the radios.

"Center, Dusty 52 ground speed check."

Before Center could reply, I'm thinking to myself, hey, Dusty 52 has a ground speed indicator in that million dollar cockpit, so why is he asking Center for a readout? Then I got it -- ol' Dusty here is making sure that every bug smasher from Mount Whitney to the Mojave knows what true speed is. He's the fastest dude in the valley today, and he just wants everyone to know how much fun he is having in his new Hornet.

And the reply, always with that same, calm, voice, with more distinct alliteration than emotion:

"Dusty 52, Center, we have you at 620 on the ground."

And I thought to myself, is this a ripe situation, or what? As my hand instinctively reached for the mic button, I had to remind myself that Walt was in control of the radios. Still, I thought, it must be done -- in mere seconds we'll be out of the sector and the opportunity will be lost. That Hornet must die, and die now.

I thought about all of our Sim training and how important it was that we developed well as a crew and knew that to jump in on the radios now would destroy the integrity of all that we had worked toward becoming. I was torn. Somewhere, 13 miles above Arizona, there was a pilot screaming inside his space helmet.

Then, I heard it. The click of the mic button from the back seat. That was the very moment that I knew Walter and I had become a crew. Very professionally, and with no emotion, Walter spoke:

"Los Angeles Center, Aspen 20, can you give us a ground speed check?"

There was no hesitation, and the reply came as if was an everyday request:

"Aspen 20, I show you at one thousand eight hundred and forty-two knots, across the ground."

I think it was the forty-two knots that I liked the best, so accurate and proud was Center to deliver that information without hesitation, and you just knew he was smiling. But the precise point at which I knew that Walt and I were going to be really good friends for a long time was when he keyed the mic once again to say, in his most fighter-pilot-like voice:

"Ah, Center, much thanks. We're showing closer to nineteen hundred on the money."

For a moment Walter was a god. And we finally heard a little crack in the armor of the HoustonCentervoice, when L.A. came back with,

"Roger that Aspen, Your equipment is probably more accurate than ours. You boys have a good one."

It all had lasted for just moments, but in that short, memorable sprint across the southwest, the Navy had been flamed, all mortal airplanes on freq were forced to bow before the King of Speed, and more importantly, Walter and I had crossed the threshold of being a crew. A fine day's work.

We never heard another transmission on that frequency all the way to the coast. For just one day, it truly was fun being the fastest guys out there.

No answer

So, what should be the role of education? And what is the line between "education" and "indoctrination"? Sand clearly believed that education was a liberating force, even if the rest of society couldn't keep up. But then, we are faced with the dilemma of conformity. To what degree can one muffle one's intelligence just to fit in? Gabriel, unfortunately, never resolves this issue, death is not the only option. I just read an article in Boston.com: Many female lawyers dropping off path to partnership. It compares the numbers of women and who have left the partner track in law firms. Out of 1,000 Massachusetts lawyers who responded, 31 percent of female lawyers had left private practice, compared to 18 percent of male respondents. One of the signifant reasons given for leaving this path was the inability to manage a career with maintaining a family. Now, this card has been played before, there has been a perpetual debate over appropriate ways for women to balance work and family. Here, it seems these women's education and hard work have only paid off up to a certain point. In the world of Gabriel, the main character had no chance of ever joining the professional work force as a women.

In light of these observations, what should we tell our young women today? That they should go become doctors, lawyers, professionals, but they should only expect to go so far because the realities of raising a family will set in? I am not saying that there is a "glass ceiling," that seems to give women an excuse to limit their ambition, or at least perpetuate the idea of a barrier. The motivated should not be discouraged from achieving their objectives.

I admire businesses who are implementing more flexible schedules for mothers or encouraging fathers to partake in raising a child, but is that enough? Maybe, like electric cars, the idea will propagate slowly into the mainstream. The French have implemented paternity leave, which could be an interesting way to assuage the situation. That seems the best response thus far- encourage partnership. Why does that sound so difficult in practice? Unfortunately, I have no answer....