My legs hurt

Too many weekends went by without me doing much. I'd plan hikes and/or slackline sessions but bad weather or just low turnout messed them up. I lose my fitness level quite quickly (and take ages to get it back) and it had been at respectable levels due all that touch rugby, slacklining and cycling happening in the last few months of my "job hunting" phase. I didn't want to lose it all.

But weather ended up being routinely bad, especially on the weekends when someone planned a hike; and on weekends where I just planned  lazy activities like a small picnic with slackline and petanque, it ended being exceptionally good.  Eventually another long weekend rolled by and a friend randomly suggested going bicycling. So that's what we did today.

The terrain was mostly flat, along the river and canals. But now that I don't live in the sunny south, this "good weather day" turned out to be foggy and cold, with maximum temperatures of about 7 C. Thankfully, warm clothing was employed in anticipation. In fact, some speculate that too much warm clothing may have been used, resulting in sweating, possibly leading to more cold being sensed. (yes I know this sentence is written weirdly.) 

Typical small town on an autumn day - cold, grey and empty.

Yes, I know that one is supposed to dress for warmer weather but when one hasn't dressed for activities done in sub 10 C weather (except skiing), one routinely over/under-estimates the warming capabilities of one's clothing. Case in point - the bonnet vis-a-vis the scarf. Bonnet pretended to not be there, while Mr Scarf was busy playing the over-achiever.

Long periods of pseudo-solo cycling (I was the unfit one in the group) lead to lots of contemplation. A recurring thought being how difficult it is to motivate the few people I know to do something (other than the approximately 4-5 people who do show up). As I passed by a guy dressed in military-ish clothing (think camouflage fatigues) standing by the banks waiting to hook a fish, I remembered a surplus store I'd seen in the town center. I remember thinking that that would be a good place to look for light, warm winter clothes, or just plain good hiking stuff. I never went there again... I realized that most of the places (cool or otherwise) I found out about, and many of the people I got to know, in the first month here have been forgotten. It's as if everything I discover in beginning is scratch work, and I got rid of it before starting on the actual work. And this isn't the first place this has happened to me. Food for thought sometime...

The bike ride "mid-point" was a town (pic above) about 30 km along our route... but only 12 km away from home by the difficult route. Our way to here had been flat, but the 12 km back included getting over a small hill. around 150 m to climb and descend after 30 km of bicycling for an unfit guy is quite a lot to ask. I didn't do it all ... I walked some portions. But thankfully, I didn't hold up the other guys for too long. Overall, it was fun.

Let's hope that next time, even if it's cold, it is at least a bit more sunny.

Le move and first impressions

I'm off... I left the region I'd grown to love. I left behind the great friends I've made, promising them I'd visit soon. I will visit soon (especially since half my stuff is still there). A long train ride later, I was here with my bags deposited at my CS host (I would move to a temp house in a day). Here's some thoughts on the whole new place:

- The bisous situation: The number is the same, but we start on a different side. Or maybe we were supposed to start lightly touching the right cheek first anyway and I was doing it all wrong before. In any case, many potentially awkward situations keep arising.

- Weather: I was warned big time about the weather. But rain and cold in May-end/June hit it home. And then I was told that last winter it got down to -20 C. I'm afraid now.

- Crowds: So so empty. Quiet streets. Now, don't get me wrong. There are people on streets and there is traffic too. But I just spent a few years in the Côte d'Azur and left it at a time when we had started to brace ourselves, because the "Tourists are coming". The contrast hits you (same with weather).

- Cars: A nice little surprise is to see how most cars are in good condition. CdA is famous for having shitty old cars in their shitty, scratched, dented state (if you pull your eyes off the fancy new Ferrari that zoomed past). Here, cars are shiny, gleaming and undented. Also, loads more VW and BMWs. So many more BMWs that it is turning into a joke.

- Language: Errr.... lesser chances of being able to survive with just English. In fact, most of my interactions have been in French. I hear very little English being spoken. Sigh.

- Streets: Cleaner streets... but damn, someone needs to look after their dogs. So much dog-poo in some areas. Though on a positive note, this place does not stink.

It's a great city to walk around. It's small and if one has the time (and inclination), one could walk around the whole city and easily see all the sights. I used the bus only for transporting my luggage and the tram when I was running late to meet up with a friend. Otherwise, walking and bicycling are the way to go. This also means that I'll probably postpone my car-buying plans to when I really need it :).

Trip tech

This post is merely a laundry list of basic techy stuff I thought of before going on a trip... and how I ended up using it.

I went on my trip wondering how I could keep up with my internet needs. I have an Android smartphone and Android tablet for connectivity, and a Kindle. I didn't want to lug my laptop around - it's heavy, 5 years old and my only "computer". I wasn't keen on taking my smartphone as it barely lasts 1 whole day if I use it as a smartphone. I managed to revive an old brick phone (yay Nokia) with week-long lasting batteries, but couldn't find a charger for it.

Other than having a bigger screen to work with, the tablet I have (a lost-cost no-name model) doesn't offer much advantages over my phone. But the 7 inch screen does make the idea of typing something long-ish or viewing webpages, checking email etc more pleasing. However, it has the same problems as the smartphone - if I use it, I have worry about making sure it's charged. The Kindle lets me have my books (along with a backup of important documents) and lets me not worry about batteries or charging.

I ended up taking all three along on my trip. Along with their charging cables. I also had my Canon 1000D, but took only the 50mm (f/1.8) lens and no camera bag. I was packing for Ryan Air, I needed to make my bag appear as small as I could. I got a 16Gb card for the camera, and also packed in my USB hard disk to let me backup my photos. It turned out to be a lot of gear. I wasn't actually planning on being a travel journalist;  I just wanted to be sure I could access all the stuff I use.

I have already set up a ssh server on my laptop, and I got the tablet and my phone running and able to connect to it. Ah, the joys of terminal emulators, ssh and so on! (Now I also have a UPnP server so I can watch my movies on the tablet while lying on my bed.... laziness is cool, but I digress.) I bought a USB-OTG plug to try and see if I could connect my external hard drive to the tablet, but it didn't work.

In the end, the set up was really cool. Although to transfer pictures from my camera to the hdd, I needed to borrow a laptop. I realized that when it comes to tablets, the low-cost android stuff is a a very bad choice to have to depend on. I was more confident of running things off my phone rather than the tablet. But the tablet made watching movies and browsing easy on the eye. The kindle was my friend during plane/bus travels. From the reviews I see, and the android version I use on my phone, I am extremely tempted to get the Nexus tablets and use it when traveling. I can't stress enough how great it is to read comics/graphic novels on a 7 inch tablet screen (I was re-reading Watchmen).  It's easy to lie on the bed and read stuff, and the screen is big enough to sit in an airport terminal and watch videos on it.

I'm slowly investing in decent gear - backpacks, shoes, sleeping bags, travel suited equipment. It's expensive, but I managed to pack a lot of stuff in a comparatively non-big bag. Next on the list is to make sure I've good winter wear, but since winter is a long time away, I can hold off on it.
------

Been mostly off blogging and it turns out harder to write when getting back into it. Hope to pick up again, write better and write about less boring stuff.

And where my unplanned plans fail

Pretty much the whole point of visiting Barcelona for sight-seeing is to see Gaudi's work and I head to the Sagrada Familia. At the end of my 2 hour slow visit/walk, my camera memory is almost full. Mind is sufficiently blown. I walk around more, go past Casa Batllo and La Pedrera and realize I must get the new memory card in before I enter either of those. I mean, who goes to those places and does not take a photo? I change plans (I'm walking around the city alone, so it's no big deal), stop by hostel and eat and head towards the Parc Guell.

Barcelona is an interesting and simple town to navigate. It's laid out in a rectangular grid and there is one street running diagonally (helpfully named Diagonal), and if you seem to be walking downhill, you are walking to the sea. It takes approximately 30 seconds to get your bearings if you have a map and can read street signs. The Parc is located on a hill (the one from which all streets head to the sea) and it offers a great panoramic view of the city. It also has more Gaudi architecture. At this point of time I'm going giddy on Gaudi (yes I planned this joke long time ago). As I head back in the evening, I realize I'm catching a cold. I shrug it off and head out at night with the hostel staff again. This time it's more of a dance-y place, which gets me bored. Everyone seems to be there to get drunk and dance and I head back to the hostel. Unfortunately it's cold and raining.

I'm loading up on my dose of wifi when a troika of French who I'd met the previous day stumble back into the hostel too. They want to continue their party and the hostel receptionist joins in too. We joke and drink around till late night, and I get a sneaking suspicion that my cold is gonna worsen. I sleep in the next day, lazily visit Casa Batllo and grudgingly walk around the Gothic neighbourhood. I decide to give the "experience non-touristy food" ideas a toss and load up on greasy chicken burgers and fries. It's my last evening in Barcelona, and I'm wheez-coughing. We play cards in the common room, watch the Banksy documentary and I drink loads of tea.

The next day when I wake up, my eyes are red, I can't talk without doubling up into coughs and I suspect I'm running up a temperature. I check out of the hostel and head towards the airport to go to Palma. When I meet my host I in Mallorca I gesture-wheeze to her that I can't speak. We go to an art exhibition anyway but when I finally crash that night, I realize that my trip is heading to a mess. I'd gotten a call for a job interview when in Barcelona, and I have to ensure I get back home in time for it. My health means I should account for recovery days too.

I spend one entire day in bed in Palma, not enjoying the sun out there. Finally the second day, I venture out, walk around the town, visit more stuff and contemplate about how my trip should progress. I had decided to wing it once I reach Belgium, and try to head north. I had not booked any flights/trains/buses nor booked any hostels or contacted couchsurfers. I decide to cancel off Brussels/Belgium from my plans and decide to head straight home. Booking a last minute return from Palma turns out to cost lesser than booking a last minute return from Brussels. Late in the evening I book a flight to Barcelona - the thought of buying the ticket at the airport crosses my mind and feels strangely adventurous, even though I'm just heading back.

I reach Barcelona, and have 5 hours to kill before a night bus brings me back to France. My cold and wheeze make just want to sit somewhere, so I sit down at the Barcelona Sants station. Years ago, in school, I had to write an essay on "1 hour at the train station". I smile to myself, remembering how I had hated it, how I had no idea what to write and how angry I'd gotten at the unfairness of it all.  My parents and cousins still tease me about it, so I actually do spend some time observing people. A fight erupts between a security guy and traveler. I note with relief that this being Europe, the security guy doesn't have a gun. People stand and watch, and then move on to their trains, metros or buses. Shifts at the ticket desk change, the workers at the numerous fast-food joints dump out the trash the umpteenth time. I pull out my novel and read. Couple of hours later, I head out to the bus, grab a seat and settle in for the 12 hour long ride back home...

My "grand trip" around Europe will continue some other time.

Where I walk a lot in Spain

It's 3 am in the morning, I've just been offered a place to crash by a group of Frenchmen (and Frenchwomen? ... or is the collective word just French?). They were intent on partying, and I was just tagging along. Finally they decide that it's time to head back to the apartment. The apartment is officially for 6 people, and they are 11. So, one extra person (me) doesn't really exacerbate the situation.

The next day, I leave early to Bilbao. S is there to pick me up and the initial plans were to visit Bilbao right away and head to S's place for lunch. But I'm too tired. We head to her home. Her parents have fixed the guest room up for me. I wash up and decide to walk around Getxo. Northern Spain is wonderful, green and the towns are totally unexpected from what I imagined them to be. The buildings aren't new, but they look "different" than the architecture one expects in Europe. We end up walking around a golf course, along cliffs overlooking the Atlantic (I guess this means I've visited the Atlantic on both sides now) and through different residential areas ... it's a 2 hour/10 km walk.

Later I walk around Getxo center, attend a birthday party and eat more good Spanish food. I notice that most people live in apartments - spacious ones - and kids (mid to late twenties are still kids, cos I refuse to grow up) don't automatically move out. The party moves to a pub when the hosts' parents come back but I head home to crash. Sunday, we walk around Bilbao and then Plentzia. Long walks and long conversations.

As I head to Santander to catch my plane to Barcelona, I relax. The Ryan Air staff has been chilled out about my bag sizes, and security has been sane. But at Santander, I see some people being pulled out of line to have bag sized. I panic but get stopped only by the security, who don't like me having my shaving razors (Yes, I thought carrying blades wouldn't be bad :P). The wikivoyage site has instructed me well how to cheaply get to Barcelona center, and train+metro+walk up to the hostel.

As I settle up there, free and unlimited wifi appears. I sprawl out on the bean bags in he common room, chatting with other travellers in the hostel, surfing the net. It's evening so I just wander around the Gracia neighbourhood and later we head out with the hostel staff to a shot bar where almost each shot involves alcohol, fire and magic. (Seriously, if you visit Barcelona, stay at Sant Jordi Hostels, they are great!) Later plans include people heading to a disco/club, which isn't my thing, so some of us head back before long, making plans to sight-see together the next day.

Travel conversations

In the span of 4 days, I've managed to have multiple long conversations. I'm enjoying this.. I'm less concerned about visiting the museums and the sights of the city. It's probably because I planned my trip to begin with meeting friends.
I've passed through Marseille a couple of times, never managing to stay more than a couple of hours... or if I did stay, I had some pressing work to be done. I got touristy things done, thankfully not alone. I'd friends for company, friends who acted as guides. I saw the familiar sights and discussed nuclear energy with G (me trying to convince him why it is not a bad thing) and arranged marriages and related stuff with A (in this case me being uncomfortable with the idea as time progresses and him not so much).
In Paris, I was barely a tourist - I'd planned to see the louvre but laziness, cold weather and catching up with friends meant that went on a backburner. I did see the château de Versailles (damn is that thing huge) and the pantheon (stereotypical pic of Foucoult's pendulum taken). But I'll take away my conversations with O and Y, O explaining why he wants a death penalty and me disagreeing and him giving me enough food for thought, and Y and me complaining to each other about the sad lives of us PhD students.
The weather got worse in Paris, my face, fingers and toes froze and it started snowing the minute boarding was announced for my flight out. The flight waited the snow out, eventually being 2 hours late. I had a a bus to catch at midnight, from Santander to Bilbao which I missed. At the Santander airport I realised that the only way to the city was a taxi. I happened to hear a group of people talking on French and who looked my age. I asked them if I could share the taxi with them and that eventually ended up with them offering me a place to crash for the night. Not much conversations but they were 11, out to party for a weekend in Spain and they felt a 12th person in the apartment would not do much harm.. Thanks guys.... That saved me from freezing on the street.

Party conversations

Let the persons involved be unidentified. It's better that way. Call them X. That may represent the same or multiple persons...

X: (muttering to self) 2 carries over... and..
Me: What?
X: I'm trying to multiply 31 and 37 to see if I'm drunk.
Me: Ummm what?
X: Well, they are the two prime numbers just above 30.
Me: ....
X: I started with primes above 20.. now slowly progressing to higher numbers.
Me: ... If you feel the need to multiply 2 numbers to check if you are drunk... You ARE drunk.

----
Me: Is that chocolate?
X: Yea. (while holding a glass of pastis) Alcohol followed sweet stuff is extremely bad. I'm getting it!
Me: ...

----
X: Hey you, you are Korean right? You have to take this shot with me.
Y: Yea.. what drink it is?
X: It's (something something, I forget). Come on... looks for a shot glass. What the hell do they say in Japanese before you drink?
Y: Umm.. nomi.. no that's "to drink"... ummm
Yes, X was French, Y was Korean and the drink was not Japanese sake. I have no idea why they wanted to say whatever in Japanese.

----
(A few hours later)
X: So, 51 is not a prime right? 53 is. I'm now trying higher primes.
Me: Yep... and 59.
X: Right, 57 is not.. because it is a multiple of 19.
Me: (Stares)... Wasn't it easier to remember it as a multiple of 3.
X: Oh yea.. 19 times 3 is 57. Didn't realize that.

----
Here, X is the host, early on in the party. I'd just reached their place.
X: I'd hoped more people would come. Those lazy idiots.
Me: Well maybe they will come late. Everyone is late.
X: Maybe. It's the long weekend now, so the party can go on till really late.
Me: yea... we can party till Sunday night... no one will want to leave. No matter what. And then... then, you'll just have to shoot whoever is left. That would be your only solution.
X: ....

Political incorrectness

There's something about being (or saying things) horribly wrong that just tickles me. I think the world would be a better place people learn to being politically incorrect for humour (Ricky Gervais, anyone? Or Jimmy Carr? warning: links are quite offensive!).

Like my French friends here. They routinely joke that I may have been already married when a kid. They make slurping sounds when eating beef, and praise the taste. Some know that I don't like the concept of eating snails. So they make sure to offer me some whenever I mention I'm hungry.

It's all done with the slight semblance of a smile and twinkle in the eye. Knowing that what they are saying is wrong. Or sometimes with a overly fake serious face.

I counter with their stubborn insistence on saying my name wrong. Or saying American movies are plain "ollywooood". Or asking me if I want to heat because I might be angry. And I joke about how looking gay is okay. And mention how they still think they should own the world, making a poor Asian like me do all the work.

I mentioned my upcoming trip home, and immediately one guy asks: "So, can we ask you to get something from India?" I answer, "Sure. What do you want?".
- "A young wife. Probably 13-14 year old."

October Saturday

Umm... 2 shirts, 2 jackets, 2 pants, gloves, muffler ... the Alps don't care. You freeze if you are on a motorcycle.

But then, your day includes 160 kms of half-frozen riding fun, over 500m "mountains" that lead you to 1000m mountains, across fields of frozen grass, through tiny towns that seem to only live off motorists and motorcyclists that pass by, through valleys cooled by the long shadows of mountains that surround them; over deep narrow gorges that make any climber's eyes sparkle, passing by hours of watching cars race across narrow mountain roads.

It's morning, 8 am. You grab a cuppa coffee from a small make-shift snack joint, exchange a few sentences about warm gear with the motorcycle riding cops who are there to block traffic for the car rally, and amble off into the spectator zones to find a good spot. A few hours later, after watching close to 50 cars roar into, and out of, the curve you prop open your backpack. Settle down into the now-unfrozen grass, and prepare your sandwiches. The sun has been good.

For the next leg of the rally, you head to a different section. You pass through 2 tiny villages, stopping by at various places on the way to take pictures. Frequently, the road is just a one way affair - you have to stop to let the car approaching from the opposite direction pass. Sometimes, even the motorcycle has to stop to let the car go safely. And those rally driver idiots are gonna vroom past these places.

Aiglun, nestled in the mountains

You reach the finish point of the stage, a small village perched in the mountains. Park the motorcycle and  hike along to find a good spot. Now, you are not on the plains as before. There are some sharp bends in the road, next to which run some tiny trails that lead you to a nice vantage point with an overhead view of the bend. You grab a spot along with 20 others. From here, you see all the cars mid-turn, in all their rubber-burning glory. The light is fading, so for the final few cars, you decided to go into the inside of the turn. Makes for great pics.

A few dozen pics later, you realize you are tired. You walk back to your motorcycle, gobble down a few more sandwiches and head back home. It's been a great day.

Motorcycle tales - redux

In this recounting of the further adventures concerning the motorcycle saga, we will learn how physical strength, high school chemistry, basic physics, pure mechanical engineering and a willingness to part with your money can all come together to fix the bike.

Last we checked up on the motorcycle, it had gotten new spark plugs, new battery, new air-filter, an oil change, new oil filter and a big ego.

Coming off months of storage, the bike starts off well, but there is just something wrong with the way it runs. A few days on, I start hearing explosions. No, not in my dreams. And not just me. Everyone hears them (just in case you think I am hallucinating). The motorcycle fires off a huge fire-smoke thingy after every few minutes. 3 cars crash because the drivers were dozing, my motorcycle woke them up startled and made them over-react. (Not really). I've stalked enough online motorcycle forums to realize this: unburnt hot fuel leaves engine, comes to exhaust where this hot fuel gets oxygen and explodes. In other words, carburettor is being a lazy ass.

A few days later, I notice that fuel leaks out of the carburettor, into the air-filter and then out of the air-filter drain hose onto the ground. Again, in other words, carburettor is acting like 3 year old being force fed green veggies who then refuses to swallow. Previous attempts with carburettor have proved that I cannot dismantle it, let alone clean and inspect it.

1 month, 2 trips to the mechanic, and 250 € later, a grim news awaits: about a litre of water in fuel tank caused loads of  rust. Rust, that found its way to the carbs. Rust that blocked air, messed up fuel and caused explosions. Rust that, according to the mechanic, "cannot be removed. Even it can, there's no point because it'll come back". Yeaaaa, Mr. smart-alec, what's the point of repairing anything - it's all gonna get messed up again. You should just retire. Apparently, "the only option is to get a new tank". How much is the new tank? "Ah, forget about it. Worth more than the bike in it's current condition."

Yep, I know it looks gross.

Merde!

Like any respectable nerd, I head back to the internet. Turns out if you like using acid (Hydrochloric) and anti-rust paint, you can get rid of the rust. Drain tank - fuel, water and all. Throw in Hcl, shake tank, drain, rinse with hot water, dry, paint with anti-rust paint, dry, tada! Except, France refuses to stock that particular anit-rust pain. A trip is made to local hardware shop, where I'm told that I should "get paint for motorcycle from the motorcycle shop".

More internet later, another technique is discovered - electrolysis. Fill tank with electrolyte (washing soda+water), make tank the cathode, provide a steel anode, connect power supply. Wait few hours. Astute readers will remember that there is an old battery lying around. I buy the rest of the stuff. Drain the tank. Except, there are hidden pockets with more fuel inside. Even the Italian pickpockets wouldn't be able to get their hands on them, they are that hidden. The best way to drain turns out to be: pick up tank, shake it like a Martini that 007 would want so that fuel pops out of those pockets and out the tank. Except tanks are not light.

I now have stronger arms...

To be sure, the electrolysis is repeated multiple times. The results of the exercise are visible when I play volleyball - faster serves and better smashes.

Drain electrolyte (shake it, daddy!), dry tank (hair dryer, air-mattress pump, fire of 10 burning suns), fix it back on the motorcycle. I now can fix the tank unaided in 5 minutes (or less). You know what they say about practice...

Deep breath, fill back the petrol. Motorcycle starts (of course, it would. There's nothing wrong with it except that rust, which has been removed).

1 week later, hear a couple of unnatural noises. Shrug it off. A few days later, while starting the bike, hear a loud noise. Like someone threw a spanner in a metal bucket and hit that metal bucket with a hammer. Motorcycle just about starts. Few hours later, when I need to start the bike, I need to push start it (Push bike, drop second gear, release clutch, vrroooooom). Charge battery overnight. Next day, bike doesn't start.

Put on your Sherlock Holmes cap. You hear something spinning, something clicking, but engine is not turning. Hmmm, battery was good but drains immediately. I.E trying to start bike is causing circuit to close with ultra low resistance and battery drains. Or, starter has issues. Open the left side of the engine, where the alternator resides.

Shock and horror await --->

Those black things are magnets. They aren't supposed to be crushed.

Order new rotor off the internet. Get the bolt off. To get this old rotor off, one needs a sliding hammer. What's that? Even the French don't know. Dammit. Read about various other hacks of getting the rotor off. I don't even find the tools for the other hacks. During one particular attempt, a piece of another bolt gets stuck inside.

Finally give up. Realize that removing this will take about 1 hour or so if done by a mechanic. Get an appointment with a mechanic (a different one). It's 20 days away. On the day, get your trusty flatmate to help you push the bike (with a dry weight of 170 kg). The mechanic asks you to come back in the evening. In the evening when you go back, he says when he checked it, he didn't have the right tools at hand. The tools are in his other place. One more day. He asks if he should also clean up all those crushed residue. I tell him he should.

The next evening I go back. Another problem. That piece of the bolt that got stuck... remember it? It's really stuck. Mechanic angry. Says he's spent 3 and a half hours until now working on the bike. At 47€ per hour, it's already 165€. Thank heavens for those American credit cards. He asks me to come back the next evening.

Next evening, I'm told that everything is good now, except that the alternator is shot. The crushed magnets flying around probably damaged it. I tell him that there is no need to change it right now, it's not critical anyway. He says I should come back the next day then. The guy is driving me crazy now. I go back the next day around 2 pm, and he says he still hasn't finished it. He hadn't had time to do it. Frustrated, I push back the bike home - parts hanging around and all.

A few hours later, it is all fixed. The bike starts. Woo hoo!

The next day, a Sunday, the bike refuses to start again. I dismantle stuff, find nothing, put it back together. Push-starting works. Phew! Except the clutch setting is all wrong and it needs loads of pushing. I figure this out in the evening. Monday morning, fix the clutch and push start it. At work, spend about 30 minutes thinking it through.

Aha! The money-stealing, lazy-ass mechanic did not tighten the rotor correctly. Leave work, buy a torque wrench, get home, open bike, tighten rotor. Put back everything. Bike starts like nothing had ever happened to it.

Phew...

Enchiladas and Mechanisms

A collection of posted status messages and unposted but intended tweets that might describe my trip to Mexico:

Pre (and during) flight:
- Me vs Airline Baggage restrictions
- Okay Lufthansa, I know they speak Spanish in Mexico, but that is no reason to send me to Madrid.
- 12 hours into the trip, I'm still on the same continent, closer to home than where I was 5 hours ago.

In Mexico, in the inter-city bus:
- Call off the search parties, these Mexican buses have free wifi!
- Am I in Mexico or am I doing the Pune-Satara leg in a Volvo?

In Guanajuato:
- This hotel room is better than home. #canIstayhereforever?
- Describing my research to people infinitely more qualified than me suddenly makes it interesting again.
- The curse of the light poles is now officially in Mexico too.
- Someone should export Mexican food to France
- Chili makes beer better. #micheladas

Mexico City!
- People who look like me, food stalls on the streets, shops selling bags, utensils etc, people shouting out the list of candies they are selling in the train: Looks like this place has been lifted out of Dadar in Mumbai.
- Dear pre-hispanic Mexicans: next time, please build the pyramids closer.
- Dear modern-day Mexicans: please explain how you drink so much.

Cancun:
- Dear Mexican airline people.... I was asking where the airline desk is, and you ushered me through security without a hitch. The fact that I got to the gate without a boarding pass is your fault, not mine. So why are you checking my bag when I want to go back out?
- If this bus has even a tiny accident, I'm gonna lose my knees. #stupid-leg-room.
- Heh.. there is a university in Cancun... yea.. right.. they "study"
- Okay.. I need some answers. Which idiot has been making Aztec sacrifices to the rain god? Here's something you should know: 1) Sacrifices are illegal. 2) Rain has been following me for days now
- Yay! Sunshine! No rain! waitaminute.....Who turned on the sauna?
- Someone replaced the sand on the beach with baby powder! Is it because this is the New World?
- And the water! Don't mess with my head. Just tell me how you made it so clear?

Journey back:
- Dear Lufthansa, you said it was a window seat. No seriously, you promised it was a window seat. This one is not even at the aisle.
- Apparently, it's okay to get duty-free Tequila in your backpack from Mexico to Frankfurt, but not okay to continue carrying it to Nice. So if you hear of a Tequila Party in Frankfurt, remember who actually bought it.

A little note:
Dear Mexicans, you are just like us Indians. We look the same. We eat spicy food. Our cities are overcrowded, and alive. The metros, trains, buses are full of stinky people who need a shower.
... And we all want to go to the US of A.

Anatomy of motorcycle repairs

"Change oil, remove battery and either drain out all the petrol or fill up the tank."
These are the tips I read for storing a bike for winter, 1 day before leaving for India. Naturally I scourge other websites which tell me that changing oil can be done later, after winter. When I plan to change the regulator that is apparently unrepairable.

After winter, I bring out the toolkit, fish out the pdf manual and scroll to the correct page. The battery-less laptop is upstairs, so I memorize the instructions, run down (so that I don't have enough time to forget). Start dismantling frame cover and seat.

Panic - "What does the regulator look like?!"

Run upstairs, stare at the photograph. Wonder if I am doing the right thing. Walk down, disconnect the regulator wires and start unscrewing the screws. A flimsy spanner screwdriver and rust on the threads ensures the following:

There is no way to put it back. Damn. Also realize that the new regulator has a slightly different shape and the screw would not fit anyway. "It wasn't all my fault", I convince myself. Use Velcro as a fix.

Ten thousand thundering typhoons! Bike still doesn't start.

Clean the spark plugs. Recharge battery for two days. Send out a "HEEEELLLP" post to motorcycle forums.

Next weekend:
Realize that I need to test the ignition coils. "Where are they?" The bike manual says, "under the petrol tank." Ouch. By now I am an expert at removing the frame covers. I take a deep breath and get to work at the petrol tank. Loosen the bolts. Try lifting the tank. It barely budges. Apparently I have to pull, tug, lift and wiggle the tank to get it to move. Swish, swish! Oh crap, the fuel moves around causing the tank to wobble almost out of control. Deep breath. Lift it and peek underneath - two fuel hoses. Rest the tank on the frame, run up read the manual. It says, "Turn the fuel cock to OFF position. Remove the fuel hoses." Hmmmm. Run down, tug at the hoses. They have been fixed by pressure clamps.

Re-adjust the tank on the frame so I can see the ignition coils. (Are they really the ignition coils?) Damn, I need a multi-meter. Put everything back.

The next weekend:
Procure a multi-meter. Test the resistances. Something is wrong, but you still cannot figure out what. Also, the resistances seem fine, i.e ignition coils might be okay. Pull hair out. Also, I *think* I did see the spark plugs spark when I last tested them with a charged battery. But the engine doesn't fire! I don't know what's wrong!

Realize I probably need a new battery. Order a new battery off the internet. Then realize that I might also need new spark plugs. Wait.

The weekend after that:
A friend takes pity on me and offers to help. Also, he has a ginormous tool-box with all kinds of spanners, wrenches and stuff. He has also successfully fixed his car from time to time. Kaching! We open the bike up. Successfully remove the tank and the hoses. Check the wiring, and the ignition coils - they are all fine. The scene is like this:

Yes, the manual is still a pdf on my laptop. And I figured out it's better to have the laptop downstairs. My friend then says, "Maybe the problem is not just the spark plug. Maybe your engine is not getting the correct air-fuel mix. We should check the carbs." Uh-huh.. have you done it before. "Ya, for a car, but never for a bike."

"Well, we are here anyway, let's do it", I say. "But let me take pics as we go, because the pdf doesn't really have great photos. There are too many hoses, pipes and wires running all around." I whip out the camera and the result is some amazing pictures that are of absolutely no help.

Cleaning the carbs seems too complicated. We start putting them back.

"Where did this hose go?" I ask.
"Dunno, check where the other end is", is the reply I get. So I tug at the hose. I start pulling it and it comes out completely. The other end isn't connected to *anything*. I stuff it back in. This makes no effing sense!

We put the stuff back. Apparently defeated.

The weekend AFTER that! (ya, this was a multi-week affair):
I buy the new spark plugs and the new air filter. Replace them. Figure out that the magical unknown hose was a water drain for the petrol tank. Use copious amounts of WD40 to destroy the rust at various places. Use copious amounts of chain oil to lubricate the damn thing. Fit the air filter, put the tank back, fix the new spark plug and connect the new battery.

Switch the fuel cock to the 'PRI' position, engage the choke. Pray and twist the key. The engine turns. Nothing. Twist again. Again the same. Twist again and pray..... IT'S ALIVE!!!!

High on math

Not too long ago (about a year or so) I had a highly random conversation. You know you are reading too much math when the following conversation occurs: (Translations in English provided when the dialogue switches to Hindi)

me: tu sadme se bahar nahi aa raha kya?
(me: You can't get yourself out of your depression?)

p: (Laughs) mere dil ke itne tukde ho gaye hai ki mein gin bhi nahi sakta  
(My heart has broken into so many pieces that I gave up counting)

You cannot even imagine. ek to counting mein problem hai.
(As it is I have a problem in counting things)

me: tujhe ginna waise bhi nahi ata. (As it is you can't count)

p: upar se itna zyada count (And to top it, it's such a high number to count to) 

me: uncountable. abhi koi real number system se pehchan kar le and har ek number ko apne dil ka tukda de   
(Now introduce yourself to some real number system and give each number a piece of your heart)
p: whats the zoke?

me: it will be a one-one and onto relation

p: whats the zoke bhai
whats the zoke?
(zoke = joke. See this)

me: tu nahi samjhega.. aajkal mujhe math seekhna pad raha hai
(You won't get it. Recently I have been forced to learn math)

p: hahahaha

me: ur dil (Your heart) has uncountable parts.. real numbers are uncountable
p: i know
me: so dono ko bijection kar de
(So perform a bijection on the two)

p: but real number ek seedhi line par hai
(But real numbers are on a straight line)

me: tere dil ko line mein arrange kar sakte hai.. thats my point
(You can arrange the pieces of your heart in a line, thats my point)

p: mere dil ke tukde scattered over real word ka 3d axes
(But the pieces are scattered over 3 dimensional space)

me: waise bhi a line and 3d space are isomorphic
(Well a line and 3d space are isomorphic) 

p: real axis aur real axes ke beech mein bijection nahi hai
(there isn't a bijection between the real axis and 3d space)

me: hota hai bhai
(There is one, trust me)

p: isomorphism hai pakka?
(There is isomorphism for sure?)

me: haan (Yes)
p: ruk sochne de (Wait lemme think)
me: [0,1] and [0,1]x[0,1] are of same uncountable type
p: okay
me: and so on
p: hmm
me: hence.. ur dil ko line mein arrange kar sakte hai --(Hence your heart can be arranged in a line)
toh wo heart ka arrow bana.. (So make an arrow out of that line)

aur kisi dil pe attack kar (And use that arrow to attack someone)

p: waah waah  (Sarcastic applause)
me: cupid
p: kya baat hai
samne hota to chappal se marta tujhe aaj
(If you were somewhere near me right now, I'd have shot you.)

Well, the translations aren't word for word, but I guess they capture the feel of it. Especially in the last sentence, where the literal translation is "I'd have hit you with my shoes/flip-flops" but given an opportunity to use a gun, P would have gladly shot me.

I can fly!

This post has been dredged out from the archives. I never completed it then, out of laziness, forgetfullness and some other ness monster. This is an ancient story that I would like to tell, and it has a moral too! The incident I describe occured in the middle of August 2007. It made so famous, that even 5 months after it happened, people who had never met me before would recognize that I was "that guy" on just hearing my name.

Laziness makes you notice every bike shop around you and the deal they offer. Gator cycle advertised "cheap bikes" for college students. Walmart has these nice sections where you have bikes on shelves (actually on shelves). Travelling to a new country makes you really great at multiplication. Especially by 40, since at that time $1 = Rs.40. So "cheap bikes" at Gator Cycles, with the cheapest at $200, were quickly scratched off the list and Walmart became the shopper's paradise. To think of it, everything that I had in the house then was bought in Walmart or in India. So, I bought this bicycle from Walmart for a measely $60-ish.

Compared to the bikes you get in India for similar prices, the bikes in US look pretty damn cool (notice how I mention that they only look cool). They have 18 or 24 speed transmission (yes, I used the word transmission for a bicycle because I like to glorify it) and a suspension system (cough.. cough). Long story short, I clicked pictures of the bike and my friends drooled and then envied me. Over the next week, I realised why the bikes were so cheap. Well, I guess I must point out that "cheap" and "expensive" are in the American context. For Indian prices, the bike was already expensive... and an outright rip-off.

The brake pads wore out within the week, and stuff was already rickety. Soon I had developed a masterful technique of stopping by bike - squeeze both brake levers hard, and if the speed is still not suffiently low, press the rubber coating on the bottom part of your shoes against the ground. I must point out that I never had the problem of not being able to stop in time.

So this one day, I heard the news that I would be getting a Teaching Assitantship at UF, which would cover my tuition costs and also give me a healthy paycheck. To say I was happy would be understating it. Suddenly there was this economic freedom and I immediatly agreed to go to Tampa with my friend - Nikhil. There was just a small hitch - he had left some documents (or keys or something) at another place and it was essential he have it before he left. I offered to go and pick it up for him so that he could finish his lunch. Since I had already left my bike at home, I picked up his bike.

So happy me decides to race the bike up to the place. A short check shows that the brakes are good. A short check also misses out the fact that the brakes are quite good and that since I am used to my super braking technique, I should take it easy. The short check also misses out reminding me that in US, the brakes are opposite - unlike those in India, the left lever is for the front wheel and the right is for the back.

As I zoom down the slope at a high speed, I think about how I will not be in debt anymore. I will be able to actually enjoy US without worrying about that multiplying factor. I also think that the SUV pulling out of the drive-way in front should not come so fast.

You know how in movies the action slows down at critical moments. Well, in actual life it doesn't. Here is what I remember: Oh car, I must slow down. Jam the brakes (damn you, short check). Where did the handle-bars go? Face palm upwards to see that the handlebars are gone. Umm, I'm not sitting on anything anymore. Land face first flat on the ground. Realize that the bike also hit you after you landed on the ground.

Get up dazed. The glasses are skewed. Take them off so you can check if they were damaged. See they are covered in blood and panic. Take out handkerchief so that I can stop the blood flow. Realize that I don't know where is the blood pouring out from. See left hand bleeding and use to handkerchief to clamp it down... and so on.

Here's what I guess happened. I jammed the both the brakes, but probably jammed the left one first causing the bike to flip. Since I was pretty fast, I got thrown off the bike. I think I flew 6-7 feet in the air. I did not realize that I was flying and turned up my palms to check where the handlebars had gone. No bones were broken and I did not hurt my head (as I first thought).

The kicker is, the car pulling out of the driveway wasn't at fault. He wasn't even in my way and I did not hit him either. I was trying to just slow down and he would have probably given me way if I hadn't flipped. My left hand was pretty damaged and the blood from it scared me and him. I refused his offer to call for an ambulance or 911. I hobbled a bit to the house I had to get to. Some Indian guy with a car saw me as I was walking and took me to the univ clinic where I got stitches.

Over the next 3 months I learnt everything about health insurance.

Everyone heard about the guy who didn't know how to ride a bicycle. They also heard how nobody hit me. I just fell off. Funny thing is, whenever I asked the Indian guys laughing at me which side the back brake is, they told me the Indian convention - left lever for back brake. So, considering that so many Indian students buy cheap bikes, it is a miracle there haven't been many accidents.

Moral of the story: If your life depends on it, spend more money on getting a better quality product. Also, don't be an idiot and do not race down a slope with bike unless you have atleast a helmet. Or really kick-ass insurance.

Hebbun and the curse of the light pole

No, we were not drunk. Nor were we high on anything. Moments of inspired randomness in good old Gainesville gave us these gems.

When something was truly awesome, it signified something more than heavenly. It was ... wait for it... hebbun. Or Hay-1. Or Hay-bun. For maximum effect, you pause a bit, Barney-style, after the "Hay" and then say the "bun" or "one" slowly.

Or there was this discussion about Noah and his ark. Being an engineer makes you think that you obviously know better than others. So, your meagre knowledge of probability makes you wonder about the odds of finding land when wandering around aimlessly. However, bouts of speech impediments prompt you wonder about the merits of "wanderously aimering". Your flatmate corrects you that they were actually "aimeresly wandering". You proclaim the 49,983th time that you "have not lost it", because you "never had it to begin with".

An old story about a professor who taught me in my undergrad in his heavily Marathi-accented English created a new form greeting. The same word is a semi-official nickname - "Shay".

Playing cards gets a new meaning. You actually play catch with credit cards.

You invent a new game with bottles of water, a foam ball, a rack of shoes, a bicycle. It's competitive too.

And then those night-time walks between the two desi "adda"s - Park 16 and Arbor Park give you newfound understanding about the mysteries of nature: the electric light pole near the Sun-bay bus stop is cursed. Whenever any of us walked under it, it toggled - it switched off it was on, or switched on if it was off. Sometimes, it toggled back after we had gone away from it's influence zone. There were non-believers, but Abhishek and I had empirical proof. The curse was known to follow us sometimes. It appeared when we were in the Florida Keys. Sometimes it followed us separately, Abhishek sighted it when he was with his friends. Recently, I had a sighting in France. Trust me guys, the electric light poles are cursed. Or maybe they are sending us a message.

What's up?

I realise that I have subscribed to 32 feeds in my Google Reader. I'm also following 44 people. I have an active Facebook account, I've not switched off Buzz. And I frequent Cnn, Times of India (bad choice, I know), Cricinfo, Engadget, Cnet.

Oh, and I'm also supposed to be doing a PhD. I've re-discovered my addiction to reading. Though, along with books it includes all those above things. Which means that reading papers and work stuff is lagging behind. Shit! Hence, a recent curfew was put into place. Most forms of chat were switched off. I didn't go as ninja as this one suggests. But I have contemplated it.

So what has happenned in recent times? Trip to Venice. It's a great city. VISIT it. I would definitely want to go there again. I caught up on Tv Shows  - How I Met Your Mother and Californication. HIMYM is the simple-minded addicted sitcom thingy. Once you start a season, lack of anything better to do makes you want to finish it. I finished it. Californication is good. Though I would have been happy if they had stopped at Season 1. Now that Season 2 has ended in a way to set up Season 3, I will have to watch it.

As a way to be less online and more in the "real" world, I picked up sailing lessons. Catamarans! It's fun. Especially when 6 minutes into the sea, a gust of wind and inexperience causes the boat to flip. Not entirely, but you get thrown into icy cold water. But sailing requires you to be able to swim 50 metres unaided. I can swim, but not too far. So I need to go the pool and do them some laps. And doing them laps I am.

Went skiing the other day. I was told that since I can roller-blade and since I have tried ice-skating, skiing wouldn't be a problem. Big old overconfident me had a fun time trying to figure out how to stay standing on those skis. The repeated taste of snow+ice is not all that fun. But eventually I managed to move and stop when I wanted (almost). Success!

And finally, have been looking for motorcycles. And will be buying one in a week. In the process of doing the paperwork and insurance and stuff. So, next week a 500cc baby monster will roll in.

French Buses...

.. are not unlike those in Gainesville.

The one you should have caught is always on time (or even before time) while the one you ending travelling in is always 5 to 10 minutes late. Add the fact that the bus is every 20 or 40 minutes only, and you have a pretty sorry picture about your punctuality.

Which gets me to think about buses in India (since you always MUST compare it with stuff in India. It's a rule. Somewhere it has surely been written down). Pune has a bad bus system. I stopped using buses the minute I got my driver's license. And when I couldn't use the car/bike I use the rickshaws. The rickshaws aren't cheap (any more). And compared to the buses, absolutely not.

If I really think back hard and try to remember waiting for the bus, heck, I did actually spend 10-15 minutes at the bus stop every time. I used to have a class at 5 (p.m... I was/am sane) and I always left at around 4-ish. Distance to travel = 10 km. Actual time taken on bicycle = 40 minutes, car = 25 minutes (traffic, you see). So, there you go. It was as bad there as it is here.

But, I still crib about the buses here. Mumbai is another matter. It is so huge, that you must compare only cities like San Francisco, New York, Paris, London etc and their transport systems. So, I must basically learn to cut this place some slack. Or, buy a motorcycle and/or a car.

2012

"... winning gold medals at the math olympiad was just a dangling carrot to get you all motivated. Winning medals there is not a true measure of success of this program. We will know whether our experiment was truly successful after, say, 10 years. Let us meet in 2012. I predict that each of you will have done something truly great. That will be the true measure of success for this program." -- Prof. P.

Well, it's not an exact quote, but it sums up what P meant in 2002. So, the date 1st June 2012 draws closer, just 29 months and few days away. At 6 pm, we are scheduled to meet in Pune. The golden medal guy has promised that, as always, he will be 5 minutes late. Among things changed, some are on their way to getting married already. Some have shifted fields. Mathematics no longer takes up a chunk of our lives. Some don't need it altogether. But the prediction says that we will still have benefited from the program, and I generally agree with it.

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I am scheduled to graduate with a PhD in August 2012. A couple of others might graduate in 2012 too.

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Sometime around 3000 BC (well, historians aren't quite sure about the exact date), the Mayans invented a calendar, that had a last date. Theories suggest that this corresponds to 21 December, 2012. For proof, refer to the movie that goes by the same title.

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The book "Foucault's Pendulum" by Umberto Eco writes about a fictitious conspiracy theory that 3 editors are working on that intends to be "the mother of all theories" and that ties in all myths and legends and reveals a greater Plan. In it, a "normal" character chides one of the leads about such theories saying, that you can choose any number, and any fact, and assign it a greater meaning. Making a conspiracy theory is quite easy and you can make it personal by (forcibly) relating it to events in your life. Maybe I should make a movie based on the above lines, make myself the lead character, and show how I was destined to be the saviour.... or the first one to go in the apocalypse.

Snow

When talking to a friend once, I was amazed to know that he actually remembered the first time he saw the sea. I have relatives in Mumbai and I was born there, so the image of the sea has always been in my head. I don't remember the first time I saw the sea, or the mountains. My friend lived in the mountains, and he came to the beach the first time when he was 19-20 years old. I guess when you have waited that long (not that he was waiting for it!), the memory stays with you.

Based on this "fable", I had conjured up images of seeing snow the first time. I imagined myself getting off the train or the bus in the Swiss Alps, seeing a foot of snow, not knowing what to do but just staring at the whole scene and taking it in. When I saw the snow-capped mountains in the distance from my house, this "image" intensified. But funnily enough that is not how it happened. I was on my way to a party in Nice and while in the bus, we saw what we thought was rain. Now, Nice does not get snowfall generally and there was nothing to suggest that it would snow. Well, the forecast said it might snow in Sophia Antipolis, which is higher up and farther from the sea.

As the bus slowed down, we realised that the "water drops" hitting the windows were tiny white were tiny white snowflakes. I was searching for the "OMG the first snowfall!" feeling in me, but I was mostly wondering why the heck it is snowing. We got out at the bus stop, and it slowly dawned on me. It was snowing! I think the movies and books hype up the situation too much. It was a cool feeling, I admit. But my jaw did not drop.

Later on in the night, we looked through the window of the apartment and saw the snowfall. It had gotten heavier, so to say. Compared to most other places, the quantity was still miserly but it does look beautiful. We looked out of the window and could see the car tops covered with snow. The temperature wasn't low enough, so snow on the ground melted away. When we left the place for home, the cars still had snow over them. We made a couple of snowballs and threw them. We were too cold to keep playing, so the game did not last much. I don't know if I will remember this memory like my friend does, but it was a bit special. It was definitely something I did not expect, but thats generally how things go...

TSF videos

Videos from one performance with the Theatre Strike Force. This was from the end of semester show, called "T-Group Showdown". I was in two games - Party Quirks, where the host has to guess who his guests are, and Radio, where each of us is a Radio station and the proctor selectively tunes in and out to our station.



Party Quirks





Radio