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Home again...
Sep. 18th, 2001 01:09 pmThe trip home was uneventful, with the possible exception of being singled out by a media journalist at IAH and asked my opinion of what-all has been going on and its relation to my being at the airport early yesterday afternoon. As luck would have it, I was in precisely a position to not see myself on the tube, assuming, of course, that any of the things I said were usable as sound bites.
Security was kinda funny. I put everything I owned through the X-ray, didn't set off the metal detector that I could tell, yet was asked to step aside and was frisked both with a wand and with hands. This does not bother me that much, as I have been through much more intrusive searches (e.g., Paris a couple of decades ago), involving privacy screens, gendarmes with automatic weapons, and an attendant wearing rubber gloves for every living soul that intended to board the aircraft.
The flight itself was uneventful. I sat next to a woman and her 3-1/2 month old infant. The child was spunky (when it wasn't sleeping, which was most of the trip). I noticed an extra finger on one hand and the fact that the child was bald. I assumed mother and daughter had been visiting one or more of the many world-class hospitals they have in Houston. (Houston may be a miserable place to live, but if I had a choice of where to be treated for a serious disease, it'd probably be Houston.)
My reading material for the flight up to Denver was Agatha Christie's The Moving Finger. Despite having been first published in 1942, the story would largely hold up today. At any rate, it'd been so long since I first read this one that rereading it was to rediscover Christie's marvelous talent for characterization. By contrast, I found a paperback mystery stuck in the seat back in front of me on the puddle-jumper from Denver to Durango and could barely get through the first ten pages. Ugh! And this was one of a series of books written by the author, according to the cover. Ye gods.
While moving from one gate to another in Denver, I spied the USA Today headline and was chagrined to see the paper reporting widespread popular support for a protracted conflict against terrorism that may take much blood and treasure to prosecute. Those who think Afghanistan is some rinky-dink backwater that can be made to bend to military might need, desperately, to read some history.
Not only did the Soviets get their butts well and truly fried by the mujahadin in the late 70s and 80s, but the British also were forced to walk away from Afghanistan with bloody battle standards in the previous century, at almost the height of the Empire's power and dominion.
Anyway, we finally pulled into the driveway - Drew picked me up at Durango after school - around 9 pm. It turned out we had nothing in the house that could be prepared quickly, so Galina and I made a run at the McDonald's, where we picked up a large box of chicken nuggets and some sandwiches belonging to their new "German" menu. (Go figure?)
After chewing the fat for a while, we all retired. I recall drowsing to the sound of Dan Rather's voice, which was pointing out how we Americans have a reputation abroad for not being able or willing to stick things out for the long haul. I recall wondering if Rather understands that much of that reputation is due to political responses to media reporting, which turns nasty if solutions are not swift, decisive, and successful, not to mention supportive (in terms of increased coverage) of factions that oppose existing policies.
When I finally did drift off, I again slept fitfully, and this is beginning to bother me. I generally never have problems falling asleep (remind me to tell you about the time I fell asleep during a mortar barrage). If this continues for more than a few more days, the problem may be worth taking to a medic.
There are piles of things to do around the house, at the shop, and for my translation business. It's almost impossible to figure out what to do next, or first. Dive in, I guess.
Cheers...
Security was kinda funny. I put everything I owned through the X-ray, didn't set off the metal detector that I could tell, yet was asked to step aside and was frisked both with a wand and with hands. This does not bother me that much, as I have been through much more intrusive searches (e.g., Paris a couple of decades ago), involving privacy screens, gendarmes with automatic weapons, and an attendant wearing rubber gloves for every living soul that intended to board the aircraft.
The flight itself was uneventful. I sat next to a woman and her 3-1/2 month old infant. The child was spunky (when it wasn't sleeping, which was most of the trip). I noticed an extra finger on one hand and the fact that the child was bald. I assumed mother and daughter had been visiting one or more of the many world-class hospitals they have in Houston. (Houston may be a miserable place to live, but if I had a choice of where to be treated for a serious disease, it'd probably be Houston.)
My reading material for the flight up to Denver was Agatha Christie's The Moving Finger. Despite having been first published in 1942, the story would largely hold up today. At any rate, it'd been so long since I first read this one that rereading it was to rediscover Christie's marvelous talent for characterization. By contrast, I found a paperback mystery stuck in the seat back in front of me on the puddle-jumper from Denver to Durango and could barely get through the first ten pages. Ugh! And this was one of a series of books written by the author, according to the cover. Ye gods.
While moving from one gate to another in Denver, I spied the USA Today headline and was chagrined to see the paper reporting widespread popular support for a protracted conflict against terrorism that may take much blood and treasure to prosecute. Those who think Afghanistan is some rinky-dink backwater that can be made to bend to military might need, desperately, to read some history.
Not only did the Soviets get their butts well and truly fried by the mujahadin in the late 70s and 80s, but the British also were forced to walk away from Afghanistan with bloody battle standards in the previous century, at almost the height of the Empire's power and dominion.
Anyway, we finally pulled into the driveway - Drew picked me up at Durango after school - around 9 pm. It turned out we had nothing in the house that could be prepared quickly, so Galina and I made a run at the McDonald's, where we picked up a large box of chicken nuggets and some sandwiches belonging to their new "German" menu. (Go figure?)
After chewing the fat for a while, we all retired. I recall drowsing to the sound of Dan Rather's voice, which was pointing out how we Americans have a reputation abroad for not being able or willing to stick things out for the long haul. I recall wondering if Rather understands that much of that reputation is due to political responses to media reporting, which turns nasty if solutions are not swift, decisive, and successful, not to mention supportive (in terms of increased coverage) of factions that oppose existing policies.
When I finally did drift off, I again slept fitfully, and this is beginning to bother me. I generally never have problems falling asleep (remind me to tell you about the time I fell asleep during a mortar barrage). If this continues for more than a few more days, the problem may be worth taking to a medic.
There are piles of things to do around the house, at the shop, and for my translation business. It's almost impossible to figure out what to do next, or first. Dive in, I guess.
Cheers...
