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People trump props...
Apr. 28th, 2006 11:43 pmAnd, I might add, weather.
For its farewell bash, our group traveled by bus to a ranch not far out of town, a place once propsperous and founded by a local wheeler-dealer who returned from World War II with little more than his combat pay and a burning ambition. As we waited for the Russian delegation to arrive, we strolled around the grounds, which included something that resembled a petting zoo.
The happiest animal of the lot seemed to be a tom turkey, whose pronounced health and weight may not be conducive to a long life, but very much so to a good dinner. All the horses seemed reserved; one looked positively ill. A little donkey wandered about, its fur matted and coming out in clumps. As I passed by a water trough, wondering whether my impression of the animals' sadness were the result of my imagination or perhaps lack of understanding, I spied huge gobs of algae floating in the water, and decided the animals truly were unhappy.
The festivities took place at what in Houston would be called an "ice house," a large building containg a bar, stage, and small dance floor, with garage door entrances that gave out into a small yard. There was a large tent erected in the yard, to shelter the long tables at which we ate. The weather was cold, made colder by a brisk wind. Everyone wore what they could. Maya, in a parka, looked like she was ready to support satellite unloading at Baikonur in January. I wore my dark green wool pants and wool sweater, which were both bought at thrift shops for far less than the $30 the evening cost me.
Dinner consisted of a small bowl of beans, a similarly sized bowl of overcooked corn, a portion of cole slaw, a piece of barbequed chicken breast and a portion of brisket, served in a plastic plate and eaten with plastic utensils extracted from a package one might expect to get at a KFC. Overeating was not a threat, nor was overdrinking, unless one had cash to spend at the bar, or overdosed on Coke or cloyingly sweet iced tea. (Of course, the Russians showed up with their own supply of liquor, but that's another story.)
As there were no lights in the tent, the last people standing in line at the chow hall (a small building somewhat removed from the ice house) had to find a seat and bolt their food while they could still see it, preferably digging into the hot food first, lest it turn into a cold leftover in the time it took to eat the cole slaw.
And yet, we all had a marvelous time.
As I had been called out of my splinter group the first thing in the morning to help out with the effort to translate the meeting summary, I missed the exchange of gifts among the people in my splinter, but the evening offered an opportunity for my group to right the imbalance. I received some nice mementos of the event.
The musician engaged to play for us did a good job. At one point, our Valery jumped up on stage and sang Imagine, followed by House of the Rising Sun, to the general approbation of those assembled. People danced.
Tomorrow is another "culture" day, though I hope not one as ambitious in scope as last week. It's late, so I should probably go stand outside the lobby (closed now) and upload this post, then go to bed.
Cheers...
For its farewell bash, our group traveled by bus to a ranch not far out of town, a place once propsperous and founded by a local wheeler-dealer who returned from World War II with little more than his combat pay and a burning ambition. As we waited for the Russian delegation to arrive, we strolled around the grounds, which included something that resembled a petting zoo.
The happiest animal of the lot seemed to be a tom turkey, whose pronounced health and weight may not be conducive to a long life, but very much so to a good dinner. All the horses seemed reserved; one looked positively ill. A little donkey wandered about, its fur matted and coming out in clumps. As I passed by a water trough, wondering whether my impression of the animals' sadness were the result of my imagination or perhaps lack of understanding, I spied huge gobs of algae floating in the water, and decided the animals truly were unhappy.
The festivities took place at what in Houston would be called an "ice house," a large building containg a bar, stage, and small dance floor, with garage door entrances that gave out into a small yard. There was a large tent erected in the yard, to shelter the long tables at which we ate. The weather was cold, made colder by a brisk wind. Everyone wore what they could. Maya, in a parka, looked like she was ready to support satellite unloading at Baikonur in January. I wore my dark green wool pants and wool sweater, which were both bought at thrift shops for far less than the $30 the evening cost me.
Dinner consisted of a small bowl of beans, a similarly sized bowl of overcooked corn, a portion of cole slaw, a piece of barbequed chicken breast and a portion of brisket, served in a plastic plate and eaten with plastic utensils extracted from a package one might expect to get at a KFC. Overeating was not a threat, nor was overdrinking, unless one had cash to spend at the bar, or overdosed on Coke or cloyingly sweet iced tea. (Of course, the Russians showed up with their own supply of liquor, but that's another story.)
As there were no lights in the tent, the last people standing in line at the chow hall (a small building somewhat removed from the ice house) had to find a seat and bolt their food while they could still see it, preferably digging into the hot food first, lest it turn into a cold leftover in the time it took to eat the cole slaw.
And yet, we all had a marvelous time.
As I had been called out of my splinter group the first thing in the morning to help out with the effort to translate the meeting summary, I missed the exchange of gifts among the people in my splinter, but the evening offered an opportunity for my group to right the imbalance. I received some nice mementos of the event.
The musician engaged to play for us did a good job. At one point, our Valery jumped up on stage and sang Imagine, followed by House of the Rising Sun, to the general approbation of those assembled. People danced.
Tomorrow is another "culture" day, though I hope not one as ambitious in scope as last week. It's late, so I should probably go stand outside the lobby (closed now) and upload this post, then go to bed.
Cheers...
