Flight Fright?

I don't have it. I don't understand people who do. I love planes. They're great! What's not to like? You get wherever you're going really quickly, you get fed, and if you're lucky, you get a small taste of the wacky rollercoaster tummy hop. (Should I trademark this? I am pretty sure this was an original description of a well-known phenomenon... Rollercoaster Tummy Hop™, how does that look?) All-inclusive, you know? Food, transportation and an amusement park ride, all rolled up into one. Reminds me of Kinder Surprises of my younger days...

Many people tell me they love to travel. Then they notice me staring at them with my your-insanity-beats-mine look, and almost inevitably they then ask, "Why, don't you love to travel?" Ô, le plus lamentable des êtres... If I did, would I be looking at you like that? I really don't get it. To be sure, I love being places, however, I'd rather skip actually going there. A teleporter is such a great idea. If I have to suffer an instance of me (yeah, you can tell I'm a programmer) being ripped to molecular shreds to avoid sitting for hours on end in an uncomfortable bus-conditioned seat (bus-conditioning is surely the antonym of air-conditioning), balancing boredom with nausea on a book's thin edge, so be it. I accept my fate gladly.

In my view, planes are the next best thing. They're awesome. And safe, too, despite what people think. You only hear about the planes that go down, never about the ones that get you home early. (A cynical person would draw some sort of cheap comparison to women. Thank Goddess I'm not like that.) In the same vein, even if something does happen, in the most unlikely event of bumping into something that should not have been there (like a jetbound pigeon, an errant fogheaded mountaintop or an explosive-deviced fundamentalist): not my fault. I didn't crash it, it's the guy in the front seat (or the late pigeon, or the dumb cliff, you get the drift). I can die cheerfully absolved of any guilt over my demise. What's not to love about planes?

What gives me the jitters now is the uncertainty about my destination. My own black ignorance. What is Damascus? I mean, when I was going to Budapest for a week on a business trip, I was fretting whether I would find my way around, but it was still okay, because it was an European city. Same as Zagreb, really, just rather more stocked in the Chinese restaurant department.

Damascus is a completely different culture. I can't even picture what the city is like. Will there be skyscrapers with lots of shiny glass? Will there be a mud house district? I have no clue. All I know is, it is supposed to be the "oldest continuously inhabited city in the world". Well, frankly, that does not tell me much. Neither of my expectations takes a hit from such description. I'm so in the dark. Would it hurt them to say something along the lines of "Damascus is a modern, bustling city, with a plethora of Internet cafés, and no mud houses at all"?

And, while I have absolutely nothing against the Arabs, I can't help but wonder if they will have anything against me. I speak English rather well. Arabic, not so much. Actually, I speak great, the several words I have at my disposal, then I'm done. I heard they don't like Americans. Great, I said, I speak with a somewhat Britishy accent. They hate Brits even worse, someone replied. So, I don't know. The reliability of my sources is at best questionable; however, I'll have to brush up my Balkan dialect if that's true...

Will I like the food? Will I be cold? Will I pack everything I need? Will the customs go without any hitches, or glitches? Will there be hand amputations undertaken on my account? Will I contract some bug that I will spread through my office and thus incur the murderous wrath a colleague has promised me if I bring him any African diarrheas? No idea, no idea, no idea... We'll see soon enough.

To take my mind (and consequently yours, as well) off my impending journey, let me share something truly moving (but do not blame me if you misunderstand my meaning here): the works of Rev Jesse Custer will leave no-one untouched. Mark my words.

New Toys

A day after launching my very first blog. How exciting!

It isn't, really, but tell that to my id. Or inner child. Or whatever your particular branch of psychology decided to name it. Just wouldn't listen! It was all, "did any of my friends comment yet?"

The day grew increasingly gone, when finally, I remembered that I have not actually given this link to anyone, my close friends included. The ones that are the reason for this blog's very existence. I wrote Mon about it while I was waiting for Jules and her boyfriend Oz to arrive, then they arrived and the notice got stuck fast in my gmail draftbox. The letter said:

You're the first one I'm telling, but you probably won't be the first one to know about it, since Jules and Oz are coming tonight...

Actually, the letter said something involving a quite larger consonant count, but the gist was the same. Of course, the letter had to be rewritten, since the saved draft was too drafty, and had to be saved.

Then, seeing as how I actually had some friends over, I mentioned how I had started a blog, but I did not give the URL. I do not know why. I might have forgotten. I might have thought that speaking in URLs is bound to make me an even bigger geek than... no, can't be it, they already know exactly how big a geek I am. There is a chance that I wanted them to be interested enough to ask me about it, and let the subtext carry my wish. However, the subtext that appeared was, seemingly, a puny weakling that could not even carry a vowel. Happens to me frequently, as I have come to realise. Another round of mails followed. The work which was due shortly stood ignored on my disk as I fretted about the things I might have forgotten this time.

But an hour later, there were still no comments. The hit tracker I installed did not even register one, after I told it not to count my own. My gmailbox remained steadfastly empty. I asked myself (as I'm sure you already noticed I tend to do), what would a typical blogger do in the situation like this?

Why, put it into his blog, of course.

Consequently, you are reading these as my thoughts for the day. Rather pointless. However, most things in life are. Which is how you can tell that this blog is Genuine™.

If in doubt:

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Version: 3.1
GCS/SS/O d- s:+ a C++$ UL+ P++ L++ E-@ W++$
N+(-) o K w(--) !O M- !V PS+@ !PE Y+ PGP-(+)
t-@ 5+ X+ R@ tv+@ b+(++) !DI D- G e++ h r-- y+
------END GEEK CODE BLOCK------

Succumbed

Okay. I made a blog. So shoot me.

Why?

I swore I'd never have a blog. I don't really have anything smart to say, and I hate the commitment it takes to think up new material all the time. Am I a professional entertainer, or a comedian for the Internet masses, I ask you? - as I asked myself. Nooo. Let Neil Gaimans and Pamela Andersons of the world write their blogs; me, I'll be happy in my lazy obscurity. (Oh, and — if you're reading this, Neil — sorry for the juxtaposition.)

However, faced with an impending trip to a place that might be considered "exotic", I figured - okay, time to publish. Primarily because otherwise all my friends will pester me one by one with their inevitable how-was-its, and I really don't wish to repeat myself three, or even four times.

Thus — a blog.

I believe an introduction is in order, for those of you who do not know me personally, and have stumbled onto this greary (green and dreary) place in error. I live in Zagreb, which is a capital of Croatia, which is an European country, and not a type of decorative pumpkin (as I have heard it answered once). The exotic land in question is Syria, not in Europe but also a country, and also extremely unpumpkinny, where I will be spending the next two weeks of my so-called life.

So check back, my faithfuls, during the following fortnight, where I shall be putting down my near-eastern سوريا thoughts and experiences, if I find an Internet connection. And if not, forget the whole thing — since I probably will not bother typing everything post-facto.