A Thousand Times No

Fresh off the plane and right under the wire for 2008, I’ve just wrapped up my last good deed of the year: showing some love for the Wikimedia Foundation!

In another world, or perhaps another life, I would have something meaningful to say about the conclusion of a very eventful year.

However, in this life, I have just sputtered away the morning trying to get my parents’ new cell phone to come to life, and performing minor topological miracles so that I may fly today with only carry-on luggage.

In that spirit, I hope all of you have a year full of greatness and wonder ahead.  See you on the other side!

I’ve long been puzzled by why Ikea waited for well over a decade after arriving in America to finally open a branch in the Twin Cities — home to more Svenskarnas Dag-loving Swedes than you can shake a Santa Lucia wreath at.  (A conspiracy by the Sons of Norway, perhaps?)

But now that the people of Ingvar Kamprad have finally arrived in the Scandihoovian capital of the United States, it was the most logical place to take my father when we went shopping for over a dozen compact fluorescent bulbs.

I drove through the middle of a steadily falling snow, across unplowed streets.  Traffic was slow, orderly, and almost Zen.

To my surprise, my father said he had never been to Ikea, which turned today’s trip into a sort of home furnishing safari.  “To your right, you can see the free-ranging Pöang, sharing a watering hole with the crafty Ingo, which just may eat your baby.”

To expedite our trip, I confined our journey to the lower level of the store, avoiding the long and winding walk through the showcase rooms.  My father was fascinated with the entire flat-packing concept, and startled by some of the bargain prices.  On the way out, he turned his head, and said, “I think I smell pizza!”  When I told him that you could actually sit down and eat inside Ikea, his eyes lit up.

And thus the great global hegemony continues to unfold, one meatball at a time.

If the way to find good food on the road is to stop where all the trucks are parked, the way to find a good Chinese restaurant is to turn up where the Chinese people outnumber everyone else, even on a weeknight.  This was the case when my parents and I went to Grand Shanghai, the no-frills eatery on Grand Avenue in St. Paul that is notable for its selection of Peking duck dishes.

If you serve up well-loved Chinese food items that Chinese people themselves don’t ever cook at home, you’ve just written your ticket to success.  If you give diners the option to go all-out and consume one duck in three ways (in pancakes with scallions, in stir-fry with broccoli rabe, and in soup with leafy greens), you have just carved out a small slice of food heaven.  Nom nom nom.

This morning it was time for another trip to the neighborhood YMCA, where my parents have been members for several years.  This particular branch has the peculiarity of having a completely carpeted basement level, including the locker rooms and the space where all the cardio machines are located.

The net effect of this unfortunate design decision is that the most crowded portion of the gym is one giant aroma magnet.  As we walked past the front desk and opened the door to descend down the stairwell to the lower level, a family with two young children was close on our heels.

“Every day the Y smells more and more,” the son said matter-of-factly. I burst out laughing and told the parents that they had a very smart and perceptive child on their hands, which made them laugh, too.

After withstanding weather issues, technology problems, and minor aches and pains, I have finally come face-to-face with the thing that makes running nearly impossible for me.  It is called “the treadmill,” a.k.a. the Boremaster.  I simply cannot keep moving on the treadmill for more than fifteen minutes at a time without completely losing my motivation.  At twenty minutes, I am in danger of losing my mind entirely.

Later in the day I went to the Walker Art Center to view their exhibit on the work of Eero Saarinen, the architect behind the Gateway Arch in St. Louis, the TWA terminal at Idlewild/Kennedy Airport, the “Yale Whale” (the David S. Ingalls Rink), and numerous other bold, iconic structures.  When Saarinen designed the instantly recognizable Tulip Chair and pedestal furniture series for Knoll, he commented “I wanted to clear up the slum of legs.”

If only he had lived long enough to build a better treadmill.

To stay calm during my holiday air travels, I brought along my most recent knitting project, the popular Koolhaas Hat designed by Jared Flood over at brooklyntweed.  Flood took his inspiration for the pattern from the Seattle public library, designed by “starchitect” Rem Koolhaas.

The swirling lines that lead up to the crown of the hat immediately reminded me of a different edifice on another continent altogether — namely, the Swiss Re tower at 30 St Mary Axe in London.  Commonly known as “the Gherkin,” the glass skyscraper is notable for its complete lack of corners and its highly suggestive shape.

Since I was knitting the hat for myself, I decided to make something that would go along with the scarf I knitted about a year ago.  I was pleasantly surprised by how quickly the whole thing knit up, and how clear the pattern turned out to be.  In just a few short days (of vacation!), I finished the project.

So if you need to find me, I’ll be the one sporting the purple gherkin.

Q: What do you get when you cross “The Curious Case of Benjamin Button” with Philly Surround Sound?

A: The Philadelphia version of “fire in a crowded theater,” apparently.

For months, we’ve been bombarded with advertisements encouraging us to purchase gift items — the things “they really want” — to make the holiday season go right, or go well.  Of course, the things that really matter can’t be bought in a store, fit into a box, or tied up with a bow.

I have the continued good health and safety of my nearest and dearest…and I have snow as far as the eye can see.

Goodness!

I hesitated to give up my airplane seat last night, because I was looking forward to getting off the plane to see my family.  But my visit is scheduled to last for more than a week, while it was immediately evident from the tired, anxious, worried faces around me at the gate that most other travelers did not have such a luxury.

Several people had already flown to Philadelphia, a hub city, from elsewhere earlier in the day.  Others had been rerouted by different airlines onto my flight without being assured of anything other than standby status.  Would-be passengers around me were deeply unhappy.  A number of them verbally laid into the airline staff working at the gate.  A few travelers broke down crying from the stress.

When I called my parents to ask whether they would mind if I came home a day later, my father said, “Sure, why not?”  Shortly, he started laughing over my apparent turn of good fortune.  “That’s the second free ticket you got this year, right?  Your sister wants to know why it never happens to her.”  Later this week, we’re going to start planning a family trip for next summer — a trip made more affordable, and thus more enjoyable, by a free airline ticket.

The key to getting voluntarily bumped from flights, particularly during the holiday season, is this: be of good cheer.  You have the ability to make the day better for several people, at least one of whom (the person who gets your seat) is going to be exceedingly relieved and happy.  Once in a rare while, you may even put an end to someone’s tears.

If that’s not a superpower, I don’t know what is.

I was scheduled to fly out to Minne-snow-ta this evening, but instead I am back at my place in Philadelphia, much to the befuddlement of the resident felines.

“Hold it right there, Food Lady — you just put out the supersized chow dish. Why haven’t you vanished yet?  Can’t we gorge ourselves in peace around here?”

Sorry guys, blame my superpower…