BLAME THE BRAIN

 Sitting on an airplane, on my way to London, got me to thinking about space. No, not the vast space of the floating astronauts, but rather the crammed cabin space afforded an airplane passenger. Why is it so uncomfortable to be jammed close to a stranger?

Anthropologist, Edward T. Hall, set forth the notion of personal space in 1966, when he introduced the concept of proxemics, describing the physical distances people try to keep from one another. He broke it down into: intimate space, personal space, social space and public space.  Later scientists discovered a brain structure called the amygdalae in each temporal lobe that controls fear and the processing of emotion.

So, when someone says, “Get out of my face!” They are not just being rude; it’s their amygdalae talking. The intimate zone is reserved for lovers, close friends, children and some family members (unless they are “Get-out-of-my-face relatives). Personal space is a bit more complicated. It depends on what distance is comfortable for you. It involves setting boundaries. If you are talking to someone, and they take a step back, it’s a tip off that you are invading their personal space.

President Lyndon Johnson would get his way by backing an adversary into a wall, and confronting him nose to nose. Personal space is also affected by a person’s position in society. Rich people expect a lot of personal space. That’s why they prefer a limousine to a subway at rush hour.

The first time I rode a subway at rush hour in New York, I stood hanging on to an overhead strap, and a little man with a beard rested his chin on my arm. There was nowhere for me to escape, except to imagine that I was on the Mongolian steppes instead of a subway. Even rich people don’t go there.

By replicating, “The dining room place setting experiment,” you can test the---“Too close for comfort” theory. When everyone is seated at the table, slowly move your water glass, and then your cutlery, and plate into your neighbor’s space. Eventually, he will move his place setting.

My husband’s, Uncle Max was an expert in invading social space. He hated asparagus. At one dinner party, when the stranger on his left was engaged in conversation, with the person on her left, he surprised her by dumping his asparagus on her plate. She kept right on talking and eating, and never knew what hit her space.

 Social space is reserved for conversation with friends, a chat with associates or group discussions. I’m sure there is an overlap of invasion here when someone gets too close for comfort at a cocktail party. One woman managed to splash red wine on my shoes, while at the same time spitting on my silk dress. I don’t remember the gossip, but it was juicy.

The last invasion of space is public space. Ever spread your blanket on a deserted beach. For some reason, that is an invitation for a family with bratty children to plop next to you, while kicking sand on both you and your space.

Recently, a classmate, recuperating from hip surgery, parked her car in an empty space in the empty parking lot. It gave her room to deal with her foot brace, maneuver her books and get to her walker. Inextricably, another classmate parked on the driver’s side of her car. Explaining her dilemma, she asked the woman to park her car elsewhere. So, the woman moved her car to block the passenger side of my classmate’s car. That way, she couldn’t get to her books and walker. It was a “Get out of my space” moment.

 When someone cuts in front of you, at a checkout line at the grocery store, you might want to try standing very close to that person. Push that cart as close as you can. It won’t make the line move faster, but with will play havoc with his amygdalae.  And, if you want to really test the theory of public space, the next time you get on an elevator, instead of not making eye contact and facing the doors, try facing the people on the elevator and say, “We have to stop meeting like this!”  But be sure to get off on the next floor.

Esther Blumenfeld (“I’m the only person standing between Richard Nixon and the White House.”) John Kennedy

THE WORLD IS SPINNING TOO FAST

If I were paranoid, I’d think that everyone is plotting to get me. When I woke up this morning, all of my windows were sealed shut and covered with plastic sheets. It was a very Egyptian experience. I immediately called a friend and wailed, “Help, I’m sealed into my house.” She replied, “Tut, Tut,” which was no help at all. Then I remembered that my house was being prepped for an outside coat of paint. I was not prepared for this dark, foreboding tomb/like experience.

I turned on some lights and switched on my computer, which had been updated to a new operating system called, Yosemite, by a technician named Sam. My computer informed me--- as only a computer can---that; ”Ha!  Ha! your AOL is blocked. I wasn’t amused. So, I punched through some plastic and crawled through an exit, dragging my Mac behind me, and I drove to Sam’s place to get Mac an enema.

Unblocked Mac, and I, arrived back home and my phone began to blink a voice mail signal. The problem was that the phone was busy before anyone had even bothered to call me. I proceeded to yell at the robot on the other end of the Comcast line until I finally got a real person on the phone. He ordered me to climb under my desk and put a pin into a little hole. I told him which hole he could insert any pin of his choice. Then I suggested that he “reset my voice mail modem message indicator.” No, I am not that smart. It’s a regular event when my phone rebels, and I am sure that my phone has driven Radio Shack out of business.

I had tickets to attend a play, so I got dressed and was looking forward to leaving my sealed up house. I punched through more plastic and opened the door. But before I could escape, I got a call from the theatre. The person on the other end of the line said, “Sorry, there won’t be a show tonight. The lead actress fell and hurt her mouth, so she can’t talk.” I said, “You should have cast a mime.” He didn’t think that was funny. Then I closed the door on my finger. Ouch!  So, with only nine fingers I discovered that, although the language on my newly unblocked AOL search engine is in English---the local news is now in Spanish. “Ola!”

So to sum up: 

My windows are blocked with plastic sheets.

My AOL needed an enema.

The local news is now in Spanish.

I had a busy phone with no one talking on it, and

I couldn’t see a play because the actress fell on her mouth, and

I slammed the door on my finger.

All in all, Steven Wright had it worse than I did.  He said, “My mechanic told me, ‘I couldn’t repair your brakes, so I made your horn louder.”’

Esther Blumenfeld (Have a nice day!)

LANGUAGE TIGHTROPE

“Sometimes I wonder whether the world is being run by smart people who are putting us on, or by imbeciles who really mean it!”  Conon O’Brien

Recently, scientists at the University of Maryland have expounded on the Gala Hypothesis, first articulated by scientists in the 1970’s; that Mother Earth is a living, breathing organism that needs life sustaining conditions for its survival. When a politician says, “I’m not a scientist,” I believe him. It’s the---“but”---that follows this statement that makes me queasy.

Whether it’s called “climate change” or “climate disruption,” something is obviously happening out there.  I know that cold is cold and hot is hot, but sometimes we don’t know what we’ve got. Some people are trying to help and/or find out.

The Japanese have pledged $450 million in aid to Pacific Island nations that are battling rising sea levels, and Brazil and Germany have co-funded a $9 billion, 1,000 foot Amazonian Tall Tower Observatory located in the largest contiguous rain forest on Earth. It will enable scientists to monitor temperature, green-gas levels and other chemical changes in Mother Earth’s atmosphere. I imagine that some of our politicians will blow it off as just another Tower of Babel.

So how are our politicians handling the problem? In 2000, White House official, Philip Cooney removed or altered climate research findings in several federal reports. In 2012, the North Carolina legislature voted that sea level predictions be ignored for future planning. And, Virginia lawmakers voted to only approve a study of the risks to their coastline if it did not mention “Climate Change.”

In Florida, storms and rising sea levels have allowed salt water to seep inland threatening the Everglades as well as Florida’s potable water. Scientists have warned that without action Joshua Tree National Park could soon lose its trees, and Glacier National Park could be a park without glaciers.

Consequently, governor Rick Scott of Florida, who famously said, “I’m not a scientist,” banned state employees from using the terms, “Global Warming,” or “Climate Change” in any reports or communications. Wisconsin, Governor Scott Walker, followed suite, banning staffers who manage thousands of acres of forest to talk about “Global Warming.”  Grand Haven, Michigan, Mayor Geri McCaleb, a skeptic of “Climate Change,” said, “History will bear out who has the right answers.”

So, with few answers, coupled with a basic mistrust of science, and the Federal Government, some of our politicians are pushed into a world of euphemisms that, as George Carlin said, “are commonly used by Americans to shade the truth or shield themselves from reality.” While “The Blob,” washes ashore on California beaches, killing thousands of seabirds and sea pups, I take inspiration from Pat McGinnis, City Manger of Grand Haven, Michigan, who instead of saying the dreaded words uses the euphemism, “Potential Flash Point.” 

Assuming that The Gala Hypothesis is correct, and that Mother Earth needs life sustaining conditions for her survival, I won’t scare people by writing about “Climate Change.” Instead, I suggest that Mother Earth is going through “The Change.” She is certainly old enough for Menopause. People all over the world can attest to the fact that climate has been irregular from month to month, and 75% of Arizonans admit that Mother Earth is having hot flashes. 

There is no denying that Mother Earth is having stormy mood swings that cause volcanic eruptions, tsunamis, and tornadoes. And while she has night sweats, and kicks off the covers of snow and ice, she also has oceans of rising emotions. In other places, she is bone-dry getting wrinkled fields of crop loss, and probably some hare loss along the way. No doubt about it, Mother Earth is going through “The Change”, and it isn’t pretty. A shot of sulfur might help, but I’m no scientist.

All I know is that the apple from “The Tree Of Knowledge” is still missing.

Esther Blumenfeld (“What good is it to have a nice house without a decent planet to put it on?”) Henry David Thoreau.

TALK TO ME

The Arizona Superintendent of Schools wants to do away with the requirement that, upon graduation, children should be able to speak a foreign language. She thinks it’s “racist.” However, she does want to, “Give kids more time for lunch.” How long does it take for a kid to throw mashed potatoes at his friends or stick a green bean up his nose?

In Europe, most people speak more than one language. That’s because when you cross the street, you are in another country. Jarod Kintz said, “What does it matter if you can speak two or more languages, if you have nothing original to say in any language?” He might be right. Politicians all over the world speak gibberish in different languages. To paraphrase one American Congressman, I find those people “untrustable.”

Recently, in the Houston airport, I had a conversation, in my fractured Spanish, with a woman traveling to Honduras. She said her flight was going to take three hours. If my Spanish numbers were wrong, that flight would take either 13 or 30 hours. Spanish is not the only language that I butcher. I speak menu French and can say, “Bonjour, Merci, Au Revoir and Toilette” Toilette is a most important word. When I was in Viet Nam, I asked a sales lady for directions to the bathroom. She couldn’t figure out why I wanted to take a bath in the department store. That’s when I found out that Charades is a very good game in any language.

Unless I am reading the words very slowly, Hebrew is still a dead language to me. But reading from right to left has to surprise my brain a bit---which is supposed to be a good thing. My German is the German language of a three- year- old child, because that’s when I was thrown out of Germany. I took German in college and brought tears to my teacher’s eyes.  I’m not sure if it’s because I used some words I had learned from my Grandmother, or because my linguistic skill was so bad.

When I studied conversational Spanish (for the third time) my teacher would ask me a question in Spanish. Then when I replied, she usually said, “Whoa! Where did you get that word?” And, I’d have to admit, “I made it up.” What’s the difference? No one usually listens anyway when people talk. 

English is one of the most difficult languages to learn. Yet, so many people, other than Americans, speak it well. George Bernard Shaw said, “England and America are two countries separated by the same language.” He was right. The English always sound so intelligent.  How smart are they? It was cold when I went to London, and I wanted to buy a sweater. No one knew what I was talking about. A saleslady finally said, “You want a jumper!”  I said, “I didn’t know you sold horses at Harrods.”

Here’s what I have learned about language:

1. Everyone has an accent. It depends where you are when you are speaking.

2. Toddlers can speak Chinese.

3. A foreign language is helpful, if you don’t want children to know what you are talking about.

4. For some people, speaking the truth is a foreign language.

5. Talking to teenagers is impossible in any language.

6. It’s fun to speak another language, and the more languages you speak the more friends you can make. So, learn a foreign language. It’s good for the brain and the funny bone—especially if you are misunderstood.

In a Budapest Zoo the sign read:

“Please do not feed the animals. If you have any suitable food, give it to the guard.”

 In a hotel lobby in Bucharest:

“The lift is being fixed for the next day. During that time we regret that you will be unbearable.”-----However, I may add, not as much as the Superintendent of Schools in Arizona!

Esther Blumenfeld (“Ladies are requested not to have children in the bar.”) Cocktail Lounge in Norway.

   

BLACK PUDDING, HAGGIS AND OTHER STUFF (Part Two)

BLACK PUDDING, HAGGIS AND OTHER STUFF (Part Two)

Leaving Southampton, the ship sailed toward Guernsey, England. I chose to take a ferry to the beautiful Island of Herm. Less than a square mile in area, Herm, the smallest of the Channel Islands, has a population of 77 adults and 6 children. The guided walk uphill and downhill covered the entire island, and I learned much about the archeological discoveries as well as the German occupation in WWII. I also learned that you really have to like your neighbors to live on Herm. 

The next day, we berthed at Cork, Ireland. I took a ride into the beautiful rolling hills of the Irish countryside, and this Desert Rat almost overdosed on all that Emerald Green.  Next we visited the Blarney Woolen Mill, where you could buy whatever Irish goods your heart and pocketbook allowed.  In Glendalough, I explored a 6^th Century monastic settlement founded by the gentle priest, Saint Kevin. All he wanted was quiet solitude, but the Vikings and Celts messed up the place and left one heck of a ruin. 

Then on to the Liverpool Lake District that I explored by bus, boat and vintage train. I learned that when sheep lie down in a meadow, they are keeping a dry spot for themselves for the forthcoming rain. It’s true, but luckily it didn’t start to rain until we returned to the ship.

Belfast was one of my favorite towns, because our guide was definitely a Leprechaun---if not, he should have been. He was full of Irish wit and blarney and promised us gold at the end of the rainbow. But first, we did a city walk, and visited Belfast City Hall, which is as grand as a castle. The Titanic was built in Belfast, and I saw a sign that said, “The Titanic was okay when it left Belfast.”

The gold at the end of the rainbow was a 300-year-old tavern, where most of the people on the tour enjoyed a glass of Guinness, but I conned the bartender into making me a genuine Irish coffee. I went back to the ship and took a nap

We sailed on to Scotland. The next morning, I awoke to the sound of a goat being poked really hard. I was on the 15^th level of the ship. That was one loud goat! I opened my balcony door, looked down and saw a piper puffing on his bagpipes. That was no goat, but it was a man with really good lungs. I was in Scotland. Naturally I wanted to do the Scottish thing, so in Glasgow, I visited the Glengoyne Distillery, established in 1833. It produced the favorite Scotch whiskey of the old British Queen Mum, and she lived to be 101 years of age, so naturally I had to try a shot (or two). The secret of the Scotch is in the water and the air-drying of the barley---so I was told. And sips of the 17-year-old single malt made everything really “Bonnie!

Next stop was Invergordon, gateway to the Scottish Highlands. I knew I was in the Highlands when I spotted a sign advertising, “Famous Black Pudding and Haggis>>>>this way.” I quickly went the opposite direction. I decided that I needed to tour at least one old castle while in Scotland, so I joined a group going to Dunrobin Castle, “one of Britons oldest continuously inhabited houses.” The ancient Earldom dates back to the 1300’s. I don’t know who lives there, but they obviously weren’t home when I arrived.  The castle tearoom had the best fresh scones I have ever tasted---obviously not dating back to the early 1300s.

My last stop was in Honfleur, a charming 13^th century Norman fishing village at the mouth of the Seine River. It looked like an Impressionist painting. The map was in French, but that was okay, because I can never read a map in any language. Luckily, I didn’t get lost or I would have had to move to Honfleur.

All in all, I had traveled 2,208 nautical miles, learned a lot, ate more than a lot, and loved every minute of it (once I had escaped from Heathrow Airport). But no matter how one loves an adventure, as the Irish would say: “Nil aon tintean mar do thintean fein.

Esther Blumenfeld (“There’s no place like home”)