How to Live a Long, Happy Life

I intend on living a long, happy life.

It would be cool to be a great-grandparent, for instance. I’ve also got many things I want to do. Write books, learn new things, start businesses and non-profits, help my community. So many plans, so little time.

Age is not the limiting factor. Health is.

So how can I live a long and happy life? Dan Buettner, a National Geographic writer, believes he knows the answer. He founded the organization Quest Network, Inc. to conduct a study of “Blue Zones” – regions of the world where there are sizable populations that live active lives past one hundred years of age.

There are currently five known Blue Zones in the world:

• Sardina, Italy
• Okinawa, Japan
• Loma Linda, CA, USA
• Nicoya Peninsula, Costa Rica
• Icaria, Greece

Buettner and his organization studied these regions and discovered four key traits that all share, regardless of geography, culture, religion, or other factors.

1. Move Naturally
2. Right Outlook
3. Eat Wisely
4. Connect

Move Naturally

People living in Blue Zones don’t run marathons or lift heavy weights in gyms. They don’t sit in front of the TV or computers a lot either. Instead, they take a lot of walks. They climb up stairs. They hike up mountains. They even tend gardens, which require daily manual labor.

The Sardinians live on hillsides. So to get around, many walk up and down these hills all the time, even those in their eighties. Many Okinawans maintain personal gardens that they cultivate with pride. It’s not uncommon to see elders plowing and raking and pulling out weeds.

The trick is to do something active every day that you enjoy. That way, being active isn’t a chore; it is something you look forward to. And that’s why it works.

If you love doing cardio at the gym, then more power to you. Otherwise, take a walk around the block. Walk to the local grocery store instead of driving. Use the stairs instead of the elevator. Take a parking spot further away from the entrance of the mall so you have to walk a bit. Play sports with friends. Play the Nintendo Wii. Do something active everyday.

Right Outlook

Blue Zone inhabitants maintain a healthy perspective on life. They take time to slow down and relax from their hectic schedules. They use healthy outlets to vent their stress. They take problems in stride.

It’s not that they live boring, unexciting lives. Loma Linda is the home of a large medical university and medical community. Being a doctor is far from relaxing. The majority of these residents – those that regularly live long, active lives, at least – are also Seventh-day Adventists, a Christian denomination. Their religion aids in their ability to find peace with their frustrations.

Aside from mechanisms to dispel stress, Blue Zone inhabitants also deeply believe they have a purpose in life. That purpose could be as small as the Okinawan fisherman who sees his purpose is to fish so he can feed his family, or the Okinawan grandmother who knows her purpose is to care for her great-great-grandchildren. Religion also imbues a deep sense of purpose to Seventh-day Adventists.

Many don’t retire. They keep on doing what they enjoy doing, because they believe it is their purpose, their reason to get up every day.

Look for healthy outlets for your stress. Some use exercise, some take walks, and some create art to find relief. For others, it’s spirituality, religion, or their family and community.

A sense of purpose is also equally important. If you don’t have a reason to wake up every day and stay healthy, then find one. Spirituality and religion fill this hole for many. Family and community fill this for others. Still others find their purpose in their work or art. And sometimes your purpose isn’t bestowed upon you; it is something you go out and determine for yourself.

Eat Wisely

Those in Blue Zones eat healthy food in moderation. By healthy food, I mean their diets include a lot of vegetables and little processed food. Seventh-day Adventists are vegetarians. Okinawans eat lots of fresh fish. Sardinians consume homemade food. Each community has a different meal mix, though all contain a lot of vegetables and little processed food.

By moderation, I mean they don’t overeat. They don’t serve huge, American-sized portions. The Okinawans even eat from small plates as a means to minimize overeating. Others take breaks between servings. Since it takes several minutes before the feeling of satiation hits your stomach, taking a break can curb the amount you eat.

Include more vegetables in your diet. Decrease the amount of processed food and fast food from your daily intake as much as possible, or remove it altogether. You don’t need vitamin supplements as long as you eat a wide variety of vegetables, grains, and meats.

And perhaps even more importantly, reduce your portion sizes. Eat from small bowls. Take breaks between servings. You may find yourself feeling full without the usual volume you consume.

Connect

The last common aspect of all Blue Zone elders is their sense of family and community. To them, family comes first. Grandparents aren’t shut away in nursing homes. Respect increases with age, so the eldest are given the most respect.

They also feel a sense of belonging within their communities. Friendships endure throughout lifetimes. A person can count on a friend in time of need, and give selflessly when that friend is in need. You’ve got my back, I’ve got your back.

These tight bonds are formed with people of similar values as well. Everyone in a particular community shares the same core values of enjoyable activities (walks, hikes, etc), a healthy outlook (able to vent with each other, a feeling of purpose), healthy diets (natural foods in moderation), and a sense of belonging.

If you’ve been estranged from your family, consider making amends. Be the bigger person and take the first step at healing that bond. In cases where that’s totally impossible, foster the friendships you have, especially with those that share the same values. Consider being a part of a healthy tight-knit community, such as an activity group, special interest group, religious group, etc.

Is This Possible?

For some, this news is obvious to you. But for others, this may seem entirely impossible. How such a lifestyle can be followed in today’s society? I hear you. I know it’s not easy.

I don’t think it’s impossible either. It just takes some extra effort and a lot of discipline. Moving naturally and eating wisely are the easiest ones to do first, since they involve changes in behavior. The tough part is sticking to the new behavior long enough for it to become habit.

Having the right outlook and connecting to others are much tougher. The first involves changing a mental model that’s been ingrained for years. The second involves both behavioral and mental changes.

Part of having the right outlook is having healthy outlets for stress. This can include exercising, talking to trusted friends, or creating art. There are numerous self-help websites and books you can turn to for more ideas as well.

The other part of the right outlook is a sense of purpose. If you can’t find an easy answer, you are probably waiting for that purpose to come to you. Let me correct that misconception: that is not going to happen. Not everyone is lucky enough to be given their purpose. You need to go out and find your purpose. Create one. Look for something you believe in, whether it is a family member, a vocation, or a cause. As long as it allows you to follow these other traits and doesn’t harm others, embrace it as the reason you get up every morning.

Finding a community that accepts you is probably the toughest one to achieve. If you weren’t born into a tight-knit family or community, you will have to work hard to become a part of a healthy community. However, it’s worth the effort. Once you are in a good community, a sense of purpose will almost certainly come to you.

How do you find such a community? Church groups are an obvious source. Activity groups and special interest groups are another, though not all will give you an encompassing sense of community. Some people join such groups just to do the activity, then return to their own communities without further involvement in the group.

Neighborhood-based communities are also a good source. There are “gated communities” (a set of houses enclosed within gates) that try to engender such a sense of belonging, not only for goodwill, but for protection too (crime is less common in such neighborhoods).

For some, their work can also provide a viable community, though like activity and special interest groups, not all of the members may be willing to put in the same level of commitment as you. To them, it’s just a job, not a community.

I am lucky that I follow and have a lot of these traits. Hopefully I can continue to foster them throughout my long, happy life, and vice versa. For many, I had to work hard to create them. But once they’ve become engrained in my life, following them is as easy as eating and breathing.

Want to see more? You can watch Buettner’s talk at a TEDxTC conference on September 2009 about his study of Blue Zones. It’s a fascinating talk.

Now go live long and prosper. And talk a walk around the block while you’re at it.

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Go Out and Travel the World

Everyone should travel to another country at least once in their lives. More, if they’re lucky.

I know that many cannot realistically do this. Financial reasons, family obligations, schedule restrictions, health considerations. For some, these limitations are insurmountable.

For those where such limitations don’t exist: travel. Go visit another country. Learn enough of their language to say, “hello,” “good bye,” “thank you,” “excuse me,” “check please,” and “where is the bathroom?” Read about their customs, traditions, and beliefs. Strive to understand them, even for a little.

To be fair, simply flying to another country and visiting their main tourist attractions isn’t enough. But for many, it is perhaps better than nothing. For a while, you are enveloped in another world. Even that taste can help.

For a true learning experience, you have to talk to the locals. Walk off the beaten path. Eat something different. Observe the general populace. Behave as they do, within bounds. And above all, be respectful of their culture.

The benefit of traveling is the opening of your mind. You learn how another whole society lives, day in and day out. It helps you to understand, if even just for a little while, how a fellow human being lives. The world shrinks, if even just for a little bit. Prejudices shrivel. Preconceptions wither. Generalizations splinter.

The more you travel, the more your mind opens, and the more the world shrinks.

I remember a time when taking the train out of my home town was scary. My little suburban town was all I knew. Taking the train into the city was a huge event. It meant going someplace far, foreign, even frightening.

But once I did it, the city became part of my world. What I knew expanded while the world shrunk. No longer was it someplace far and foreign. It was just another place to go.

I remember a time when taking the plane from the East Coast to the West Coast was disconcerting. My coast was all I knew. The other coast was practically a foreign country with a different temperament, disposition, and even attitude.

Then I moved there. Both coasts became my world. Temperaments, dispositions, and attitudes were more similar than I thought. The world shrunk a little more.

I remember a time when another country was totally alien. My country was all I knew. Other countries weren’t just foreign; they were so different that it was easy to generalize their populations as charactertures of their cultures.

Then I visited one country. And another. And another. The diversity of the people in each was just as diverse as a New Yorker is from a Texan and an Alaskan and a Californian and a Hawaiian. There are more similarities than there are differences. The world shrunk even more.

Every country has its poor and homeless, its rich and aristocracy, its kind-hearted and selfless, its fools and racists, its leaders and managers, its good parents and bad parents, and its bad drivers.

Cultures and traditions may differ. Foods and languages may differ. Religions and skin color may differ. But everyone feels happy, feels sad, and gets pissed off like everyone else. While there may be cultural differences that underlie a group of people, exceptions abound.

Prejudice may have an evolutionary benefit, but it can also be harmful to you and other people. It can close your mind to opportunities. Traveling the world shatters many of those misconceptions. Or at least, it makes you think twice before categorizing someone or some idea.

So go out and travel the world. Watch it shrink. Experience and understand another culture. Eat different foods, speak foreign languages, and talk to someone new. Do that, and the world is yours.

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On Being Solar Powered

I was in London when I first realized I was solar-powered. It was a curious sensation. Daylight was as rare as a tasteful meal there (except for Indian food). The gray skies drained my batteries, leaving me sluggish and unenthusiastic. It probably dried my humor too.

Whenever spots of sunlight struck the city, scores of Londoners flocked into those warm spheres like moths. If God put a people-zapper in the middle of those crowds, he could have gotten rid of many pests.

It was not a pleasant sensation, this feeling of being drained. I once dreamed of living in London for about two years; I only lasted half a year. Six months was more than enough gray in my life.

San Francisco, unfortunately, isn’t without its gray as well. There are parts of the city that exist in semi-perpetual fog. I almost expect the residents there to look like pod people with pale skin and black eyeballs.

When the fog creeps into the city, it does so like an opaque glacier. Everything in its path is drained of color and turned to gray. If you like Casablanca and other films before the blessing of Technicolor, you’ll probably like the San Francisco fog.

When I first moved to San Francisco, I was immediately drawn to the sunny side. I didn’t realize I was solar powered back then; I just knew I wanted to be where the colors were crisp and saturated.

Before you mistake me, I’m not the kind of person who abhors bad weather. I love thunderstorms. Watching a snowstorm while in a pair of warm pajamas is awesome. Even driving through a syrupy fog can be pretty cool.

Although I’m not looking forward to my next hurricane, I have fond childhood memories of building a fort out of the kitchen table and pillows while the taped-up windows rattled. There’s a strange romantic tension in seeing bolts of lightning bounce between the earth and the sky. Maybe it’s because similar bolts of lightning can bounce between lovers.

Nor am I a sun worshipper. Admittedly I’ve gone to the beach to get a tan before, but I don’t obsess over achieving the bronze of a French fry or hash browns. There’s no temperature gauge in my butt to tell me how much I should cook.

The contrast of sun and gray was sharpest in London. Like other Londoners, I followed the sun spots. When I returned to San Francisco, it all made sense. Being in the sun was energizing, exhilarating, exciting, and any other positive e-word your thesaurus can give you.

I can totally empathize with plants that lean toward the sun now. If you stuck my feet in mud, I’d probably lean toward the sun too. Please don’t plant my feet in the mud though; I give you my word that I’ll lean toward the sun.

Maybe this means I have chlorophyll in my blood? Or maybe there are tiny solar panel crystals on my skin? Who knows. It would be cool to be part plant and part cyborg though. I could shoot laser beams from my eyes and release, um, pollen-sperm during the spring. Okay, maybe not.

Another strong indicator of my solar-powered nature is the car I drive: a convertible. While the alternator charges the batteries, the sun charges me. It’s a delight to drive, especially under clear blue skies. Even on a warm cloudless night, it’s fun; you can see straight into the Heavens.

A buddy of mine lives in Denver, a city that’s 98% sunny all year round. What a glorious statistic. It’s like Bizarro London. Hawaii is similarly bright and cheery too. And it’s not just because of the scantily clad hula dancers. In between random spring showers are showers of warm sunlight.

While in those cities, I soaked up as much energy as I could. They kept my solar-powered batteries charged for a good long time.

That’s what it’s like to be solar-powered. The energizing ability of the sun and the sluggifying ability of the gray. Who knew that people could be so much like plants or cyborgs?

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Depression and Great Art

“Do you have to be unhappy to create great art?”

I thought for a moment. “I wouldn’t think so. Why should being happy or unhappy matter if you’re a great artist?”

“Okay,” Jimmy continued. “Name someone who’s been happy and created a great piece of art. Music, writing, painting, whatever.”

I rubbed my chin. Stubble. I forgot to shave this morning. “Well, there’s… hmm nah. But there’s… oh, wait, he’s unhappy too. How about… oh shoot, depressed as a doornail.”

“There’s no one, right?”

We stopped. All around us was incredible Prague architecture. It was a harmonious yet schizophrenic cacophony of medieval, baroque, art nouveau, renaissance, gothic, neo-gothic, neo-classical, cubist, and modern styles.

“Damn. I guess I can’t think of any great artists who were happy when they created their great art. I mean, they became happy later…”

“And what do you think of their later work?”

I look at him. “Shit.”

Jimmy laughed. “Exactly. It was total shit.”

“That can’t be though. That could just be a matter of my limited imagination. I’m sure there’s a great artist out there who’s happy and pumping out great art.”

“I don’t think so dude. I really don’t think so.”

We stood still for a moment in silence. Looking at the architecture around us, with its pointy tops and spires reaching for the Heavens, like open hands waiting to be saved.

“So why do you think that is?” I asked. “Why must an artist be unhappy to create great art?”

He cleared his throat. “Okay, here’s what I think. I’ve thought a lot about this. People like to commiserate with others when they’re unhappy. So unhappy songs and stories and art allow unhappy people to feel that they’re not alone.”

“Ah! Good theory.”

“Thanks dude.”

“Misery loves company, right? So it seems natural that unhappy people would want company, even if it’s in the form of art.”

“Right.”

We admired a piece of gothic architecture, with its pointed arches and flying buttresses. The walls were darkened by the ages, scarring the building with ash and soot, like a discarded charcoal painting.

“So does this mean you’ve got to be unhappy to create great art?” I asked.

Jimmy paused. “Yea, pretty much. I did most of my song writing back when I was an angrier, angst-ridden youth. Nowadays, life is good and I don’t find myself inspired to write as much.”

“That’s a shame. That means artists are doomed to a life of unhappiness if they want to be great.”

“Exactly. It’s tragic.”

I stopped and took a picture of a building’s spire. “There’s almost a beauty in it,” I said.

“What?” He looked over at the building.

“I don’t mean the building. I mean in being unhappy for great art. There’s a melancholy, yet romantic aspect to this theory.”

“Oh?”

“Yea. It means artists have to suffer for their art. I’m sure office workers in the rat race hate their lives…”

“Exactly. It’s The Man keeping us down!”

“…and wish they could be off creating art, because it seems so much easier. But in reality, it’s much harder. Creating great art requires great sacrifices too, because if you aren’t unhappy, if you’re not suffering, then you won’t create great art.”

Jimmy nodded. “Well said, man. Well said.”

I turned to him. “So I think I should punch you in the face and rob you right now, then leave you here.”

“What? Why??”

“So you can suffer. I’d be doing it for your own good man.”

“Um, thanks man,” he laughed. “I really appreciate your looking out for me. Really. But I’m okay with being happy for now.”

We laughed and continued down the dark gothic-lined street, as the ashen faces watched us and crestfallen edifices surrounded us.

Do you think you have to be unhappy to create great art?

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A Boy and a Violin

It caught Jimmy’s eye immediately. “Hey, let’s stop in this shop.”

“Sure,” I answered.

The sign out front read “Antique Music Instruments” in a bold Art Nouveau typeface. I was surprised to see it in English. Most of the other Prague shop signs were in Czech, naturally. We walked in.

Inside the cozy little shop were rows of violins. Beautiful, intricately designed, and timeless, they sat on display like museum pieces.

The shop owner was seated inside, with a cello in her lap and a music stand in front of her. She quickly apologized in Czech and stood up.

“Ahoj! No, no, it’s okay. Please, keep on playing,” Jimmy told her.

She didn’t understand and just smiled.

“Um, mluvíte anglicky?” Jimmy asked.

“A little,” she held her fingers slightly apart and tilted her head. Then she said something in Czech.

“We didn’t mean to interrupt you. Please, keep playing.” Jimmy motioned towards the cello in her arms. “We would love to hear you play.”

She nodded and smiled, but didn’t otherwise move. The cello was still in her arms and the music stand at her feet. “Look? Come, see? Violins.” She motioned towards the magnificent display around her.

“Okay, thanks. Wow, there are so many violins here!” Jimmy exclaimed.

We walked around the shop and admired all the antique instruments. Note cards proudly displayed their names. And their prices. They were expensive, very expensive.

“Wow, look at some of these,” I marveled.

“Pretty awesome, huh?” Jimmy was admiring a case of oddly-shaped violins. “I’ve never played the violin before.”

“You play the cello though, right?”

“Yea.”

I turned to him. “Hey, know what you should do? Play the cello here!”

Jimmy looked at the shop owner. “Hmm. I wonder if I can. Maybe.”

The shop owner had put away her cello and was now standing at eager attention. When Jimmy looked at her cello, she said something and motioned towards it. “Play?” she said in English.

“Um. Naaah, that’s okay.” He smiled and backed off.

In the back were a few brass instruments, though the vast majority were violins. There were only a handful of cellos too.

After a good examination, Jimmy straightened up. “Well, okay. Thank you again very much. Dêkuji.”

The shop owner smiled and waved. “Thank you. Good bye.”

We left the shop. Jimmy was quiet and deep in thought.

“That was a pretty cool shop,” I said.

“Yea.”

“Too bad we didn’t see her play.”

“Yea.”

“You should’ve played man.”

“Yea.” Jimmy stopped. “I do kind of want to play. But I haven’t played in a long time. I don’t she’d want me touching her cello.”

I turned to him. “Dude, you should totally play. I’ve heard you play the cello before. You’re damn good. You’ve played before large audiences too! Also, she offered the cello to you. I think she’d like it if you played. You’d probably make her day.”

He looked over at the shop longingly. We subconsciously began walking back. “Yea, that’s true.”

“Here’s another thought. We’re in Prague dude. Prague. When will you ever get another chance to play the cello in Prague? How many people can say they’ve experienced that?”

“You’re right!” There was a fire in his eyes, a determination. He strutted back into the violin shop.

The shop owner was back at the cello. She stopped and looked up at us with a smile.

“Ahoj! Okay, I’ll play a little.”

Without a word, she got up and handed him the cello. Jimmy settled into the seat and practiced a few notes. “I haven’t played in a while,” he apologized to the shop owner.

“You play? Take lessons?” she asked.

“No formal lessons. I learned on my own.”

And with that, Jimmy began to weave a delicate melody. The shop was filled with a graceful sound that was warm and delightful. I noticed she was swaying a little with the music.

“Very good! Very good!” she cheered.

Jimmy blushed. “Thanks. Like I said, I haven’t played in a while.” He stood up. “I’d love to hear you play.” He offered the cello to her.

“Me?”

“Yes, please.”

She took the cello and sat down. We stood there as she began to enchant us with an aural feast. It was evident she’d played professionally as well. She gently swayed with each elegant swash of her bow.

Outside, a few tourists heard the music and peered through the window. A father and son came into the store. “Daddy, look! She’s playing!” the boy said in English.

All four of us American tourists stood in silent repose as the shop owner captivated us with her Sirens’ song. It was beautiful and mesmerizing.

When she finished, we broke in glorious applause. She beamed and bowed her head. “Thank you, thank you.”

The father and son left in high spirits. Jimmy, flush with the energy of music, fluttered around the shop. “May I play a violin too?” he asked.

“Violin?”

“Yes, may I play a violin? I’ve never played one before, but I’d love to try. I don’t need an expensive one, just any old junky one will do.”

She opened a glass case and gingerly pulled out an ancient, yet expensive-looking piece.

“Oh, um, okay. I don’t need one that nice.” She handed it to him as he was speaking. “But, um, okay, cool. Thanks.”

“You play? Take lessons?”

“Nope. Never played a violin before. So, I apologize in advance for any horrible noises I’m going to make.”

She smiled and watched him expectantly. I’m not sure she understood everything he said and seemed to expect a similar beautiful performance as before.

Jimmy carefully tested a few notes. Sometimes he got the right note. Other times it sounded like a cat dying. After a few practice swashes, he cleared his throat and nestled his chin in.

For his first time, he was surprisingly good. Jimmy’s one of those naturally-gifted musicians that can pick up any instrument and play a song after hearing it just once. While not as polished as his cello performance, he still weaved a delightful tune.

I applauded. The shop owner smiled and nodded. “Very good, very good.”

Jimmy handed back the violin. On that boy’s face was the biggest grin his head could hold. You could tell he was still high from his experience.

As he and the shop owner spoke enthusiastically about cellos and violins, I examined a case of violins. Wow, I thought. We’re in Prague. Jimmy just played the cello and the violin for the first time. Then the shop owner graced us with a private performance. How many people can say they’ve experienced that?

Do you play the cello or violin?

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The Communist Work Ethic

She wouldn’t stop apologizing. “I am so sorry for this noise. I talked to the workmen in the building to please not begin their work until after 8:00 AM.” Her English, touched by a Hungarian accent, was flawless. Still, she had apologized for her English as well.

“It’s okay. The noise didn’t bother me at all.” Which was the truth. Jetlag and the excitement of being in Budapest were what woke me up.

“I am so sorry. I did not know about the workmen in the street, right outside your window. They are city workmen. They are not the same as the workmen in the building, whom I know. When I heard them begin drilling at 6:00 AM, I felt so sorry for all of you.” It was currently 6:30 in the morning.

“That’s very kind of you, but it’s really okay,” I smiled.

She nodded and looked at the closed bedroom door, where the other hostel guests were sleeping. “I hope they can still sleep. It is so noisy. I wish the workmen would have begun working later.”

She walked back to the front desk. I finished my toast and looked out the window. There was a workman drilling into the concrete, and probably a bunch of supervisors or backup men watching him.

Despite the potentially annoying morning noise for some, I thought this hostel was awesome. Unfortunately, it’s not the easiest place to find. It’s located within a residential building as opposed to its own building. There’s no sign in front and the building number isn’t noticeable. The only indication of a hostel is a small pink Post-It with its name near the doorbell.

Oh, and there are handy “Hostel” signs with arrows spray painted on the sidewalks too. One of them points directly at the building.

Jimmy woke up a few hours later. The noise obviously didn’t bother him either. The young woman from the morning was at the front desk as we were checking out. She smiled as we approached.

“I hope you had a wonderful time in Budapest!” she beamed.

“We did, we did,” we both chanted. “It’s a really beautiful city.”

“Yes, it is a beautiful city, I really love it. I just wish our people could do more to make this city more inviting for travelers. I don’t think we do enough.”

“Oh, no way. We found it really easy to get around,” Jimmy added.

“Good, I’m so glad. Some travelers find it hard to get around here. Other cities are much friendlier to travelers. It’s unfortunate that we can’t be as well.”

“Everyone we spoke to was extremely friendly,” I said. “It was also surprising how many people spoke English and went out of their way to help us.”

“Good, I’m so glad. Very glad. I sometimes read the reviews of our hostel on the Internet. One person wrote that it was difficult to understand the English of one of our staff. I felt so sorry about that. He is a good worker and is learning English, but it is not his first language and it is hard for him.”

Jimmy and I shook our heads. “That’s bullshit,” Jimmy stated. “Everyone here speaks English very well. Too well, even. We didn’t come here to hear English everywhere!”

She laughed. “Thank you, that is very kind of you to say. This is my hostel. It is my first business, and it is hard to find good staff that can speak English and want to work here. Everyone here is so friendly, so it makes me sad when our guests don’t have a good time.”

“We both had a fantastic time here,” I repeated with a nod.

“Good, I’m so glad. It is hard to find good workers in Budapest because of the Communist work ethic. There isn’t enough motivation to do a good job here. If you look outside and see six workmen, you’ll see one working hard and five standing around. It is because there is no fear of losing their jobs that makes them not care enough.”

I nodded and recalled what I saw outside the window this morning.

“I don’t mean to say Communism is all bad. It gives us free education and many services. I went to school in Singapore and have seen the high prices people have to pay for an education elsewhere. I feel so sorry for those who can’t afford those prices. Under Communism, many services are provided to the people for free. That is a wonderful thing.”

“Hmm, good point,” I said.

“And now, starting this hostel, I’ve had a taste for business. It is very good. I like it a lot. But it is still hard to find good workers, because of this Communist work ethic. For example, we have been having difficulty with our DSL. I have been trying to get the workers to fix it, but they have not. It has been several weeks and still they have done nothing.”

“It’s the same thing with DSL in America!” we laughed.

“Oh really? That is surprising. Americans work so hard. You take a lot of pride in your work. It seems like Americans are always working all the time.”

“I’ve heard that a lot, as I’ve traveled around Europe,” Jimmy added. “A lot of people here have that impression of Americans.”

Her phone rang. “Oh, I am sorry, one moment please.” She answered the phone. It sounded like another traveler had just found the clandestine building and was standing outside. She hit the buzzer. The new guest walked in. “Hello! Welcome to Budapest!” she cheered.

“We’ll let you get back to your work,” I said. We picked up our things and started out the door. “Thank you so much for a wonderful time!”

She smiled. “Thank you so much for staying with us! I hope you had a great time in Budapest! I am so sorry again for the noise this morning!”

I laughed and turned to the new guest. “As long as you don’t mind a little construction noise in the morning, you’re going to love this hostel, and this city. They’re awesome.”

“Thanks!” he replied.

The hostel owner greeted him and started telling him about the city. As we left, she smiled and waved to us one last time.

I looked over at Jimmy and said, “I don’t know about the Communist work ethic, but her work ethic sure beats a lot of Americans I know.”

What do you think of your country’s work ethic?

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A Viennese Mozart Symphony

“Hey look, there’s a Mozart symphony playing tomorrow.”

Jimmy followed my gaze over to the poster. “Mozart symphony, huh? That would be cool. That’s a very Vienna thing to do.”

I nodded. “It’s not too far away from our hostel either.”

“Let’s check it out online and see how much tickets are.”

We wandered over to a nearby Internet cafe. After a lot of digging, we unearthed the proper information.

“Hmm. That looks pricey.” Jimmy whipped out his phone and did some calculations. “That’s about $130 US dollars each for the worst seats, way in the back.”

“Hmm. That kind of is. I’m not the biggest fan of symphonies either.”

“Me neither. I mean, I’ll go to and experience one. But I wouldn’t necessarily pay $130 to see one.”

“True.”

We started at the screen for a moment.

“On one hand, it would be pretty awesome to see a Mozart symphony in Vienna,” I added. “How many people can actually say they’ve done that? Like you said, it’s a very Vienna thing to do.”

“Yea, I know what you mean. And we’re out here to experience the city and the culture as much as we can.”

“Totally.”

“The price does kind of suck though.”

“I’m beginning to feel ambivalent about going. If it was cheaper, I’d definitely be down for it. The price totally makes me hesitate.”

“True. Let’s think about this for a minute then. How much do you want to go?”

Jimmy sighed. “I’d like to go. It would be cool to check it out.”

“But the price, huh?”

“Yea, but the price.”

I nodded. “Okay. What’s the price of a symphony in San Francisco?”

“I have no idea. Maybe the same amount? Or a little less? I thought they were less than a hundred, usually.”

“I have no idea either, but I would hope they’re less than a hundred also. That means, experience-wise, that we could experience a Mozart symphony right back home in San Francisco too.”

“Yea, I know what you mean.”

“But it wouldn’t be Vienna.”

“No, it wouldn’t be.”

We continued staring at the screen.

“How do you feel? Do you want to go?” Jimmy asked me.

“I’m a bit ambivalent too, unfortunately. I’m still a bit jetlagged and am afraid I might fall asleep in the middle of the symphony. It’s what, three hours long?”

“Haha, yea, I know what you mean.”

“I might be able to stay awake if I sneak in some cappuccinos or something, I suppose.”

“Oh, you know what?” Jimmy declared sharply. “Even beyond staying awake and the price, do we have the right clothes for a symphony?”

“Oh crap, you’re right. I’ve got nothing but jeans and sneakers.”

“Me too. I wonder if they’d even let us in?”

I scratched my head. “Hmm. Possibly, if we’re way in the back. They’ve got to get a fair number of tourists watching these shows. Maybe they’re okay with it.”

“Hmm good point. Since we’re both ambivalent at this point, why don’t we walk to the Opera House tomorrow morning and ask if they’re okay with our clothes? That way, we can confirm if we can even go in or not. Then we can see how we feel about it.”

“Good thinking dude.”

We called it a night and headed back to our hostel. After a late night snack and a few beers, of course.

The next morning, we trekked down to the Wiener Staatsoper, Vienna’s famed Opera House. We circled the building but could not find an open entrance. There were signs in German, but none seemed to be what we wanted.

“Dude, I don’t think it’s open,” I lamented.

Jimmy tried another door. “I think you’re right.”

“So how are you feeling about this symphony?”

“I’m not so sure anymore. I mean, I still like the idea of seeing a symphony in Vienna, but I’m not as enthusiastic about it as I was yesterday.”

“Me neither. Since I started to crash and get tired late in the afternoon yesterday, I know I’m going to be dead tired tonight when the symphony starts. But the experience of a Vienna symphony does sound cool. I just wish I wasn’t so tired.”

“Yea, I know what you mean.

“Maybe we need to think about it some more. They’re not open yet anyways.”

“Cool, okay,” Jimmy nodded.

We decided to take a walk down to Belvedere Garden. A few tourists began to fill up the streets, but not many, since this wasn’t tourist season.

As we neared a gate into Belvedere Garden, a woman approached us. She was dressed in a formal 1800s costume, with the fake wig, frilly dress, and everything. It was as if she jumped out of a Mozart picture book. A scary Mozart picture book where they put on way too much make-up but don’t smell as bad.

She addressed us in German.

“Um, Sprechen Sie Englisch?” Jimmy asked.

“Ah, English! Yes, yes!” answered the woman. “Would you two fine young gentlemen care to experience one of Vienna’s premiere cultural institutions? If so, you’re in luck. Tonight there is a fine Mozart symphony playing here at the Opera House. It will be very lovely and quiet an experience.”

“Funny you should mention that.” Jimmy laughed. “We were actually just thinking about that.”

“You were? Well, think no more! You can purchase your tickets right here!” She showed us a brochure and flipped through it rapidly. “You can see how beautiful our grand Opera House is. There is magnificent seating everywhere. The seats right here in the front afford the most beautiful sounds. They acoustics at that level will give you the clearest, the fullest, the grandest experience ever. How many tickets would you like?”

Not being one to like slick sales speak, I tried to end the encounter. “No thanks. We’re still thinking about it. If we decide to go, we’ll come back to you. Thanks.”

Jimmy, being nicer than I, added, “You’ll still be here when we come back, right?”

She looked horrified, like we just rubbed dog poop in her wig. “Does a cow continue to have milk?”

We looked at each other. “Um, what?”

“If the milk is all gone, the cow cannot give you any more milk. If you come back later, there won’t be any more tickets left. Buy one now before they are all sold out. Everyone wants to experience a Viennese Mozart symphony. You should too, before you miss your chance.”

I rolled my eyes. “I guess we’ll take our chances. Thanks.”

We walked off in a hurry. I think I heard her huff behind us.

After a brief walk, we stopped near some statues and watched a hot girl walk by.

“That’s a short skirt,” I said.

“That is,” Jimmy said.

After the hot girl disappeared from view, the blood returned to our brains. “So what do you think about the symphony?” I asked.

“Well, now I’m a bit more enthusiastic about it. Hearing that saleswoman describe it made me rethink it. It does sound like a cool experience.”

“Cool. But I hear a ‘But’ in your voice.”

“Yea, ‘But’ the price. $130 bucks. Oh, and we forgot to ask her about our clothes.”

“I’m sure she’ll still be there later. I’m kind of surprised a symphony needs to employ salespeople to fill their seats.”

Jimmy laughed. “Oh yea, I know what you mean.”

“You’d think an event as elegant as a symphony would sell itself. Or at least hire classier salespeople who don’t need to stand in a park with an old wig and lots of make-up.”

“Haha, totally.”

We took a seat on some marble steps. The saleswoman was in view off in a distance. We saw her speaking enthusiastically to another caught tourist.

“You know what?” I started. “I think I know the source of our ambivalence.”

“Oh yea? What’s that?”

“There are no girls with us.”

Jimmy laughed, then nodded. “Totally dude.”

“If we were here with some girls, I think we’d both totally go. But just you and me, two dudes, going to a Viennese Mozart symphony together—I think that’s what’s causing us to hesitate.”

“Dude, that is so true. Not that you’re not good-looking and all, but if you were a chick, I’d definitely take you to the symphony.”

I laughed. “Same here dude. Maybe if you shaved a little and put on a dress… nah, still.”

“Haha, thanks man.”

“So it’s settled then. Let’s pass on the symphony for this trip. We can return here ourselves one day, with girlfriends, and watch a symphony then.”

“Agreed.”

And so concluded our Viennese Mozart symphony experience.

Have you experienced a Viennese Mozart symphony?

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America, Oh America

“They read Stupid White Men and think that’s how all Americans are. You know that book, right? The one by Michael Moore.”

“Yea.”

“They think we all are gun-crazy and violent. That our media glorifies violence and aggression. And that we’re all money-hungry capitalists who drive big gas-guzzling cars and eat fast food.”

I sighed. “Europeans really hate us, don’t they?”

“Yea. They hate us. Everyone hates us.”

“Did you see Bowling for Columbine?”

“No, did you?”

“No, not yet.”

“Michael Moore did that movie too.”

“Yea,” I nodded.

“And you know what else? They started talking to me about American politics. They talked about the California elections and Gray Davis and Arnold Schwarzenegger.”

“Really?”

“Yea. You know what’s funny? They knew all about it. They knew more than me. Me, a Californian. And you know how much I know about their politics? Nothing. Nothing at all.”

I shook my head. “Damn. I don’t know anything about their politics either.”

“Yea. We’re so ignorant and self-centered. All we think about is ourselves and how great we are.”

“And the war with Iraq can’t be making them feel any better about us.”

“No. They hate us even more than ever now. They see our companies and products in their country and watch our TV news with all of its violence and crime. Then they see us going into a poor country and starting a war.”

I sighed again. “Does that make you afraid to be there right now?”

“No. Funny, huh? I’m not afraid. And that’s because they are such nice people. I was talking to some German guys, and they are some of the nicest guys I’ve ever met in my life. In fact, every German I’ve ever met is really nice.”

“Really?”

“Yea. You wouldn’t expect that, right? Given the history of Germany. But no, they are all such incredibly nice people.”

“Wow.” I shook my head. “I wonder if we will ever be able to change that image of us.”

“I don’t know. But if we all continue to act like Stupid White Men, then I don’t think the people of the rest of the world will ever like us.”

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War with Iraq

We’re at war.

Here’s a viewpoint that isn’t anti- or pro-war. It’s just a neutral observation.

There may be another reason for this campaign against Iraq. Military disarmament and regime change are noble enough reasons, if the entire world also agrees that such actions are necessary.

The entire world, however, does not agree. Most notably, France, Germany, and Russia have all publicly declared their dissent with the United State’s disregard for the wishes of the United Nations.

Anti-American sentiment is a common sentiment around the world. President Bush, despite what many may believe, isn’t stupid enough to ignore such sentiment.

It’s also well-known that this sentiment will only increase with this war. So why has Bush launched this campaign against former friend, Saddam Hussein?

Maybe it’s the same covert reason the United States went to war with Iran in the early 1980′s: for oil.

Oil powers and finances much of the Western world. One could extrapolate that the control of oil means the control of the Western world.

After the Iran-Iraq war, the United States was content with a U.S.-friendly leader like Hussein in control of the Middle East, because control of the Middle East meant control of one of the world’s richest regions of oil. Thus, the U.S. supported Hussein’s efforts against Ayatollah Khomeini and Iran with military aid.

(It is interesting to note that France, the former Soviet Union, the United Kingdom, and at least ten other nations also supported one of these countries with military aid during the Iran-Iraq war.)

Moreover, a U.S.-friendly leader meant the United States could maintain its position as a major world power.

Then, starting in 1999, a number of national crises threatened to shake the U.S.’s position of power.

First, the vibrant bubble economy burst. Then, in the winter of 2000, an energy shortage hit California. Finally, on September 11th, 2001, terrorists attacked the World Trade Center.

(The U.S. lashed out violently when Japan attacked Pearl Harbor. Similarly, the U.S. lashed out violently at al Qaeda for 9/11.)

In some people’s eyes, these crises showed how frail United States’ position of power was. No longer could the U.S. be counted on for a strong economy. No longer were energy resources plentiful. No longer was the U.S. untouchable.

By this time, relations with Hussein and the United States had soured. The Persian Gulf War, a second war over oil, earned Hussein the nickname, “the Butcher of Baghdad”. His actions as a vain, ruthless dictator with a taste for weapons of mass destruction were officially recognized (though they were already known during the Iran-Iraq conflict).

Hussein invaded Kuwait to gain a dominant holding of the world’s oil supply. The U.S., along with a United Nations coalition including France, the United Kingdom, Saudi Arabia, Italy, and the United Arab Emirates, sent military support to prevent Hussein from doing this.

This time, in 2003, Hussein hasn’t made an overt aggressive move against the United States or any other nation.

But yet, Bush has declared war against Hussein and Iraq. The Bush family’s affiliations in the oil industry notwithstanding, perhaps Bush is no longer content with a U.S.-friendly leader in control of the Middle East.

No world power in its right mind would step down from a position of power. It would fiercely defend its position. How it defends its position may differ from nation to nation, but the root desires are the same.

If France, Russia, or the United Kingdom were the major world power, how would they behave in the United States’ position?

Here’s another way to look at this situation: a Major World Power (MWP) is suffering from lack of resources. MWP experiences multiple events that threaten its security, so it begins to look for ways to stabilize and strengthen that security.

At the same time, another nation, in control of one of the world’s most valuable resources, has possible affiliations to terrorist groups that threatened MWP’s security. These affiliations aren’t very clear (and may not even be real), but MWP sees an opportunity to take control of one of the world’s most valuable resources.

MWP must also deal with international pressures. MWP, being a major world power, feels a responsibility to the international community to decrease the political and social turmoil in this much-sought-after region.

For both internal and external reasons, MWP sees little choice but to takes advantage of this opportunity.

Now for the sake of argument, pretend that MWP is you and that you are playing a strategy-based game, like Settlers, Civilization, or Age of Empires. What would you do? Would you make a similar move?

These are games of resource control. The player that has most deftly used his/her resources to build the most assets or gain the most land wins. Say one player is low on wood resources. The player has a few moves now; the player can trade with another or just take over another player’s land.

For better or worse, the United States just made its move.

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Assholes Abound

I feel a great unity with my fellow Earth residents. Because on every continent, in every country, within every city, there is an asshole.

It’s the Great Unifier. Truly.

They may speak a different language. They may eat different foods. But they are assholes just the same.

On a road trip from London, through Bath, Bristol, Stonehenge, and to Oxford, I must have encountered an average of 2.5 assholes on the streets.

These assholes took the form of drivers who would purposely jump into my lane and cut me off or blatantly ignore a stop signal and barrel towards me.

I expect this kind of behavior in San Francisco and would even be nervous if I didn’t see it in New York City (nervous because if they weren’t trying to kill me quickly, then they must be trying to corner me off and kill me slowly).

But I guess I didn’t quite expect it here, in the United Kingdom, home of people who apologize to you when YOU step on THEIR toes.

Must be a case of Mr. Walker and Mr. Wheeler (brush up on your Disney info if you don’t know that one).

It’s even worse when you’re a pedestrian. Without exaggeration, I tell you there is a war between the drivers and pedestrians in London. The millisecond the “don’t walk” signal activates, dozens of blood-thirsty cars come lunging at you. The first one to splatter a walker gets a bumper sticker.

A road trip through the countryside should have been fun. And for the most part, it was.

Unfortunately, when you have hundreds of assholes careening through the streets in calculated aggression (the first one to splatter a tourist driver gets a new set of hub caps), it sorta takes the joy out of it, you know?

So now that I’ve seen assholes on the streets of New York City, San Francisco, Boston, Los Angeles (of course), and now—London, I feel a greater empathy for my fellow brothers and sisters on this, our Spaceship Earth.

For we all suffer the plague (the Great Unifier, if you will) that is Assholiosis—the abundance of assholes.

Have you ever driven in London?

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