The Dripping House of Discomfort

We have been here only two full days and have already named our residence "The Dripping House of Discomfort". The apartment has earned the moniker by producing a liberally flowing stream of water that exits our bedroom ceiling and terminates in several mop buckets and a trash can. The water is generated by the air conditioning condenser unit located in the attic above our room. We have, of course, tried to halt the flow by turning off our AC. This has only succeeded in allowing the temperature to rise from merely hot to slightly sub-iron foundry sweltering.

Having explained "Dripping," I will explain that "Discomfort" stems from the fact that the apartment has virtually no padded furnishings. Our bed, a worn-out futon with a thin frame lying only inches above the floor, is marginally better than sleeping directly on the parking lot, but with less risk of being run over by a neighbor. Both of the chairs and the only available table are un-naturally short, causing me to sharply bend my knees and hunch forward when sitting before my computer. The posture is vaguely reminiscent of driving a go-kart, only rotated 90 degrees. Aside from the mis-matched pair of height-challenged perches, there are no provisions for recreational sitting, lounging or couch-potato slouching of any manner. The kitchen table is a re-purposed computer table and has a large hole in the middle. It is covered, presumably to disguise its database provenance, with a very thin purple plastic tablecloth. The ultra-fine gauge of the plastic allows it to efficiently cling to my sweaty forearms with tenacity and vigor found most commonly in fraternity pledges and door-to-door insurance salesmen.

I can say, with all honesty of both the factual and emotional varieties, that I fully, completely and perhaps, irrevocably loathe this place. There is only one redeeming quality in favor of this residence. It's cheap. We're paying $90 for the first portion of a month and $175 for the second full month.

How, what, where, when, why.

Perhaps you're wondering how we arrived at The Dripping House of Discomfort. It all began with a 3-page document, an essay. It was a very good essay. The essay was part of the application for a Luce Scholarship, which is presented annually by the Henry Luce Foundation. After several two rounds of interviews, Zina was awarded a 2002 Luce Scholarship.

The basic idea behind the scholarship is to expose "future leaders of their field" to Asian countries and culture by sending them to Asia for a year to live and work. Two months of language training is provided before the scholars ship out, and funding for continuing language training is available while in-country. The program is only open to young professionals under age 28, and all applications must be channeled through their university. The Foundation has a very short list of top-notch universities from which they accept applications. My Alma Matter, Montgomery College, a decidedly non-Ivy League commuter school clearly isn't on the list.

After the scholar is chosen, the placement process starts. A scholar can wind up in virtually any Asian country, ranging from the expected, i.e. Japan, to the unexpected such as Indochina. The only restriction is that the country must be politically stable, which leaves out -- currently, as these matters seem to change on a bi-monthly basis -- Sri Lanka and a couple of other places. Also, even though India and Russia are technically part of the Asian Continent, they are not included in the program.

Long story short, we wound up being placed in Mongolia. Zina is an ardent lover of plants, and we were considering a placement in China at the Kunming Botanical Institute, but opted to work on a United Nations Development Program project in Mongolia instead. The UN project is to produce the first-ever Field Guide to Mongolian Birds. Zina will illustrate 30 bird species that have not had plates sourced for them as yet. I will design and produce the book. I'm pretty happy about the decision: I was pretty tense about the possibility of living inside a Communist country for a year, and the UNDP people are quite pleased to have my services as well. I would have had literally nothing to do for a whole year in China, and travel by foreigners is probably pretty restricted.

Home Sweat Home

We went furniture shopping today at Wrights Used Furniture, a dumpy store located behind another dumpy store out on 11th street West of the University. I don't know if it was Murray or his brother, but whoever he is, he's quite the salesman, in a rural sort of way. "Hey there Big Guy, why don't you park it in this here arm chair and take it for a test drive." He called me all four possible variants using three root words consisting of "Guy, Fellah, and Big." Murray suggested that we could haggle -- which I later decided was like a rattlesnake suggesting a quick-draw contest against a tree sloth. I suggested $10 per item as a fair opening price. We were discussing the cost for two office chairs, which Murray counter-offered $35 for both. We settled on $30, and they were inserted into the back seat of the car. Another $15 later and we were strapping a black wooden table with a black and white vinyl tile top to the roof rack on the Corolla with a 7-foot-long piece of rope that Murray joked would cost us $32.

I must say: thus far, that was the best $45 spent on our trip. Now, on Day 4, I can sit in a mostly pain-free posture, or at least one that resembles my usual slacker computer slouch I practice at home. In retrospect, $45 seems like a lot of money for 3 pieces of crappy furniture, but hell, all my junk fits on top, and there's almost enough room for my arms when I type. The printer and the scanner reside beneath the TV set next to the computer table.

Zina can sit at the kitchen table -- hopefully not placing her tea in the hole -- and study in relative comfort. We have been shopping at K-Mart with our Mongolian roommate, Muyu. We purchased some essentials that we couldn't or didn't' remember to bring with us. Simple stuff: coat hangers, Scotch Tape, light bulbs. Now, with a pair of 100-watt bulbs instead of a single 60-watt bulb, the kitchen light produces a useable quantity of lumens. Neither the outlet nor the fluorescent lamp near the sink works, but we'll bring that up with the Rental Office.

I have never traveled for an extended period, nor have I moved into a bare apartment without the support of family and friends. It's a new experience for me. When I was in college, my Mother hovered over me for the first couple of weeks, bringing care packages of household goods and cleaning supplies on the weekends. Zina is a much more accomplished traveler, in part due to her academic accomplishments. She won a Fulbright Grant and lived for over a year in Spain. Her family has also moved several times in the pre-college years. Zina takes in stride what makes me very uncomfortable: the loss of familiar surroundings. I know, intellectually, that I will adjust and things will be fine. Emotionally, I feel that this place drains me.

It's now been a week, and I'm feeling better about the whole situation, with the exception of our bed. The lumpy little futon is killing me: I spend the night rolling over like the guest of honor at a pig roast, except I don't have a stick up my butt. Literally, at least... but I think Zina would disagree in the figurative sense. We really need to find a better mattress.

Discovering Bloomington

One of our great pleasures here is to walk around the lovely, verdant campus and town near the campus, in ever-increasing rings. We agree that we will eat at a different restaurant each day, and learn about all of them. We avoid going into retail places, mostly because we're on a tight budget and can't afford either the cost of new goods nor the space in the car to transport them home when we're done with our studies. The exceptions to this are music stores and bicycle shops: I don't have a water bottle on my bike, and that's simply not good since I get dehydrated at the drop of a hat. Later, Zina decides that the seat on her bike is doing her wrong and we buy a large puffy seat that works better for her. I should have probably bought one for myself as well. I occasionally pop into the music store on Kirkwood Ave. for a short respite playing a store guitar. It's a really nice break from our studies. One day there, I find what will someday be the next guitar I buy: a National Tri-Cone Polychrome Steel Guitar. I have never heard such an amazing tone and sustain, and it's a real nice player with good action and nicely formed neck and frets. Of course, you can buy a good used motorcycle for what it costs...

The town has many, many quirky, crunchy and otherwise unique culinary establishments. Topping this list is Soma coffee house: it occupies the basement below Laughing Planet café, and is the social center for the local tattooed and pierced caffeine junkies. There are 2 main rooms connected by a short hallway, where the bathroom is located. The décor is pretty much thrift store chic, with a couple of creepy semi-Orwellian 60's era school posters imploring students to "dress neat", "stay clean" and "learn well". There is even a fascinating, evil-looking seed pod from a some Latin American country. The pod hooks onto an animal's leg and is transported to new areas. This said, the high point of Soma's décor is clearly the bathroom: it's a campy tribute to the idea that inside every man's castle is his throne.

After Soma, the next most fascinating place is The Runcible Spoon. The food is pretty good, with their breakfasts being the best items on the menu. It's decorated in a pleasant wood and tile motif, but the best part is the bathroom. Since The Spoon occupied what was once a house, there is still a bathtub in the bathroom, and it is filled with fish and plants, just like an aquarium. They (or their kin) have been living in that bathtub for 19 years. The story is that a waitress had to go out of town for an extended period, and needed to find someone to fish-sit, and no one was available, so she brought the fish to work where they would be taken care of, and they've been there ever since.

The fish are only one part of what makes The Spoon an intersting place: it seems to attract some pretty eccentric customers. One day, we spotted a family of folks that, by my reconing, appeared to be a goth-rock-cum-gypsy family. There were perhaps 8 of them including at least 3 children, and they were all wearing very extravagantly colored and baggy tunics with what I can only describe as pantaloons held up with sashes. They were all adorned with multiple piercings, including the children, and most of the adults were very tatooed, some with very bold facial tatoos. We didn't stop to make small talk.

It was at The Spoon where I met what I can only describe as a hero of DIY home-spun engineering and fabrication. Zina and I had seen this utterly fantastic truck parked behind The Spoon, and I spent perhaps 15 minutes looking at it, peering into, under and around it's exterior, noting it's features. It started life as a -- and I'm guessing -- mid-'50s International Harvester pickup truck. The owner, Jim, has made a few not-so-subtle modifications to it: the chassis has been reinforced, the bed and chassis have been extended by about 3 feet, an independent coil-over tag axle setup has been added, an extra radiator has been installed in front of the grille, and there is what appears to be a home-made 5th wheel hitch in the back. I remain extremely impressed with the brilliance and creativity shown in the fabrication of the truck. On the first occasion when we saw Jim's Truck, I didn't have a camera. On the second occasion, we were just arriving when Jim pulled in. I use the term "met" in only the loosest of senses because when he got out of the truck, I asked him if he minded if I took pictures of his truck. OK, my enthusiasm got the better of me and I all but pounced on him, foaming at the mouth. He just glared at me and walked off. I didn't take any pictures.

As we ate our breakfast, the owner came around and asked us how we were enjoying our meal. I took the opportunity to ask about Jim and The Truck (which is how I came to know that his name is Jim). The owner explained that Jim is a wildly eccentric Bloomington local, a handy-man without regular employment. He said not to worry about Jim, and just take the picture. I asked him to tell Jim that I didn't mean any offense, and that as a fellow weldor and builder-of-things, I admired his work. After breakfast, I went and snapped a single photo.

Another good, but slightly spendy place to eat in Bloomington is the Irish Lion: which, oddly enough is an Irish pub. The food is good, but the deserts are excellent, and they have my favorite beer, Newcastle, on tap.

By far the cheapest and arguably most tasty place for lunch is the Thai restaurant nearest campus on Grant Street. They have a lunch buffet for $6.25 that can't be beat: the dishes are always equally split between veggie-friendly and carnivore-friendly, which makes it an easy choice for us. Zina observed that Bloomington is even more veggie-friendly than the world-famous hippie-centric Berkeley, California, which is near her family home.

Drip Diagnostics

We had to call the rental office yet again for the dripping ceiling. Our maintenance guy, Ray, who is a former motorcyclist and all around nice guy, said that the original installers didn't put any clamps on the condenser drip-pan drainage hoses, so they keep pulling off for some unknown reason. I was going to joke with him that the drip pans need a drip pan, but he'd just climbed down out of a 120 degree (yes, Fahrenheit) attic, so I figured his sense of humor might be worn a little thin at the moment.

Zina and I had our 1-month anniversary yesterday. It doesn't feel different yet. I guess that's part of knowing we are with the right people. What does feel different and only slightly difficult is being with someone 24/7. In my previous life -- i.e. before Luce, before Zina -- I lived much like a hermit: my daily routine rarely intersected with people. I would go out to shop and do errands, usually crammed into one day. I had an every-other week routine: revolving around the bank and Costco, with optional stops at the Post Office, the local motorcycle shop, and NAPA auto parts. My business was primarily conducted over the phone and internet. In almost two years, I've met my main client face-to-face only three times.

The other main difference I'm feeling is being away from my stuff. Generally, I'm accustomed to being able to fix anything with a simple trip to my shop. For example, I had to replace the battery in my watch recently. I got the case open and even closed without too much difficulty. However, I discovered that the case is no longer watertight. At home, I'd have simply popped the case open and applied a sealant -- one of several that I keep on hand in my shop --to exclude water. Here, I have nothing available, and worse, since we're only temporarily in Bloomington and, to a greater extent, in the US, I don't feel I have the latitude to start a new collection of sealants, especially since I only need a microscopic amount. Hence, I'm mid-experiment: I have used "CVS Anti-Bacterial Ointment" to seal the watch case. The damn stuff gives me a rash, so maybe it will have some other use. Report at 11!

The Big Cats

One of our first adventures outside of walking around the downtown area was the Exotic Feline Rescue Center. It's a non-profit organization that adopts unwanted and abused big cats. Many of their cats are former circus lions and tigers, pets that were taken by idiots that thought they could live with a 600 pound carnivore, and illegal breeding operations. The center currently has 130 cats living in numerous large chain-link enclosures on a 10-acre farm about 20 miles outside of Bloomington.

It was started by one man in the '70s and has grown steadily. To say that the guy is both dedicated and somewhat eccentric would be an understatement. We met several of the people that volunteer at the center and they all exhibit a sort of semi-religeous fanatacism about the good work they are doing. I suppose it makes sense because much of it is just plain hard labor. One of the biggest tasks involved in operating the center is fundraising. The cats eat a ton -- literally 2,000 pounds -- of meat each week. Most of it is donated from meat packing plants and arrives frozen, but there has to be cash money available to keep the lights on. The meat is generally the bony bits that have no commercial value such as heads and legs. I actually have a picture of a man with a wheelbarrow full of bits, but it's pretty gnarly. And, just so you know, the whole smells just like you'd expect: bad meat and cat urine. I was overpowered by the odor -- I was pretty close to declining the tour -- but I got used to it after maybe 15 minutes.

Racers, Start Your Engines!

With that introduction -- and it used to be "Gentleman, start your engines" -- that I was at the world-famous Indianapolis Motor Speedway, especially since we were in the neighborhood, but sadly, we never even saw the Brickyard on our visits to Indy. We did, however, get to go to Mid-Ohio Motorsports Park. It was a damn long drive -- close to 6 hours, but it was really good to see our friends YT and Liz. Shamefully, I didn't take any pictures of them while we were there. We also visited with Samara, who, incidentally, is the woman who is responsible for introducing Zina and I. She was there racing her Derbi. I recently sold my Derbi to Samara's friend, Tex, who prepared it for racing and was excited about this, his second event. Also at Mid-O were my email friends, JD, Tim and Robin.

My email friends are an interesting bunch: we got to know each other from an internet phenomenon called a "Listserve" which is a relaying service that allows people to communicate with like-minded people. Our listserve revolves around the Honda Hawk NT650GT motorcycle and is know as the HawkList. It's rather amazing that there are hundreds of people that want to talk about a motorcycle that was produced in small numbers for only 3 years over a decade ago. They were great bikes with a tremendous racing history, but the Suzuki SV650 has taken over the racing spotlight in recent years. Anyway, we made an off-list list, and we're all pretty much overacheiving nutcases with wicked and twisted senses of humor. We've been doing this for many years now, with no end in sight. We're pretty well spread over the US, with one member, Fred, from New Zealand and soon, I'll be in Mongolia. It's a cool group.

Another draw to Mid-O is that they have, back-to-back, a Vintage Weekend and a modern Superbike Weekend. Unfortunately, the track isn't available to club racer, and that's not such a bad thing -- look at the first picture of Samara -- there are fences, armco guardraila and concrete barriers that completely surround the track, making it dangerous for motorcycle racing. To their credit, the Mid-O management is quite aware of these hazards and rents air-fencing (basically an air bag the size of a car) and covers all the really bad spots with air fence to protect the racers. The interesting thing about Mid-O is that because of all the fencing/barriers, it's a really good spectator track: you can get very close to the action. The grounds are remarkably well-tended with many grassy hills and wooded areas: true to it's name, it really does look like a park.

We are in attendance on the Vintage Weekend -- along with about a quarter-million of our fellow motorcycle enthusiasts. There is a swap-meet on the property that covers probably over 2 acres of land and has something for everyone: Tshirts, postcards, lapel pins of obscure defunct motorcycle manufacturers, rusty frames, seized engines, new-old-stock footpegs, perfect chrome rims, and whole bikes covering the entire range of condition from utter crap to beautifuly restored. The weather is unbearably hot, and the swap-meet is in a wide-open field, so YT and I do a brief wander around, but can't stand it for too long. Instead, we retire to a wooded area to spectate. I really love vintage bikes, and I'm quite thrilled that AHRMA (American Historic Racing Motorcycle Association, the sanctioning body) has started a class for the early '80s superbike era. They aren't really, in my opinion, doing it right: the rules exclude the actual superbikes that were built for racing in the '80s. The cutoff date for this class is 1980, which is well before what most consider to be the Golden Age of Superbike racing. This forces racers to build their own NEW superbikes using machines that weren't popular racebikes (hence minimal aftermarket support) rather than race the genuine article, which seems to completely ignore the purpose of vintage racing. In any case, it brings back my youth, recalling the epic battles between my heroes: Freddy Spencer, Wayne Rainey and of course, my all-time favorite racer, Eddie Lawson. I also especially enjoy the racing machines of the 1950s and there are many of these in attendance as well.

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NOTICE: all contents copyright Alan Lapp 2002