The Herman Chronicles

The Lounge at 92 Winthrop, Cambridge

2008-03-24T12:23:00.008-06:00

I have not been witness to as many aggravated and disgruntled people in some time as I was last Saturday night at 92 Winthrop street in Cambridge. Perhaps my friend's drunken upset voiced on our ride home was more accurate in retrospect than when originally considered, "Boston is different these days...People here are stupid. I am from New York now. Before I was from New Mexico." These drunken musings of his were nothing special but they got me to thinking.

His words had been preceeded with, "Hello Cabbie..Now I'm going to tell you a story" and as the four of us sped off in the taxi headed back over across the bridge separating Cambridge from Boston, we were exposed to a story so awfully constructed, there was no meaning, real or perceived, just words. The cabbie muttered that this forthcoming warning was acceptable as this story would be his last of the night before signing off and heading home to sleep.

I was trying to follow these words to a logical end but all I could find was the laughter of my friends, "...Not New Mexico as in Mexico but New Mexico. You know, people associate New Mexico with Mexico but that's not the New Mexico I am talking about. I am from New Mexico." He enunciated the last sentence as if there was some identifiable difference in the nuance of his speech that explained whatever he was trying to share. Responding to the cabbie's inquiry of living in the U.S. Evan climbed deeper into delirium..."I am not from the United States...I mean, supposedly, I am from the United States but I'm really not" My overly intoxicated friend was sputtering sentences with no meaning as the alcohol prohibited the otherwise sensical and synchronized flow of firing synapses. All that was left was some form of vocal dribble that we all found surprisingly amuzing.

The bar was filled with a majority of international students, playboys dressed in fancy white leather shoes, pressed sport jackets, and attitudes that suggested deeper financial pockets perhaps an ocean or more away. And then there was the anger, resentment, or insecurity. I was truly surprised, caught off-guard, and figured the first time it was just a bad encounter. Somebody was upset but about what was unknown. He was screaming, upset, and ready to attack. Once he calmed down and peace had returned eveyone resumed dancing. Perhaps the old warning of Harvard bars held true but this was Harvard's spring break and these people did not have that "Harvard" attitude.

Sometime later a group of five or six of us, short and tall, male and female, skinny and wide, cut the rug in the confined space of the lounge floor. Unfortunately, I heard a shout of anger from behind. Somebody had the unfortunate luck of being located within a proximity of my behind so that as I made my way around the floor there was no way not to bump into the swarming bodies all around.

With the bar as overcrowded as it was, the dance floor making up less than half the space of the lounge, and constructed where there was even less room to keep up with the rhythm of music, there was, honestly, a lack of space. This conlusion was not the root of the problem however. The attitude of barhoppers and students in Boston is one entirely devoid of the relaxed and relatively care free attitude found in different latitudes in the U.S. which ultimately helps in the attitudes of those found in small bars and nightclubs.

"Those people...back there?" Evan was now pointing back at us answering one of the cabbie's questions, "they don't matter at all to me right now. I need to tell you the rest of my story." Our laughter rippled through the narrow confines of the cab. Our driver somehow still able to maintain a serious conversation.

And so in the reunited company of my friends, speeding through the streets of Boston, our night had once again been successful and we greeted the wee hours of the morning, lost in our laughter.

Thicker Than Oil: America's Uneasy Partnership with Saudi Arabia

2007-04-09T10:51:00.000-06:00

Rachel Bronson presents a concise account of the sordid history of U.S.-Saudi relations weaving through the peculiar and outwardly non-sensical nature of America's strange but continuing partnership with Saudi Arabia with ease and breviloquence.

The story begins on the decks of the U.S.S. Quincy, an Aircraft Carrier on Lake Egypt near the the Persian Gulf. During that visit, President Franklin Delano Roosevelt met with King Abdul Aziz and what followed was a friendship that lasted throughout the duration of both men's lives and would solidify a relationship between the two countries that would weather several decades, a few storms, and many hiccups. Roosevelt and Aziz became instantaneous and lifelong friends from the the moment they met. Roosevelt was so enamored of King Aziz that he gifted the King with one of his own famous wheelchairs.

Considering the practice of Wah'habism across the Kingdom and the fact that this fundamentalist following stands in direct opposition to everything the U.S. is fighting against in the "War On Terror" there follows a disconnect. Obviously the lack of allies in the region as well as the need to secure and protect the oil reserves are major facets in the strategic necessity of maintaining good relations with the Kingdom. The blunt and outright human rights violations that are well documented and known throughout the Arabian Peninsula and the "out of mind, out of sight" mentality regarding the practice of Wah'habism are clues that spell out many interesting conflicted and simulatneous truths that exist in this quixotic partnership.

Unfortunately, Bronson focuses purely on the relationship between the two countries, the shifts in good and bad relations and the period during the Clinton presidency when America was perhaps farthest from warm and happy times with the Kingdom.

The unfortunate absence of this information and the paradoxical nature of allying with a universally known nation that has been and continues to be by nature highly secretive and quiet about what exists underneath the surface level of the society is no fault of Bronson's. The lack of this material is simply because the book was written to trace an interesting relationship rather than act as a survey of a nation's social system and population.

From my independent research I have learned that the Kingdom has very little infrastructure and a growing population under the age of thirty. One must ask what is being done to help individuals find productive jobs and lives to lead instead of being recruited for suicide bombing missions and other dangerous fundamentalist undertakings. Right now there is simply nothing being done about it...yet. Likely not until there is a strategic reason, perhaps for money, regime change, or power, will anything be done about it either.

The Kingdom continues to be one of the most elusive countries I have ever read about and the feeling I get from the current situation within the population and the society is not a particularly warm and fuzzy one.

Living and Learning in the U.S. of A.

2007-04-07T15:13:00.000-06:00

I landed and I am surrounded by one of the hottest cities in which I have ever resided with women as beautiful as the salmon of capistrano. I have easy access around the countless clubs and bars just a few minutes from my front door all stacked neatly on 6th street. On restless nights, rather than lie around in bed, all I have to do is walk a few minutes away from the street below the terrace that overlooks the Austin skyline from my bedroom and I would arrive in the heart of this city. Why the picture you may ask then? Well.....

One night shortly after going to bed I awoke to the sound of torrential rain falling outside. The noise was nearly intolerable but I had left my deck door open and so I drifted back into sleep unsuspectingly.

Not more than thirty minutes later a knocking came on my domicile and the end of my sweet dream began. My mind thought I was maybe stretched out on a warm sandy beach in Mazatlan. In all actuality, the beautiful downtown Austin apartment, although it certainly felt like a dream to be in, was quite a paradise until two inches of chemical laden AC cooling water decided to shake things up a bit...

but this was a disaster not disimilar from losing a few strokes in a game of golf...everything will be covered and what is really lost is not really lost at all...this scenario is kind of like white collar prison: The food sucks, but the scenery isn't so bad! Ignoring the fact of walking across the floor and feeling as though one is surfing a wave from the buckled wood that lay underwater for nearly a day, there is still one undamaged room in which to find safe haven.

Shortly after rousing myself from happy dreams and encountering the cold wet truth that I was being evicted out of my apartment from a busted waterpipe I met up with some of the firemen downstairs, the only individuals that actually knew how to find the problem and how to fix it without creating more chaos. After the incidentals were handled and the water had been shut off and although another 7 or 8 hours would elapse before the entire system drained entirely onto my floor, I had a rather funny encounter with one of Austin's only fire-women. I learned about the multi-layers that must be worn to protect the body of those that are tasked with saving buildings from fire. There is a thermal layer underneath the outer shell of the fire-pant and as this woman stripped back the layers of panting protecting her from any number of chemical and heat induced dangers, I had the strange sensation that I was in some live action drama playing out by the second. The time was just about 4:15 AM and the fire crew and myself had been up for nearly an hour already so the delirium was in full swing whipping up a full circus in our heads. All we lacked was the big bear riding around on a small tricycle to that old tune.."Do do do-do-do, do do do..."

But I suppose learning about fire pants was a necessary detractor from the ever increasing flood some stories above my current location in the lobby.

Perhaps one must learn to strip back unncessary layers and return to a more simple existence. In my case, learning about the thermal layer that provided shield and insulation from the dangers outside was an ironic metaphor that I could apply to the dripping and soaking state of affairs in the far reaches of my brain.

I have always traveled lightly and except for a few prized possesions I have generally not grown too attached to the things that I own except for my passport. This state of events and my resulting eviction clearly illustrate all of the mental turmoil that was swimming around the pools of my brain. I have learned that it is quite a lot simpler to just adapt with the flow of things. Until I find a new place to set down the few possessions I will carry with me, I have discovered the best method of organization is aligning my thoughts according to the borders so dicated by the edges of this page.

Outside the sleet continues to fall on my head and I think the pool is slowly developing a layer of ice...Welcome to Texas.

Amtrak: Mahattan to Austin-Aboard Hell

2007-04-01T10:12:00.000-06:00

"Attention rail passengers, we are currently delayed due to freight traffic operated by the Union Pacific Railway which owns the tracks and controls the movement of freight and passenger rails. The length of our delay is unknown. Seeing as how Union Pacific controls all freight and passenger traffic on these tracks, Amtrak is not responsible for these delays and we ask for your continued patience until we receive an update with more information..."

This message was broadcast more times than I would like to admit and which I heard first chiming over the speakers during breakfast in the dining car. I think it was at this point that I was quietly trying to stab the fork into my eye but for the two people that had cornered me into the throes of their personal attempts at quitting cigarettes. Unable to pull my arms up and actually grab the fork, I could only contemplate my own stupidity for having chosen this route to Texas via Amtrak at over double the cost of the airfare that would have landed me at my destination somewhere in the vicinity of 42 hours ahead of my current location in Texarkana, USA-perhaps not the worst place in America but about as dead as the cow skull that I now noticed a few feet from the side of these tracks below me. And unless one enjoys watching pastoralism passively as they chew awful train food much like a cow chews his cud, the rail experience is about as titilating as watching paint dry. Looking out the window I noticed a child on a tricycle making better time than the machine that should have carried me as promised to my destination within a given time frame instead of sitting still waiting for freight to make better time than people. The problem is one's mind is perishable and by the end of my rail adventure the vegetables in my brain were most certainly rotting through and through.

I am a young man, only 23, aside from the only other person my age aboard I was surrounded by the retirement community of America. This is not meant in any insultive manner but these are the only people that can afford the time and cost to travel across this country by arguably the world's worst train system. I believe from secondary sources that the rail system in India and Pakistan, although overcrowded and sometimes prone to terrorist activity is far more efficient than in America.

So my train choo choo'd along averaging what I would generously estimate at 23.5 miles per hour. The scenery from my window was flat, dull, and consisted mainly of vegetative growth in the form of grass. Perhaps a cow here and there provided the only contrast in an otherwise lifeless landscape.When my train departed Manhattan and headed north to Albany along the Hudson River Basin before tracking west to Chicago, I thought I was in for an adventure of a lifetime. Unfortunately I had another thing coming. Nearly four hours late, I barely made my onward connection to Texas and the overwhelming joy I felt when I climbed aboard my second train in Illinois was soon replaced thereafter with a deep and sinking void of despair as I passed through the cornfields of southern Illinois and noticed a fast flying jet soon passing over my train. Quiet sobs filled the cavernous void of my stateroom as I contemplated the best method of egress from this chamber of bordom and death. I figured the only way to salvage the last inkling of sanity that was quickly vanishing from within was to find the nearest jetport to fly me high and above this empty land.

And nearly 24 hours after that moment in time I was still aboard and counting the seconds of every minute for each remaining hour before my estimated late arrival in Austin.

After I finally reached my terminus, the land continued to rock underneath my feet for two continuous days. I thought this only happened naturally when one reached land after an extended time at sea but I soon discovered train travel can make a sane man crazy and the world feels as if it swings back and forth in continuous upheaval after living aboard the slowest invention since the donkey cart.

Post-Pakistan: Bridging the Gulf

2007-03-27T10:31:00.000-06:00

I returned to the United States a few weeks ago. The customs officials were gracious with me and I admit this was not only surprising but extremely comforting. Although their eyebrows were raised with the stamps in my passport I was allowed passage back onto U.S. soil within twenty minutes of meeting ground after more than sixteen hours in the air.

I had given considerable thought to customs and the possibility of being detained for an indefinite period. I did not want to be considered a potential threat after such a strange itinerary. Pakistan is considered even more dangerous than Nigeria where locals pray on fresh blood and will drug unsuspecting tourists and business travelers. I have heard horror stories of being injected with some kind of potent syringe and waking to find missing organs. Pakistan was certainly not this but I was still arriving from a place where most Americans would never dream of setting foot.

In the beginning of my mandatory interview with U.S. Customs and Immigration I stated the purpose of my trip had been to visit friends. The Customs officer looked up from his keyboard, paused, and with a sarcastic and piercing frown asked, "Do you think that's normal?"

I looked this guy squarely in his eyes and said, "No. No I do not-"

After fielding other polygraph-like questions about any prior military training, what I studied in school, if I had graduated, and how I had met my friends abroad, the officer was actually smiling by the end of our exchange. When I explained that I was currently unemployed, he said, "You know, I graduated from college but then I had to get a job at the pizza shop across the sreet from my school."

And without further delay I was admitted back into the United States of America.

The morning and afternoon tea that was regularly served and that I thought was as arbitrary as the practice of raking leaves in the autumn became a pasttime to which I grew slowly accustomed throughout my stay. When I landed in North America I would enjoy tea for the first few days but soon after, I stopped altogether. This vignette mirrors a far more significant phenomenon that I noticed as soon as I woke up the day after I arrived.

I was able to walk about with freedom and travel by my own choice. This shift was far easier than I had imagined before departing Pakistan. I wished and hoped that my time away would have me confused and overwhelmed in New York City. I secretly knew if this was the case then I would have a mechanism to see my home with a new set of eyes. I hoped to have such shock and wonder that I would feel slightly if not completely, uncomfortable. This may sound slightly strange but I knew I could build a new platform from which I could understand the U.S. with a brand new pair of baby eyes.

I have found that my newly trained eyes have seen things that I did not consider prior to my departure. I understand some of the obfuscation that I noticed on television concerning the outside world (outside the U.S.) And with my return I see with sudden clarity what I can only describe as a cultural centrism that does not exist outside of my wonderful home. I have not figured out why this odd and unique behavior is so prevalent here across America but I am intrigued and determined to learn a bit more.

Murree Hills

2007-01-02T01:00:00.000-06:00

The Range Rover swings back and forth violently. Climbing ever more steadily, the truck follows the switchback asphalt into the foothills of the Himalayas and into a town named Murree. The mountains north of Islamabad are covered in pine trees in the lower elevations. Looking closely at the horizon and following the ridge, one notices major deforestation in the higher elevations. On either side of the road are concrete barriers, yellow, then black, then yellow again. The road has the appearance of a racetrack and the way the truck moves is not dissimilar from a Lotus.

Every so often, a small set of roadside stands appears. Everything is closed. There is no activity in these places. Today the locals are busy with Eid and all of the shopkeepers are focused on their prayers and religious observances.

Higher up we approach the town of Murree. Activity resumes and there are people walking about. More automobiles make road congestion tough although during this holiday I have chosen the best time to travel these roads as they are nearly empty and free of the usual hassle of everyday traffic.

I recollect stories of small buses improperly maneuvering around tricky bends, and as if tipping over were not enough, many buses have rolled off the narrow switchback road falling thousands of feet down the sides of these mountains.

Approaching the top of Murree Hills and arriving in the small village, it is time to dine at one of the many restaurants strewn around town. The chosen place is most definitely sketchy. But while waiting for the meal to be served, I watch the preparation of my food right in front of my eyes. Sitting and waiting, I notice two bottles of water sitting on the edge of the table and two dirty glasses. The locals are accustomed to the local water but I decide to settle for a coke.

When the meal arrives, the food is hearty, delectable, and interesting. I eat with feelings that I have been deep in these mountains, perhaps maybe north in Kashmir, and have only just emerged for my first solid meat based meal in days. As if triggered subconsciously, in a dream perhaps, the food becomes some of the most simple and pleasurable I have enjoyed.

Murree, however, is not as pleasant. Overdeveloped with Pepsi posters and even an ATM on one street here at 7,000 feet, I hope to find my way into a more culturally unique area next time.

Rawalpindi: Welcome to Pakistan

2007-01-01T00:37:00.000-06:00

The city of Rawalpindi, the "twin city" neighboring Islamabad, is quite different. The Hajj and Eid have begun as I make my way through the streets. I can hear music wafting into the vehicle from outside. The streets are littered with debris, trash, motorcycles and mopeds racing in, out, and through the traffic. There is ceaseless activity: cars, trucks, and vehicles shaped like circus rides. Although traffic moves orderly, there is no fear about the intimacy shared between any two vehicles at any given time on these roads. I am accustomed to traffic in the streets of a city like Beijing, where there are thousands of bicycles, pedestrians, and so forth moving about, but here, I am actually nervous about damage to this vehicle.

Stopping off at a large sports stadium, some children play cricket on a quiet side street. Many others are setting idly about on the side of the road in this quiet area of Rawalpindi, off from the main road. Apartment buildings seem to comprise most of the residential housing in this particular space filled in behind an otherwise heavy commercial district with shops and stores of all kinds.

Back in the car, I am moving away from this district of apartment houses and into an area where interesting houses, somewhat out of place, provide a sharp contrast to the dirty streets and dug up roads scattered around. I pass a small meat market set up neatly on the side of the road and further along there are many roads in complete disrepair. I have never seen anything like this. Sections of road, seemingly well maintained and full of normal vehicular traffic and then, suddenly, with no hint or expectation, a road becomes visible that appears torn apart by an earthquake or bulldozer. Piles of dirt and bits of concrete now replace what was once a "road". Some animals, a few men, and a cow sit idly by watching the flow of traffic pass them by.

Rawalpindi is what I have imagined it to be: dirty and even more interesting than ever. There are beggars in the streets, many children trying to make just enough money to feed themselves. Sadly, I witness a young girl wash the windshield of a car in the hopes of obtaining perhaps just a single rupee but the man in the car refuses her services rolling his window up to avoid acknowledgment of the child.

Nobody forces their services on the truck and now I am surprised. I would have thought it nearly impossible to be stopped at a red light and avoid the heavy flow of street workers. Eventually, some individuals do approach and tap on the windows. Customary practice is to ignore this behavior and it works immediately as the "tappers" wander on to the next vehicle.

Passing through an intersection now, the scenery changes with the blink of an eye. There is no more trash, no more megalopolis: no more dirty banners advertising cell phones, airlines, internet, and all of the stuff of this modern era. Instead there are some green fields with a few trees. There are no wandering individuals anymore and no hint of where I have just been. The road widens, the landscape changes, and the landscaping appears near perfectly manicured. I have returned to Islamabad.

Reaching the subcontinent

2006-12-29T08:09:00.000-06:00

As the aircraft touches down, the colder morning air enshrouds the airport in fog. Slipping into first class, I clamber out the door and down the steps of the mobile staircase, nearly tripping. I have finally arrived at Islamabad International. Since an initial invitation was extended to me for a visit, I have just now landed five years later.

At first glance, the airport produces an immediate feel of this country that seems appropriate: There is no formal terminal, not one jet way protruding out of what one would classify in the modern world as an airport terminal.

Instead there are small and large buses parked around the six or seven large aircraft lining the tarmac like a flock of birds before flight. There is a flurry of activity as I walk across the airport tarmac and onto one of the small buses. These vehicles remind me of desert caravans with little curtains neatly pulled back. Arriving at the terminal, I enter through the diplomatic/foreign line at customs and without so much as a blink from the woman that stamps my passport, I am admitted into Pakistan. It appears that Americans are not frequenting these regions and investigating this part of the world.

Everyone around me is relaxed. There is a flurry of activity around the baggage belt and I peer outside beyond the doors closing off the inside of this hall. There are a sea of people eagerly awaiting the arrival of their loved ones.

Exiting the terminal, chaos ensues. People are everywhere but I manage to follow my guide and within minutes I am driving out of Rawalpindi headed for the city of Islamabad itself.

I am directed out of the airport and into this new country with extreme ease and with the help of a dear friend. My travel has taken two days and gaining sleep whenever possible throughout the duration has eased the ten hour difference from the eastern time zone of the United States.

As my vehicle exits the perimeter of the airfield, armed guards occupy lookout towers on either side of the airport gate. There is high perimeter fencing snaking along the road enclosing the airport. However, I wonder from what? A thought crosses my mind as our car races forward: a coup d'etat? I figure one of the most strategic pieces of real estate in this city must be the airport allowing access to and from the headquarters of the government. But then again, this is Pakistan, and I am sure that armed guards are simply necessary to demonstrate authority. The government in this country cannot operate within an ignorant bubble. A host of sectarian groups battling every imaginable cause are eager to test the authority of the Pakistani government. My hope is that those in favor of peace and stability will remain steadfast and eventually overcome.

This beautiful and exotic country like so many others has so much to offer if inner strife and/or outright war does not engulf it in flames.

America's Embassies: U.S. Presence Abroad

2006-12-15T20:41:00.000-06:00

"Massachusetts, you're a Sox Fan, right?" Sgt. Hartmann bellowed through the plastic barrier separating visitors from the entryway and access-point to the embassy's consular section as he read my place of birth from my passport.

Laughing, I realized the wrong answer could potentially have my access barred.

During my cab trip I must have passed nearly every other country's representative housing in the Beijing embassy district, but upon arriving here, I have seen into America's presence overseas.

After exiting the cab I can see in front of me a high perimeter fence meeting a set of entry gates and a security guard. There is no building in sight. No hint of any housing, embassy, or other governmental buildings belonging to the U.S. After passing through this outer checkpoint I am in the inner sanctum of what appears a very exclusive and safe compound.

I recollect the embassy in England, not unlike this one here in China, large, ugly, and secluded from all.

But America's presence overseas is anything but secure. Our staff of state department officials, DEA officers, CIA spooks, consular sections, and the host of staff that are deployed around the world to maintain our diplomatic and consular channels must and should be protected by all that I have described in the proceeding paragraphs.

The embassy in Islamabad post September 11 forged a new set of security measures and planning. The creation of the diplomatic enclave was exclusively to prohibit those without special access privileges from obtaining entry into an area that at the farthest end houses the American Embassy.

Although my embassy more closely mirrored a prison compound, I felt sorry for the individuals stuck inside and locked up from the daily interactions I was able to manage while living in Pakistan.

Recollecting the student demonstrations and revolts dating back to the 1970s in Islamabad and the rocky contemporary situation that confronts all Americans abroad, I am squarely behind my country's extreme safety concerns. I only wish the global state of our current affairs was not in such dire and extreme waters as those in which the British sailors recently found themselves unluckily drifting about.

Robert G. Rabil "Syria, the United States, and the War on Terror in the Middle East

2006-12-07T02:15:00.000-06:00

Dr. Robert G. Rabil offers a succinct historical account of the U.S.-Syrian relationship carefully outlining each side's evolution and always changing willingness, ambilavence, and strategic need for the other. Rabil begins his narrative in detailing the rise of Syria in the Middle East as the "cradle of Arab nationalism". In considering that Arab countries at one point in time and even presently, work to adjust their pulse to the ideological notion of an Arab cultural cohesiveness, i.e. nationalism, the situation in which Syria finds itself is one that carries large shoes and not enough filler.

Rabil continues in the development of decades of critical incidents initiated from wars, peace initiatives, and attempts at forming relationships between and among states covering the pan-Arab world, Israel, and the United States, setting the tone that weaves through this complicated and often elusive relationship.

Interestingly enough, Syria initially gained independence from the French during the second world war in order to prevent Nazi seizure of the Middle Eastern state. One must wonder nevertheless had the Nazis not repeatedly performed military blunders, Syria, although indepedent, would most certainly have been seized by the third reich.

Dr. Rabil explains Syria's steadfast and extreme opposition to the U.S. led coalition against Iraq in 2003 spurring what Rabil describes as Syria becoming a de facto member of the "axis of evil". Bashar al-Asad, the Syrian President, opposed the U.S. invasion of Iraq out of fear of the Bush administration's seemingly evolving regime change tactics as well as shifts in foreign policy ideology from the Clinton to the Bush administrations more than likely resulting in military campaigns against regimes considered undemocratic, dangerous, or suspected of harboring terrorists. Certainly, Bashar al-Asad's lie to Colin Powell in assuring no iraqi oil and subsequent revenues from transit through Syrian pipelines and into the hands of Saddam Hussein in 2002 strained relations between the two nations. Following this hitch in foreign relations, the Bush administration found itself increasingly more suspect and skeptical of Mr. Bashar al-Asad and his cronies.

The reader must consider leaders such as Asad, not dissimilar from Ahmadinejad and Chavez, operating and spreading absurd rhetoric primarily driven by fears of being completely annihilated by a superpower such as the United States of America. These leaders are cornered not only by America, but by the need to subjugate their own peoples in order to secure their own power and rule. Barring this, individuals like Asad could end up with a fate not entirely unlike Saddam Hussein's. Therefore, Mr. Asad and his cronies, like the rest of the world's seemingly "rogue" leaders, are duly threatened by the potential loss of their power magnate through the overthrow of their regimes as well as the loss of their respective consitutencies.

China via North Pole: Arrival

2006-12-01T15:13:00.000-06:00

Emerging from my slightly drunken state, my attention is drawn toward the window on my right. The ice sheet covering the North Pole lies below. There is no color, no contrast, and certainly no hint of change in sight. Right now the aircraft in which I am sitting is flying nearly 650 miles per hour over the ice sheet roughly three hundred miles south of magnetic north.

I can recall stories from my grandmother of her expedition via atomic powered boat through the ice sheet bound for this geographic place now below me. I have crossed the artificial seam of the earth just now. Cartographers created the International Date Line and now the IDL exists de facto.

I have met the ground once again. All that is visible on either side of this aluminum bird are cranes. Hundreds and hundreds of cranes reach toward the sky and stand erected as though growing naturally from the bed of the earth.

As my cab drives away from the jetport and into the belly of the beast, I am nearly swallowed by rising buidlings. Government buildings, hotels, and centers of financial haven hug each side of the central artery forming a permiter around the ever-expanding megalopolis stretching out from my arbitrary position in this tiny Renault.

The air is suprisingly clean, the heat is rising, and the jet lag, a full twelve hours behind, is now setting on my shoulders with an increasingly invisible weight.

Understanding Pakistan: Introduction

2006-11-21T17:13:00.000-06:00

On the visa inside my United States Passport in front of the title Pakistan, reads Islamic Republic of. In my personal experience, many individuals appear to carry unsubstantiated and seemingly near absolute notions about the nature of this place and others as well as the people inhabiting such a country without ever speaking to its inhabitants or stepping foot inside to investitage the truth.

Without proper access to any of the facts of a country such as Pakistan, one has only to turn to the ever present and rather hideous media portrayal. There is no mystery as to why these individuals posess such ignorance on what actually lies inside the borders. Upon studious and objective investigation one could correctly replace these unfounded and baseless notions with a picture and understanding of the true nature of the country.

My trip will begin near the end of December and with some good luck and a lucid intellect, I should hopefully be able to do just this. A proper investigation into what appears to be an elusive country that remains one of America's most strategic allies at least for our current administration's stated policies should yield at the very least a solid foundation upon which to understand foreign policy from an entirely non-traditional, non-American perspective.

Homeward Bound: Flying East Over the Atlantic

2006-11-21T15:59:00.000-06:00

Finally flying high over the Atlantic, I am convinced this time I will finally return to the States. Previously stranded for a night in Lisbon, I am currently housed in business class. My seat has been offered as almost a kind of "after the fact" inverse collateral from the airline that had me and several hundred other passengers redirected to the European continent after engine trouble en route to the United States.
To my immediate right is another man about seven years my senior. As our conversation progresses, we share our similar and disimilar notions on topics ranging from international politics, the nature of travel, and eventually come to rest on the perception of Americans abroad.
This particular man of Asian origin was rescued as a young child and adopted by Danish parents. He tells me his home is in Copenhagen. Most of our discussion on Americans is provoked by my rather honest and not quite laudatory remarks on the ignorance and thoughtlessness often demonstrated by individuals not tactful enough to foresee the range and impact of their words and deeds.
My friend gently laughs at these simple statements that I impart, but simultaneously I realize he is embarrassed. I have stumbled upon his rather gentle admission of the all too truthful nature of what in fact is an accurate and percieved reality outside of the United States of America.
Although I am unaware about the nuances of these little laughs and smiles exhibited by my business class companion, I have now realized how I will be percieved abroad until I am able to demonstrate what separates me from the crowd. I am excited at this prospect and have no reservations about navigating my way through such a difficult process. I am confident that with some study and tact, I too can learn something.