Workbench... stuff...

More of a ramble than a focused post, but I thought I'd share a few things.

Here are some planets I made and painted along with one of my brother's creations and paint jobs. In the far back is a Minbari Sharlin I painted in like, 99? It looks alright, but my painting has come a long way. The planets themselves were completed this weekend and are a testament to my improved skills as I did a lot of wet shading on them (a fairly complex technique). The picture was taken by my camera phone (blackberry). For it not being its primary purpose, and given the complexity of this particular photo, I'm impressed with its picture taking ability.

I never did mention the trip to the dealer to get the brake fluid flushed on the beemer. The car has an on board diagnostic/nagging computer and mentioned that it needed to be maintenanced without being clear what it was. Obliged by the free service the warranty offers, I figure I'll just take it in without knowing what it really needed.

They even threw in a loaner 2009 330i just because a brake flush inconveniences me. Did I ever mention going to the dealer is like a certain toiletry related phrase from the Matrix:Reloaded?

Turns out that treatment changed the moment they realized the warranty expired. And it did. No longer was I the prodigal prince feasting on baguettes and coffee. I was now some Curr in a dirty 'old' car. I went ahead and paid for the obscenely expensive brake flush but I doubt I'll return because, aside from the loaner car a la gratis, it was a typical dealer experience. Besides, I researched how to decipher the car anyway.

Never did mention our trip to Peru either. I really don't have much to say. It was fun. They kept me liquored up on Pisco Sours nearly the entire trip. And Guinea Pig tastes somewhere between fish and beef with too many bones to make it worth your time.

Before

After

Machu Pichu was pretty though.

Here is the mountain across from it at dawn. It was fairly breathtakingly pretty.

You can actually see the morning sunlight rise across the mountains in the span of a minute.

High altitude sickness is a pain. Though, thin air altogether was an engaging experience. It started as a headache that I blew off as weak sauce. But it progressively got worse despite my constant attempts to ignore or alleviate it till the pain was so sharp I was vomiting. I threw in the towel at that point as no amount of coca tee or mental fortitude overcomes the complete disarray of the physical form. My body was giving up despite myself. Playing in that cue, I had to order oxygen from room service which was not only free, but expected. Something like 3/4 of the tour group had to ask for it. We would eventually go into even thinner air (13,000ft) that made breathing a minor problem. You just have to pace yourself, but it takes awhile to get used to taking 3 successive steps and feeling like you just jogged a mile. Sugary candies help to some degree as well as apparently some of the problem is the body's lack of metabolizing agent at those altitudes and overloading what ability you do have helps. I'd eventually adapt completely, but by then we went back to sea level where, I kid you not, it feels like breathing pea soup. This sea level air is almost painfully thick by comparison.

Some natives that invited the tour group to their fairly remote island on the Altiplano.

Random Llama photo.

And lastly the bus ride of death to the top of Machu Pichu. There's barely enough room for one bus to go down that rough rock road, but frequently these drivers channel the force and manage to send two. It's terrifying stuff, particularly when they're careening into each other with slipping brakes and nary a guard rail to amend. Just ask my wife. I'm sure she could re-enact my exact "Airplane" style emergency crash position.

Egypt! Part 2

A comment by my American Contemporary Literature teacher mentioned feeling uneasy with other people on air planes ever since 9/11. Though I think the chances of being hijacked are pretty remote there is one moment on our trip to Egypt that I can bear to echo.


During the leg between Amsterdam and Cairo we had to take the airline "Egypt Air". The flight team came across as a bunch of professional yahoos - military types. The pilots in particular exuded this calm sense of skill that seems to only come from that sort of background. They joked and held themselves in slack but alert during the boarding process. It was somewhat contradictory to their carefully attended dress uniforms and in comparison to every other flight team whom would smile and beam at the passengers that boarded.
I was somewhat relieved by this actually. As I knew roughly what to expect. They at least seemed to like what they did and military training, by and large, will separate the wheat from the chaff in terms of ability.

As we sat down in our assigned seats, Jessica and I in the aisle and middle seats respectively, we were joined by a strange sort of fellow. He was alien, at least to me, and ascribed to everything I thought a terrorist should look. His skin was incredibly dark and sun stricken. His pock marked face bore the years and hardships he might have faced poorly. (Was he wrestling wildlife with his bare hands?) He couldn't have been older than 40, but it was hard to tell. His clothes weren't familiar to me, being of a strictly functional sort.

He didn't speak a lick of English either.
It was akward. He appeared nervous. Though that might have been telling since I was nervous. Planes were hijacked around Africa all the time. On the ground the fantasy of being a hero "Passenger 57" style seemed idyllic. The reality, with my mind playing out various scenarios, was far more terrifying. The plane took off with a violent shove and threw into a hard turn unbecoming of an airliner, the flight attendants still standing - grasping onto anything nearby.
I imagined the pilots were high fiving each other.

I didn't want to offend him either should he not be a terrorist. I was keenly aware that my imagination was likely playing tricks with me. Though that knowledge did nothing to abate me. Just as well I did not want to come across as another loud ignorant American tourist.
We watched videos of South Park and American Dad on Jessica's Ipod. There were gestures and phrases that, in the presence of a man I could not talk to or know much of, suddenly became offensive and embarrassing.
Our only communication was through crude gestures by this point. At one point he had to go to the bathroom. He did not speak his request, but that was one phrase I try to learn in any language when I travel.

This was shoved from my mind soon as we were given dinner. Beef is what I and him chose, though I wouldn't have known it when he ordered in his native tongue. Jessica ordered the fish.

The meal was good, it was some stringy beef and rice, and he appeared to enjoy it as well. I gestured to him about the food and smiled. He returned the gesture.

Included within the meal was a square tray of a white pudding with presumably cinnamon sprinkled on top. Probing it revealed it had the consistency of Elmer's glue. Lending the recently earned good reputation the beef earned to the strange paste substance, I tried it. Dipping the edge of my fork into the pudding, I immediately shoved it in my mouth and savored the flavor.

And I reflexively recoiled in horror at the awful thing that was raping my tongue. It's harsh spoiled taste mixed with a bitter flavor that would not leave my mouth. It was in me and would not leave my senses. My tongue agape and tasting the air, anything, I grabbed my small beverage and washed it down, following shortly with the meager remains of a bread roll.

Jessica laughed, my stranger that sat next to me laughed. He apparently did the same thing when sampling the substance.

At once, this moment of communication and common ground, scattered my imaginary fears as though they never were. He was no longer the strange arabian guy next to me, we were the guys that hated the pudding.