Legit Lit: Cloud Atlas

I vowed to read Cloud Atlas post-haste after hearing a bit of it read aloud at Symphony Space during an evening of Selected Shorts featuring author David Mitchell. After turning the last page rather breathlessly on Monday night, I dragged Ed to see the movie (all two hours and 45 minutes of it). This post will be a struggle to write because I don't want to give away too much about either one; here goes nothing.

First of all, David Mitchell can write. This guy's phenomenal. His books are nothing short of enthralling, and I highly recommend any of the ones I've read. I'm not sure that Cloud Atlas is my favorite, but that's only because they're all so good. I can say with confidence, however, that Cloud Atlas is certainly the most ambitious of his offerings that I've paged through. For those who don't know, it is split  into six different stories which take place in six vastly different time periods, beginning in 1849 and reaching hundreds of years into the future. The first half of the book works through the first halves of five of the stories, which are presented chronologically. The sixth story is told in its entirety in the middle of the book, then the second halves of each of the stories are told in descending order so that the book begins and ends with Adam Ewing's 1849 journal. This structure is interesting for a lot of reasons, but one of the most compelling aspects for me was already knowing what would happen to Mitchell's world as I read the second half of the book. It still managed to pack quite a few surprises.

Mitchell definitely does not have a "type" as far as genres go. I wrote in a previous post about his dexterous somersaulting between historical fiction, coming of age stories, and post-modern experimental works. His virtuosity is visible in full force in Cloud Atlas. Each of the six stories is told in a completely different style, and masterfully so. Adam Ewing's 1849 journals reminded me of the dreadful old journals I had to read in college penned by pompous, venerable Americans from the 17th and 18th centuries (differing only in that Mitchell's work is not dreadful). The 1970's detective story read like any chronicle of a hard-boiled gumshoe, complete with some lame jokes and characters all trying to sound like they're infinitely more badass than everyone else. The modern-day farce told by elderly British Timothy Cavendish had a romping tone, and the sixth story was written entirely in an invented pidgin (which was tough to read at first, though I got used to it.) All this, remember, in one book. Each of the primary characters is connected to another character in another time period somehow, and I anxiously flipped pages as I sought to discover these links. The book was simply riddled with subtleties, and I highly recommend it to the thoughtful reader. Reading it is thrilling in the way that climbing a high mountain is: You'll be left speechless by the view, but your lungs and legs will be burning by the time you get there. For the adventurous soul, it's well worth the trip.

Two of Tom Hanks's roles. Recognize him?

I'm very glad I saw the movie version and enjoyed it very much, though, as is always the case, the book was better. Obviously, changes had to be made - for one thing, the book is 500 pages long. One major difference between the novel and the film is that the stories crosscut with each other frequently on the screen instead of proceeding along in stately order as they do in the book. I thought this was a very effective adjustment, and it made the connections between the plotlines easier to see for the benefit of those who didn't have the book's background. The movie features the same few actors appearing in time period after time period, often wearing thick make-up and elaborate costumes so that they can play characters of different ages, races, and even genders. This was an element that was largely absent in the book and added a whole different layer of meaning to the movie, which I saw mostly as arbitrary but Ed saw as pivotal. It will be interesting to hear what he thinks after reading the book. The movie was directed by two different parties: Tom Twyker took the central stories, and Andy and Lana Wachowski oversaw the shooting of both the most historic and most futuristic of the scenes which bookended Twyker's work. I much preferred Twyker's approach. The central stories held on to a great deal of the gentle nuances that shaped Mitchell's book, while the Wachowskis traded a lot of the pivotal conversations and powerful event sequences in the book for flashy chases and fight scenes.

The minute the credits started to roll, Ed announced that he was definitely going to read the book; he'd been on the fence before. I said that I assumed he'd like the movie, and he said that yes, he had, but that he could tell there were many more subtleties in the book that didn't make it to the screen and was anxious to read them for himself. I'd say this statement pretty much sums up my rationale for preferring the novel to the film. I enjoyed both, but I sort of resented the way that much of the intricate, meaningful detail had to be either eradicated or blasted at the audience at full volume. I know the directors had to make things obvious, but I hated to see the deliciously labyrinthine story pruned down. I recommend seeing Cloud Atlas - somewhat less heartily than I recommend reading it - but only with the caveat that those who wish to indulge in both should do themselves the favor of reading it first.

It's Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas

Never mind that Thanksgiving is tomorrow. This morning, I saw the first Christmas tree vendor of the year (for me at least) setting up shop just outside the 18th Street 1 station. It made me think of going to the Christmas tree farm with my family many years ago. My brother and I would run from tree to tree, breathing in the frigid piney-ness of it all and falling in love with each tree we spotted. My parents taught us to look for symmetry and gaps in the branches, and finally my dad would down our choice. (I think I remember him sawing - do people do that any more?) In later years, we'd just pull into one of the empty lots that played host to Christmas tree hawkers each winter to pick out our pre-cut tree. It was a little less festive, but the air still smelled just the way it was supposed to, and we would buy hot apple cider and kettle corn to celebrate our purchase. For the last few years, my mom has bought trees from various high school teams who sell them as a fundraiser. I think you just specify the size you want and pick up your tree from the school parking lot a few weeks later, where a group of adorable, earnest high school boys, eager to show off their still-new muscles, help you load the tree onto the roof of your car. 

It's strange to think that most children who grow up in New York never experience any of this. Sometimes the tree vendors will string up a few lights or play holidays songs on a portable CD player, but that's about as festive as it gets. On the other hand, they've got Rockafeller Center and every store on Fifth Avenue if they're feeling a bit short on holiday spirit. And I'm not one to talk; the only tree in my apartment this year will be the eleven-inch wire tree my mom sent to me a few years ago, complete with tiny ornaments on strings. Maybe I'll burn a pine-scented candle in the vicinity to complete the effect.

Nostalgia in Nashville

Last weekend, I headed out to Nashville with Ed to meet my brother and two dear college friends, Phil and Courtney, to celebrate my birthday. I'd been a bit homesick for Nashville, home of my alma mater, and it was great to be back, particularly in fall. I'd rented house that seemed to be nice online, but we were all taken aback by how huge it was when we pulled into the drive on Friday night! It was a true log cabin - the outside walls were made of huge logs held together with thick layers of cement (I think it was cement), and there was no plaster or drywall inside so you could appreciate the logs from all angles! There was also a pool with a lovely patio and outdoor bar, a pool table, several dart boards, a hot tub, a half-court basketball court, and lots of space both inside and out. We stuffed ourselves at Cracker Barrel, bought tons of beer, and spend the evening relaxing in the hot tub. Things were off to a good start. 

Phil and Anthony play bocce ball in front of the house as they wait for everyone to emerge from the house. 

We had big plans to go to the Pancake Pantry the next morning, but we'd all stayed up much later on Friday night than we'd intended to. As a result, we didn't get to the restaurant until almost noon, and the line was out the door (typical) but also stretched most of the way down the block (excessive). It was a simply gorgeous day - low 70s with clear blue skies - so we drove to Centennial Park instead and ate at a small barbecue shack. Hog Heaven can't really be described as a hole in the wall because there aren't really any walls. It sits on the outside border of the park. You order from a window and sit at picnic tables on a patio enclosed by chicken wire. The food is divine, though, and it's right across the street from Vanderbilt.

Free bricks!

I was itching to walk around campus, so after lunch Ed, Courtney and I gave ourselves a thorough tour while Anthony and Phil hung out in the park. Some parts of campus looked exactly the same, but some were unrecognizable. The dining hall, Rand, has been completely redone, and the fusty old quadrangle so beloved by all of us when we lived on campus years ago had been leveled to make space for a huge new building. At the edge of the construction site were several pallets of bricks that had made up Kissam Quad. "Free to Alumni" said the sign. You know you loved college when you can't resist the opportunity to take home a dirty brick. Courtney and I decided to stop with the car on the way home to pick up a few, not wanting to carry them with us around campus.

Our walk was lovely. Vanderbilt is a national arboretum and is beautiful any time of year, but it is breathtaking in fall. Courtney and I oohed and aahed over the leaves and shared all manner of memories uninteresting to anyone but us that Ed was nice enough to listen to. After walking around main campus, we crossed the street to Peabody, where Courtney and I met and took all of our education classes. There have been some major changes there, too, and we gaped as we toured the new buildings. I found myself glaring jealously at the freshman lounging around their dorms, wishing I was in their shoes.

Outside Furman Hall

Reading on the porch of the house

Courtney and I bought some Vanderbilt gear from the campus bookstore, then we rendezvoused with everyone back at the car, picked up our bricks, and headed to the grocery store for snacks and more beer. We had "cocktail hour" on the back patio, chatting and munching quietly but mostly gazing around us and enjoying the peace. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw movement and jerked my head around to see three deer. Everyone hurried to the front of the house, were they seemed to be headed, and we watched in delight as the herd swelled to ten, all does with one mostly-grown fawn. They were drinking from the pond near the front of the house, but they didn't stay long, not caring for our company. I found myself thinking wistfully about my apartment back in New York, which I had always loved but which does not have herds of deer wandering through it.

 After some naps, which everyone felt we needed after doing very little all day, we headed back into Nashville for a night on the town. We had dinner at a restaurant I used to love - which seems much less like haute cuisine after a few years of life in New York - then Phil steered us downtown toward the neon lights. We rubbed shoulders with women in cowboy boots, men in tight jeans, and a surprisingly robust population of hipsters and punks with dyed hair and tattoos. Bleached blonde, ratted hair and thick black eyeliner were very much in. Our first stop was a bar called Robert's and listened to a rockabilly band who played great, old-fashioned country songs. Next, we went to a place next door called Layla's, which featured a slightly more modern band who played old country classics interspersed with Tom Petty. Our final stop was Lonnie's a karaoke bar. Courtney, Phil, and I all had fond memories of Lonnie's. It's definitely a dive, and plenty of talentless people step up to the mic, but like New York, Nashville attracts a fair amount of talent. One of the great things about Lonnie's is sitting through two or three terrible songs only to be blown away by the unassuming girl who knocks it out of the park. The latter party was conspicuously absent from Lonnie's that night, however. We were treated to one stellar performance, one really good performance, and about 50 groups of drunk sorority girls and frat boys tunelessly yelling the lyrics to Taylor Swift songs. One nice thing about it, though, was that Phil and I decided that we couldn't help but be better than the cacophony if we signed up. So we did, and sang the last song of the night, "Summer Nights," from Grease. I'd always wanted to sing at Lonnie's, and it was great to finally do it! Courtney said that the hostess, who'd been rolling her eyes at every group that stormed the stage for the last hour and a half, smiled at us.

Sunday morning was...rough, to put it delicately. But I had absolutely no regrets. With much ado, I got my brick through security at the airport and flew home next to Ed, happy to have been able to celebrate my birthday in one of my favorite places with some of my favorite people.

2005 (pay no attention to the date stamp - I didn't know how to set it...)

2012

Whatever. I'll Run Anyway.

Friday evening, I learned to my great disappointment that the New York City Marathon had been cancelled. It sounded to me like Mary Wittenberg, the president of the New York Road Runners (NYRR) had been hesitant to carry on with the race from the get go, but after Mayor Bloomberg announced on Wednesday that the race was on, NYRR's hands were tied. If the mayor says go ahead, there's not much you can do... A public outcry followed almost immediately, as people were concerned about the police, medical services, and sheer manpower it takes to run a marathon taking away from rescue and recovery services for storm victims. The city claims that no services would have been diverted from recovery efforts (which I find a bit hard to believe, frankly, but may be legitimate). I can certainly see both sides, and all I can say is that I'm glad the decision was not mine.

I decided that I wanted to run the distance I'd been training for on Sunday, marathon or no marathon, and I invited a few friends to join me in the park. Then my friend Isang emailed to tell me about a much bigger, more publicized marathon alternative, and so I decided to join that one instead. Ed and my dad came out to run at least part of it with me on Sunday morning, and we arrived at what would have been the official finish line of the NYC marathon to find thousands of people milling around and ready to run.

Before the start of the race

Run Anyway, the name of the alternate marathon, was a blast. It was preceded with the national anthem, just like every NYRR race (though this one was not affiliated with NYRR) and then we all counted down together and took off! The grandstands had already been erected and were still in place, and as the race went on they filled with cheering onlookers. The course was not nearly as interesting as the actual marathon course, alas; we did a little more than 4 laps around the park to finish with 26.2 miles exactly. Ed stuck with me for 20 miles of it before dropping out - quite impressive for someone who had never run more than 13.1 miles before yesterday - and my dad finished the whole thing with similar training credentials! It seemed that almost half the people on the course were foreign, which makes a lot of sense because international runners would have already been in NYC, or at least en route, when the announcement of the marathon's cancellation was made. They were stuck, but they seemed very pleased to at least be able to run something, even if it wasn't the real event. I saw teams large and small from places as diverse as France, Spain (with a separate team from Catalonia), Hungary, Mexico, Australia, New Zealand, South Africa, Ireland, Switzerland, Peru, the Philippines  and Brazil. Many of them wore jerseys identifying them as nationals of their various countries, and some ran with huge flags. Lots of people, myself included, wore the orange, long-sleeved t-shirt we had gotten as a marathon souvenir when we picked up our numbers on Thursday and Friday. Some wore goofy costumes they'd planned to wear in the race; I saw over-sized foam cowboy hats, tutus, and one guy dressed, bafflingly, as a cow. Some people even pinned on their race numbers.

There's always a lot of support for the real marathon, and it's great to see people using their Sunday to volunteer with NYRR  to help and encourage thousands of runners they don't know. The effect of the volunteers at Run Anyway was even more powerful, though, because these people were funding their own support efforts. The course was peppered with makeshift aid stations, and lone spectators stood on the side of the course handing out water, sports drinks, bananas, bagels, and Starbursts they'd bought themselves. Many other supporters waved signs, rang cowbells, and cheered us on as we went by. There were still large sections of the course with no spectators - and let me tell you, cheering helps enormously - but I couldn't believe how many people showed up to support an unofficial event. The spirit of comradeship spread throughout the ranks. Not only were there volunteers walking the course backwards with outstretched trash bags so that runners could easily dispose of empty gel packs and old water bottles, runners themselves were more careful than I've ever seen them in a race to hold onto refuse until they could dispose of it. Generally, cups and trash are tossed around willy-nilly, but the park stayed tidy on Sunday, and I was proud of everyone for that. Another positive outcome: Isang said that they collected a huge sum of money and almost more donations than they could handle for storm recovery efforts from runners who wanted to run and help out, too. NYRR helped out by sending boxes to collect donations, which was nice of them.

As for my performance: I did not go as fast as I'd wanted to go, but I was still pleased.  I finished the course in 3 hours and 53 minutes, a 12-minute improvement from my last marathon. I'd been hoping to go below 3:50 and, maybe, finish by 3:45, and I think I'd have been able to do it had the actual marathon occurred as planned. Anyone who has done any running in Central Park will appreciate how hilly it is, and though the regular NYC course is not totally flat, it doesn't have nearly as much elevation change as a few laps around the park do. Also encouraging has been my recovery thus far. Although I'm somewhat sore today, this is nothing compared to the agonizing days that followed my last marathon. I was quite pleased with my pacing yesterday, which will serve me well for the 2013 marathon. All of this leads me to conclude that the training plan I followed worked very well for me, and I plan to use it again to get me ready for my next attempt at the NYC marathon. (I'll plug the book I used at my friend Conor's suggestion: Run Less, Run Faster is a fantastic, detailed, and realistic guide.) I will be making a few changes to my training regimen, however; I plan to add more weight training, and I'll do more of my tempo runs in Central Park instead of on the flat path that runs along the Hudson like I did this year.

I learned a lot from Run Anyway, and I had a great time, to boot. While I look forward to doing the real marathon next November, I can't imagine a better resolution to a very disappointing situation.

Surviving Sandy: A Refugee's Diary

Sunday
Ed, recovering from his half-Ironman (more on that later), found a text message on his phone from his cousin, a travel agent who'd booked our plane tickets for us. "Your flight has been cancelled," he told me. "What?" I spluttered. This seemed ridiculous, as the hurricane wasn't predicted to get really bad until Tuesday morning. I'd thought for sure that my Sunday night flight would land with no problems. Ed, who was scheduled to fly out of Austin on Monday, presented a bigger problem in my mind, though it seemed now that both of us were stuck. Ed's cousin emailed a bit later to say that he'd gotten me on a Tuesday flight, but that he was not optimistic about its odds of taking off. Oh dear. I texted my office manager to let him know, and turned my attentions to taking care of Ed, who was wiped out after his race.

Monday
We checked out of our hotel in Austin and drove the rental car to San Antonio to stay in Ed's mom's house; she was traveling and so not there to greet us, but we were happy to have a free place to wait out the far-off storm. We settled in and I used Ed's laptop to do a bit of work by the pool. Not a bad trade for the office. Later, we went to Ed's friend's house, where we watched CNN and the Weather Channel, gasping at the images of our familiar running trail under water and a building in our neighborhood whose facade had fallen off. It was tough to see in the dark, but the flooding seemed terrible enough that I worried about our apartment. Our building was in the zone least likely to flood (apparently), but I was still anxious, particularly since we're on the first floor and our bedroom is in the basement. My friend Jenny texted me to say they'd cut her power. I was torn between being glad to be stuck where I was and wishing I were home, though I reasoned that I wouldn't be able to stop the flood waters if they did get to our building.

Tuesday
We were not surprised to learn that my Tuesday flight had been cancelled. Ed's cousin emailed to say he'd gotten me onto a Wednesday flight - he was pessimistic about this one, too - and had gotten Ed a spot on a Friday flight. I was scheduled to fly into Newark, which seemed to have sustained the least damage of the three airports that service New York City, but Ed was scheduled to land at JFK where the flooding was much worse. A seat on my plane would set Ed back $1,000, too much, we decided, for two days. We brought breakfast back to the house and watched the morning news for more information the storm. Lots of the floodwaters had receded, but the suspension of subway service was a sobering prospect. Nearly everyone in the city depends on the subway, and even the people with cars were supposed to stay off the roads to allow the clean-up and repair crews to do their jobs. The lower part of Manhattan, as well as lots of town in New Jersey and Long Island had no power or gas (and therefore no heat). We switched off the TV after too much bad news. I read for a while, then went for a tempo run while Ed did a conference call. Later, we went out for dinner at a nice restaurant Ed's mom had recommended. I was starting to feel very lucky to be stranded in Texas. I'd enjoyed a hot shower that day, and was now eating in a restaurant that had a working fridge, gas for the stove and oven, and staff members who were able to get to work easily. Few people in Manhattan would be able to say the same, I reasoned.

Wednesday
My Wednesday flight was cancelled as well, not surprisingly. Ed's cousin got me on one for Thursday, and we settled in to wait for word that this one, too, was cancelled. To pass the time, we went shopping, visited the zoo, then picked up lots of cash, a solar cell phone charger, batteries for Ed's camping lantern, and candles for me to take back to the city with me. I reasoned that all of these things would be in short supply. We met a friend of Ed's for dinner that night, and still had not heard any news from Ed's cousin, meaning that my flight seemed to be on.

Thursday

The red text says "cancelled".

Ed gallantly drove me to the airport at 3:30 in the morning in time for my 6:00 flight. I thought the plane would be overflowing with other stranded New Yorkers, but there were quite a few empty seats and most of the accents I heard were gentle drawls instead of the harsher tones of my fair city; I guess Austin isn't a very popular destination for New Yorkers. We landed in Newark without incident. The airport was emptier than I'd ever seen it, and a glance at the departures screens told me why - it seemed that about a third of the scheduled flights were cancelled.

I was worried about getting into the city without the aid of a train, figuring cabs would be few and far between. I ended up taking a $16 shuttle to Port Authority - it was cheap and quick. The subways had opened but weren't going below 34th Street, so I hailed a cab without difficulty to take me the rest of the way home. I knew my office on 29th was open and had power, so I was hopeful that my apartment might, too, as we drove down 7th Avenue. My hopes dissolved, however, as we crossed 25th Street and I saw that the stoplights were suddenly dark and every storefront was shuttered. Upon seeing me, our doorman produced a flashlight and used it to escort me to my apartment because the hallway, windowless, was pitch black. Glow sticks lined the edges of the floor and had been hung on each door, but they were losing their luminescence. Things inside the apartment looked pretty normal, to my relief. I put on my headlamp and set about unloading the candles, putting the batteries into the lantern, and tidying up and unpacking while I had daylight remained; all that stuff would be difficult to do in the dark later. My work ethic halted when it came to the fridge, however; it had sat without power for more than three days and I decided I'd had enough for one day.

Venturing through the wilds of the bathroom

I dressed for work and headed out the door. In the lobby of the building, two mail carriers were chatting about how many hours earlier than usual they'd had to get up to make it to work. I was grateful that the efforts of people like them, who were willing to rise early and work late, were slowly but surely restoring the city. I heard later that workers were scrubbing the subway tracks and rails by hand to get the salt off so that the trains could run again; THAT'S dedication. Outside, policemen in bright yellow jackets took the place of working stoplights, not a single store was open for blocks, and the sidewalks were covered with leaves and debris; I guess business owners are responsible for clearing the areas in front of their shops.

I didn't see too much in the way of large pieces of debris, but one huge tree seemed to have simply snapped just above the ground; it was amazing to think that the winds had been strong enough to topple it. Clearly, efforts had been made to trim off the lighter parts of it, but the huge trunk still lay on the sidewalk, wrapped in yellow tape, awaiting removal. I snapped a picture and kept walking and suddenly I was back in the city I know. I'd reached 25th Street where the power had been restored and everything was up and running as though nothing had ever happened. People were drinking coffee in Starbucks and paying cashiers with credit cards at Duane Reade. What a weird transition. I put in a few hours at the office, most of which were spent talking to my co-workers about their storm experiences. Our office manager's trip to our building from his home in Brooklyn had taken him three hours that morning: 90 minutes of standing in line and 90 minutes on a bus standing in for the subway that, without traffic, could have arrived in Manhattan in just 15.


I made arrangements to stop by my friend Jeremy's apartment after I picked up my number from the marathon expo. He lives just blocks from the convention center so I could walk there without having to worry about whether the subway was running or not, and his apartment is far enough north (41st Street) that their power had never been disconnected in the first place. He said they were largely unaffected by the storm, and I glowered. I was soon joined by two other refugees, residents of Chinatown, who were also without power, and we all showered and it was wonderful. Some of Jeremy's roommates showed up with yet another homeless New Yorker; he said he'd been couch surfing for four days and was quite cheerful about his transience. I hung around to watch TV and eat take-out Thai food in a well lit, warm apartment for a few hours, then ventured back to my own place at about 10:30. My cabbie drove carefully through the dark streets. It felt scary, somehow, seeing the familiar streets turning alien without the streetlights and lit restaurants and storefronts. My friend Nick once wrote a poem with a line in it about how there's more to dark than just the absence of light, and I can whole-heartedly agree with him after last night. Beyond spookiness, though, it was downright dangerous to be in some of the outer boroughs without streetlights; stories about muggings and lootings abounded. In Chelsea, though, I had no cause to worry about such things. I was dropped off in front of my building without incident and fired up the headlamp and lantern as soon as I was through the door. I'd gotten in late enough that there was little to do but get into bed, which was fortunate because I'm not sure what else I could have done. The cats settled in around me to keep me warm. I switched off the headlamp and reflected that I couldn't remember when I'd last been in such total darkness. There wasn't even a digital clock to break it. Not conducive to living, but very conducive to sleeping. ConEd had promised to have the whole island connected by Saturday night, and I drifted off to sleep with high hopes that they'd surpass their estimation.