hyphenated - Home

August 25, 2011 10:48 PM

one of these things is not like the others

There was (is?) a segment on Sesame Street with four objects moving around the screen and then falling into a grid pattern. Children would be expected to identify the outlier while a catchy song, something like ♪♫One of these things is not like the others ♩♪ One of these things just doesn't belong, played. My day last Saturday could have been the inspiration for at least two such segments.

The things in the first group would be:

fancy cruiser bike sale
farmers market
an NFL preseason game between the Oakland Raiders and the SF 49ers
an educational documentary about organisms (specifically insects)

The things in the second grouping would be:

a loud girl with attitude wearing booty shorts, heals, and a 49ers jersey
a polite Canadian woman
a scary angry white dude with silver face paint
a gangster wearing a Raiders jersey (who may or may not be armed)

❧❧❧❧❧❧❧❧

When Ed and Adrian initially mentioned the possibility of buying cheap tickets to the game at Candlestick Park later in the afternoon, my first thought was "it'll be freezing". My second thought was "it'll be rough". Then, I thought that going to the game could be fun. I like football. I have a ride. Let's do this.

So I layered up—as one does in August in San Francisco—and got into Adrian's 1992 Honda Civic hatchback with three other Canadians. We were en route for my first ever NFL game... after a stop for tacos, another stop at the Radisson Airport to pick up our tickets, and a very long wait to enter the parking lot. Needless to say, we arrived late. No tailgating for us.

It wasn't until we were in a line to get frisked that I realized that it was not about football.

We found our seats after navigating a crowded corridor surrounded by a posse of girls yelling "OOOAKLAAAND!!" at deafening levels. Initially distracted by the young dudes clad in Niners gear trash-talking a drunk, obnoxious Oakland fan, I finally remembered to look for the score. Scanning the stadium, a huge banner reading "REPORT BAD BEHAVIOR - TEXT 'BAD FAN' TO 555-5555" was more prominent than the scoreboard or any of the advertising. I wondered how bad behavior needed to be to warrant a text. Then a brawl broke out in the stands. Everyone watched as the cops swarmed the area, broke it up, and escorted the culprits away. I put my phone away.

What down is it? Oooh! Field goal! (Yes, Keith, a field goal is 3 points)

Then there was another brawl. A touchdown. Another brawl. A girl falling down the stairs. The guy next to me lighting a cigarette. Another touchdown. We left. A shooting. We witnessed it all except the shooting, which I found out about via a New York Times tweet later that night.

Something didn't belong, and it was me. A geeky white woman blends in at the Battle of the Bay preseason game as well as she would on the set of a Jay-Z music video. Even if that white woman regularly attends hip hop dance classes and considers herself a football fan.

Comments [2]

February 19, 2011 11:37 AM

zen and the art of orchid maintenance

A couple years ago, my mom bought me an orchid for my birthday. The blossoms lasted for several months before they drooped and dropped, one by one, until I was left with a pot of unimpressive waxy green leaves.

A new leaf sprouted. Then the old leaves started turning yellow and fell off. I repotted. I fertilized. I followed all of my father's orchid care instructions (for the record, he is the orchid king). When we moved to San Francisco, my cousin inherited the orchid in its terminal stage. Sierra provided palliative care and the orchid has since died.

Trader Joe's sells orchids for $9.99. I bought one last spring, with the expectation that it would not be a long-lived addition to my collection of house plants. So, once the blooms faded and the moss went mouldy, I didn't invest time and money to fertilize and repot it. I watered it less and moved it closer to the window.

I thought it would be dead when we got home from the holidays but, to my surprise, a new bloom spike had begun to emerge. I didn't get my hopes up for the plant actually re-blooming and I kept ignoring it, watering it minimally.

And now:

(download)

Comments [0]

January 29, 2011 1:18 PM

delinquent

At my one of my previous jobs, failing to submit a timesheet in, ahem, a timely manner would result in receiving an email with the word "delinquent" prominently featured in the subject line. Those emails always made me think of the teenagers that used to loiter, smoking and wearing ripped Canadian tuxedos, around the post office in my hometown. Probably not a surprising link to make seeing as the dictionary definition for delinquent begins with typically of a young person or that person's behavior in parentheses. Also not surprising to anyone that knows me: I was never called a delinquent in high school and I never smoked outside the post office. As to the Canadian tuxedo with holes at the knees...

In any case, if someone was being paid to monitor my submission of blog posts of late, I'd surely have received an email to remind me that I've been delinquent. And, due to my delinquency, I don't know where to start. A few vignettes and a story seem like as good a place as any.

※※※※

'Twas the season: the sound of crisp snow crunching beneath winter-proof boots and cozy socks, the vibrant world simultaneously muted and enhanced by a layer of white frosting, the comfy smell of wood smoke and the warmth of a fire, the satisfaction of pegging to victory in fifteen-twos and thirty-ones, boggle and blokus, chalaza-free homemade eggnog, colourful lights, the bustling crowds in an underground city, fresh bagels, true friends.

※※※※

San Francisco "winter": tuques and tank-tops, shrouded eclipse, sporadic heating from a source much less enjoyable than a woodstove, December showers, exuberant holiday fire purge on the beach, smores and sundaes, coffee roaster tour and tasting, January flowers (and amber foliage), soaking in the sun, dining sans-sleeves on a terrace, hummingbird haven, crystal skies.

※※※※

Willingness to pay

San Francisco is a great place for a staycation in January. Tourist density is low and many locals flock to Tahoe for snow. Consequently, a trip to the Ferry Building on a sunny Saturday doesn't seem like a scene from a claustrophobe's nightmare and Ghirardelli Square doesn't resemble Satan's staging area, featuring cocoa-bearded dwarves screeching with their sticky, grubby claws outstretched. And the cable cars... still cost $5 to ride. No thanks. Besides, the cable cars are over-hyped tourist gimmicks. So, we rode the historic streetcars along less-than-picturesque Market Street and the not-so-scenic #47 down Van Ness on our staycation outing to the Embarcadero and North Beach, with lots of walking in between to avoid Fisherman's Wharf (which is not my idea of pleasurable any time of year).

A week later, I'm invited to a friend's birthday in North Beach. Reviewing the transit options, I conclude that I'm destined to either take a series of buses (that a crow flying would shake its head at in disbelief) or ride the cable cars. I remember that someone told me that the pre-Clipper Muni passes included the cable cars. Some quick searching revealed that the monthly passes on Clipper cards are now also accepted on the cable cars.

Yay! I get to ride the cable cars for essentially free! Suddenly, the cable cars are transformed from frivolous tourist bait to the highlight of my night. Well... maybe that's an exaggeration. The birthday party was at Bimbo's in all its mid-century kitsch and sleaze splendor... is that a naked chick riding a koi rodeo-style on my napkin? Yup. Kétaine au boutte.*

The cable cars proved to be a great way to travel up and down the hills of North Beach on a Saturday evening that concluded a splendid sunny January-summer day in San Francisco. Tourist volumes were low. The streets—unlike the monkey child of a tourist couple hanging from the poles inside the car until the hilarious Chinese conductor encouraged him and his parrot mother, trained to say Noah, to sit outside at the front where they could be seen but not heard by me (or the conductor managing the brakes at the rear of the car)—were calm and serene once the cable car emerged from the retail haven of Union Square. The air was crisp and fresh, occasionally scented by the wonderful aroma of fireplace smoke. The cable car itself was like a moving museum with the ability to transport passengers to the not-so-distant past. San Francisco in all its glory.

* In writing this post, I looked up the word kétaine to make sure I was spelling it correctly. The corresponding Wikipedia article explaining the word's origin was so fantastic, I have to include it here:

C'est probablement dans la région de Saint-Hyacinthe, au cours des années 1940, que le mot « kétaine » prend son origine. À cette époque, il est appliqué aux résidents du marché à foins, surnom donné au quartier pauvre et adjacent au marché à foins de la ville... La [histore] plus répandue suggère que le mot est un dérivé du nom de famille Keaton ou McKeaton, venant d'une famille d'origine irlandaise vivant dans ce quartier et qui aurait eu des goûts vestimentaires et une tenue publique discutables.

The story is that the word originates from the questionable clothing worn by Irish family, with the surname McKeaton or Keaton, that lived in the poor area of Saint-Hyacinthe during the 1940s. Love it.

Comments [0]

October 24, 2010 10:22 PM

events and moments

iPhoto organizes pictures by events for the obvious reason that most pictures are taken to document events. For the most part, the compartmentalization of my photos based on events is appropriate to organize my photos. And then there's the hodgepodge of pictures downloaded from my iPhone whenever I sync it to my Mac.

By definition, these photos can't be classified by event. When there's a scheduled event, I bring a camera. When I'm out and about and want to take a picture of something that randomly catches my eye, I typically don't have a camera. I do, however, have a phone with a camera that's remarkably good at capturing those one-off moments.

First spring flowers. Sun glinting off the waves. Birds on a wire. Latte art. Street art. Street meat. Views from the top of a hill. Double rainbows. Buildings in a certain light. Crisp mornings. Fog. Nesting hummingbirds. Funny signs.

So I have one event labelled "iPhone" that is really an assortment of moments.

The selection of iPhone photos included here doesn't necessarily look like much, but the pictures capture the moments, evoking the feelings that will forever be associated with them. Much like a scrapbook or a patchwork quilt made from old clothes, they chronicle a personal story with content ranging from obvious to obscure.

Seeing as I got an iPhone shortly after moving to SF almost a year ago, these photos are a patchwork of moments that mostly recount the story of my first year here (some are taken while on trips to Vancouver, Montreal, LA, and Hawaii).

(download)

Filed under // Quebec & Montreal San Francisco Vancouver food

Comments [0]

October 16, 2010 5:56 PM

lugging and stoking

Last weekend, we had some friends over to celebrate Canadian Thanksgiving. Actually, based on the menu, it was a Québécois Thanksgiving (aka Action de grâce) feast. Smoked meat sandwiches, poutine (or, as one of our American guests called it, poo-tang), soupe aux pois jaunes, tarte au sucre, and—last but not least—my great-great-grandmother's pumpkin pie. After dinner, while watching Luongo struggle in a not-so-classic NHL shoot-out, the topic of the ice storm came up. You know, THE ice storm.

Anyone living in southwestern Quebec, southeastern Ontario, and upstate New York in January of 1998 knows which ice storm was being referred to. A layer of ice a few centimetres think coated everything, transforming the landscape into a glistening Seussian wonderland until the weight of the ice became a destructive force. Shattering trees and vanquishing power lines, the ice induced a power outage of epic proportions.

Some people at our heart-unhealthy feast had lived through said storm and we started sharing personal stories. In these situations, I know that my story wins. All it takes is one line: I was without power for 28 days. That information alone impresses, but more detail is required to really convey the impacts of the ice storm on a family residing in the so-called Triangle of Darkness.

Living in a 150-year-old farmhouse with a wood-burning stove, complete with cooking surface and oven, was one thing we had going for us. Relying on electricity to pump water from the well and heat it was our Achilles heel and water was at the heart of many of our ice storm woes. We were thankful to have a cistern with a spigot in the basement as a source of non-potable water, but lugging pails around the house and stoking the stove to heat enough water for a bath (if sitting in three centimeters of water and splashing it around constitutes a bath) was a stark contrast to simply turning on the tap. Our faucets went from being useful implements to purely decorative. As an angsty teenager at the time, I bitched about the greasy-hair-causing circumstances we found ourselves in (even though John and Elaine did most of the lugging and stoking).

The ice storm and ensuing outage highlighted the extent that we take water from the faucet for granted. When the lights came back on, I remember feeling relieved and so grateful that I hadn't been alive to inhabit the farmhouse when it was built in the 1800s. The idea of a life where lugging water around in pails and heating it on a wood-burning stove was the default made me shudder. I felt grateful to be living in modern times. And—given that over a billion people around the world don't have access to adequate drinking water—in Canada.

Source: circle of blue

Actually, I should qualify that statement: in Canada but not in an aboriginal community. I lived in an Inuit community in the north when I was a kid. My family would bundle up, travel to a nearby lake via snowmobile, drill a big hole through the thick ice, and bring water home. That's how bad the water from the municipal reservoir was.

Lately, our water in SF has a slightly murky flavour. It runs clear from the tap, but the taste is mildly unpleasant. The reservoirs are probably low. I'm not complaining. Instead, I'm keenly aware that water is not something to take for granted, especially here in California where water flowing to the tap through the dry season is contingent on snow accumulation in the Sierra. With climate change, enough Sierra snow may not be something we can count on indefinitely.

Source: BAWSCA

Comments [2]

August 29, 2010 2:43 PM

keep on flowing

Before I was born, my parents drove across Canada in a VW bus. Based on stories, Vancouver's Chinatown was a highlight of their trip — especially an authentic meal that they ordered by pointing at other people's food because the menu was in Chinese. The souvenirs from their trip, at least those that lingered around the house for decades, included Chinese art. In particular, a bamboo scroll featuring a rural chinese landscape, much like this one, hung in our home and was probably my favorite piece of art in the house.

❧

In one of my first apartments, I covered the bare bulb above my bed with a pretty Chinese paper parasol featuring a pretty image of birds and bamboo. I cut the handle down using a kitchen knife, added an eye bolt, and hung it to diffuse the light. Then, randomly, I ended up with red sheets and a yellow blanket. I also read a slew of books set in Asia at around that time, some of which still count among my favorites (including The Good Earth by Pearl S. Buck and Balzac and the Little Chinese Seamstress by Dai Sijie). And Japanese is one of my favorite cuisines.

❧

I honestly don't know where my attraction to Asian culture originated from. It's not something that I conscientiously cultivated. I maintain that my attraction to Asian culture is coincidental, organic, and unpretentious, despite all the evidence that suggests otherwise. On that note, please ignore that, as I write this post, I'm reminded that the Gmail theme I gravitated towards features cute ninjas (see below), I'm listening to the Yoshida Brothers, and I'm eating an Asian pear.

And those of you that know me well can probably come up with other, even more obvious, evidence. I will undoubtedly argue that it is inconclusive, at best. While I might be an egg, I'll vehemently deny having a serious case of "yellow fever".

❧

Last weekend, we watched the new Karate Kid movie which, notwithstanding the name, is about Kung Fu. The movie rekindled my interest in martial arts films (more evidence against my case) and I subsequently watched Iron Monkey and Enter the Dragon. Watching the latter, Bruce Lee's last film, satisfied my kung fu movie craving, but only served to heighten my interest in Bruce Lee. Oh boy.

An recent email from my brother in-law (in-law? he's my husband's sister's husband... how does that work?) included a link to The Lost Interview, an interview of Bruce Lee by Pierre Berton in 1971.

The interview served to highlight racist American stereotypes as well as Bruce Lee's honesty, poise, and swoon-inducing hotness (which left me wondering if Bruce Lee made American women in the 70s swoon or if deep-seated racism precluded finding him attractive). Watching Enter the Dragon, it's difficult not to be drawn in by Lee's seemingly genuine charisma, which his great body and smile only complement.

And then, a few days ago, a friend posted a link on Facebook to a site, with one page featuring only this:

Beyond his kung fu talents and his screen presence, I think Lee's greatest legacy might be his outlook on life. Researching some of his famous quotes, many of them resonate but I especially liked this one:

❝Life is wide, limitless. There is no border, no frontier.❞

Comments [1]

August 1, 2010 5:04 PM

of barbecues and scarves

❝The coldest winter I ever spent was a summer in San Francisco.❞

Most San Franciscans would attribute this quote to Mark Twain. Apparently, he never said it.

Whoever did say it, the statement is apt. Re-reading the posts I wrote this time last year from sweltering Vancouver, I couldn't fathom wearing shorts and a tank top now or seeking out AC. I've been wearing sandals and shorts on occasion, but usually with a hoodie over my t-shirt and a scarf in stowed in my purse in case the wind picks up (as a result, my feet and hands are two shades darker than the rest of my body). We're sleeping comfortably without a fan and with a comforter. I've wore a light jacket and pants to work most of July. August is here and, based on the long-term forecast, I don't expect much to change with respect to my attire in the coming weeks.

We've been to two barbecues this summer. At one, in June, I wore a coat that I considered a winter jacket in Vancouver. I made use of the fur-rimmed hood while eating corn on the cob and the jacket reeked of charcoal smoke for weeks because we spent most of the barbecue huddled around the grill for warmth. Yesterday's barbecue was better but—despite wearing jeans, three layers (including a long-sleeved shirt and a sweaters), and close-toed shoes with socks—I was chilly when the sun ducked into the fog.

My friends and family in Canada supply incredulous remarks when I describe the high temperatures here (which are lower than the lows in their localities). Yes, I live in California—the cold, foggy part. San Francisco is considered to lie in northern California. This is not LA. On the plus side, we live in one of the sunniest neighbourhoods, largely protected by the fog by Twin Peaks. I'm very happy not to be living on the other side of the hill.

At least it never rains. I don't think I've used my umbrella since May.

Filed under // San Francisco

Comments [1]

July 14, 2010 9:06 PM

smile and nod until you get it

"Oh, how you've grown!"

One phrase. So many awkward memories. Standing there, hoping that a cheek-pinch isn't impending, smiling and nodding. Trying to figure out if there's an appropriate response to the obvious statement and deciding that telling your distant elderly relative that one typically does grow between the ages of 12 and 16 is probably rude. Continuing to smile and nod, like an idiot. Hoping that the topic of your diapers being changed what feels like just yesterday doesn't come up. Being polite until something serves as a distraction to the fact that, yes, you've grown and that, wow, you're already in grade 10. Never being so happy to change the topic of conversation to how absolutely divine the aspic looks. And you smile and you nod because you don't understand how meat suspended in green jelly can be delightful.

And then you get it (the part before the aspic, at least). One day, over a decade later, you're perusing Facebook and come across the profile of your friend's younger sibling that you haven't seen since they were thirteen. Or, in talking with your parents, you realize that the kid you used to babysit is graduating from high school. Wow, they've grown up. They look so mature. It doesn't seem so long ago that you were changing her diaper or preventing her from climbing to the top of the pantry to get access to the cookies or allowing him to sleep at the foot of the bed during your sleepover.

Why do we find this to be such a shocker? I doubt that a koala has to pause for reflection when the joey emerges from the pouch to contemplate how, only six months ago, the furry baby was a mere quarter-inch long, hairless, and blind. Who knows, maybe they do, for a split second, before realizing that eating more eucalyptus is probably a better use of time.

Yup, time passes and people grow up. We all do. But we don't seem to acknowledge that we're growing up in the moment. When you're a kid, as Seinfeld humorously observed when his standup was actually relevant, everything is "up". As teenagers, we're too busy trying to get it over with that we don't take the time to savour the moment (I doubt that many 16-year-olds would consider that there's much worth savouring). When I was in high school, the focus was the future. Saving money for post-secondary education. Keeping grades up and participating in extracurriculars so that they'd accept my money. Sure, there were typical teenage diversions but, for the most part, these were mainly an effort to combat the boredom that is the source of most teenage angst, along with the feeling that everything fun and free and engaging is beyond ones reach. Being so eager for time to pass, it's hard to live in the moment.

And then, for reasons I have yet to comprehend, just as things get interesting, time speeds up. All of a sudden you're living in a future that seemed oh so distant no that long ago. And one of the few things that makes you stop to reflect is being forced to acknowledge it by the things around you that have changed. Of these things, people growing up is probably the most jolting and least easy to ignore. Combined with the memories that are brought back into focus, you are provided an opportunity to relive them without begrudging them.

The one typical phrase omitted from the interaction outlined at the start is the elderly person reflecting on what she was doing when she was your age. As the younger person it's easy to be cynical, assuming that the older relative thinks that you must share things in common besides DNA because you were once the same age or that they're trying to convince you that life was either more difficult (walking to school, uphill both ways) or more virtuous (none of that hanky-panky) or both back in 1935. Instead, at mere the sight of you, the older person might be just be jarred into reviving their younger years—vicariously with a dash of nostalgia. And you smile. And you nod. Until you get it.

Comments [0]

July 11, 2010 11:51 AM

some parts of the future are friendly (especially the @Zappos part)

There are a few things I don't particularly enjoy shopping for. Swimsuits and footwear are two of them. While I haven't found a viable alternative to layering spandex over my undergarments while standings sock-footed in a change room seemingly designed with the goal of offering the most unflattering ambiance, shoe shopping has gotten quite a bit more enjoyable since I started buying online.

When Kevin first told me about Zappos, I wasn't convinced. If shoe shopping is so hit-or-miss in person, how could it be better when you can't even try things on? At least in the U.S., Zappos has addressed this concern with their policy of taking back any purchase at no cost to the consumer within 365 days. At first glance, this seems like a loosing proposition. When I go shoe shopping, I invariably try on at least 10 pairs of shoes for each pair that I buy. Different styles, different sizes (by the way, what's the point of a sizing system if each brand decides to re-invent it slightly?). So, when I first ordered from Zappos last fall, I was fully expecting to send my footwear back.

My first Zappos order was a pair of boots. After spending the better part of a day last October on Sainte-Catherine's Street in Montreal and several boot quests along Robson in Vancouver, perusing over fifteen shoe stores and trying on several pairs of boots, I came to the conclusion that boot manufacturers have something against me. Specifically, my calves. Of the boots that actually zipped up over my rotund (there is no nice way of saying "fat", is there?) lower legs, I split the zipper on one pair and came to the conclusion that I only liked the other pair because I was excited that they zipped and that the zipper was strong enough to contain my corpulent (still trying to find a favorable synonym, still unsuccessful) calves. So I gave up on boot shopping.

Then I moved to SF and started browsing Zappos. I came across a cute pair of Teva boots that were the style I was looking for (functional without being backwoodsy):

The question remained: would they fit my tree-trunk (yup, I've given up) legs? And this is where Zappos won me over—they provide quantitative data beyond size:

Based on the circumference information and trying to extrapolate from the size 6 baseline to my size 10 (another reason why shoe shopping is not my favorite activity), I broke out a measuring tape and concluded that these boots actually might fit. And if they didn't, I could just send them back. After reading all the positive customer reviews and the added data about fit provided by fellow shoppers, I placed an order.

They arrived and I opened the box with low expectations based on historical boot-shopping experiences. I put my foot in. Good fit. I started zipping. Good. Still good. OMG, the zipper made it to the top of the boot! OMG, I don't feel like circulation in my leg is being restricted. OMG, they fit!

I put the other boot on and walked (and did a happy dance) around the apartment. But, after other experiences of shoes being comfortable for all of 10 minutes before transforming into devices of torture, I decided to wear them inside for a few hours before making the final decision to keep them (another Zappos advantage over the traditional competition—the pushy sales people and toxic smell of pleather at most shoe stores incentivizes me to get out of the store with a new pair despite relying on only a brief tour of the retail space as the comfort test drive).

So, my experience with Zappos was positive even before I witnessed the customer service prowess the company is supposedly built on. When I tweeted about my new boots, I got a reply:

When Zappos invited me to submit a review, I did. Although I rarely ever review my online purchases, I wanted to in this case because Zappos offered me such a refreshing alternative to shoe shopping.

I just placed another order through Zappos yesterday, this time for shoes:

There was less data to go on for this purchase because there was only 1 customer review. But, since I can always return them and because I've done a bit of in-store shoe shopping lately and like this pair more than anything I've seen in stores and because I've had good luck with Clarks in the past, I bought them.

I got an email from Zappos this morning and now I'm wondering if I'll ever buy shoes anywhere else again:

Comments [1]

July 5, 2010 9:52 PM

the land of the free(way)

My mother was hoping that I'd write a blog post about the recent G20 in Toronto, but I don't feel that I'm in the best position to do so. Not living in Canada right now, I feel removed from the whole debacle. I don't think that it got as much media coverage here. That said, I get most of my news from the Daily Show and Q so I can't say for sure. While Jon Stewart covered the G20, I don't think his comedic perspective can aid me in formulating an insightful blog post:

The Daily Show With Jon Stewart

Mon - Thurs 11p / 10c

OMG-20

www.thedailyshow.com

Jian Ghomeshi's Q monologue about the event seems more fitting, even though he doesn't address the police response to peaceful protestors (the piece was recorded at the CBC building inside the G20 security perimeter in advance of the summit). I'll include Jian's take here because I think he articulated the issues intelligently and veraciously:

http://www.cbc.ca/video/news/audioplayer.html?clipid=1530106693

I'll say amen to Jian's remarks... that's it from me on the G20 front.

In other, less worldly, news, Kevin and I just returned from a long weekend in LA. The main activity of the trip was driving. People aren't joking when they say that you need a car to get around LA. While most of our time was spent driving along the scenic 101 highway from cool and foggy NoCal to warm and sunny SoCal and back, we did find ourselves navigating LA's web of freeways to do some sightseeing and find fish tacos (thank you, Twitter).

Yesterday, Independence Day, I contemplated the etymology of the word freeway as we sped from Long Beach to Beverly Hills. Was coining the word freeway some genius way of rebranding confining networks of concrete as roads to freedom? The paths to the American dream? The word freeway sounds positive, and might make one temporarily forget about the gridlock, urban decay, displacement, and alienation created by the watersheds of the concrete jungle.

According to Wikipedia, the concept of free is inherent in the origins of the word, albeit in a manner different than I had speculated:

The word freeway was coined by the "Father of American Zoning," Edward M. Bassett, in an influential article published in February 1930. Bassett argued that roads should be classified into three basic types: highways, parkways, and freeways. In Bassett's zoning and property law-based system (he was a Columbia-trained lawyer), abutting property owners have the rights of light, air, and access to highways, but not parkways and freeways; the latter two are distinguished in that the purpose of a parkway is recreation, while the purpose of a freeway is movement. Thus, as originally conceived, a freeway is simply a strip of public land devoted to movement to which abutting property owners do not have rights of light, air, or access.

If Bassett had predicted the lack of movement that is rush hour gridlock, I think he might have chosen a different name.

Comments [0]

Tags

Blogroll