My lunchbox hero today

Seth Godin's blog--the sethgodin.typepad.com edition, anyway--is one that I don't miss, despite the fact that I don't (yet) own a company. Other than his concept of permission-based marketing, nothing in particular tends to stick with me day to day. It's the kind of writing that gently infiltrates the mind like a gentle rain. (Rather like Marcus Aurelius' Meditations)

This post from over the weekend, however, is an exception. Godin, in his writing, comes off as a truly gentle soul, but you sense the righteous anger of someone who sees his values violated every time he has to fly.

I have to second--"second" as in waving a cigarette lighter in the air and hollering "Woooo! Preach it, brother!"-- that, given that not only do I voluntarily subsidize lowest common denominator thinking whenever I purchase a ticket, but that I am involuntarily complicit by dint of having taxable income.

So, go read Random Travel Thoughts. Well worth your time in the coin of thought-fodder.

Torturing myself

Sigh... Carnevale kicks off on Friday. So I'm auto-tormenting with daydream collages borrowed from Guardi, Caneletto, the Comedia della Arte, etc., etc. With mental images of strolling, garbed in a masked motley of color, among the Piazzas and Piazzettas. With the fantasy of escape into anonymity--flotsam on the froth of revelry, calling for "madder musing and stronger wine," flinging "roses, roses, riotously with the throng." That sort of thing.

[Insert wistful sigh.]

But the best that I will manage this year is a round or two of bellinis (another recipe here) with dinner on Friday. And maybe finish up the Venetian costume history book that was an extravagant birthday present from Dearest.

Back from across The Pond

Dearest and I are back from the UK today, the longest vacation that either of us have ever taken, either together or separately. We're pretty much on the same wavelength for the post-mortem: We're glad that we did it--finally setting foot off our native continent--but the investment of time and money (and no small amount of frustration/annoyance) was not profitable. Speaking purely for myself, I'd be ten times as recharged if I had spent 18 days at home, reading and puttering.

But like all my learning, the education comes the hard way. Which, on the upside, means that the lesson is absorbed. I can forget my squeamishness about being the "ugly American," at least in the UK. With a few (very!) notable exceptions, the Brits I met were no better-mannered than the stereotypical East Coast denizen. Understand that part of that perception is merely my natural reaction to the cattle-market culture of any metropolis. I was raised in small Midwestern cities, and their ethos of humility and politeness somehow managed to make an lasting mark on the opinionated, self-centered little monster that I was--and still can be.

My impression of London is that it could be any metropolis...just with some nifty old stuff tucked here and there. Actually, though, if you want "Merrie Olde England", York is a much better place for that. Evensong at York Minster literally made me weep for its beauty. And, two days later, having a quiet cider by a crackling fire in a building that had been built circa 1417 CE (but had been a pub only since the 1700s, you understand) was pretty mind-blowing, at least for someone who prizes recorded history. Like this History Nerd, for instance.