The U.S.S. New York has been docked on the Hudson River for the past several days, having been commissioned on Nov. 7 after arriving from New Orleans.  Today was the last day for public visitation as she leaves the dock tomorrow for duty.  Luckily my exams eased up just enough this morning for me to go explore this historic ship.

The sizable crowd – teens stopping by with their skateboards tucked under their arms, an array of veterans from all branches and all conflicts, tourists who stood in line simply because there was a line and not knowing what the line was for, businessmen who managed to take an afternoon off despite complaining that “corporate America doesn’t celebrate this holiday,” lifelong New Yorkers who gasped when they glimpsed the bow of resurrected WTC steel, middle schoolers on a class assignment for extra credit, and children exclaiming “Look! A soldier!”

Maybe because it was Veterans Day…or this ship herself evoked compassion and memories of togetherness and service…or maybe it was the sense of transparency around this military marvel open to the public…or the prowess exemplified by the behemoth…or the opportunity to climb inside amphibious assault vehicles and hoist bazookas.

Whatever “it” was, it was undeniably a boon to the military’s public image.  I overheard 3 conversations in the hour that I was aboard about enlisting – 2 were teenagers speaking with the Marines scattered throughout the ship (one being told to wait 2 years until he was old enough) and the third was a child asking her father, very much a civilian, if she could be a soldier when she grows up.

I listened with baited breath for the father’s answer, certain that he would caution her against it dismissively.  He took a moment, surveyed the tanks and assault weapons around the deck, pausing to look a Marine in the eye, nodding slightly.  And then he answered.  “Yes, of course.  I would be so proud of you.”

Thank you to all of our men and women in the military on this Veterans Day.  The U.S.S. New York is a functioning reminder of all you do.

No, I didn’t join the US Air Force, but I did get to spend a day as a copilot of a Piper Twin Comanche.  We flew from just north of New York City to Houston for the AMA convention. (Oh and btw health care reform…yay.  I guess I should talk about that at some point…)

I had never flown a plane before, nor had I ever really had it on my list of things to do.  It was on a whim (and with blind trust) that I squeezed into that tiny plane for a 9 hour trip last Wednesday.  And strapped myself in, triple-checking that the door was secured.

Of course I brought my camera, but it’s a little difficult to take clear pictures through the windows of a plane as you’re moving at 165 nmph and climbing to 8600 ft.  So I understand why the Air Force One and the Statue of Liberty pictures were pretty terrible.

Minus the takeoff and landing, flying is remarkably simple.  It was completely different from what I had expected.  I felt like it was a video game, with GPS and computers doing the difficult work and all I had to do was nudge the controls back and forth every so often to line up the red line with the blue line on the screen and make sure the wings were level with the horizon.  That’s it.  Of course I played around a bit and maneuvered some deep turns to see how that worked…but stopped after the Washington DC area air traffic controllers warned us that we should stay on course while we were in restricted air space.

Most of the flight we spent on autopilot.  I took a nap, the pilot finished the New York Times crossword.  It’s not so hard to understand how being on a laptop could distract you enough to miss your destination.  But it was a little more difficult to see how the skies could function without the air traffic controllers.  We were in constant contact with them, reporting our existence as we entered one airspace and saying goodbye as we exited, affirming when we had a visual on a plane off to our right and climbing when they gauged we were in another plane’s path.

Being in a small plane, we were buffeted by the upward winds and rain showers as we coasted over Appalachia.  The barriers that come with commercial flights were removed as we had nearly 360-degree views and were essentially part of the sky, with a lot more turbulence.  Commercial flying – being sealed into a tube and shot across the country – had jaded me and I had lost the wonder and amazement of the feat of flying… but this time I found myself imagining if this was what the Wright brothers had felt, if this is why Lindbergh and Earhart dared what they did.

As we flew into the sunset during our approach into Houston, red rays of light washed over us in the cockpit.  I felt a little like Tom Cruise in Top Gun, coming out of the mission successfully.

World Series edition.  The Fall Classic.  Because the Yankees rock, and I love baseball.

Yesterday’s winner Cliff Lee was unfazed by NYC traffic and hopped into the subway to get to Yankee Stadium.  He probably took the C train to the D, neither of which get the fancy technology that the Hipster Express does.

ARod, who has finally not choked in the postseason for the Yanks (though he hasn’t been stellar in either game of this series yet), is a philanthropist in my/his old neighborhood of Washington Heights.  Maybe money can solve some other problems en mi barrio?

The series now takes the show to Philly.  It makes leaving the Bronx look easy.  If they return to Yankee Stadium for game 6, fans might be surprised if the overpriced bottles of water just got a little more expensive.

As the batters scout the stats of pitchers Andy Pettite and Cole Hamels for Saturday’s game, those statisticians are probably feeling pretty good about the economy.

I’m hoping for championship number 27 this season…and maybe this dynasty will get to keep the castle (another Red Gym lookalike).

And, oh, did I mention that I can see Yankee Stadium from my window?  I’m calling it my box seat.

I saw my first real patient today.  I mean, I’ve been in the room with patients before, shadowing the physician and taking patient histories.  But this afternoon, I had the amazing privilege of being (somewhat) unsupervised with a patient in the hospital, interviewing her and doing a complete physical exam.  It’s days like these that make me love medical school, make me excited about my future.  And make me want to study.

Though this isn’t the incentive I’m looking for for education.

I would say more, but I don’t want to be expelled.  Though I have one less reason to be expelled now, as I don’t have to get the flu vaccine.

One question we ask that is always entertaining/awkward is about bowel movements.  If you really like going to the bathroom, Charmin is hiring.

So says President Obama in a video message that has taken the Desi community by storm, engendering warm feelings amidst genuine surprise that this huge Indian/Hindu holiday was actually recognized by an American president.

Diwali is a time of religiosity and celebration of the new year (lunar calendar), a time spent with family and deliciously fattening foods.  I went home to be with relatives for the weekend and tagged along to the temple on New Year’s Day.  It was such a comical experience that I simply have to share.

It’s been a while since I’ve been to temple, and, just like churches are packed by once-a-year-attendees on Easter and synagogues during the High Holidays, the temple was inundated by thousands of people.  Granted, it was in New Jersey, but I was still astounded by the long line of cars, people parking a mile away and walking in 3-inch heels and saris through the mud, the shuttle bus from off-site parking lots, and the pressured flow of worshippers trying to enter and exit the temple through the same set of double doors.

You walk in and are funneled by gender to different halves of the lobby for the shoe check.  Yes, not a coat check, but a shoe check, as shodden feet are taboo in Hindu temples.  When we arrived, the shoe check was still sustainably organized, with tickets and quick service, but it rapidly devolved into chaos as the volunteers were hit by the impatient crowd.  Someone had the bright idea of giving everyone plastic bags and having them carry their own shoes around.  Tickets were ignored and people broke through the barriers to stream into the shoe tent to search for their own shoes…and if they didn’t find them quickly enough, they took someone else’s.  Thievery at the temple…classy.

Inside the temple wasn’t any calmer, with shoving and jostling to see the tiny idol at the front and to get in line to do a quick puja.  Kids were pulled from their parents’ side by the relentless riptide of people, and every 2 minutes there was another overhead announcement along the lines of “Manish Patel’s son is at the front and he is crying.  Some one *please* find Manish Patel!”

I felt like I was walking into Willy Wonka’s 1960s acid trip, with festive colors from clothing clashing with a loop of religious chanting, in a room with a toy train chugging through a candyland that could probably induce diabetes simply by looking at it.

And then you see the food.  Oh, the food.

(photo credit – JS)

All of those plates were offerings from worshippers to feed the Gods on this happy new year.  1940 different food items, terraced in elaborate arrangements, a mountain obscuring the very idol that was receiving it.  I found myself flabbergasted by the obscene amount of food, enthralled by the variety (from “chimy changas” to kaju katri).  So much so that it was impossible to actually pause and pray.

It didn’t help that you were corralled into cattle-chutes to file past the idol, forcibly encouraged by volunteers moving you along, saying “keep walking while you’re praying, keep it moving.”  But don’t worry if you didn’t get to see the idol you were supposedly worshipping — they had it up on closed-circuit TV!

As you left the main prayer room and entered the lobby again, you were greeted by enough food stands to make the state fair jealous, with vendors hawking such discordant items as mango lassi and frozen pizza.

Even though I chuckled when I saw this ridiculousness bordering on excess, I was warmed by the motivations behind it all.  People were sharing their good fortune with their community, as all the food offerings would later be served free to whomever wanted to eat.  People were happy, they were celebrating.  Nevermind if God didn’t factor prominently into this event at the temple…there was family, and that’s enough for me.

All those fun facts about UW-Madison that I learned while I was a campus tour guide finally came in handy post-graduation.  2 other young alumni and I volunteered last night to run the UW table at a high school career fair in Brooklyn.

Having young alumni represent the school was, from what I could see, a novelty at that fair, with almost all the tables run by paid staff members who may or may not have been alumni of their respective schools.  And the kids were drawn to us – we were closer to their stage in life, we were more energetic, more passionate, and knew better what was relevant to students today.  It was astounding how many students and parents we spoke with who walked up to our table never having heard of UW-Madison and then walked away already planning their applications.

As I flipped through the admissions material (viewbook, website, Parent Program, etc.), I was pleasantly surprised at how much the materials have changed in 2 years.  It’s evident that the admissions office is at least starting to focus on actually recruiting high-achievers and recruiting students in general, selling UW-Madison as a top-notch school and emphasizing the breadth and potentially uniqueness of the Wisconsin Experience.

The kids we met last night were New Yorkers and east coasters, but they by no means fit the definition of Coastie embraced by this odd song.  (Honestly, no coastie I’ve met here fits the Sconnie definition of Coastie.  Sure there is self-selection towards the private dorms on Langdon and State St (almost all of the incoming freshman I met at the sendoff last August were going to live in Towers or Statesider), but the caricature of the Coastie of course isn’t generalizable.)

By far the most frequent question we got from the highschoolers was “How much does it cost?”  Followed often by an “Oh, that’s not so bad.”  Even for out-of-state students, the price tag for UW-Madison is a great value.  And there are some exciting scholarships for talented and/or underrepresented students, like one celebrating the poetry program, funded by the New York Knicks, offering full scholarships to Madison.

Other frequent questions were “Is it fun?,” “How’s the pre-med program?,” “What test scores do I need to get in?,” and so on.  They were all questions that I learned how to answer from my work as a tour guide.  So what about other former campus tour guides in other cities?  Can the Wisconsin Alumni Association partner with the Office of Admissions and whatever they’re calling Visitor and Information Programs nowadays to mobilize this army of passionate trivia troves?  It’s a tiny time commitment (one evening of a couple hours) and potentially high-yield for the university.

Especially for attracting high-achieving out-of-state students who may be able to relate more to someone from their area.  Or for helping underrepresented students make a positive connection to the UW-Madison community.  And of course allowing alumni to connect with future generations of Badgers, sharing our fond memories and encouraging them to come form their own.

I for one can’t wait to volunteer at another career fair.  On, Wisconsin!

Every day I look out of my window and see this neo-Gothic granite tower, but it was a friend’s question of “What’s that?” and my lack of an answer that prompted me to take a walk.  Well, not exactly prompted, as it has been a couple months since I was first intrigued by the stalwart tower’s mystery…but I wanted to wait until the tower’s doors were thrown open for the Open House New York program.

The High Bridge water tower, on the National Register of Historic Places, was an integral part of the old Croton aqueduct that brought clean water into Manhattan and rid New York City of massive cholera epidemics (civil engineering designed for the public’s health…brilliant!).

The vertigo-inducing climb rewarded me with panoramic views of my little corner of Manhattan, serene images and plentiful greenery that provided an escape from the city.  (And a view back to my place…)

The High Bridge (not the Brooklyn Bridge, as I had previously thought) is NYC’s oldest bridge between boroughs, connecting Manhattan and the Bronx.  According to the Urban Park Ranger I spoke with, it used to be a promenade when it was a functioning aqueduct, attractive to the well-to-do because of the beauty of the Harlem river and the views of the city growing in the distance.

The water tower itself was restored just a few years ago after a fire devastated the roof, and the High Bridge will finish renovations in the next couple years, providing a purely pedestrian and bicycle path between Washington Heights and the Bronx.  So we can party like it’s 1899.

Passerby 1:  “Tibet?  What country is that in?”

Passerby 2, confidently:  “Mongolia.”

Tibetan culture parade, shoved to the side of the street by capitalism.  Yes, this is a metaphor.

Yes, yes, that must be why they chose such a pretentiously indie name — Portugal. The Man is, in fact, The Man! The Alaskan fourpiece’s show at the Majestic Theatre Thursday night was insistent, pulling you into each and every quirky yet still-rocking guitar riff, folksy moment, keyboard drone, or churning jam. And when the drums revved up and led the band into a full-on, rib-rattling charge, when the bass player leaned back so far his head seemed to knock time on his high-top heels, why, then it was pure rock euphoria!

But this euphoria was over too quickly, about an hour and 15 minutes to be exact, encore included. It wasn’t for lack of love from the audience, who immediately ushered the band out for two more songs and would have gladly had them back for more.

Is the Majestic capping its headliners at 75 minutes!? This is, after all, the second unusually short set in two weeks, an unlucky trend that began with Trail of Dead at the Majestic on Sept. 26.

Call me old-school, but I expect at least an hour-and-a-half of music when I pay for a show, unless it’s some underfed white kids playing hardcore at Usain Bolt hundred-meter pace. What is the meaning of a 75-minute show in a day and age when feature films often run twice that long?

According to my roommate, who saw Portugal again in Milwaukee last night, their set stayed about the same, so this length may just be consistent for this tour.

Nonetheless, Portugal rocked the staid masses Thursday night. My only advice would be to singer/guitarist Jason Baldwin Gourley, who needs to step up and become the stage-swaggering frontman his soulful, fluttering voice demands. His sideways hunching at the mic and back-to-the-audience jamming was only endearing for a song or two; then it seemed to raise the awkward question of social anxiety. Look at Jim Morrison — he didn’t get big until he turned to face his audience. Of course, then he took it a bit too far with the indecent exposure bit, but in rock ‘n’ roll, you have to forget “less is more” — more is more.