The Foibles of Capitalism in Transportation: Is Big Better?

 

foibles - noun - minor weaknesses, slight flaws (Dictionary.com)

When I think of capitalism, the first thing that comes into my mind is BIG. You know, big business, big money, big players, big buildings, big profit, Mr. Big... Stop me, please! For whatever reason (okay, fine, it has to do with money and perhaps sex), Americans have always associated BIG with BETTER. 

Yet capitalism has its foibles. When it comes to the transportation industry, is big really better? I think not. 

Cars. During the gas crisis of the 1970s (does anyone remember it?), auto manufacturers were bent on designing smaller cars with smaller gas tanks. Gas mileage, something that never mattered previously, started to occupy consumers' minds. Even today, buyers of SUVs, to me, the most pathetic, mostly mammoth vehicles on the road, want to know approximately how much they will spend at the gas station unless, of course, they go electric. I think I already complained about the mini-monstrosities squeezing into the COMPACT spaces at Trader Joe's, so I won't belabor the point. I still argue that small has an advantage, particularly in cities like L.A. and New York where you have to swerve in and out of larger vehicles to get anywhere fast. Those who own Austin Mini Coopers tend to have the right idea. Small is sensible. Maybe not terribly safe, but sensible.

Ships. They are supposed to be big. Right? Okay, sure, but you in this realm of transportation have to know your limitations. I was just one of 7,000 on the Sun Princess cruise ship. Insane. It had the same population as 14 blocks in New York City but on a barge instead. There is nothing worse than trying to negotiate crowds on a luxury ship that you paid the giant bucks to be on. There is nothing remotely intimate or calming about waiting on long lines to eat dinner or trying to suck in your newly surfeited gut in order to fit onto an elevator packed with people. The ship was so big that when it was moving I didn't even feel like it was. I like to experience instability in my legs when I go from seafaring vessels to dry land. I see it as a feeling of accomplishment in a sense. After disembarking this ship, my legs were just fine. Most of my friends who spend time cruising all seem to agree that big isn't better when it comes to ships. 

Jets. I was just on an American Airlines Boeing 787-9 two weeks ago. There were so many crammed onto the over-sold, wide-body plane that no one other than the elite few who paid thousands for the more humane seats at the front was comfortable. I, who weighs 118 on a good day, was squeezed in between two large people (200+ pounds a piece), a man in front of me and a woman in back of me in Economy. When the man in front of me tilted back his seat, the headrest was just about in my chest. So when I retaliated and reclined my seat, the woman behind me complained that what I did was unconscionable. I told the flight attendant that all the passenger needed to do was incline her seat. (It is amazing how few people have common sense.) The server understood the transaction as a domino effect, and indeed, it was. Why didn't the passenger? I have no idea. What's the point? You would think in this case, big would be better. More space, more comfort. But the airlines jam as many seats as possible into these models that big belies bouncy or any other positive adjective you can think of to fit into that alliterative phrase. 

Trains. If you have ever seen The Beatles in A Hard Day's Night, you might recall the scenes on British Railways. Although the cars on the train weren't especially big, they were comfortable, downright romantic as only six at a time could be seated in one compartment. The enclosed design was meant for a certain amount of privacy. As there were a limited amount of these cars making up the train itself, fewer passengers could ride. I was lucky enough to travel throughout Europe on similar trains back in 1979. Again, as profits are paramount, these cars were renovated (in the late 80s?) to resemble the interior of planes, allowing for twice as many passengers (big receipts) but ignoring basic human needs, like contentment and well-being. Additional cars were added. The same thing happened in the U.S. Is more merrier? Not in this case.

I'm not going to go into trucks as I have little experience with them, but the same argument would apply. (Have you ever tried to pass a rig dragging three trailers? I rest my case.) By now, you have gotten the idea. Although I haven't drunk the Kool-Aid and committed to socialism, capitalism clearly has its foibles. Maybe U.S. transportation companies can start contemplating quality of life over pure profit? Wouldn't that be nice? 

#transportation, #capitalism, #big, #blog, #blogger, #personal essay

Has Italy Lost Its Flavor?

 

il gusto - noun (Italian) - taste, flavor, gusto, relish (specific).

il sapore - noun (Italian) - flavor, gusto, taste, spice, relish, gusto (general). (Italy Explained)

I'm not Italian, but I do have cousins who are half Italian as well as close friends who are a hundred percent Italian. As I'm a fortunate one, I've visited Italy four times over four decades: the '70s, the '80s, the mid-2000s, and just last week. Based on empirical data, I can say that the country has changed a great deal in fifty years. Although not all of its colorful, delectable flavors have changed, it has lost a bit of both il gusto and il sapore.

First off, there is il gusto, highly specific, literal tastes one can experience. Before I mention what has changed, I will mention what has not. Gelato. If you aren't lactose intolerant, most likely you have tasted it. In short, it is a creamy, dairy delight presented in a cone or a cup. Heavenly ice cream for the taste buds to enjoy at a relatively affordable price. It can be bought here in the U.S., but the best is in Italy, and it is ubiquitous there. Seriously, the competition is so fierce in touristy areas that I don't know how some of the smaller, modest shops manage to pay their rent. I'm sure they pray to Italy's own St. Homobonus, the patron saint of commerce, incessantly during the peak traveling season, which has spread into the fall months. Because I have a weakness for anything pistachio, I treated myself to a generous cone in both Genoa and Vernazza (Cinque Terre). Both were divinely scrumptious–what I had traveled nearly 8,000 miles to experience. (Also, the pesto and pasta were to die for!) On the other hand, some of the other Italian staples, such as the pizza, lost a bit of flavor. Yet as a native of New Jersey, I might be biased. N.J. boasts 5,000 Italian restaurants, most of which have awesome pizza. I will say that pizza is, in fact, Italian bread, so perhaps it is not as important in Italy as it seems to be in the States? I have no idea.

Secondly, in terms of il sapora, what came as a disappointment to me was the Italian people. The first time I had visited the country was back in 1979 while on a concert tour with my university's chorale. As a young person (20), I noticed superficial things, such as the fact that my Italian peers were strikingly beautiful to the eye. They were so stunning that they could have been torn right out of the pages of Vogue. Two weeks ago while in Genoa, I made sure I took a good look around just for reasons of comparison. I didn't see one severely attractive young person. I tried to find one. I honestly did. I didn't. It's not as though they were ugly. They weren't. They just were no longer modelicious. I suppose the American grunge influence in terms of fashion might have been partially responsible? 

Another disappointment (albeit some won't agree with me on this one) was that the Italian men no longer seem to have a penchant for women, either attractive or unattractive. If you have ever seen the movie Under the Tuscan Sun (2003), you might recall that Diane Lane's character Francesca encounters aggressive Italian men who follow her through quaint alleyways of an Italian village until she can latch onto an innocent bystander, a male stranger with whom she winds up romantically involved. In 1979, as well as in 1981, I was pretty much Francesca, except more so. I can recall assorted Italian men chasing me down the Spanish Steps in Rome, surrounded by an audible chorus of "Belle, belle, Americano!" Okay, it was a bit much, but I felt appreciated, celebrated, seen. 

On the flip side, while I was just in Genoa, I saw that the contemporary Italian men were so preoccupied with their phones or whatever was on their minds that they weren't even noticing the women around them. They were completely detached. How this happened, I don't know. Thinking it must have had something to do with the Me, Too Movement in the U.S., I did the research. According to NPR, the movement was "muted and polarized" in Italy, dismissed as "American puritanism." Well, if that was the case, why have the men lost their sexual gusto? Don't ask me. Could it be that the unofficial movement, Me, Just Me, Only Me, has been more impactful? In any case, I felt invisible there, but I guess that given today's world and its complicating factors, it might have been a good thing. 

I will say that what hasn't lost its relish at all is the Italian scenery. The generous helpings of natural beauty, architectural antiquity, and vast history are still very much stimulating, a feast to be held while moving on foot, on a train, in a bus, on a ship, or in a car. Hopefully, they will always be omnipresent exactly as they are so that future generations can behold and appreciate them. 

Alla prossima!

#travel, #Italy, #Italians, #personal essay, #blog, #blogger

Heeding the Signs: Actual and Intuitive

intuitive - adjective - knowing or understanding something right away through feelings or natural instincts without needing facts, proof, or conscious reasoning (Cambridge Dictionary)

The older I get, the more I get it. This life is composed of patterns: figurative, repetitive road maps that we either understand and follow or ignore out of ignorance, the inability to open our eyes wide enough to comprehend what stands before us. God or the Universe–whatever force we believe is hovering above us–shares with us metaphorical, enigmatic, ambiguous placards (not always discernible) that we can attempt to interpret using our intuitive powers. Some of us are just more tuned into them than others because, after all, we do not all trust our feelings or natural instincts until it is often too late. No matter what, if we are aware of them, we need to heed the signs, actual and intuitive. 

I have to admit that for the most part, my intuition is spot on. For example, right before the pandemic, I read the writing on the wall that intimated that something unprecedented was heading our way. I was teaching high-school English at the time and was contemplating whether or not I should retire sans my full pension or instruct another few years in order to qualify for the maximum benefit. For whatever reason that school year (2018-2019), I kept encountering one negative harbinger after the other in secession, what I intuited as a signpost, a.k.a. the Get-Out-of-Dodge-A.S.A.P. bumper sticker. The last was actually a fortuitous billboard: I would be able to collect my deceased ex-husband's social security so that I would have enough to pay for my monthly health benefits until I qualified for Medicare. Taking every clue into consideration, I retired the June before COVID struck the following March. Whew! By paying attention to the indicators, I saved myself a lot of stress and agony as an educator who would have had to manage teaching almost one hundred students a day via Zoom, a most miserable fate according to my colleagues who had to endure the uncharted, technological territory. I could not help but wonder, though: If they had been similarly forewarned, would they have noticed? 

But like everyone else, sometimes I disregard blatant signs and get myself into trouble. For instance, last Saturday, Bond and I took a bicycle ride from Carlson Park to downtown Culver City, his home turf. We came to a fork in the road, a back alley used by pedestrians. Just before the entrance was a physical alert sprayed onto the concrete walk that read: "Walk your bike from this point on" or something to that effect. Bond, pretty much oblivious to alarms as most Evel Knievel types (testosterone-charged men) are, did not dismount his bike but continued riding. I saw it. My intuition told me to get off my bike, but I did not listen. What happened? I wound up with a very painful, severely sprained left pinky as I used my hand to keep me from crashing into a wooden wall that was waiting for me just through the door well. OUCH! Of course, my fate could have been much worse, but my crew of angels upstairs were taking notice when I was not. Thank God. 

We tend to learn from the pain of our mistakes. Ergo in the future, I will remember to heed the signs, actual and intuitive, so that I do not wind up losing more than partial use of my left hand. I hope you will concentrate on keeping safe as well. 

#intuition, #warning signs, #personal essay, #blog, #blogger