Paul Newman (1925-2008)

Sad day, yesterday. It was raining buckets in Baltimore, too, which seemed especially appropriate.
Paul Newman was the first crush I had on an actor from the past.

(Actually, that's a lie.  He was the second.  Gene Kelly was the first, in this movie, which was my favorite from age 4 to 7, approximately).

I'd say, however, that Paul Newman was the first serious crush I had on an actor from the past, and it brought up all sorts of new ideas in my thirteen-year-old head about the randomness of when people are born, and into which generation (i.e., why was I not born Joanne Woodward?).

While he’s wonderful and charming in nearly all his movies, my favorites remain:

-       Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid – (1969) if only for his priceless face in the weirdish photo montage scene where Robert Redford is dancing with Katherine Ross, and Newman is sitting at his table, alone.  You just want to hug him.

-       The Long, Hot Summer – (1958, based on the short story by William Faulkner) because it kills me, the sweaty romantic tension between Newman and Joanne Woodward, his widow.  They met on set, and were married for fifty years.  In our voyeuristic world of momentary celebrity marriages, they were a low profile couple of class.

My family saw him at the 1996 Atlanta Olympics, when Japan played South Korea in badminton.  Apparently, he was known to be quite a fan of the sport.  Badminton!  I mean, he would.

Someone told me he was actually extremely short—a fact I try to ignore, because in my mind he was larger than life.

Is it just me...

...or do they look ready to make out here? McCain looks a bit unsure, maybe, but Barack is really goin' for it.

Ghana Snippet!

So in July, I led a group of 40 high school students on a community service/cultural exchange trip to Accra, Ghana with AFS.  I stayed with a "host family" - Sammy, a banker in his 30's, also a soccer enthusiast, and a new fan of The Wire (proud to say I got him hooked).

The trip had too much in it to be able to describe in just one post, so I'll throw out some snippets from time to time.

Like this one:

July 5, 2008

In Ghana, 22% of all fatalities of children ages 1-5 are a result of Malaria.

Up at 5:45 this morning to get dressed for Sammy's 6:00 football training (read:  "soccer practice").  We met in a yard, a mixture of grass and dirt and rocks (not in any sort of definable way); it was very uneven, but the ground was soft, where it wasn't rocks.

I was the only white person, and the only girl.  I was also the only one wearing a baseball hat.  The rest were fit Ghanian men ranging in age, I'd say, from 13 to 45.

The majority of them didn't look at me twice--the ones who did asked their

 friends in Twi who I was, and then they'd turn to me and say "You are welcome," in English.  They say this not like we respond to "Thank you," but in the literal sense.  Anyway, I was able to keep up.

Sammy took us to town later, and I feel like I understand how the trotros work a little better.  Trotros are rickety old vans packed to the brim with passengers.  There are no schedules, no maps, no tickets, and they'll often blast either highlife or hiplife (I love hiplife), which both provide an up-tempo soundtrack for long, sweaty, dusty rides into town.

When going into the center of Accra, trotro "mates" lean out the bus and point forward repeatedly, yelling "Accrá Accrá Accrá Accrá"  the "a's" blending together into one long "aah" with "cra's" in the middle, so it's more like "Accrácrácrá...".  To get to the Circle junction, get on the trotro with the mate who leans out and yells, "Cé cé cé cé cé cé cé" sticking his hand out like a claw, and turning it back and forth, as if twisting a jar open really really fast.

Accra reminds me much of Brazil, with

out the drastic contrast of a visible upper class.  It makes the poverty seem more appropriate.  There are wealthy ones here, for sure, but they're not as many, and not as obnoxiously visible as they are in Salvador.

The market is every bit as frenetic and overwhelming as I thought it would be.  Today, I bought a towel for 6 Ghana Cedis (=$6, these days), seasons 1 and 2 of The Wire for Samuel (Baltimore in Africa, bootlegged all the way from China) for another 6 Ghana Cedis, 2 mangos, and like a million oranges for 2 more GCs.  I ate two oranges tonight.  Oranges are green here.  I told Sammy how funny I think this is.  He goes, "Why?  What color are yours?"  The mangos probably won't be ripe until Monday or so.

I saw the ocean this morning, and will see a prettier version of it tomorrow, when we go to the beach.

After getting off the trotro that took us back to Adenta, our neighborhood ("Adentádentádentádentá..."), walking back down the dirt road that already kind of feels like home, Sammy bought us both grilled ears of corn from a wrinkled woman sitting behind a simple barbecue.  We ate them (tough, and more like popcorn than our sweet, 4th of July cobs...very texturally satisfying to chew) and walked home, tired, through the piles of stones and dirt, until we hit our house, its branches of small magenta flowers hanging over the gate.

Goodnight, bullfrogs.

MARKET CRASH

(Not that one, relax.

I work at a restaurant, and as I led a couple to their table last night -- he balding, with round horn-rimmed glasses, she with a shapely head of red hair and a tiny waist -- she turns to him and says, in a thin, accented voice, "Zay keep zaying eet ees like ze sirtees.  Vat happened een ze sirtees?"  He pulls out her chair, and sighs, heavily.  "Well, in 1929...")

Down here in Baltimore, the dark buzz of Wall St. is about as present as an overheard dinner conversation.  You could listen if you moved your chair over just a smidge, but you'd rather stay at your table and talk about the topics at hand.

I mean, we're more interested in other markets.  Like the Waverly Farmer's Market.  I recently moved away from my Hopkins ChuckVillage haunt, but not too far to walk to our favorite Saturday morning local food fest.  And despite what economic naysayers may tote about Michael Pollan and Alice Waters trying to overturn the global economy, I walked out of there feeling like I'd scored quite the deal.  2 huge zucchinis for a DOLLAR, (see below, and use my hand as a reference.  Also, I have very long fingers, to give you some perspective)

 6 peaches for $4 (a tad steep, but peach season is nearly over, and come October I'll be wallowing in their absence), and a 1/4 lb of local sharp cheddar for $2.30, which I will give to my neighbor, Dave, as soon as I tire of picking at it.  This weekend, buying locally won.  And the woman who sold me my cheese was just so nice.... More to come later on the economics of farmers' markets...

... But for now, onto other markets that are void of economics entirely:  The Baltimore Free Store

held a free (!) market on Saturday from noon til 3 pm at the 2640 Space , which was where Dani held his solo show in June, and also the site of my first urban bike accident (a woman opened her car door on my leg as I rode past.  Left quite the nasty bruise).  Admittedly, my roommate's and my mouths were watering at the thought of free stuff!

I lasted like fifteen minutes.  Surplus supply + surplus demand + everything is free = give me my rusty candelabra and Duke University Reunions tote bag and get me out of here.

My roommate and I did make out with some lovely kitchen accouterments, however, including a balancing single wine bottle holder, retail value $22.  Na-hice.

So yes, all you economists, I see how markets can be stressful.