Steel Kaleidoscopes

London, v.4

After meeting with the lead developer until close to 6, I walk onto Marylebone Street with determined enthusiasm to finally take some time for me -- to enjoy the city.

The discussion was a good one -- scalable infrastructure, common code base, personalization, syndication, global expansion and the benefits of an in-house e-mail management system vs.an ASP model -- but it was time to go.

After splashing some water on my face and brushing my teeth, I head over to Baker Street and buy a one-day Tube pass, which gives me access to London's version of the sardine sandwich. In Boston, people don't appreciate how much space they have on the Green Line during rush hour. This was shoulder rush hour in London -- close to 7 p.m. -- and the Jubilee Line South line was packed.

I do the typical tourist thing and get off at Waterloo Station to see the London Eye and Big Ben. Neat.

The sun is easing into the Thames and I'm standing in the wrong line for an Eye ticket. After checking out the length of the correct line, I choose to walk rather than spin.

Big Ben is amazing. Elementary textbook education come to life. It's just there, no matter where you walk. Parliament is obscenely pristine in his regality and glitter, and Big Ben just stands there, a phallic symbol of our youth yet current in its relevance.

After a healthy walk and many pictures, I return to the Tube and re-emerge on Baker Street.

Then I get lucky.

Getti, a wonderful restaurant on Marylebone, has a just-cleared table on the edge of the sidewalk, premium seating on a steamy July evening. My timing is perfect. The maitre d' asks if I'm alone or if anyone will be joining me. Tonight, I'm alone.

And I enjoy grilled swordfish, green beans, warm raisin bread and a glass of Barbera under a tempered street lamp, passersby eying my enviable leisure expression.

Ah, London.

Nice to spend some time with you.

But I'm ready to go home.

That's where life and love wait anxiously.

London, v.3

Turns out a guy sliced off his penis in the restaurant I ate in the other night.

Glad I ordered pasta without meatballs.

London reminds me of a Paris/Boston hybrid. There is cobblestone everywhere, but everyone is smoking butts and drinking rosé.

I'm wandering the streets of Westminster after dark and al fresco dining is chic.

It's a warm summer night and the blokes are cruising in their tight shirts and soccer mentality.

And those damn black cabs have no conscience.

London Workday

We're lucky with the weather in London.

Nearly everyone is commenting on the sunny skies and the dry 80-degree temps. Guess we don't get a stretch of weather like this too often.

We work hard during the day, marching to the rhythm of meetings between Chiltern and Marylebone Streets.

We slip in and out of sandwich shops, the local Starbucks and dodge those crazy black cabs zipping down the left side of the street. Still not sure whether or not to look right or left at the crosswalks.

In the evening, we sip dark ales at Gunmakers pub on the summer sidewalk, still basking in the glow of a glorious day. The conversation weaves in and out of office culture and real-life events before we head over to Zizzi for pasta.

The sun sets and the azure sky deepens its hue.

It's getting late and we're ready to retire.

In Boston, they're still at their desks.

Flying into London

Soaring over Halifax with an omelet and coffee.

Approaching Cork as the greenery comes into view.

The Who, Joni Mitchell, Aimee Mann, Mark Knopfler and Yes on the iPod.

British opener competitors scattering on outbound flights.

England lies below, its pristine golf courses and tennis courts marking transitions from well-manicured lawns and shrubbery.

Then it's into Heathrow and onto Paddington, the steamy streets teeming with life.

Irish Eyes are Smiling

Oh to venture toward the Irish Coast, the green wind-swept tundras welcoming travelers with open arms.

Perhaps there will be a venture to the mountains of Macgillicuddy's Reeks with its Devonian-aged rocks or a leisurely evening in a secluded local pub, where the only decision is a Murphy's or a Guinness.

Rain on Bourbon Street

Through the haze of piercing neon, life on this crazy street goes on.

Katrina is clearly in its rear-view mirror, reverently adding to the tourism gypsy mystique.

The misty Tuesday evening is like a painting, until a cloudburst sends revelers scrambling for cover inside the walls of free-flowing taps and pounding music.

And so it goes on Bourbon Street.

Route 66

Route 66 was established in 1926. It started in Chicago and ended in Los Angeles before changing its endpoint to Santa Monica. The highway is 2,448 miles.

In 1985, Route 66 was decommisioned and considered no longer relevant when it was replaced by the Interstate Highway System.

But Bob Dylan insists you can still get your kicks here.

Ogunquit Beach, 6:47 a.m.

Standing in the surf, Sunday morning.

One of life's great pleasures.

Paris

In the midst of Las Vegas neon is an interpretation of Paris, nestled between Bally's and Bellagio. Because of the robin-egg blue painted ceiling with wispy clouds, you forget you're inside a casino.

SAM Machine Etiquette

If you've ever waited in line at a SAM (self-automated machine) at the race track, there is nothing worse than someone who is clueless in front of you.

SAMs were implemented at race tracks to reduce the time it takes to make your bet. You no longer have to go to a window and verbally make your bet with a live human being. SAMs are comparable to the self-serve kiosks in the airport to expedite quick check-in.

The reason SAMs are popular at race tracks, in particular Saratoga, is that the crowds can get large and every minute is critical if you're going to get your bet in on time. When it's your turn at the SAM, you better be ready to drop in your voucher and place your bets. The last thing you want to do is to pick a winning race in your program and not have time to place the bet.

The most common bad etiquette is the leatherneck standing at the SAM, pen in hand, handicapping the race while a long line forms behind him. Hey fella, you do this at your picnic table.

Then there is the training session, where the SAM "veteran" is training someone who has never used a SAM how to make a bet. This is acceptable, providing the training moves along in the actual time it takes to place a bet and the training isn't occurring five minutes before the race.

But this past week at Saratoga I witnessed two brand new forms of SAM bad behavior, both of which should warrant permanent bans from these idiots ever using a SAM again.

The first guy is taking a lot of time and I notice he's actually on his cell phone, discussing his wagers with someone. Unbelievable.

The second guy is worse. After realizing the line is not moving, I see that this guy is not only handicapping the race, but he's eating a meatball sub, using the counter like a kitchen table.

Who are these people?

When in Saratoga, use the SAMs. But have your bets neatly written down and be ready to play. It makes race day more enjoyable for everyone. SAMs are a vehicle to place a bet, not your personal space.