Buenos Noches!
Me little feet have carried I to the city of Leon. Thus, we have walked over 1700 kms with about 300 km remaining. I´m currently enjoying resting-up in this beautiful city, telling myself that lying on my bed all day is not a sign of lethargy but is in fact preparation for a sprint finish. I really never have felt so fit in my life and no matter how often I practice the opportunity to be smug about my "no need for alcohol" status and belief in the merits of daily exercise, I still find plentiful reserves of self-congratulationary pride.
Enough of the obligatory introductory waffle, lets get random.
- I would like to make the following announcement, "Seth is now also available in slim". That´s right, having followed the simple life of the pilgrim for the past 14 weeks I am able to report some health benefits. I have so far lost 8 kgs of weight which is well over the stone I needed to lose to be within an "ideal" category. I always knew I was a skinny person trapped in a bloaters body. Needless to say, I celebrated today's weigh-in result by eating a large piece of chocolate cake.
- From personal vanity to matters of up most import. Having turned my mind to solving questions such as, "Which is the one true faith?", "Why exactly are we here?" and "Where do black holes come from?", I am proud to reveal to the public the answer to the following question that has alluded man for time immemorial; "Why does the shower curtain move toward the water?"
As you might imagine, showers, and how I experience them, is of central importance to a pilgrim with few other pleasures while on the road. And so, for several months now I have found myself wondering on a frequent basis, Why does the shower curtain move toward the shower? Because when it does, the curtain sticks to me and I find this a rather unsavoury sensation. Not least as I realise that if it sticks to me then it must stick to the thousands of other pilgrims that used this shower before me... And quite frankly, I don´t know where they´ve been. And so, I set about trying to find the answer to this, the ultimate question. It is only in the past few weeks that my research has really matured to the extent that I am happy to put it before you - the answer to the question that haunts the mind of every shower-curtain-wrestling-pilgrim.
I cannot claim full credit for the following genius, no let us all say a great big mental "thank you!" to our learned friend, David Schmidt, an assistant professor at the University of Massachusetts and his considerable studies on this elusive problem.
Let us first deal with the false theories.
Until now, explanations for the shower curtain's movements were theoretical. It was one person's opinion versus anther's, with most ideas drawing on the Bernoulli effect or on so-called buoyancy effects. The Bernoulli effect is the principle that explains how an airplane's wings produce lift. It says that as a fluid accelerates, the pressure drops. But the Bernoulli effect is based on a balance between pressure forces and acceleration, and does not allow for the presence of droplets. (Obviously!) Nor, according to Schmidt´s calculations, is it responsible for the curtain deflection.
The buoyancy theory supposes that the hot shower causes the temperature of the air in the shower to rise, reducing its density. In that case, the pressure on the shower side of the curtain will be lower than the pressure on the outside at the same height from the floor causing the curtain to move toward the lower pressure. A rather seductive theory I agree but think on. The problem with this explanation is that the curtain will suck inward toward a cold shower, too. You have no idea how many cold showers I suffered to convince myself this theory could not be the true explanation! But a true enquirer knows no limits as to what he will endure to arrive at the truth I told myself, while shivering under a freezing shower...
I eventually conceded that I would not find the answer to this profound problem while naked and cold. No, to solve this, I would need to be clothed and warm and with plentiful access to the Internet. To my joy, Schmidt clearly takes this issue very seriously to the extent that he invested considerable time and resources in creating modeling software to once and for all solve this vital scientific enquiry. Schmidt writes the following: (anything in brackets are my words)
"A modern way to study fluid-flow problems (as the shower scenario represents) is to use computers to solve the basic equations of fluid motion. These equations are based on conservation of mass and momentum. Because of the limitations of finite computer power and current mathematics, however, the solution process can be difficult and time-consuming. Also, spray simulations are a particularly difficult challenge because they involve two different phases of water: liquid and gas. (And so we see the enormity of the task before poor Schmidt. But thankfully he was not to be so easily deterred.)
To attack the shower curtain problem, I (Schmidt) added advanced spray models to some established software. I was able to include the effects of the drops breaking up. Even more important, the new spray models captured the distortion of the droplets, which tends to increase their aerodynamic drag. This drag is the force between the air and the water that imparts motion to the air and slows the droplets. (Naturally.)
To do the calculation, I drafted a model of a typical shower and divided the shower area into 50,000 minuscule cells. (I love this man!) The tub, the shower head, the curtain rod and the room outside of the shower were all included. I ran the modified Fluent software for two weeks on my home computer in the evening and on weekends (when my wife wasn't using the computer) (I must admit I was rather surprised to learn that Schmidt had a life let alone a wife...). The simulation revealed 30 seconds of actual shower time. (Bring it on!)
When the simulation was complete, it showed that the spray drove a vortex. The center of this vortex much like the center of a cyclone is a low-pressure region. This low-pressure region is what pulls the shower curtain in. (Eureka!) The vortex rotates around an axis that is perpendicular to the shower curtain. It is a bit like a sideways dust devil. But unlike a dust devil, this vortex doesn't die out because it is driven continuously by the shower."
And now we know why the shower curtain moves towards the shower. Do not thank me, thank Schmidt and his patient wife.
- Another Spanish Kitsch observation. While approaching a tiny Spanish town, Laure (the dancer from Belgium) remarked on hearing the church bells chime. However, I was convinced something was not right as they sounded more like the sound made by an electric doorbell than the peel of church bells. Upon reaching the church, to our amazement, it was evident that the bells inthe church tower, had been out of action for a long time and had instead been replaced with a large tannoy. This tannoy was used to play a recording of bells chiming and it sounded very, very unconvincing. I truly feel sorry for the people of this dwelling - they must be the source of jokes for many other rival villages.
- I´ve stopped snoring! Honestly. Not only Greg but several other pilgrims have confirmed this. I attribute this achievement to:
1) Weight loss
2) Not drinking alcohol.
3) Having learnt to lie on my side (not my back).
I wish some of my other fellow pilgrims (generally overweight middle-aged men that like a drink or nine) would make more of an effort. I am SO OVER dormitories!
- Lack of alcohol consumption leading to significant sense-of-humour-regression. I can only attribute some of the ridiculous things that amuse Greg and I in this period of abstinence as a consequence of not drinking booze and therefore enjoying childlike (i.e. pre-alcohol days) jokes. For example, I noticed that there were lots of storks in the sky and that they appeared to be following us. Seizing on this rich seam of comical potential I quipped, "I feel like we are being storked". To my dismay, we both found this funny and laughed. Get these boys a drink.
- I love watching the passion with which Spanish women talk when assembled in small groups. It is truly awe inspiring to watch them gesticulate and rant about topics which (so I am told) are generally rather trivial, yet are discussed as if it were a matter of extreme import. I feel a little sorry for any of their husbands. I suspect it would be very difficult to win an argument with any woman with the obvious ability to draw upon such ferosity of spirit. Though the men seem to be so alpha male it hurts, so I guess it just about balances out.
- The ministry of crap design (due respect accorded here to Ben Elton, in his pre-middle-class-comfortableness stage). Greg and I both own "Sporks". A "Spork" is a piece of plastic (mines a rather fetching yellow) that combines the functions of a knife, fork and spoon into one handy piece of plastic. Lightweight as well conveniently keeping "three" untensils together in one place - useful for the wandering pilgrim. However, within about 1 month of using our "Sporks" they both snapped in half meaning that they are now rubbish at all three of their designated tasks and it is also easier to lose a part. This annoys me considerably. Is it unreasonable to expext a product that markets itself as "3 in 1" to not snap and infact be "nothing very useful in 2"?! Again, answers on a postcard please.
- I have been eating a fairly healthy diet and at times choose to go vegetarian. Rather pathetically, I asscoiate the consumption of vegetarian food (especially by a whisky loving man) with a slight tendency towards effeminancy (I know this isn´t politically correct but then I have very little time for politics). While choosing beween two vegetarian pasta sauce products, to my amusement I noticed that this particular vegetarian range went under the brand name "Gayelord". You couldn´t make it up. Someone, somewhere is laughing at all you vegetarians while raking in your "right-on" cash.
- Know thyself. To my embarasement I have discovered for the first time at the age of 31, I have a roasted peanut allergy. How, I have survived thus far remains a miracle as I have spent many a top night in bars across the globe eating these things. See what happens when you start eating healthily? You get allergies.
- Greg on food. Greg bought some protein biscuits designed to give the elderly essential vitamins. He was convinced they would give him a competitive advantage over the other pilgrims. They were truly awful. They were supposed to be "lemon flavour" but to me they seemed like packaged cardboard that had once been in the presence of a lemon air freshner. Also, Greg has a theory that eating food in rest periods is detrimental to optimal walking. He thinks it, "weighs a pilgrim down". I suspect Greg too, has lost weight.
- I was asked by Dave, an Irish Pilgrim why I was on this Pilgrimage. I repsonded with my usual garb about "time to reflect...blah...blah...blah" and then added piously "I just want to be the best person I can possible be, you know?". He looked at me thoughtfully for a moment and having located the origin of this sentiment replied, "isn´t that Superman...?".
- We are due back 3rd October (yes, this year!) and I look forward to sharing with you many more anecdotes though I cannot promise they will all be as captivating as my collaboratve work on shower curtain physics... x
Monday 17 September 2007
Wednesday 5 September 2007
I Feel Like Chicken Tonight...
Well hellooo there,
we are now in the beautiful Spanish city of Santo Domingo de la Calzada. So if I have my maths right this means we have walked over 1400 kms. This is good, ya? (Bet you didn´t know I also speak bad German).
Thanks for your feed-back about this blog. It seems you like to laugh at the French almost as much as I do. To be honest I´m a little nervous as to whether I will find such anecdotal treasures amongst the Spanish hills. The French made it just so easy for me - you would have to get up really early and practice NOT being funny not to be able to make the idea of pouting French men wearing tight spandex seem amusing. Merci beaucoup France et Vive la difference (especially with regards to national swim-wear choices)!
Here goes nothing - some thoughts that did occur to me while I was in the country commonly referred to as Spain:
- I think the true miracle of miracles, is that anyone can believe in them. The miracle that is believed to have occurred in the 14th century in Santo Domingo de la Calzada is particularly bizarre. The account goes something like this:
One day, a pilgrim family- father, mother, and son-arrived in Santo Domingo. At the inn where they stayed, the owner's daughter developed a crush on the boy or, in the words of the sixteenth-century Englishman Andrew Boorde, “for ther was a wenche the whych wolde haue had hym to medyll with her carnally.” But the boy's virtue could not be compromised while he walked. Angry at being scorned, the girl slipped a silver cup in the boy's rucksack. When the family was leaving town, she informed the local authorities of the apparent theft. Chased down, the boy proclaimed his innocence, but he was sentenced to death and hanged from a tree at the edge of town (interesting to see that they practised zero tolerance policing in those days... makes the previous New York Mayor, Giuliani seem a little soft...).
The grieving parents walked on to Santiago to fulfill their pledge. On their return trip, as they approached Santo Domingo, they could still see the silhouette of their son's body dangling from a branch. (In some parts of Europe, the indignity of a death sentence was rounded out by leaving the body to rot out of the rope.) As they neared the tree, though, they could see their son moving: He spoke, explaining that their dutiful journey to Santiago had won James's heart. The saint had returned the boy's life and then held him up by the arms until their return.
The parents ran to the town mayor and insisted that he come and see what had happened. The mayor was seated at his dinner table, ready to cut into two hot roasted chickens. He dismissed the parents as insane and complained that their crying was interrupting his meal. Annoyed at their persistence, he finally shouted, “Your boy can no more be alive than these chickens could get up and crow!” Immediately, the main course stirred. The roasters kicked away the garnishes and vegetables. They stretched their plucked brown wings. They squawked and danced across the table. The boy was cut down and the miracle proclaimed. The story of resurrected chickens had a profound tug on the medieval mind. Hundreds of versions of the miracle-dead and dancing fowl- can be found throughout Europe, and paintings of Santo Domingo's chickens can been seen as far east as Uberlingen and Rothenburg ob der Tauber. The motto of the town remains: "Donde la gallina canto despues de asasa", meaning "Where the hen crowed after being roasted". Today, they still keep a pair of live white chickens in a chicken coup near the cathedral´s south door in honour of the miracle.
Though it seems to me highly unlikely that a roasted chicken danced a jig (let alone the other stuff) I think it for the best that if anyone wants to cook for me post-completion of the Camino (hint, hint!), we avoid a sunday roast. (See what I mean about being funny about the Spanish. Look how much I had to research and write just to arrive at a rather weak punch-line. Give me men in Lycra any day.)
- I have a Lonely Planet guide to speaking Spanish. My favourite bit is the chapter on "Romance". There are many, many amusing phrases contained within this section (allowing the traveller to deal with amorous situations with imaginary Spanish lovers) but my favourite by far is: "No te preocupes, lo hago yo", meaning "Don´t bother, I´ll do it myself".
- Me-thinks the Spanish are guilty of liking Kitsch a bit too much. For example, in some churches they have replaced the option of being able to light a candle and make a prayer, with a big plastic box containing plastic replica candles. The would-be-devotee simply inserts 20 cents into a slot whereby a red light illuminates at the end of one of these "candles". No, no, no.
- I met a very interesting woman from Belgium whom is a dancer. Her name is Laure and she is confident she could beat me in an arm-wrestle. Yet again, I am guilty of bringing your attention to non-salient facts. The reason I mention our meeting is her telling me an anecdote that I think beautifully illustrates someone solving a "problem" that didn´t need to be solved. Laure is currently working on a film that requires dancing while in a swimming pool. This, as you might imagine, is fairly tricky as it is very difficult to dance for more than about 15 seconds under-water without coming-up for air. The dance sequence lasts several minutes and so lots of stopping and starting was required with lots of re-filming necessary.
To my amazement, the pool that Laure and her fellow dancers use, is fitted with underwater cameras that use motion detecting software. If they notice that a person has stopped moving for more than 30 seconds they sound alarm sirens and lights. This ruined at least one of their filming endeavours as the dance piece required one of the dancers to sink without moving for more than 30 seconds.
Now, I know these cameras are here as a safety precaution, but isn´t this what life-guards are for? I don´t know about you, but the last time I checked the guys and girls wearing red sitting on their high-chairs, they didn´t seem overly worked. I suspect they might like a chance to actually do something and could probably fit a rescue into their diaries... .
- The Spanish seem to like being creative in their toilets. One of the bars I went into had loads of portraits of the owners (in various pouty poses) pasted all around the urinals. Another helped you indentify which room was for men and for women by having life-sized naked pictures of the designated sex on the walls.
- I think I have already experienced what my life will be like post 60 years old. As you are aware I am currently on a stimulants ban. The consequence of this is that on several occasions I have sat down for a hot chocolate in a cafe only to promptly fall asleep. When I awake, I have inevitably dribbled down myself and I am confused as to where I am and as to why there is a cold "hot" chocolate in front of me. I miss my poisons.
- Snoring. As I have already confessed I am guilty of snoring. But a few nights ago I met my nemesis. He was a very muscly Italian man whose snore made the floor shake. It seems he kept most of the dormitory awake the majority of the night. After about an hour of hearing him growl I decided I had to move my mattress out of the room into the outside corridor, for some peace and quiet. I believe he was a cyclist and this explains why he had a spare cycle tire against the wall, near his head. He was sleeping right next to the door and had inadvertently moved the wheel so that it blocked the door and my exit. While attempting to leave the room, the opening door knocked the bicycle wheel over the snoring man´s head. The Italian immediately woke up to see me standing by his bed with a mattress while he had a tire around his body, pinning his arms to his side. Unfortunately, I did not know the Italian for, "Forgive me for treating you as a hoopla game my Italian friend, but it´s just that while attempting to leave the room I inadvertently knocked this-here tire around your torso..." so I pretended not to notice and quickly left the room. I then spent the rest of the night in fear for my life and wondering what the Italian man would do to me in the morning... . Note to self: in future avoid treating muscly sleeping Italian men as hoopla targets.
See ya. x
we are now in the beautiful Spanish city of Santo Domingo de la Calzada. So if I have my maths right this means we have walked over 1400 kms. This is good, ya? (Bet you didn´t know I also speak bad German).
Thanks for your feed-back about this blog. It seems you like to laugh at the French almost as much as I do. To be honest I´m a little nervous as to whether I will find such anecdotal treasures amongst the Spanish hills. The French made it just so easy for me - you would have to get up really early and practice NOT being funny not to be able to make the idea of pouting French men wearing tight spandex seem amusing. Merci beaucoup France et Vive la difference (especially with regards to national swim-wear choices)!
Here goes nothing - some thoughts that did occur to me while I was in the country commonly referred to as Spain:
- I think the true miracle of miracles, is that anyone can believe in them. The miracle that is believed to have occurred in the 14th century in Santo Domingo de la Calzada is particularly bizarre. The account goes something like this:
One day, a pilgrim family- father, mother, and son-arrived in Santo Domingo. At the inn where they stayed, the owner's daughter developed a crush on the boy or, in the words of the sixteenth-century Englishman Andrew Boorde, “for ther was a wenche the whych wolde haue had hym to medyll with her carnally.” But the boy's virtue could not be compromised while he walked. Angry at being scorned, the girl slipped a silver cup in the boy's rucksack. When the family was leaving town, she informed the local authorities of the apparent theft. Chased down, the boy proclaimed his innocence, but he was sentenced to death and hanged from a tree at the edge of town (interesting to see that they practised zero tolerance policing in those days... makes the previous New York Mayor, Giuliani seem a little soft...).
The grieving parents walked on to Santiago to fulfill their pledge. On their return trip, as they approached Santo Domingo, they could still see the silhouette of their son's body dangling from a branch. (In some parts of Europe, the indignity of a death sentence was rounded out by leaving the body to rot out of the rope.) As they neared the tree, though, they could see their son moving: He spoke, explaining that their dutiful journey to Santiago had won James's heart. The saint had returned the boy's life and then held him up by the arms until their return.
The parents ran to the town mayor and insisted that he come and see what had happened. The mayor was seated at his dinner table, ready to cut into two hot roasted chickens. He dismissed the parents as insane and complained that their crying was interrupting his meal. Annoyed at their persistence, he finally shouted, “Your boy can no more be alive than these chickens could get up and crow!” Immediately, the main course stirred. The roasters kicked away the garnishes and vegetables. They stretched their plucked brown wings. They squawked and danced across the table. The boy was cut down and the miracle proclaimed. The story of resurrected chickens had a profound tug on the medieval mind. Hundreds of versions of the miracle-dead and dancing fowl- can be found throughout Europe, and paintings of Santo Domingo's chickens can been seen as far east as Uberlingen and Rothenburg ob der Tauber. The motto of the town remains: "Donde la gallina canto despues de asasa", meaning "Where the hen crowed after being roasted". Today, they still keep a pair of live white chickens in a chicken coup near the cathedral´s south door in honour of the miracle.
Though it seems to me highly unlikely that a roasted chicken danced a jig (let alone the other stuff) I think it for the best that if anyone wants to cook for me post-completion of the Camino (hint, hint!), we avoid a sunday roast. (See what I mean about being funny about the Spanish. Look how much I had to research and write just to arrive at a rather weak punch-line. Give me men in Lycra any day.)
- I have a Lonely Planet guide to speaking Spanish. My favourite bit is the chapter on "Romance". There are many, many amusing phrases contained within this section (allowing the traveller to deal with amorous situations with imaginary Spanish lovers) but my favourite by far is: "No te preocupes, lo hago yo", meaning "Don´t bother, I´ll do it myself".
- Me-thinks the Spanish are guilty of liking Kitsch a bit too much. For example, in some churches they have replaced the option of being able to light a candle and make a prayer, with a big plastic box containing plastic replica candles. The would-be-devotee simply inserts 20 cents into a slot whereby a red light illuminates at the end of one of these "candles". No, no, no.
- I met a very interesting woman from Belgium whom is a dancer. Her name is Laure and she is confident she could beat me in an arm-wrestle. Yet again, I am guilty of bringing your attention to non-salient facts. The reason I mention our meeting is her telling me an anecdote that I think beautifully illustrates someone solving a "problem" that didn´t need to be solved. Laure is currently working on a film that requires dancing while in a swimming pool. This, as you might imagine, is fairly tricky as it is very difficult to dance for more than about 15 seconds under-water without coming-up for air. The dance sequence lasts several minutes and so lots of stopping and starting was required with lots of re-filming necessary.
To my amazement, the pool that Laure and her fellow dancers use, is fitted with underwater cameras that use motion detecting software. If they notice that a person has stopped moving for more than 30 seconds they sound alarm sirens and lights. This ruined at least one of their filming endeavours as the dance piece required one of the dancers to sink without moving for more than 30 seconds.
Now, I know these cameras are here as a safety precaution, but isn´t this what life-guards are for? I don´t know about you, but the last time I checked the guys and girls wearing red sitting on their high-chairs, they didn´t seem overly worked. I suspect they might like a chance to actually do something and could probably fit a rescue into their diaries... .
- The Spanish seem to like being creative in their toilets. One of the bars I went into had loads of portraits of the owners (in various pouty poses) pasted all around the urinals. Another helped you indentify which room was for men and for women by having life-sized naked pictures of the designated sex on the walls.
- I think I have already experienced what my life will be like post 60 years old. As you are aware I am currently on a stimulants ban. The consequence of this is that on several occasions I have sat down for a hot chocolate in a cafe only to promptly fall asleep. When I awake, I have inevitably dribbled down myself and I am confused as to where I am and as to why there is a cold "hot" chocolate in front of me. I miss my poisons.
- Snoring. As I have already confessed I am guilty of snoring. But a few nights ago I met my nemesis. He was a very muscly Italian man whose snore made the floor shake. It seems he kept most of the dormitory awake the majority of the night. After about an hour of hearing him growl I decided I had to move my mattress out of the room into the outside corridor, for some peace and quiet. I believe he was a cyclist and this explains why he had a spare cycle tire against the wall, near his head. He was sleeping right next to the door and had inadvertently moved the wheel so that it blocked the door and my exit. While attempting to leave the room, the opening door knocked the bicycle wheel over the snoring man´s head. The Italian immediately woke up to see me standing by his bed with a mattress while he had a tire around his body, pinning his arms to his side. Unfortunately, I did not know the Italian for, "Forgive me for treating you as a hoopla game my Italian friend, but it´s just that while attempting to leave the room I inadvertently knocked this-here tire around your torso..." so I pretended not to notice and quickly left the room. I then spent the rest of the night in fear for my life and wondering what the Italian man would do to me in the morning... . Note to self: in future avoid treating muscly sleeping Italian men as hoopla targets.
See ya. x
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