Wanted: Solar Toys

I'm in a predicament. I've fallen in love with two separate gadgets, but I only have room in the budget for one. Both are solar and, therefore, burying the needle in greenness, so that alone makes me covet them highly. But they're both also portable, which just goes so well with my highly mobile lifestyle.

Here's the breakdown, as I understand it, on these on-the-go solar recharging gadgets. You might even call this a "travel gear review," except I haven't actually physically tested either. All this is based purely on research and word-of-mouth.

Solio Classic Hybrid Charger
Let's start with the Solio, since it's the one I'll more likely get, if only because it's the more affordable of the two. At $99 ($169 for the Magnesium Edition, for the "serious adventurer"), it claims to be able to recharge all your handheld gadgets, and comes with several adaptors to make that promise happen.
Why I Want It: Besides the fact I don't even know of anything similar on the market, the Solio can also be charged the old-fashioned way (i.e., wall socket), so you can take your charge on the go. Plus, it's compact and light-weight enough to take on hikes.
Price: $99
Weight: 5.6 oz. (CNET claims it's more like 5.8)
Colors: Silver, Black, White
Sun Factor: One hour of sunlight (very direct sunlight, reminds CNET) provides 10 hours of cell talk time, or 40 minutes of MP3 music.


Voltaic Solar Backpack
When I saw one of these marching down Seventh Avenue the other day, I drooled. Seriously, with all the walking I do, I could charge half of Seventh Avenue myself. Voltaic makes several styles of bags -- backpack, messenger bags, converter (with water bladder for biking/hiking) -- all of which are made out of recycled materials for uber-greenness.
Why I Want It: The latest model can charge full laptops. No, that wasn't a typo. Crikey, I could head into the hinterlands for days and write my heart out!
Price: $249
Weight: 3.5 lbs., including battery and solar panels
Colors: Silver, Orange, Green, Charcoal (where's the brown???)
Sun Factor: 4-6 hours of sunlight to fully recharge a cell phone

Just something to keep in mind. Christmas/Hanukkah really isn't that far away.

Africans Kick French Butt in Scrabble

In some African countries, Scrabble isn't just a board game, it's a government-endorsed sport, a source of national pride that sees cash-poor countries jetting their top Scrabble athletes around the world to international competitions. And that persistence is paying off.

Former French colonies are starting to make the French sweat. For the third year in a row, an African player has stuck it to the French in the one-on-one competition at the Francophone World Scrabble Championship.

My favorite part of this story is just how dedicated the Africans are to their sport, even going so far as to make their own Scrabble boards out of discarded materials so they can practice. Such persistence is what gave Senegalese player Amar Diokh, who didn't even learn French until his teens, the edge to beat his French opponent.

More on this story:
For Some Africans, Scrabble More Than Just a Game
http://ap.google.com/article/ALeqM5gJ3osTr09nDxYRdA807v6hSiu96wD925CU3O0

Luke Tipple's Shark Week Contest

Want to go diving with the toothiest of ocean critters? Ever dreamed of staring a great white in his globulous eye? Then tune into Discovery Channel's Shark Week to catch marine biologist and Shark Diver dive master Luke Tipple for a chance to reel in the adventure of a lifetime.

Just watch for Luke on an episode of Myth Busters as he and the guys attempt to confirm or bust the Mayan myth that sharks have an aversion to chili. Then visit Luke's site, fill out the entry form, and answer one simple question for your chance to find yourself inside a cage just inches away from Bruce, Shredder, or any of a number of great whites that the Shark Diver crew has come to call friends.

Enter here.

I can tell you from my own experience that this is one trip you will never forget. Even the seasickness makes for memorable storytelling.

Return to Fire Island

Every once in a while, I have a wonderfully peaceful sleep in which I dream I'm strolling the wooded lanes of a tranquil island. There are no cars, only little red wagons and the occasional golf cart. Surf roars onto a beach as fine as white powder, and my feet look sugar-coated after only a short stroll, during which I'm greeted by deer who've all but lost their fear of humans. In the distance blinks a lighthouse.

During my years of living on the East Coast, I visited Fire Island roughly a dozen times, including a long weekend spent with a close friend in lieu of attending prom. On each of my visits, I usually managed to drag along at least one or two newbies, friends who had yet to experience the island's charm. On the return ferry ride after one such trip, my friend Zi turned to me, a contented smile on her face, and remarked, "How have I lived on Long Island all my life and never visited here?"

I've often wondered the same thing, but I've also been glad that Fire Island has remained somewhat unknown, somehow forgotten, and often avoided by the less open-minded due to its reputation as a haven for alternative lifestyles. These factors, plus the half-hour ferry ride that separates the island from the "mainland" of Long Island, have kept it less crowded than it might otherwise be. And after 10 years of being away from one of my favorite spots on the planet, I finally returned this weekend.


My friends had, for various reasons, flaked, but I decided to go anyway. I'd missed out on visiting the island too many times in the past, and I wasn't about to let this opportunity escape as well. After so many years, I not only remembered driving directions to the ferry, but I also recalled my frugal parking secrets (opt for the free lots on Gibson and share a $4 cab to the ferry, in lieu of the $14/day parking at the terminal). Once the ferry had docked and I'd set foot back in the main town of Ocean Beach, the layout of the terrain came back to me as well.

There was Rachel's Bakery, where I'd learned not to be afraid of vegetables in desserts via the utterly decadent carrot cake. Across the way was The Albatross, which used to serve comforting warm bread and a decadent garlic butter as a freebie appetizer, but has, according to another Fire Island friend/aficionado (who just shot a music video here), since stopped. The community house that doubles as the island's only movie theater announced screenings of WALL-E on hand-written posters, while some budding entrepreneurs begged passersby to buy their hand-painted shells and rocks.

Despite the hubbub of the arriving ferry crowd and a few off-leash children, the island was relatively silent on the bay side. After contenting myself that the old-school arcade was still there, I set my sights on the ocean side, roughly half a mile away. Strolling the island's many walkways has always been one of my favorite island pastimes, and I planned to spend a good portion of my day wandering the trails like an aimless deer (minus the pit stops to feast in unlocked trash cans). Hiking would commence, however, after I got in my beach time.

When I reached the surf, I watched as a gaggle of teenage lifeguards hauled ashore a girl who'd been caught in the riptides. Some people may not realize it, but there's nothing due south of Long Island until you reach the Caribbean. Sure, a trade current will most likely drift you ashore, but why leave your fate in the hands of the Oxy Squad? I've experienced Long Island riptides in the past -- one in Amagansett was what I consider my first brush with death -- so I wasn't about to chance it again. Thus was the reason I ditched my swimming plans in favor of flopping onto my borrowed Tweety Bird towel to read my National Geographic Adventure magazine. Oh, and the Arctic-like water also played a small role in my decision.

Before diving into my sand-dune-sized pile of reading material, I slathered myself with SPF 45. As many fond memories as I have of Fire Island, I also recall it as the site of My Worst Sunburn Ever, a burn so severe that the pressure of cold shower water on my skin caused me pain, so long-lasting that the burn lines were visible nearly six years later. So sunscreen I applied. And applied. And applied some more.

After flirting with skin cancer long enough, I set off for my stroll, heading down through the smaller town of Seaview and over as far as Ocean Bay Park, where Flynn's was a-jumping with Sunday-night reggae. I popped in for the half-price Corona special, then set back to Ocean Beach to see when the next ferry would be. I'd had my fill of house-gazing, for the time being, and I'd suddenly remembered one of the many attractions that I needed to visit before sunset.

The Fire Island Lighthouse is four miles from Ocean Beach, which was too far for me to hike before the light had gone. So back to Bay Shore I'd have to journey, where I'd pick up Eartha KITT in time to cross the many bridges of the Robert Moses Causeway to the lighthouse. I made it just in time to hike the extra mile or so from the parking lot, snapped my shots, and, reluctantly, left.

But I'll be back.

View more Fire Island photos.

Anthropomorphism: The Panda Sneeze

I don't know why this cracked me up so much. Maybe it's because the mom panda is munching away like white trash on beef jerky while her offspring is chilling at her feet. Maybe it's because pandas are so humanlike that they've always looked to me like people dressed in panda costumes, and not like actual animals. Either way, this vid just kills me.
Panda Sneezes

Redeem This: Why United's Voucher-Redemption System Sucks

Even when I’m not traveling, I am. Let me explain.

In addition to visiting NYC for the summer – which I don’t really consider traveling because it’s where I grew up – I’ve been taking lots of weekend road trips, so many in fact, that I’ve spent but one weekend in the city proper since I arrived back in May.

In the last two days, I’ve made two trips to JFK, neither of which culminated in a flight anywhere. Instead, I was there to cash in one of the vouchers I’d received after being bumped last summer. I’ve never before had a problem redeeming a voucher -- from any airline -- even though United makes the ridiculous requirement that you visit an airport in order to do so. The much more efficient Alaska Airlines allows redemption via phone, but not via Internet. Hello? Airlines? This is the 21st century. What gives? (Also see my previous post on Alaska vs. United.)

My theory is that the ever-ailing airlines want to save a few more bucks and are hoping you don’t redeem the voucher before its expiration date. By making the process as Byzantine and inefficient as possible, they're hoping you might not even bother. Who can be bothered? My theory was further reinforced by my experience of trying to redeem this latest voucher.

When I called to redeem the voucher, as I had with my Alaska voucher back in April, I was informed that I had to make the transaction at the nearest airport with a United counter. Thankfully, since I’m currently in NYC, I had three relatively convenient options nearby. Now, what would someone in, say, Chinle, Ariz. (where two friends of mine used to live) do? Drive three hours each way to redeem their voucher? It would hardly be worth it, especially with gas prices as high as they are. That was my first indication of the veracity of my theory.

So, on Monday evening, I hopped on the LIRR at Penn Station (a few extra bucks would save me roughly half an hour each way, as opposed to taking the subway), transferred to the AirTrain at Jamaica, then walked into the United terminal only to discover that all the counters were unoccupied. A quick visit to the sole United employee on duty, in baggage services, confirmed that the ticket counters had closed nearly two hours earlier, at 8:45. I had arrive that late only because the telephone agent had assured me that I could redeem my voucher until midnight. Turns out that what the agent meant -- but didn't delineate, perhaps in the hopes I wouldn't actually use my voucher -- is that, although my reservation would be redeemable until midnight, that didn’t mean there would be anyone at the airport to assist in the redemption.

I called United and immediately asked to speak to a supervisor. (His estimated counter-closure time: 7:30, a full hour and 15 minutes earlier than what the baggage clerk had told me.) After explaining my situation multiple times and saying I didn’t wish to spend another three hours returning to JFK the next day, I finally got the phone supervisor to tell me I could mail in the voucher. Why was I not told this sooner? I guess that mail-in is the method a Chinle resident might opt for, even though the process offers no guarantee that you’ll actually get the flights you booked, as it takes ten days to process and confirm. Although I told the agent this was what I would do, the uncertainty of the situation changed my mind while I was riding home.

Three hours and $17.75 later, and I had nothing to show for my efforts but a lack of sleep.

After calling United the next day and being told a different closing time for the ticket counter (7:45), I returned to JFK, shelling out even more money this time for the privilege of riding during peak hours. Once I got there, the agent assured me this was a “1-2-3 ticket,” meaning it usually takes her seconds to process. Fifteen minutes later, she and her co-worker were still tag-teaming with their in-house help department to see why the final step in the redemption process couldn’t be completed. “It’s usually 1-2-3,” Agent 1 assured me. Suuuure, it is. I could practically smell the mechanics of my theory whirring away behind the luggage conveyor belt.

The supervisor happened by. The other agent explained the situation while her co-worker continued to wait on hold for her own company to help her. The supervisor apologized to me for the wait, and I decided this was an opportune time to tell her the full story. Only supervisors, I knew, wield the almighty power of awarding further compensation. Perhaps I could get her to see the illogic and inefficiency on which this voucher-redemption system was based, and how it had so inconvenienced me.

Moments after I received the receipt for my flight, I was also leaving with 500 bonus miles in my account. Considering how that minimum limit has been wiped away for customers who’ve actually flown, I thought myself quite lucky.

Happy ending? Yes, but I’m still irritated that, with all of today's technological advancements, United is unable to redeem vouchers via telephone, let alone the Internet. No wonder airlines are bleeding money. If such a simple transaction eats up two hours of employee time (my estimate, based on all the agents I both called and saw in person), of course they’re going to be in the red. And, if the next time a “free voucher” ends up costing me nearly $50 and six hours of my time, this redhead will be seeing red.

Google Text Saved My Life

Okay, not my entire life, but a quality two hours of my life were saved from post office purgagory due to that wondrous little widget known as Google Text, which I first heard about a few week's ago on Gadling. For the first few days, I played with Google Text as if it were 20Q, trying to stump it with any question I could think of. What are the locations of every Yolato in NYC? Is there still a Daffy's on Sixth Ave.? What is Elton John's real name?

Part of my challenge was seeing how little info I could send to QT and still get an accurate response. When I made the Elton inquiry, I simply typed "Elton John's real name." In under 15 seconds, I had my response. (Reginald Kenneth Dwight, for those not near their cell.)

I used GT more as a game than an actual practical device for the first few weeks. Co-workers and interns alike were getting irked by my insistence to "see if Google Text knows it!" When one intern pointed out how it had failed her the night before, I had her retrace her steps, then pointed out what she'd done wrong before assuring her GT wouldn't let her down next time.

It was only today that I discovered how GT could be a life-saving device -- and not only for myself. I believe this free service may have saved the woman behind the passport desk from my attempting homicide.

I'd already had an altercation with the passport police the week before. Yes, I've legally changed my name, I told them, but, no, I didn't have the paperwork because it was never given to me. (All true.) Why did I need this extra layer of evidence -- beyond all the documentation I'd already had shipped from my home -- when I hadn't needed it three years ago, for the same exact thing? I'd been issued my passport then with no problem -- I simply provided the proof of the use of my new, legal name and just a few weeks later I was graced with the document to flee the country. This time, however, I wasn't in LA. Instead, I was up against the clerks of the NYC central post office.

And so I stood in line yet again today, the air about me seeming to gel from the oppressive humidity. I watched for 20 minutes as the clerk helped the same two customers, with little action being done by parties on either side of the counter. There were still two customers ahead of me and an increasing number behind. I hadn't moved a step. Another five minutes passed. Then another. Everyone about me fidgeted from discomfort and impatience. Where had I read about a similar uncomfortable experience about travel?

Ah, that Gadling post about Google Text! In my research on full-service passport locations, I had read about the Greeley post office, just a few blocks away on 6th and Broadway. But I was hesitant to give up my place in line only to find myself in the same predicament, just different scenery. So I texted Google, "Greeley Post Office, NYC." I had to choose the "More" option before I got the listing, but there it was, local phone number and all.

A few seconds later, I was on the phone with a clerk who was far less surly than the woman who was still "helping" the same two clients. "You do passports there, right?" When he told me yes, I asked how long the line was. "No line at all?" I said a little too loudly. The others in the line turned to look at me. What magical world could I be calling?

Before they could put the clues together, I was out of there, fleeing down the majestic steps of the main post office for Greeley. I glanced behind me every few yards to make sure my fellow line-waiters weren't tailing me. Fifteen minutes later, I was leaving Greeley with my paperwork completed, a smile on my face from having dealt with the extremely pleasant courteous clerk.

Had it not been for Google Text, I might still be standing in that line in the main post office.

From Hush Puppies to Chicken Without Sexual Life

With the upcoming Beijing Summer Games (auspiciously beginning on 8-8-08), China's hot to trot out preparations for its upcoming world party. Not only has the Forbidden City undergone extensive renovations, but now Chinese menus are getting a facelift.

Being the grammar Nazi that I am, I find menu typos more often than not, on menus of every cuisine type. Some unintentional meanings are enough to dash an appetite before you're through with the complimentary noodles and duck sauce. (One of my all-time favorite stomach churners: "Vaggie Tacos." Double whammy!)

But on Chinese menus, many of the translations are actually pretty darn close to what the dish is actually called in its homeland. Even though the translation may ring awkwardly to our Western ears, to the Chinese, dishes such as "Husband and Wife's Lung Slice" sound downright tasty. (The dish isn't a cannibal combination item, but rather a spiced-up version of beef and ox tripe. Hmm, still doesn't sound very appetizing to this vegetarian.)

Some dishes already on American menus have previously gone through the Sino-cleansing process. The ever-popular mapo tofu is still known in its motherland as "tofu made by a pock-marked woman," a name derived from the legend surrounding the dish's creation.

Wishing to avoid as much ridicule as possible, the Chinese government has issued a guide for restaurateurs on how to translate their dishes. Gone is "Chicken Without Sexual Life," and in its place arrives "Steamed Pullet," which is every bit as delicious but isn't as likely to arouse much colorful table talk.

As much as we may poke fun of misspelled menus and even traditional names, you've gotta admit that our national cuisine has some doozies of its own. Never mind the pedestrian hot dog -- which has nary an ounce of canine in it, if you're lucky -- or the unappealing visuals conjured up by the word "scrapple."

Hush puppies also lack Fido bits, but neither do they contain meat, of nebulous origin or otherwise. While the fried food's exact roots are dubious, most stories point to the round balls of dough being used to shush watchdogs. Only one half of the term "head cheese," is accurate -- the other is more euphemism for those with queasy stomachs. And Spam, that much lauded meat byproduct that has spawned numerous spoofs and pop-culture references, may have taken its name by combining the words "SPiced hAM," although as many other origins have been cited as have been the actual ingredients in the gelatinous meat. (For information on the correlation between Spam -- or as the good folks at Hormel prefer we write it, SPAM -- and cannibalism, read more. Ah, that Theroux.)