As far as logistics go, that doesn’t change much. Instead of filling out how long I was out of the country (3 years, I think?), I wrote in how long I would be visiting for. Instead of the immigration officer asking me what I was doing out of the country, I was asked what I was doing in the country. And maybe one might guess that I was born in Toronto because my reason for visiting was “family,” but that really doesn’t come up in idle conversation either. For all intents and purposes, I traveled as an American.

Many of my classmates and friends are likely offended by this portrayal. You say “bathroom,” I say “washroom.” You lost at hockey in the last Olympics, I won. By now, however, I know far more about being American than being Canadian. When I went to dinner with my cousins, they asked me a variety of questions about American life, like “Is marching band really like the movie ‘Drumline’?” or “How do you like the imperial system?”. A daily email with headlines from the Toronto Star remains my last connection to Canadian culture, which I generally don’t understand. As a case in point, when I was at Chapters, I was looking around for a quick book on Canadian history. If it hasn’t happened already, someone needs to write a book for emigrated Canadians who want to reclaim some heritage without really putting any effort into it.

I have accepted the fact that I’m more American at this point than Canadian. The label “Texan” doesn’t seem as offensive as it one did, and although I maintain that Houston is not an exciting place, I don’t think I would be honest to myself or fair to reject that bit. Country music is not intrinsically bad, “y’all” is actually a useful phrase, and conservative values actually do have some basis in thought. And although I’ll still listen to Ben Folds while working, point out that “you guys are dumb,” and remain the equally stubborn liberal I am, the stereotypical Texan has grown on me, which is a great lead-in for all the cultures in-between, both ideologically and geographically.

My memory of Toronto is somewhat foggy. I remember a few landmarks here and there, but renovations mean that even most of those are gone. As I was riding around in the car looking eagerly out the window for any remnants of what I knew, I concluded that I pretty much don’t know my hometown anymore. Driven around for a minute, I probably couldn’t tell you whether I was in Toronto or Vancouver, knowing the city to be Canadian only because of the French under all of the English. One truly doesn’t pay attention to directions or locations until driving, but I would hope to at least recognize what I call home a little better.

That afternoon, I walked the 5 minutes down to Hollywood Public School where I went to school for junior kindergarten and 3rd grade. I couldn’t wait to see the vast fields I ran around on, the towering walls for huge wallball games, and the hill we would sled down. As you might expect from any visit to a childhood memory, however, it wasn’t that. The field might have stretched 2 soccer fields. I was amazed that we ever crowded 15 people around that wall. And I bounded the hill in 4 steps. Sledding backwards perhaps wasn’t as hazardous as I had thought.

The obvious change is that I’m physically bigger than I was, surprised as you might be from my last post. To be less prosaic, though, the world was a lot bigger back then than it is now. When I had only lived in one city and only gone on a few, isolated road trips, my world was only a few suburbs in the Toronto metropolitan area, and my playground was that around the school, which possessed a disproportionate amount of my mental map and even more of my memories.

I agonized awhile ago about where I would tell people I’m from, and the answer is far trickier than it would seem. To add to the confusion, when I have been traveling away from school, the Bay Area is my default response since that is where I spend most of my time nowadays. And to layer on the difficulty now is what nationality I am. It frankly doesn’t seem fair to say “Canadian” anymore as I whip out my American passport and clearly have dated memories about what Canada is. And the stickers on my computer and preference for sports teams don’t quite scream red, white, and blue with bald eagles soaring through the sky, either. It frankly doesn’t matter, though, as those sorts of questions are no more than conversation starters anyways. I can’t answer any of those sorts of questions entirely honestly, but come story time on that, at least I have it all straight in my head.

PS: Hey drawmates, I’m not full of crap when I say “washroom.” Here’s my proof that I actually went to Toronto

Part of it is apparently my appearance. A few months ago, I was going through airport security and handed the ID checker my ID and boarding pass. He looked down at my ID, I looked to see how quickly the lines were moving, and he asked me how old I was. The question surprised me, and to reinforce the idea that my age doesn’t matter, I responded, “21. I mean 20.” He offhandedly mentioned that I looked young and handed back my ID. When I related the story to my mom a few night later at the dinner table, she matter-of-factly said, “Of course you look young.”

In that moment, I felt like my mom had revealed the great purpose of my life. I knew that both of my sisters looked young, but that it should apply to me was a revelation. That fact remained a curiosity to me for a few months, and I tried to slip it into conversation as non-awkwardly as possible, just to read reactions.

“Wow, I didn’t know your birthday was coming up. You don’t look like you’re 20. Do you think I look like I’m my age?”

“Your brother is 2 years younger than you? I’m surprised. How old you think I look?”

“Great job on your chemistry test. Do you think I look young?”

I was riding the train with a friend the day after my birthday, and I asked her if I looked young. I noted that although we often say that people look young (she looks much younger than she is), it’s rare for anyone to look older than they are, or to at least say so. “Well, some of the other guys are bigger, right, so they kind of look like they’re what they are. You’re kind of… slender.” That was the confidence boost I needed right there to tackle the first day of the rest of my life.

Even though I mistook myself for an older man in front of a government official, I’m still not ready to deal with the consequences. On a recent Trader Joe’s run, I did the math on the cost by weight and ended up with a large jug of balsamic vinegar that we still haven’t dipped into. While I was rolling up to the checkout counter, I noticed how much like alcohol the vinegar looked like while I was judging whether my cart would pass in the express lane. I wondered whether the cashier might mistake my vinegar for something far more potent and put me in an awkward spot trying to explain why a minor had what looked like alcohol. Only then did I remember that I was actually 21 and have a driver  license that still says “UNDER 21″ to back me up.

I got my vinegar without any trouble.

And at a reception recently, servers walked around with beverages while the crowd mingled and discussed important but esoteric topics. All the old people reminded me that the sparkling apple cider was actually champagne, though the orange juice looked quite good. I almost reached for it, though two others grabbed the last two before I did. Although I was disappointed for a moment, I enjoyed my sour grapes moment when one of them told me that it was a mimosa, not orange juice.

Before I left for college, I was talking to a friend who had just completed his freshmen. Since he as well had gone to college far from home, we were discussing the merits of running away. When I said that it was my chance to break off from my life as it was, he responded, “You’re still going to be the same person you were.” On July 31st, 2010, I was the same person I was on July 30th, 2010. I’m not really sure when, or even if, I’ll pick up my first drink. If my peers are right about my appearance, though, no matter when it happens, I think I’ll be carded. If not by the server, then by myself. Just to make sure.

It’s not the first time it’s been washed, though it badly needs it for smelling like campfire. Worn thinner over 3 years, retirement seems best after I tore open part of the cuff while re-adjusting. I stood in the middle of my room with it in hand for several seconds, thinking about whether I should wear or give up on that hoodie. I knew it wouldn’t last forever, and I knew I had to put it down. I don’t think I could stand to watch it fall to pieces.

Thinking back, though, it was always in shoddy condition. From the day I got it, the stitches were awful around the armpits and cuffs where it began to open. That poor workmanship did give me my first sewing lesson.

Even so, I always treasured it for its weather versatility and the many memories I have with it, direct and indirect. Strangers around campus would occasionally “Hook ‘Em,” to which I don’t I know how to respond. Just to feel special, I wore my Texas hoodie only at Stanford and my Stanford hoodie back in Texas. Even in the student section at football games, any fan could pick me out as the one burnt orange dot in a mass of cardinal red.

It wasn’t my first all-weather overgarment. From receiving it at the end of sophomore year until graduation, my high school letter jacket almost never left my side. I sized it slightly large to get the feeling I was living inside of my jacket and for it to be just like all of the letter jackets of the bigger upperclassmen. That jacket also has the memories it carried me through, but that tie was broken easily as soon as I graduated. I can’t remember if I had any lingering expectation of its warmth and comfort when the following opportunity to use it came, but I knew when it was done for.

My new hoodie is nice; it’s from my freshmen dorm and remained unworn for about 2 1/2 years in the shadow of my Texas hoodie. A hoodie is a hoodie, but it’s not. Having worn the other hoodie for so long, I immediately recognized the fuzziness of the inside, the slightly smaller stomach pocket, the looser hood string, and the wider head opening. Maybe it will soon mean something to me, but for now, it’s just a hoodie that I feel too guilty to never use completely.

Last quarter, a friend who I saw regularly saw me without my hoodie once when the weather turned nice, and he commented that he had never seen me without it on. For how little I concern myself with my attire, I’m impressed by how much of an impression my tendencies make on other people, whether it’s denim shorts at marching band rehearsal or a heavily faded burnt orange hoodie at all times. Clothes don’t make the man; I don’t define myself by this hoodie, but it matters. We cling to the pieces that become so regular in our lives, serious or silly, big or small. A hoodie is a hoodie, but it’s not. At least, not the way I wore it.

You must go to see this movie.

I don’t consider myself much of a trail-blazer when it comes to new technology. I refused a new phone this past winter because it looked complicated, I don’t really care much for keeping up on the latest revisions and features for Google News or iOS, and I don’t really care that much about gadgets. When I say this, I’m only partially trying to portray myself as a hip luddite who’s better than the latest trends in technology. I usually try to stay pretty up-to-date on the tools I use and am not reluctant to find and use things that seem helpful.

Even though browser wars have been a big deal since Firefox shook things up a few years ago, I usually don’t notice much of a difference between the browsers. When I mentioned to a friend the other day that I had switched over to Chrome after being a stable Safari for so long, he pointed out that I had had a similar switch when Safari 4 came out. Thinking back, I used Firefox for a year and a half, Safari for a year and a half, and am now on to Chrome. And all because it’s faster.

Freshmen year, I had to look up something on a friend’s computer, and when I asked him why he used Safari, he simply said, “Because it’s faster than Firefox.” I scoffed, pointing out the value of extensions, search options, and such, though I eventually realized that extensions weren’t changing my experience that much. A browser should load webpages, and assuming it does that fine, about the only other important thing is that it’s fast.

Or at least it’s important that it should seem fast. And Chrome seems fast. I’ll let the benchmarks call the shots on actual load times, but I realized awhile ago that load times don’t really matter unless my behavior adjusts as well. A few keyboard shortcuts are different, but otherwise, the experience is largely the same as it was with Safari, with 2 notable exceptions.

First, I don’t think it plays nicely with PDFs. I tried using the PDF plugin, but that didn’t really quite cut it. Being able to load PDFs in the browser or embedded in a frame is convenient, especially if I just need to take a peek. That’s pretty annoying.

Second, the omnibar is kind of cool. I’m still not quite used to the auto-complete preference-y sort of stuff having gotten so used to the auto-complete style of Safari, but I’m sure I’ll come around. The one thing that I will highlight as being amazing, though, is adding a search engine for “I’m Feeling Lucky”. Often, my searches really are just converting one very specific query into the only matching URL that I can’t remember or am too lazy to type out the entire URL. “I’m Feeling Lucky” is only slightly faster than pulling up the search page and clicking the first link, and there’s a non-trivial chance I’ll be led astray. I just started trying it, and I’m already a huge fan because I think I’m going to get smarter with using it as well.

Which is my latest realization: it’s less important that the browser seems fast as it is that I can access pages and data fast. Typically, that means the browser running fast, but it can also be cool shortcuts and smart design to make me a more efficient user. So in summary, my Firefox days were about cool browser features. My initial Safari days were about having a fast browser. My late Safari days were about having a browser that seemed fast. And now my Chrome days are about seeming to browse faster.

Features and speed seem to grapple in some sort of strange trade-off, though I feel somewhat silly about how much my thoughts on them have changed. Extensions might just be wingdings to make fireworks explode whenever you click on a link with more than 20 characters in it, but they can also be tools to automate common actions. Speed might just be fast load times, but it’s also whether I have multiple tabs open because I’m expecting it to take a long time for ESPN to load.

So Chrome is winning the war in my head right now as the browser for regular use. Give me another year and a half, and I’ll be certain then that Opera is the way to go.

Before heading out to the midnight premiere, my friend Leland emailed out a warning about the movie: 10% fresh on rottentomatoes.com . Admittedly, the fresh rating is often somewhat harsh, though having watched the movie, I’m still surprised: that means there was even 1 in 10 critics who liked the movie.

“The Last Airbender” is based off of “Avatar: The Last Airbender,” a Nickelodeon cartoon show that ran for 3 seasons. Set in a world based on a blend of traditional East Asian mythology, “benders” manipulate the four elements (earth, air, wind, and fire) to battle using martial arts and magic. In the movie, Katara (Nicola Peltz) and Sokka (Jackson Rathbone) of the Water Nation find Aang (Noah Ringer) frozen under the ocean. Soon, Prince Zuko (Dev Patel), exiled from the Fire Nation, finds them on his quest to find and capture the Avatar, the one being who can use all 4 elements and threatens the tyranny of the Fire Nation, to restore his honor. Soon, Aang, Katara, and Sokka are on a quest to go north so that Aang can learn water bending.

Usually I take the 2nd paragraph to give a plot synopsis for context: explanations make more sense when the central idea is in place. This particular synopsis, however, I feel gives a much different context. The movie suffers from what I call the “Wolfram MathWorld” effect: the content only makes sense if you already understand it in advance, making it very close to useless. Fans will see parts of familiar episodes along the way, yet without the actual story of the episode, the events end up being meaningless. Newcomers will be blown through a series of apparently trivial events, often briefly explained in advance by a voiceover that makes you wonder why the scene would ever need to be shown.

Don’t worry, though, as none of the scenes last very long anyways, which also helps to quickly move on from gaping plot holes. Although the TV show was best-known for its goofy and clever dialogue, a large portion of the script is just exposition, often in scenes less than 5 lines long. The quick cuts never truly develop the characters, and instead of enjoying the subtleties of Katara’s overbearing nature and Sokka’s jester-like insight, you instead get the sense that they’re both far braver than intelligent and only along for the ride.

It’s hard to know how good the acting is working with such poor dialogue, but the actors seemed to generally miss the spirit of their characters. Patel as Zuko ends up being angry instead of conflicted, and Ringer ends up swinging wildly between being childish and outraged instead of refreshingly naive. The use of close-ups, however, never truly show any emotion from the characters and instead have that campy sort of suspense from Captain Kirk. A ton of over-the-shoulder camerawork with the speaking character also makes me believe that none of the dialogue was delivered believably.

Even beyond plot and characters, one might hopefully find entertainment in the visuals and action: in a world of elements flying wild and martial arts experts sparring, there are many opportunities to distract from the more purely cinematic qualities of the movie, yet even these disappoint. 3D effects were used minimally, and the style of bending never gave rise to a furious melee. Instead of tentacles of water flailing about to ward off flamethrowers, you’re instead treated to a few dance moves as the elements are invoked, leading to a slow and somewhat predictable attack and parry.

Often, the most successful movies today have something for everyone, whether that’s mixing adult humor in dialogue with cute animals or mixing a romantic sub-plot into a war scene. A step below that is the movie that narrowly targets a single demographic, whether a romantic comedy or a stoner film. And below that is “The Last Airbender,” which manages to do wrong by any potential moviegoer. For newcomers, I’m so sorry you sat through it. For the fans of the show, I implore you: remain in blissful ignorance of how M. Night Shyamalan could have completely misunderstood what made the show good.

Classes ended 2 weeks ago, my finals a week after that, and my total freedom also as I’m already a half week into my summer job. The summer brings along exciting things to look forward to, but I think it’s my time to reflect on another year gone.

I learned that communication is a joint activity. I learned the lyrics to “Hey, Soul Sister.” I learned how to clean battery contacts with vinegar. I learned about what we do and don’t know about receptive field changes in neurons in visual areas. I learned about how schools are selected for bowl games. I learned that Hewlett 200 is not a good room for a comedy show. I learned about legitimately putting together a theme for a blog. I learned how to kayak. I learned how to play “contact.” I learned about how machine learning techniques can improve speed dating techniques. I learned how to put together a syllabus for a class. I learned about Merlinpeen. I learned how to integrate sensory details into nonfiction work.

It seems like I’ve themed my past year end entries around some big lesson of the year. Freshmen year of college was about seeing a bigger world. Sophomore year was actually figuring out why I liked what I was learning about. I think this year was about realizing that I have fun like a normal person, which kind of has two parts.

First, I can be a dork and not reinforce it with my every action. I’m not denying anything. Note several facts from the other day:

• I made at least 2 Star Wars jokes
• I lamented to my friend Ben, “Why can’t we have Starcraft 2 right now?”
• I spent a good chunk of time this afternoon reading about cilantro/coriander

I feel blessed to be at college where this type of behavior isn’t cause for concern. I’m not beyond having long, late night conversations with friends about Starcraft 2, but among my regular group of friends, I think we’re far more likely to be talking about sports, movies, and burritos. I think I’ve been fighting my curiosity and fascination with pop culture for a long time. Thanks to the influence of my hallmates, I think I’ve listened to far more Ke$ha and Gaga than Canadian Brass and Gene Pokorny this year, and I might be better at 7 Degrees of Kevin Bacon than chess.

It’s not fair to say that I have a curiosity with pop culture. Said like that, I watch pop culture unravel as an academic analysis of societal trends and preferences. And that’s pretty dorky. After all these years of eschewing pop culture as mindless and unproductive, I’m beginning to see what the appeal is. It’s fun. And I think that’s something I was missing for awhile there.

As much fun as sophomore year was, junior year has been a huge bounce back for me. Particularly, my entire floor in Robinson is coming off a huge high that we had all of spring quarter. At first, we were just excited to be entirely reunited after a few people left for the winter to study abroad, but as the school year started to feel long, we never let up on the distractions. Whether it was a sleepover on the balcony or a continuous conversation in the hallway from after dinner to bedtime as people cycled in and out, I’m glad we found activities not centered around our N64 or YTMND.

Second, there shouldn’t be any guilt with having fun. The great news about summer is that there are firm boundaries and expectations about investment in work. Most jobs are 9 to 5, and when the clock strikes 5, it’s permissible to drop everything and move on with the rest of life. In essence, there’s no guilt about not working long hours for most jobs. In many ways, school is a job, but one very big difference is that the school day is never really over. During the school year, literally every moment is a potentially study moment, and with each tick, you’re either making it or wasting it.

Which is the worst possible way to think about it. Because we’re irresponsible college students, we spend time doing all sorts of random things, from watching Lakers-Celtics games to visiting Buddhist monasteries. Many extracurricular activities are done strictly for fun and relaxation, and those are moments spent not studying. I realized that as soon as I thought about that fact, I ruined the movie I was watching or the game of racquetball I was playing. Instead of enjoying and relaxing, I was worrying about my opportunity costs. It would be the worst possible use of my time: not studying and not having fun.

Having heard my lessons, you shouldn’t worry that I’ve lived some hedonistic lifestyle and forsaken my studies for fun alternatives. Although it’s cliche, this all boils down to me finding some sort of balance in my life. The classic divide is between work and pleasure, but my situation can be summarized as work guilt. Too little, and I might never get around to doing what I need to. Too much, and I’m stuck worrying without being any more productive.

Although there are always ups and downs, I feel like I had it all this past year. I’m proud of what I accomplished, I’m so pleased with the random experiences that paved the path, and I’m grateful for the people around me who laughed when I laughed, distracted me when I was tense, and supported me when I went into the tank. Life wasn’t a year-long Hawaiian vacation, but that’s not really how you have ice cream for dinner anyways.

Everyone is talking about this. Other than the specific events, I’ve purposely avoided my usual baseball news to hopefully write something not entirely stolen from other writers. And so, let me begin to explain my strong opinions about something I don’t know very much about.

For me, there are 2 main issues that come out of this situation. First, should Commissioner Bud Selig reverse the call and grant Galarraga the perfect game? It’s within his power to make decisions for the best of the game, and many have said that he should. I believe that he is not obligated to reverse the call and probably shouldn’t. Second, what role should instant replay have in baseball? I believe that instant replay shouldn’t be a part of baseball.

Jim Joyce clearly made the wrong call. Galarraga clearly had his foot on the bag a full half-step before Jason Donald. Not only was this an incorrect call, it’s a badly incorrect call. Baseball is a game of inches, but when you can see on TV in real-time that a call was wrong, the play wasn’t that close. People aren’t calling for Bud’s intervention and a change in baseball policy because an umpire missed a call: that happens often enough that you’ll notice that baseball commentators will sometimes gloss the call when they show instant replays on TV (in comparison, I feel like basketball or football commentators will always point out when a foul is incorrectly called or missed). People are calling for Bud’s intervention because it was a dramatically significant moment, and all parties feel sorry about it, and I don’t think that’s good enough.

The most important point, though, is that reversing the call won’t make things right. In the history books, Armando Galarraga’s perfect game will always have an asterisk next to it, and that’ll diminish the significance of it. Who knows how many other significant achievements have or haven’t happened because of a call, whether balls or strikes, counting an infield hit as an error, or a play on an out. And if we’re just looking for getting things for the books, I actually think this game might be more notable if the call stands and is marked as one of the many oddities in baseball history.

It’s far too late, though. In fact, as soon as Joyce called him safe, it was too late. Watching old footage, perfect games end in the bench clearing and the whole team mobbing the pitcher, either jumping up and down or hoisting him up to the cheers of the entire stadium and radio announcers reading off the scoreboard. Galarraga will never have that moment (unless he pitches another perfect game), but it’s okay, because he as well as everyone else knows what he accomplished.

To be honest, though, I’m not really that interested in that story. I’m heartless and am not particularly interested in the human side of the story and am more interested in what happens with policy change in baseball. Here’s a case where instant replay would have helped to make the correct call. From an objective perspective, the video footage can’t lie. The argument against the use of instant replay tends to romanticize traditional aspects of the game. I am totally in favor of that. In a discussion over Facebook, a friend questioned whether it was truly right that we should be valuing human fallibility in judging. Well, when you put it that way, I guess not. But sort of yes.

The NHL, NFL, and NBA have all embraced instant replays as a part of the game. I actually think it’s ridiculous how much the NFL values instant replay when spotting the ball is very arbitrary, but I don’t often hear people complain about referees making more accurate calls. Instant replay has even become a part of baseball in ruling home run balls. Baseball is built upon a system of judgments calls. The strike zone will change over the course of the game, and that sort of interaction with the home plate umpire’s calls makes baseball interesting for me. Extending instant replays onto the field brings about a greater scrutiny that I’m not certain will benefit the game.

I know my perspective is absurdly conservative and naive, but I kind of like the game the way it is. Baseball is a slow sport, but it can’t be that slow. Compare, say, a Roy Halladay game to a Red Sox-Yankees game. In the former, the game is still slow, but Halladay works fast, and two hours later, you just watched a pitcher go after batters for 9 innings and craftily duel and retire the other side. In the latter, the game is still slow, and the rivalry is fun, but when Derek Jeter steps out of the batter’s box again, you wonder where the last 4 hours of your life went. Now, the introduction of instant replay can slow down the game even more. I know first-hand how much of a downer a play under review can be at a football game. In the middle of a usually close moment when you want to see things play out, the referees instead huddle, put on the headphones, and go into the tank while the crowd loses energy and maybe even sits down. What a drag.

I won’t stop watching if baseball does introduce instant replay more generally; it’ll still be a good game. I might, however, complain loudly unless instant replay remains solely in the judgment of the head umpire. Specifically, I don’t think it’s a right of the managers to challenge a play like in football. They can certainly discuss a call and ask why like they do now, but again, you just have to accept the calls as they come. If an umpire legitimately misses a call on the spot and wants more information, it’s not unreasonable to get help from the instant replay, but that’s the umpire’s call.

My car left Friday early afternoon and reached the edge of civilization around 4:30. From there, we drove along 14 miles of dirt paths. Out one side was a cliff wall, out the other was a straight drop, and ahead was a mass of bumpy rocks. Thanks to our intrepid drivers and 4-wheel drive, we arrived shortly before the dinner we were very anxious to have. As part of the guest practice program, we spent our mornings meditating and working with the residents and the evenings as guests. What that boils down to is that we ate a very tasty meal, then headed to the hot springs for some clothing-optional co-ed bathing before an early bedtime.

A few of us woke up at 5:20 the next morning to go to the morning zazen. The morning zazen is an hour of meditation followed by chanting. I myself was just glad to have not majorly offended anyone by desecrating any rituals or fallen asleep, though I later found out in training all of the things I had done wrong. That first morning, I worked in the kitchen, mostly cleaning and chopping vegetables. After lunch, I spent the day lounging around, writing and reading and enjoying the weather while cursing the bugs.

I found the entire experience very relaxing, though I remain deeply conflicted about the whole experience. Although I enjoyed the spirit of the community, I found the rituals unnecessary, like working in “noble silence” and walking into the zendo with the left foot first. That likely reflects my status as a guest who doesn’t understand the significance of much of what they do, but I imagine it would go from stifling to tiring fairly quickly. Beyond that, Tassajara has all of the features of an ideal life, which makes it all the more bothersome. Consider the following list of characteristics and practices:

• constantly available tea and coffee
• apparently rigid moral standards while not judging at all (as we were told, “We’re not moralists”)
• meditation
• organic, vegetarian food of very high quality
• sustainable use of biodegradable soaps
• no electricity in cabins
• overuse of the word “zen”
• yoga and tai chi sessions, even as time filler

So yes, in this context, that sounds an awful lot like the description of a Buddhist monastery in the United States. On second take, though, that sounds like the upper-middle class dream. For comparison, here are a couple things I found on the list of “Stuff White People Like.”

I certainly don’t mean to disparage Tassajara. In fact, it’s a credit to them that the American upper-middle class has borrowed so much from them. What it has made me realize, though, is that a lot of these things are luxuries by both common definitions. As incomes rise into the upper-middle class range, demand goes up, and they’re certainly not necessities.

All of these lifestyle choices, though, reflect what I see as socially-aware self-cultivation with a touch of snobbery. Combine the stereotypical meditating ascetic lifestyle with the pride of consuming more sustainable (but without sacrificing quality) goods, and out comes refined and thoughtful taste. It’s an attractive lifestyle, but I can’t help but to feel tinged with guilt about it. Perhaps it is more sustainable, but that’s something that most people can’t afford and can’t even afford to care about. In that sense, maybe the upper-middle class is just paying for peace of mind.

By the end of trip, I was certainly ready to go. The car ride back was filled with silly car games, radio scanning, and even a stop at a fast-food/dessert place. Although I was certainly happy for the experience, I ended up feeling somewhat ridiculous for having been at Tassajara and lived their lifestyle. When I was lying in bed Friday night after having used my bike light to find and use the toilet, I could only think about how strange my situation was. One choice different, and I would’ve spent the day hanging out on campus and been lying in my top bunk in my own sheets in my room. Instead, I got to get away, eat lentil cakes, dip in sulfur water, and learn how to meditate. What a luxury.