For the past 9 months, a saccharine war has raged on the billboards, subway adverts, newspapers and televisions in New York. On the one hand stands the office of Mayor Mike Bloomberg, and against him stand the temporarily united forces of Coca-Cola, Pepsi Cola and Dr. Pepper Snapple, along with various bars, cinemas and other businesses that would stand to lose some profits. Having worked in many such establishments, and seen quite how many pints of cola can be made from a single $50 box of syrup, I can tell you there’s a lot at stake for them.

In the last year, Mike had a dream that no New Yorker would go out and consume any sugary beverage over 16oz. For those of you who don’t measure liquids by the weight they’d have if they were made of pure water (go America), that translates to 473ml, which is exactly one American pint, and is a bit short of a British pint. This doesn’t prevent refills, and still allows for supermarket shoppers to pick up 2L bottles, so it seemed quite bizarre to me that anyone would actually feel a pinch at this rather light legislation. After all, in France, Britain, Japan and Brazil (at least) a ‘large soda’, as defined by McDonalds, is about half the size of their ‘large soda’ in the USA, at around 450ml as opposed to 30oz (887 ml).

This isn’t Bloomberg’s first health kick. NYC was one of the first cities to ban indoor smoking, and in 2011 added most public outdoor spaces to that too. He pushed through the first law requiring fast-food restaurants to display calorie counts, which is now a federal law for any chains, and can be horrifically scary if you venture into say, KFC. He also banned trans-fats in restaurants and is looking at cutting back on sodium too.

Maybe thanks to Bloomberg, maybe thanks to continuous immigration from healthier places, or maybe just because they’re always so busy and don’t have cars, New Yorkers are already a healthy bunch. The average New Yorker, whilst maybe somewhat bigger than an average European or South American, is a generally fit and slim individual by American standards. A walk down the street shows nothing like the ~30% obesity rate that is generally given as the average for an American adult. My Portuguese teacher recently told me that she was surprised people were so thin when she moved here, after growing up seeing American TV and tourists. “Thinner than in Brazil?” I asked. She didn’t stop laughing for a good few minutes.

Bloomberg began with a campaign “Are You Pouring On The Pounds” which showed as graphically as possible just how much sugar is in one bottle of soda, iced tea, or even ‘Vitamin water’ and so on. Some of them were quite sickening, some wonderfully enlightening and none of them really felt too far from the truth. It worked, too, I went from the occasional fizzy drink to drinking nearly nothing but water, tea and fresh fruit juices.

Not generally having access to TV, it was only very recently I saw that campaign at a friend’s house. In the ad I saw, three friends sit at a bar, two ordering a ‘cola’ and the third sitting there eating his way through sixteen packets of sugar. “You wouldn’t do this”, ends the advert, in a manner somewhat reminiscent of the IT Crowd’s anti-piracy parody.

One major difference I’ve noticed about American advertising is that it’s very confrontational. Rather than a simple ‘enjoy our product’, advertisers are happy to call out their competitors by name and make hilariously selective point-by-point comparisons in the areas in which they have an advantage. In much the same style, the drinks companies quickly fought back with some very directed adverts of their own, such as the “Don’t let bureaucrats tell you what to drink” campaign. This, unfortunately, didn’t quite have the same impact because, let’s face it, it’s a pretty hard case to argue on the actual health merits being called into question.

That’s not to say it’s only rich companies arguing the point though. The papers today are full of quotes from ‘real New Yorkers’ in favour of choice, and in Mississippi, the state with the highest obesity rate of all, they’re going one step further. Not just content with avoiding having hippies like Mike Bloomberg (who is, lest we forget, number 13 on the Forbes Rich List), they’re actually looking to proactively pass laws protecting gluttonous consumption.

There may not be any need though. Today it was ruled that Bloomberg’s latest soda law will not pass because it is overly arbitrary, given the loopholes needed to prevent NYC stepping outside of its jurisdiction. So, it seems that for now, the great state of Mississippi, the obese activists in New York and soft-drinks companies are – per the American Dream – free.

The ruling “serves as a major blow to Mayor Michael Bloomberg’s incessant finger-wagging,” said J. Justin Wilson at the Center for Consumer Freedom, created by restaurants and food companies. “The court confirmed what most New Yorkers already know: They don’t need a government regulator to dictate their diet choices. New Yorkers should celebrate this victory by taking a big gulp of freedom.”
~Associated Press

The large Big Gulp sold by 7-11 was recently reduced in size to a mere 50oz (1.5 litres). America, Freedom, Liberty…Fuck Yeah.

Xx

One of the greatest feelings in life, for me, is that of realising I’ve learnt or understood something new.

The learning process itself can vary in enjoyment. Falling down a too-tricky slope repeatedly is as much a part of learning to ski as is sitting in beautiful surroundings watching a graceful friend demonstrate some tips. On the more intellectual level, struggling with a particularly difficult maths or physics problem can often be absolutely fascinating, but it can also sometimes be near mind-numbingly boring to see and digest the lengthy reasoning behind how and why something works. Making the same mistakes in a new language over and over, and constantly coming up against a lack of grammar or vocabulary is one of the most frustrating learning experiences for me, but I’ve rarely been in a language-learning class or discussion that hasn’t involved a whole lot of laughter.

But, after all this, when I’ve actually acquired some new ability, the rush of pleasure is superb. Realising I’m skiing with a remarkably improved technique; being able to solve some interesting classical mechanics problem and seeing its outcome in reality; and the meta-conscious thoughts of ‘wow I’m talking about shower-head pressure in a different language’ midway through the conversation are all memorable moments from recent months. Obviously, I’ve been out skiing a lot, and when I’m not in my Portuguese classes I’m often chatting with some Brasilian friends, but I also spend a good amount of time at work learning too.

A lot of my more academic learning – both at work and at home – has come from Coursera. Back in 2011, I was enthalled with the free MIT physics lectures and material I was enjoying through OpenCourseWare but Coursera, just 9 months old right now, has taken that to a whole new level. It was founded by Andrew Ng and Daphne Koller from Stanford, and I’d previously taken a free online Machine Learning course from Andrew Ng, the success of which was presumably a large influence in his decision to found Coursera.

Coursera offers both undergraduate and graduate-level courses – known as MOOCs, or Massively Open Online Courses – from top universities, mostly US based, for free to anyone who wishes to sign up. Starting in the next week we have courses in Classical Music Composition, Epidemology, Latin American Culture and Volcanic Eruptions, to name but a few. I’m currently pursuing both Calculus and Data Analysis courses, and am signed up for Discrete Optimization and Computer Vision courses in the future. One could, with absolute ease, fill up their days from now until eternity (for a precise date see The Future Of Humankind, beginning soon) with online learning from Coursera.

These courses are not just series of video lectures, but generally include some metric of evaluation and a forum for peer discussion. The forums I’ve seen have been alive and well, often staffed by the professor(s) and TAs, but with the majority of help and discussion coming from the course community. Meetups and other physical reading groups are encouraged, and in the R&D department at which I work we often have such groups dedicated to a Coursera course. The evaluation may be a series of exams, of weekly assignments, but in some cases I’ve seen nearly everything hinge on a final exam or a few large-scale, peer-reviewed assignments.

Even more interestingly, these courses are beginning to gain merit and recognition. I’ve seen a number of résumés listing Coursera or other online courses recently, and they’ve even begun to offer a Signature Track and College Credit. The former, for some small fee, allows one to confirm their identity and that they have indeed earned Certificates of Achievement (or Distinction) for completing a Coursera course and gaining a certain percentage/grade. The latter, even more interestingly, is offered on a few courses which have been evaluated by the American Council on Education’s College Credit Recommendation Service, and allows for completed Coursera courses to be used as ‘credit’ in an American Universities. The general system over here is that once a student has obtained a certain number of ‘credits’, they may graduate, and the cost-per-credit at any respectable University is massively higher than the fee Coursera charges. Whilst Coursera generally runs on an honour code, for these there is often some more trying stage such as a proctored exam, to give confidence to employers and other interested parties that a given student has truly earned their qualification.

All in all, it’s a superb service, and a great learning opportunity. Check their latest courses and sign up for one today.

Xx

I’ve found that one of the most effective ways to meet and impress a girl, is simply to walk up to her and say “Hello”.

I’m not, as others might, suggesting that pick-up lines are terrible and corny and likely to be a turn-off (and whilst “Can I buy you breakfast?” has never yet worked, I’m still hopeful). Neither am I reinforcing the popular philosophy that one should simply be direct and to-the-point, dispensing with social clichés in favour of taking life by the horns and living each day like it was a bull. Or something. No, I’m simply trying to make the point that the stereotype about being in America with a British accent is surprisingly, and wonderfully, quite true.

Should I really wish to turn on the charm, I need only to throw in a few idioms of British English too. Using the word ‘fancy’ to mean anything other than ‘overly elegant’ is a sure-fire winner, ‘queueing’ rather than ‘standing in/on line’ has had some limited success, and ‘fags’ instead of ‘cigarettes’ is pretty much still discouraged. In clothing, ‘trousers’ seems to be considered cute, whereas ‘jumper’ (to mean ‘sweater’) invites only ridicule and confusion. In fact, anything which replaces an existing meaning (‘chips’, ‘football’) should be avoided in favour of something which simply adds to the vocabulary.

When a friend from back home came to visit, he found a similar approach – that of simply asking American girls to say common words (coffee/kaw-fee, y’all, and so on) for his amusement – to be very effective. Then again, the fact that he now lives in London was also probably a strong draw: no matter how much they read about the preparation for the Olympics, no matter how much I bemoan the Tube or describe the lingering grey skies, Americans love London. Thanks Harry Potter.

However, none of my adventures in cosmopolitan New York have quite exceeded the following tale from my original New York partner-in-crime, with whom I shared my first flat (an exception to the replacement rule, ‘flat’ instead of ‘apartment’ is generally good-to-go, but ‘flatmate’ instead of ‘roommate’ can kill a conversation). Rob’s living back in London nowadays, but is on an extended trip to Eagan, Minnesota, where he had this experience:

100% True: I just had a sandwich person from Subway burst out laughing when I ordered. She then had to be taken off her shift due to an uncontrollable giggling fit. “I only ever heard it on TV!”

If that’s not enough, housewives all over the Midwest are currently getting hot and bothered by the passages from 50 Shades Of Grey that Rob, without knowing the source, was asked to recite for a quickly-procured camera, by some equally impressed, but less hysterical, locals he met out in the Land of 10,000 Lakes.

Thank you America.

Xx

In 1908, Israel Zangwill popularised yet another new nickname for the greatest city on Earth, adapting Romeo & Juliet to the Lower East Side of Manhattan, wherein an immigrant Russian Jew hopelessly falls in love with an immigrant Russian Christian. His play was The Melting Pot and the description is just as true today as it was back then.

Whilst nearly all of America is, to take my usual antagonistically imperialist approach, a fairly recent immigrant community, the majority of the USA has settled on a national identity, but with 60% of the population of New York composed of immigrants and children thereof, it’s only natural that New York is constantly evolving and changing its identity.

The neighbourhoods are still, to a degree, segregated here (the academic term, I have learned, is ethnic enclaves), which helps to preserve immigrants’ national identities. Sometimes, this can be stifling and prevent any mixing, such as the large areas within Queens where up to 20% of the populace speaks either very little, or no English whatsoever, and so mixes with few very people outside of its enclave. Often, however, these areas become destinations where other New Yorkers come to enjoy the culture, the food (oh the food) and everything else that there is to offer. The real smelting, however, comes at work and at play, where all segregation can be dropped and internationalisation reigns supreme.

Of my friends in New York, I count people born in over 24 different countries (just like me), from El Salvador and Columbia, to New Zealand and South Africa, a number of Russians and Eastern Europeans and more than a handful of Asian and African nations too. Of the rest, a disproportionately large percentage were born in New Jersey, but there’s still about 20 other states represented. If we take this one step further, counting parents’ nationalities as opposed to just birth locations, I can probably populate a fairly comprehensive map of the world with people I’ve met in the last two years. A census of New York in 2000 stated that over 36% of New Yorkers were foreign born, but illegal immigration and a disinclination to answer censuses in poor communities probably tips this number even higher again.

As the above shows, this segregation can often lead to localised homogeneity in ethnicity, and so a casual observer walking through any single neighbourhood may not quite appreciate New York’s ethnic diversity. They might, instead, be forgiven for thinking that The Melting Pot is simply a description of summer in New York, where we’ve had weeks of temperatures getting close to, or over, 100°F (37.78°C, 310.93K) and where walking for more than 15 minutes at a time without a towel and change of clothes is deemed extremely unwise.

It was at a traditional Independence Day party with a BBQ and party on my Spanish (sorry, Basque) friend’s rooftop, that these two definitions came together for me recently. I sat, with people from all over the world, drinking American beer, and sharing with them one of my culture’s most treasured traditions: complaining about the weather.

Honestly though? I love it. I’d rather be wet from excessive heat than endless drizzle any time of year.

Xx

I’ve written a lot about the New York subway system since I moved here. The surprising shallowness of its foundations; the life-saving air-conditioned carriages; pre-boarding and route-planning stratagems; the weird and wonderful things I’ve seen; and the odd skills I’ve taught myself during my commutes.

But, one thing I haven’t yet mentioned, is the set of social mores within the transient communities that form on platforms and within carriages. It’s taken some significant adaptation on my part to fit in with this new culture. Gone is the wonderfully British system of guidance, whereby deviation from the norms is punished first by a stern glance and, in the case of an egregious trespass, an audible tut. The guiding principles on the Tube are shame, and a maniacal aversion to causing offence, and it generally leads to an efficient, well-oiled system.

Here, things are much more direct, reflecting the stereotypically-American air of outward confidence. Whenever a crowd forms around the doors of a carriage, with space available further inside, invariably someone will audibly complain and berate those trying to preserve their hard-won position into moving towards the dead-zone between doors. This, initially shocking behaviour, has many positive outcomes. Where there is a margin-case for offering a seat (is she pregnant, or just a little large?), a verbal exchange may be had, as opposed to the more British conundrum whereby the seated party must either fully commit to standing, making naught but brief-eye contact, or sit in perfect silence.

New Yorkers seem more adept at managing themselves on platforms, whilst waiting for a train to arrive. Whilst the occasional tourist will block the top of a stairwell to find a map, earning themselves eternal damnation and a possible trampling, there is in general an even distribution of passengers at all possible entrances to a train, and none of the clustering towards the platform entrances that is so common in London; where announcers are needed to gently chide passengers to move along at regular intervals. That said, I do miss some of the announcers from my regular Tube routes, some of whom I’m sure were stand-up comics in their spare evenings.

The downside to all this independent thinking, confidence, liberty, all men being created equal and other such values, is that it applies equally to well-mannered suits as it does to New York’s less sociable population. Some disregard the norms for the sake of art, such as the lady chopping onions with a pretty sharp looking knife below, or the countless musicians and artists that feel the need to practise their craft between Bedford Ave and Union Sq on the L line.

Others, however, are simply more unpleasant. A streak of reports of people clipping their nails on the subway surfaced late last year, and one encounters yet more unsavoury acts every couple of weeks. Artist Jay Shells created a guerilla campaign to eradicate some of the more unpleasant habits held by certain travellers:

Whatever the trespass, New Yorkers can be assured that offenders will suffer both verbal redress, and also be subject to a mass of subtle iPhone photographers that will publicise their misdeeds on Twitter, Instagram, Facebook, and perhaps even SeatHogs.com.

Personally, so long as they don’t turn off the AC in the carriages or close stations and lines as often as the Tube does, I can put up with a whole lot worse before I say a bad word about the New York Subway.

Xx

I like to think of myself as a fairly intelligent person. I can write combinations of letters from the Greek alphabet that look intimidating and sometimes even have some mathematical value. I can make some nice sounds on a piano and I can communicate, with varying degrees of fluency, in a number of different languages. However, the practical side of real life has always bewildered me, and since moving country this has only gotten worse. Nowhere is this more clear than in my attempted interactions with the US Postal Service.

Back in the UK, I, at some unspecified point, developed a full understanding of the postal service. It was never explicitly taught to me, I never spent hours perusing websites, I just knew how to do what I wanted to do. But, every time I interact with the postal system here, it causes me so much stress that I back out of the operation and leave with a clinging sense of shame and failure. As an example, I qualified for my Advanced Open Water Diver license back in March of 2011. The form has sat, un-posted, in the three apartments I’ve lived in since that date because the very thought of somehow obtaining a passport photo and then posting it in forces me to prolonged, intense bouts of procrastination.

The first problem is that of getting a passport photo. Pharmacies – the ubiquitous home of all convenience needs in the city – all seem to advertise this service, but on the >10 times I’ve tried to take advantage of it, I’ve either been presented with blank, empty spaces or claims that the necessary machines are temporarily out of order. Photo booths appear to be a novelty item (there’s even a FourSquare badge for finding them), found in the back of bars and seemingly installed for the sole purpose of giving newly-met lovers a place for intimate privacy without them taking up much-needed bathroom space.

Next, the actual act of mailing the form, or anything else, defeats me. The fundamentals are, as far as I can tell, pretty much the same as back home. One writes a letter, buys an envelope and a stamp, combines the three and places the resulting compound into a postbox. But still, there’s something holding me back.

Maybe it’s that the paper is the wrong size. Maybe it’s that I feel dubious about entrusting my mail to a postbox that isn’t large and red and clearly stamped with the Crown and the words Royal Mail. Maybe it’s that I’ve never successfully bought stamps here — there are confusing machines at the post office, and apparently with a secret wink and handshake they can be obtained at the bodegas, but I haven’t yet tried this. Even if I procured stamps, I have no idea how many I need to use. Are there weight limits? Size limits? Does it cost more to post things out of state? I could probably look up some of this, but already I feel my heart racing and my mouth drying up just considering these permutations.

The few times I have managed to get a postcard back home or send in my taxes, I’ve simply embraced my shame, queued up at the gigantic post office near WTC, and pretended I’m only in town for the week and let the (un)friendly counter assistants walk me through the process as they would a small child, waiting patiently whilst I fill in a return address (a concept I’ve never understood), fill out customs forms and so on.

But now, I’m in trouble. On my SCUBA certification form, I’ve already crossed out the original Manhattan address I put down and filled in my next address in Queens. There is now no room for my new Brooklyn address, so I’m going (soon, I swear) to rely on the USPS’s ‘free’ mail-forwarding service to get the license to me. This service, provided for a simple $1 credit-card transaction to prove my identity, and in return for my agreeing to receive a number of confirmation letters through the post, which feature, on average, 23 separate adverts and targeted newly-moved offers.

There’s a reason I throw away unread all my post, other than exciting looking packages and handwritten letters of love from abroad.

Xx