Seeing the World through X-Ray Glasses

I've just read one of those irritating American articles by columnists that can't be bothered to even check things up before agitating the populace. Such people explain why there is very intelligent stuff coming out of the States as well as ridiculous moronic stuff. In this case, one Carol Felsenthal tries to liken airport scanners to 1950s fluoroscopy — a bit like saying your iPhone is like a chest x-ray.

For the benefit of those who like it pictorial, look at this picture. The millimetre-wave scanners suggested for use in airport scans produce radiation in the EHF range (wavelength roughly 10 mm), while x-rays are typically about 10 million to 100 million times stronger. You would get about 0.5 to 1.5 chest x-rays worth of radiation just by flying across the Pacific, as even the EPA admits.

In short, choosing to fly already exposes you to millions of times more radiation than being scanned at airport security. Heck, they could scan Carol Felsenthal a million times and she'd still receive less radiation than she would flying from her office to her holiday home. As for privacy concerns, I'd rather pass through the scanner than be patted down.

Mental Monday

Today is all about journeys. Many things to do, much travelling. It is all a travail and a vexation of spirit, and yet a lot of happiness in actually getting things done. The human mind is a weird place to be. And yet, in some ways, it is the only place to be.

Word of the Day: Travail

The etymology of this relatively common word is unusual and slightly macabre. It's originally from the French travailler, which in turn comes from the Latin tripalium. That last Latin word literally means 'three stakes' and refers to some ancient and now long-forgotten instrument of torture.

A travail is then, in the original sense, a period of prolonged suffering, inflicted by some external agency. If that external agency is geographical (weather, terrain, distance), then the 'travail' becomes 'travel'.

These days, however, travel is something many of us have learnt to enjoy. I am always somewhat bemused when people complain about air travel. It's one of the most comfortable sources of silent meditation in my life, in comparison with other means of mass transportation.

To enjoy that, the flight should be at least six hours long, a period sufficient for proper fluid intake, buffering, relaxation, reading, exercise and the odd amount of movie-watching. In particular, I like trans-Pacific or trans-Eurasian flights, which give you anywhere from 12 to 20 hours of peace and quiet — assuming you don't have fellow travellers who produce some sort of negative stimulus.

Today, my travels will include the final stage on my odyssey from non-driver to family chauffeur as I drive my father around for the day. Dad's always driven me around at various stages in my life. Now, I get to return the favour. I hope it will be mere travel, and not travail.

Dryshod

There's something comforting about dryness. If you shake hands with someone, you don't want a clammy grip; if you are out walking, you don't want wet socks. I always have a warm, dry grip; I had a boss who had a problem with clamminess. When I was in the army, I remembered the advice of numerous veterans from millennia past and stocked up on foot powder. It was a habit I would never lose, keeping my feet dry.

I remember one afternoon in China, a trip that encompassed Shanghai and regions around. We had a cold day and it rained a lot. Everyone was somewhat wet. Back in the bus, I whipped out a bottle of foot powder and began to methodically dust down and dry my feet and socks. Foot powder is designed to absorb huge amounts of water.

My colleagues watched me with alarm, consternation, or incredulity. Some who thought they knew me well put it down to my usual lack of reasonable behaviour. Some were just amused.

But I was happy. My feet were dry. My socks were drying out. Everyone else was looking at and feeling their own wet feet. I offered some to the Iron Doc. He chuckled in his trademark way and accepted. He asked, "Do you always carry this around with you?" and I told him the story of my army life.

With the usual slightly mocking look, the Amazon took some. In that moment, as she rubbed the stuff in between her toes, I knew that dryness had won again.

Phuket

The name does not sound good in any Anglo-Saxon tongue. It is an OK place. The food is good. The shore is nice. It is pleasant enough. And I would not come back here ever again if I had the choice.