"Astronomy
compels the soul to look upwards and leads us from this world
to another."
Opening
Space
One
thing I've learned from my time as an astronaut: Space is far
more interesting than travel.
Perhaps
this is a funny observation from someone who spends his time as
a vagabond of sorts. You'd think the age old debate about whether
it's "the journey" rather than the destination would
be resolved in favour of the former by someone like myself (having
lived in numerous places over the course of my life), but I'm
strongly on the side of those whom while traveling, can't wait
for the trip to be over.
Call
it impatience. I think I'm just interested in what I'll find when
I get to the place that is the intended objective of the trip.
I was always the kid more interested in the treat at the bottom
of the cereal box than the cereal itself.
Perhaps
some context would be in order before I start searching through
the Corn Flakes.
I
normally live and study in Vancouver, Canada but thanks to the
generosity of a dear cousin, I'm now living south of San Francisco
in California's fabled Silicon Valley. Like all travel or time
spent away from home, daily routines and taken for granted securities
are rudely taken from a person when they leave the familiar for
the different or the exotic.
In
the midst of this once again, my past travels have come sharply
into focus. Thus, a few observations from my various missions
into different spaces.
Personal Space
When
I lived in Tokyo, Japan, the most compelling aspect of my time
there was the lack of personal space (as an aside, having a toilet
jammed up against the side of the bathtub meant for some interesting
tangles while exiting the shower in the mornings).
The cramped existence meant that activities I'd observed in private
in North America became part of public space in Japan.
It's
all about compacts there. Not the cars, the kind women carry in
their purses (I can't even imagine the possibility of a Lincoln
Navigator on the streets of Shibuya, but I'm digressing).
Women
in Japan love their compacts. On the train, in the shops, on the
street, one will invariably notice a woman with a compact staring
intently at pursed lips recently painted, or teased bangs perfectly
parted. The question for astronauts recently thrust into this
new world: What kind of vanity could prompt this sort of behaviour?
Reality
is of course, much less interesting than the hyperbole human beings
usually reach for when confronted with things unfamiliar. I learned
very quickly that for Japanese women, private spaces such as a
vanity mirror or a bedroom with an attached bathroom are luxuries
available to only the very wealthy. The invariable 10 minute makeup
check in the contorted rear-view mirror that is de rigueur for
the average North American woman is unheard of in Japan. In
Japan, cars like bathrooms are miniature. What is a woman to do?
Well, there is always the trusty compact mirror.
This
very foreign notion of space was at first disconcerting for me.
I attempted in vain to argue with the difference. In the end,
part of the charm of that universe became avoiding women on crowded
sidewalks who would stop mid-stride and reach for the compact.
Part of any space travel is the inevitable turbulence.
Office
Space
In
North America, the pinnacle of corporate success is an office
with a view of water. In Japan, perhaps only the president of
a major corporation makes do with an office (and not a very spacious
one at that). Everyone else inhabits massive rooms with banks
of desks that seemingly continue forever. The supervisor is allowed
a private desk. Most others share.
Office
workers in Japan smoke at their desks.
Here
in Silicon Valley, the average technical worker has an 8-foot
by 8-foot pseudo-office better known as "the cube."
I'm rather fond of mine, it's the first space I've inhabited in
an office that was actually my own.
My
cube is sparse. I have upon my desk a Sony Discman, a telephone,
a notebook computer and a framed picture of my wife. Thus, I have
64 square feet of space in which to park my miniaturized workstation
upon which all of my "work" is completed.
In
Silicon Valley, office workers leave their air-conditioned workspace
and exit the building in order to smoke. Since everyone in my
office smokes, on smoke breaks the office empties.
With 64 square feet of individual space, you would think that
it'd be enough room to allow those who don't enjoy the pleasures
of the tobacco weed an oxygen bottle. Pity the poor non-smoking
Japanese office worker.
My
thoughts on space pollution? The Japanese keep theirs indoors
where it belongs.
Cyber
Space
In
my Vancouver home there is small portion of our kitchen that contains
my desk. Upon my desk there is another notebook computer. In that
computer is the potential for me to communicate, to traverse massive
amounts of space, without having to journey. Thus, cyberspace
is my preferred medium for space travel.
From
time to time I check in on various Webcams located in my favourite
Tokyo places. I work to bridge relationships garnered from around
the world through ASCII text. I check the prices on different
airlines, in the off chance that time, funds and desire will synthesize
into another voyage to a space other than home.
Presently,
I'm working on a notebook computer in a cube in a foreign country
away from my kitchen. It seems frankly, maddeningly similar.
Virtual travel. Virtual space. A dull sameness that transcends
physical location.
Is
cyberspace travel voyaging for the sake of the journey?
Outer
Space
Last
fall, I was listening to a Canadian Broadcasting Company radio
program on a wind-tortured morning on the way to school. The program's
guest was an astronomer, speaking about light pollution and its
effect upon the ability of local astronomers to observe the stars.
Imagine
not being able to see the stars.
I
remember the same incredulity when looking up at the night sky
on a clear evening in Tokyo and seeing only the moon, and only
faintly at that. I remember further, catching a glimpse of the
sky while traveling in Thailand a few months later and being overwhelmed
by the number of stars dancing across the panorama.
I
stepped outside my office the other evening for a cigarette. I
looked up at the sky and as the last pink clouds of a California
sunset receded into the evening the stars began to sparkle, triggering
memories of times with stars and times without them.
Inside
an office, whether it is a room, a kitchen or a cube, there are
no stars. No point of reference to the divine.
End
Space
Looking
through a store in downtown San Francisco's Metreon movie complex
last night, I was struck by a quote fixed to the wall, taken from
Plato. I was looking at a photo reproduction of the Apollo 11
moon landing when I noticed the words: "Astronomy compels
the soul to look upwards and leads us from this world to another".
What sort of loneliness and wonder did Neil Armstrong feel as
he stepped off the landing of his flimsy craft onto the ancient
dust of the moon? Was he taken with the whole journey while he
was traveling, or was he simply consumed with the goal of getting
there?
Is
space travel really about women with compacts in compact spaces,
whose actions in one environment can be interpreted so differently
in another, though they are the same?
"Vanity
of vanities, says the Preacher; vanity of vanities, all is vanity.
What profit has a man from all his labour in which he toils
under the sun. One generation passes away, and another generation
comes; but the earth abides forever. The sun also rises, and
the sun goes down, and hastens to the place where it arose.
The wind goes toward the south, and turns around to the north;
the wind whirls about continually, and it comes again on its
circuit. All the rivers run into the sea, yet the sea is not
full; to the place from which the rivers come, there they return
again. All things are full of labour; man cannot express it.
The eye is not satisfied with seeing nor the ear filled hearing.
That which has been is what will be, that which is done is what
will be done, and there is nothing new under the sun."
Ecclesiastes 1:2-9
Copyright
© 2000 Robert Delamar All Rights Reserved
Robert Delamar
wanted a telescope for Christmas once when he was a child. He received
the Chronicles of Narnia instead. Both are windows into the world
beyond. He still thinks he would have received better marks in Science
classes if he got the telescope, but then he probably wouldn't be
the Managing Editor of *spark-online if he had.
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