DASER eve
You don’t need Sherpas or a native guide to get across Washington, DC. It just feels like it.
I won’t pour the sad saga of buses and metros and connections into your ear; you can thank me later. Suffice to say it’s a two-hour jaunt, if you get lucky on all the connections, which fortunately last night I did, or I’d have been home at midnight instead of 10:20 pm. Putting together a route that got me there and back without taxis took me… I won’t tell you how much research time.
And doing the same today and Sunday? Forget it. Can’t be done. Buses don’t run early or late enough; the last-mile connection (so to speak) will have to be by taxi. Eh, well, so my pocket money this month goes toward conference. Worth it.
I noticed with a bit of dismay that the tables at dinner last night segregated themselves by gender. I’m not going to let that happen again if I can help it; I don’t hold with that. Not that my dinner companions weren’t wonderful women—they were. I still don’t hold with that. The guys are just going to have to get used to me.
All that, and I missed Jan Velterop’s keynote in the interest of getting home at a decent hour. I’m sorry about that; it’s a shame.
This morning I am meditating some mild speaking-truth-to-power when I have the chance to introduce myself publicly. I probably shouldn’t be considering anything of the sort. But heck, if rumors are true I ticked off M—–l G—-n; why would I stop at the target I’ve picked out? I’ve nothing to lose but my livelihood.