Some of you may have heard of the case of the Sri Lankan teenager who has been sentenced to be beheaded in Saudi Arabia on charges that she murdered a four-month old baby left in her care. The baby allegedly choked to death while the girl, Rizana Nafeek, 19, was feeding him. Here is an article about the recent developments.
My heart goes out to the family of the baby who died. . . I truly believe that there's nothing worse for a parent than the death of a child. But taking the life of someone who made a heart-breaking mistake won't undo the tragedy and the wrongs that have already happened.
Please add your voice to calls to the baby's family and the Saudi government to pardon Rizana and spare her life. The east of Sri Lanka has already been ravaged by the war and tsunami and much loss and suffering. This is a heart-breaking fate to befall someone who wanted a better life for herself and her family.
An Amnesty International letter with addresses to send to.
A letter drafted by the Asian Human Rights Commission asking the baby's family to pardon her.
An online petition.
Thursday, July 26, 2007
Thursday, July 19, 2007
Strange encounter
Disclaimer: If you read this and think "Oh Puhleeze," allow me to assure you that I am in full agreement. This "episode" (for lack of a better word) takes on some minor significance only because of my reaction to it. Ok, now that you've read this, you HAVE to read the rest of the post! :)
For the past few weeks, I have been waking up early to go running in a park some distance from my apartment. The park, unfortunately, is far enough away that I spend considerably more time running TO it than actually IN it. I've been trying to find shorter ways to get there and have been making some progress in this quest, shortening the route to it by a little each today. Today, I managed to find the shortest.
On my way back, however, I miscalculated how far I was from the turn that would take me back home, and ended up turning too early. The result: my unfailing ability to get myself lost on the simplest of routes kicked in. I soon found myself completely turned around, lost in a web of tiny residential streets, with about five minutes left to get home to make it to work on time.
I began jogging toward the end of a small deserted street, in the general direction of where I thought I needed to be headed -- deserted, that is, except for the figure of a woman standing a few yards from where the road ended and another road ran across horizontally across it. The woman looked to be in her late 60s, with a noticeable bald patch on her head, dressed in a long skirt and a cardigan. What struck me, and sent a sudden chill through my body, was the way she stood -- shock still, erect and watchful, smack in the middle of the left side of the street, not off to the side as one normally would. She seemed to be watching for someone, and for a moment, I thought perhaps she was awaiting someone behind me. . . only, there was no one.
As I jogged towards her, she looked directly at me and bowed deeply -- like only the politest of Japanese waiters would. I smiled a little uneasily and continued on about half a minute past her. Discovering that the area was no more familiar than the place I'd traveled away from, I turned around to ask her for directions. . . only to find the road completely deserted. I looked toward the building, an old house, she'd been standing in front of, but there was no sign of anyone stirring.
I continued on, looking over my shoulder occasionally, trying to tell myself that my reaction was the result of one too many ghost stories around the campfire in which passersby saw lone women standing on the street, only to turn around and find them gone. But the uneasiness and the strange clamminess I'd felt upon first seeing her continued to disturb me.
I found my way eventually and sprinted home. My quick shower failed to dispel my nervousness, and even in my apartment, I continued to glance around me as I got ready. It was only when I reached the busy main street that I managed to calm down. And unbelievably silly though my reaction seems (she probably was a sleepwalking housewife), I do wonder. . .
For the past few weeks, I have been waking up early to go running in a park some distance from my apartment. The park, unfortunately, is far enough away that I spend considerably more time running TO it than actually IN it. I've been trying to find shorter ways to get there and have been making some progress in this quest, shortening the route to it by a little each today. Today, I managed to find the shortest.
On my way back, however, I miscalculated how far I was from the turn that would take me back home, and ended up turning too early. The result: my unfailing ability to get myself lost on the simplest of routes kicked in. I soon found myself completely turned around, lost in a web of tiny residential streets, with about five minutes left to get home to make it to work on time.
I began jogging toward the end of a small deserted street, in the general direction of where I thought I needed to be headed -- deserted, that is, except for the figure of a woman standing a few yards from where the road ended and another road ran across horizontally across it. The woman looked to be in her late 60s, with a noticeable bald patch on her head, dressed in a long skirt and a cardigan. What struck me, and sent a sudden chill through my body, was the way she stood -- shock still, erect and watchful, smack in the middle of the left side of the street, not off to the side as one normally would. She seemed to be watching for someone, and for a moment, I thought perhaps she was awaiting someone behind me. . . only, there was no one.
As I jogged towards her, she looked directly at me and bowed deeply -- like only the politest of Japanese waiters would. I smiled a little uneasily and continued on about half a minute past her. Discovering that the area was no more familiar than the place I'd traveled away from, I turned around to ask her for directions. . . only to find the road completely deserted. I looked toward the building, an old house, she'd been standing in front of, but there was no sign of anyone stirring.
I continued on, looking over my shoulder occasionally, trying to tell myself that my reaction was the result of one too many ghost stories around the campfire in which passersby saw lone women standing on the street, only to turn around and find them gone. But the uneasiness and the strange clamminess I'd felt upon first seeing her continued to disturb me.
I found my way eventually and sprinted home. My quick shower failed to dispel my nervousness, and even in my apartment, I continued to glance around me as I got ready. It was only when I reached the busy main street that I managed to calm down. And unbelievably silly though my reaction seems (she probably was a sleepwalking housewife), I do wonder. . .
Monday, July 16, 2007
Another first
I was deeply engrossed in producing an interview about an IPO in Hong Kong (ok, so maybe "deeply engrossed" is pushing it a bit) when Ed II suddenly looked up from his computer. "Did you feel that?"
I clicked on the pause button on the video player, looked up at him and frowned. It was Umi no Hi, or Sea Day, a national holiday in Japan, and we had a full load of work with a skeleton team of two producers and one editor. I was geared up to be a production machine and wasn't in the mood for interruptions. "Feel what?"
"That's an earthquake," he replied calmly, grinning widely at being the one to enlighten -- and shock -- the novice.
"What? Really?" I ripped off my headphones, and channeled all my energy into feeling whatever he had felt. Nothing. I was just about to pooh pooh his claim and dismiss the silliness of calling a barely-felt tremor an earthquake when suddenly, I felt myself sway.
I gaped at him. "Oh my gosh!" I rushed to the window, a little wobbly on my feet, as if I was on a boat on a somewhat turbulent sea. Not too shaky, but definitely not firm. And then it stopped. Outside, people on the street 21 floors below looked like multicoloured bugs, enjoying the day off and the atypical bright blue sky and warm sunshine. Nothing seemed amiss. I would have thought I had imagined it, if not for Ed II.
Still in shock, I was walking back to my desk when the building began to sway again. This was definitely disconcerting, this enormous 50-floor mass of concrete, metal and glass moving as if it was a mere twig on a tree branch. I sank into my chair still in shock, just as the headline flashed: "Earthquake shakes buildings in Central Tokyo" -- there's certainly nothing like experiencing the news as it happens.
Over the next few minutes, more headlines moved: "Earthquake is centered near Noto Peninsula on Japan Sea" and "Earthquake near Niigata, Japan, has magnitute of 6.6, NHK says." Niigata is nowhere near Tokyo, which made the fact that we had felt it here all the more irksome. I couldn't imagine the people in Niigata.
More stories came up over the next few hours, including one about a fire at a nuclear power plant in Niigata, and reports of between two and four deaths caused by the quake.
And then it was back to life as usual, at least in Tokyo. Which fits in with the general view of earthquakes here. When I first moved here, I was shocked and a little disturbed by how matter-of-fact people here are about the possibility of one happening. Relocation and real estate agents calmly advise new-comers to arrange furniture in a way that ensures safe exit -- and avoids squashage -- during an earthquake. Instructions from the gas company guy about what to do with your appliances during an earthquake are part of the service. Each ward has earthquake emergency procedures in place and designated evacuation sites. Not really surprising for one of the most earthquake-prone countries in the world. But not especially comforting either -- preparedness has its benefits, but it is also a constant reminder that one could happen at any time.
And now that I think about it, I really don't know what to do or where to go in an earthquake. That might be a problem. Particularly since Ed II just informed me that Tokyo itself is about 20 years overdue for the mother of all quakes.
I clicked on the pause button on the video player, looked up at him and frowned. It was Umi no Hi, or Sea Day, a national holiday in Japan, and we had a full load of work with a skeleton team of two producers and one editor. I was geared up to be a production machine and wasn't in the mood for interruptions. "Feel what?"
"That's an earthquake," he replied calmly, grinning widely at being the one to enlighten -- and shock -- the novice.
"What? Really?" I ripped off my headphones, and channeled all my energy into feeling whatever he had felt. Nothing. I was just about to pooh pooh his claim and dismiss the silliness of calling a barely-felt tremor an earthquake when suddenly, I felt myself sway.
I gaped at him. "Oh my gosh!" I rushed to the window, a little wobbly on my feet, as if I was on a boat on a somewhat turbulent sea. Not too shaky, but definitely not firm. And then it stopped. Outside, people on the street 21 floors below looked like multicoloured bugs, enjoying the day off and the atypical bright blue sky and warm sunshine. Nothing seemed amiss. I would have thought I had imagined it, if not for Ed II.
Still in shock, I was walking back to my desk when the building began to sway again. This was definitely disconcerting, this enormous 50-floor mass of concrete, metal and glass moving as if it was a mere twig on a tree branch. I sank into my chair still in shock, just as the headline flashed: "Earthquake shakes buildings in Central Tokyo" -- there's certainly nothing like experiencing the news as it happens.
Over the next few minutes, more headlines moved: "Earthquake is centered near Noto Peninsula on Japan Sea" and "Earthquake near Niigata, Japan, has magnitute of 6.6, NHK says." Niigata is nowhere near Tokyo, which made the fact that we had felt it here all the more irksome. I couldn't imagine the people in Niigata.
More stories came up over the next few hours, including one about a fire at a nuclear power plant in Niigata, and reports of between two and four deaths caused by the quake.
And then it was back to life as usual, at least in Tokyo. Which fits in with the general view of earthquakes here. When I first moved here, I was shocked and a little disturbed by how matter-of-fact people here are about the possibility of one happening. Relocation and real estate agents calmly advise new-comers to arrange furniture in a way that ensures safe exit -- and avoids squashage -- during an earthquake. Instructions from the gas company guy about what to do with your appliances during an earthquake are part of the service. Each ward has earthquake emergency procedures in place and designated evacuation sites. Not really surprising for one of the most earthquake-prone countries in the world. But not especially comforting either -- preparedness has its benefits, but it is also a constant reminder that one could happen at any time.
And now that I think about it, I really don't know what to do or where to go in an earthquake. That might be a problem. Particularly since Ed II just informed me that Tokyo itself is about 20 years overdue for the mother of all quakes.
Friday, July 13, 2007
Any hope for me?
I came across this article in the International Herald Tribune this week, written by a Japanese woman who lived abroad for many years before returning to Japan. If she's having problems, I figure I'd better resign myself to being one of those rude, awkward "gaijin." At least I won't be the only one!
Meanwhile: Japan's subtle etiquette code
By Kumiko Makihara
Tuesday, July 10, 2007
TOKYO: Every day in Japan I face etiquette dilemmas.
My son returns from camp with another child's clothes. Do I ship them back dirty, which seems sort of mean, or do I launder them, which would cause the owner to lose face?
My neighbor tells me to leave my phone number in her letter box if I want to occasionally receive baked goods from her. It seems forward of me to leave her my number, but I don't want to ignore her request.
I'm in a crowded train, and my nose is running. Blowing is considered disgusting here, but the alternative is disgusting to me.
From the proper degree of a bow (15 to 45 degrees depending on occasion) to how a lady eats a rice cracker (broken by hand into bite size pieces with handkerchief on lap), a complex and subtle etiquette code dictates the proper way to do everything in Japan.
Japanese embrace the rules because following them assures there will be no offensive or embarrassing moments. My parents implanted the code into me from childhood, warning that I would be shunned if I didn't learn the protocol. But my reflexes are rusty from having lived abroad for many years.
Judging from the large section of manners books at my local bookstore, I'm not the only lost, rude soul. Increased social interaction and new technology like cellphones and computers have diversified scenarios giving rise to more rules and a big demand for the latest etiquette guides. Last year, long-time former bureaucrat Mariko Bando set out to write a book on how professional women could maintain their emotional dignity in a male-dominated workplace, but her publishers urged her to cover etiquette tips like attire, manners and polite language. She complied, and "Dignity of a Woman" has become a best seller.
Manners books traditionally focused on "kan kon sou sai" - literally meaning the rites of coming of age - weddings, funerals and ancestor worship. Now they offer titles like "PTA Dictionary for Getting Along with Others and Writing Notes," which tells you how to inform the teacher that your child has to sit out gym class or how to wiggle out of committee duties. A letter-writing guide offers tips on composing an apology note to a store where you have shoplifted two packs of gum and some AA batteries, (express deep remorse even if the items are small) and declining an offer for a second hand piano (blame it on a scatterbrained child who now wants to take swimming instead).
It doesn't all end in this lifetime either. Funeral preparation books offer pointers on how to be well-regarded after death.
Want to make a phone call? I found four books on the store shelf devoted exclusively to phone manners with tips like no walking and talking on a cellphone because the other party might detect a roughness of breath or hear your footsteps. If you buy the phone guide, you might need a language handbook, too, to guide you through the maze of honorifics. I was recently tongue-tied with confusion on the phone with my father's secretary when trying to tell her my father didn't need to call me back. I must use respectful forms when addressing her but humble language when referring to my father or myself.
There are plenty of etiquette guides for foreign visitors, but it's probably most important to try to do as others do instead of flaunting what you think you may know. On several occasions I've seen foreigners striking wooden chopsticks against each other, smug that they know how to smooth off any splinters. That's actually a crass gesture. These people probably don't know that there are more than 30 faux pas chopsticks maneuvers each with their proper term like sucking and wandering.
A likely infraction that is a topic of much discussion these days is applying makeup on trains. It's become a common sight to see young women drawing their eyeliner and brushing on mascara with great dexterity in crowded morning commuter trains. While critics say grooming is a private act that others don't wish to observe, "there are still no rules for anonymous situations," says Bando.
I'm still trying to get my bearings back, and my current strategy is to overcompensate. I laundered and ironed the scraggly camp clothes and took a gift with me when I presented my neighbor with my phone number. On the packed train, I dabbed my nose and swallowed the rest. All for the sake of politesse.
Kumiko Makihara is a freelance writer based in Tokyo.
Meanwhile: Japan's subtle etiquette code
By Kumiko Makihara
Tuesday, July 10, 2007
TOKYO: Every day in Japan I face etiquette dilemmas.
My son returns from camp with another child's clothes. Do I ship them back dirty, which seems sort of mean, or do I launder them, which would cause the owner to lose face?
My neighbor tells me to leave my phone number in her letter box if I want to occasionally receive baked goods from her. It seems forward of me to leave her my number, but I don't want to ignore her request.
I'm in a crowded train, and my nose is running. Blowing is considered disgusting here, but the alternative is disgusting to me.
From the proper degree of a bow (15 to 45 degrees depending on occasion) to how a lady eats a rice cracker (broken by hand into bite size pieces with handkerchief on lap), a complex and subtle etiquette code dictates the proper way to do everything in Japan.
Japanese embrace the rules because following them assures there will be no offensive or embarrassing moments. My parents implanted the code into me from childhood, warning that I would be shunned if I didn't learn the protocol. But my reflexes are rusty from having lived abroad for many years.
Judging from the large section of manners books at my local bookstore, I'm not the only lost, rude soul. Increased social interaction and new technology like cellphones and computers have diversified scenarios giving rise to more rules and a big demand for the latest etiquette guides. Last year, long-time former bureaucrat Mariko Bando set out to write a book on how professional women could maintain their emotional dignity in a male-dominated workplace, but her publishers urged her to cover etiquette tips like attire, manners and polite language. She complied, and "Dignity of a Woman" has become a best seller.
Manners books traditionally focused on "kan kon sou sai" - literally meaning the rites of coming of age - weddings, funerals and ancestor worship. Now they offer titles like "PTA Dictionary for Getting Along with Others and Writing Notes," which tells you how to inform the teacher that your child has to sit out gym class or how to wiggle out of committee duties. A letter-writing guide offers tips on composing an apology note to a store where you have shoplifted two packs of gum and some AA batteries, (express deep remorse even if the items are small) and declining an offer for a second hand piano (blame it on a scatterbrained child who now wants to take swimming instead).
It doesn't all end in this lifetime either. Funeral preparation books offer pointers on how to be well-regarded after death.
Want to make a phone call? I found four books on the store shelf devoted exclusively to phone manners with tips like no walking and talking on a cellphone because the other party might detect a roughness of breath or hear your footsteps. If you buy the phone guide, you might need a language handbook, too, to guide you through the maze of honorifics. I was recently tongue-tied with confusion on the phone with my father's secretary when trying to tell her my father didn't need to call me back. I must use respectful forms when addressing her but humble language when referring to my father or myself.
There are plenty of etiquette guides for foreign visitors, but it's probably most important to try to do as others do instead of flaunting what you think you may know. On several occasions I've seen foreigners striking wooden chopsticks against each other, smug that they know how to smooth off any splinters. That's actually a crass gesture. These people probably don't know that there are more than 30 faux pas chopsticks maneuvers each with their proper term like sucking and wandering.
A likely infraction that is a topic of much discussion these days is applying makeup on trains. It's become a common sight to see young women drawing their eyeliner and brushing on mascara with great dexterity in crowded morning commuter trains. While critics say grooming is a private act that others don't wish to observe, "there are still no rules for anonymous situations," says Bando.
I'm still trying to get my bearings back, and my current strategy is to overcompensate. I laundered and ironed the scraggly camp clothes and took a gift with me when I presented my neighbor with my phone number. On the packed train, I dabbed my nose and swallowed the rest. All for the sake of politesse.
Kumiko Makihara is a freelance writer based in Tokyo.
Monday, July 09, 2007
Grace. . .
I watched Dead Man Walking today. Not intentionally. I was flipping through channels, trying to find something that would entertain me for half an hour before I got down to some serious Japanese studying. I stopped when I realized what the movie was, and, although I told myself I wasn't in the mood for something so serious, I couldn't change the channel.
As the movie progressed, I kept asking myself what I would have done if I had been in Sr. Helen Prejean's place. . . would I have stood by the wholly unlikeable, somewhat sleazy, unrepentant Matthew Poncelet who was accused of (and denied until the end) raping one and brutally murdering two teenagers, or would I have turned my back on him? I knew all too well what the answer would have been. Even if something in the man had moved me to stand by him when all others had turned away, it wouldn't have lived for long past the hurt and accusation in the eyes of the teens' parents when they realized a woman of God was taking the side of their children's murderer. I would have changed sides pretty quickly -- and no doubt I would have seemed right to do so.
But I would also have lost the opportunity to help save at least one soul. Because at the end of it all, it was Sr. Helen's persistence in showing love to a convicted murderer, despite all other opposition, including his admission of guilt, that brought both him and his victims' families to at least some understanding of grace -- him to tearfully acknowledge his guilt and need for forgiveness, and them to realize how much courage it takes to extend, if reluctantly and bitterly, that forgiveness.
At Poncelet's funeral, one of the teenagers' fathers approaches Sr. Helen and tells her wistfully, "I wish I had your faith."
"No," she responds. "It's not faith. I wish it were that easy. It's work."
And so it is. Faith motivates us to do the hard and unpleasant work needed to give it meaning, to make others look at us and see something different, something that they want others to see in themselves. Fraternising with prostitutes and tax collectors didn't improve Jesus' reputation or make his social life any easier. But he knew that they, despite their hard exteriors, were the ones that needed someone to reach out to them, to care for them, the most.
And so it is today. It is the office gossip, the school reject, the town grouch, those who seem to deserve the least, who need the most. I've realized that, these days, my idea of extending grace to someone I don't particularly like is to avoid them (after all, if I stay away, I avoid confrontation and keep from making our relationship any worse. . . that's grace of a sort, right?) But not doing harm isn't equivalent to doing good. Not by a long shot. Reaching out and taking a stand for those who seem undeserving of and ungrateful for our love is hard, thankless, heartbreaking work. But those who persevere will be rewarded in the end. . . and the reward may take on unexpected shapes and sizes.
As the movie progressed, I kept asking myself what I would have done if I had been in Sr. Helen Prejean's place. . . would I have stood by the wholly unlikeable, somewhat sleazy, unrepentant Matthew Poncelet who was accused of (and denied until the end) raping one and brutally murdering two teenagers, or would I have turned my back on him? I knew all too well what the answer would have been. Even if something in the man had moved me to stand by him when all others had turned away, it wouldn't have lived for long past the hurt and accusation in the eyes of the teens' parents when they realized a woman of God was taking the side of their children's murderer. I would have changed sides pretty quickly -- and no doubt I would have seemed right to do so.
But I would also have lost the opportunity to help save at least one soul. Because at the end of it all, it was Sr. Helen's persistence in showing love to a convicted murderer, despite all other opposition, including his admission of guilt, that brought both him and his victims' families to at least some understanding of grace -- him to tearfully acknowledge his guilt and need for forgiveness, and them to realize how much courage it takes to extend, if reluctantly and bitterly, that forgiveness.
At Poncelet's funeral, one of the teenagers' fathers approaches Sr. Helen and tells her wistfully, "I wish I had your faith."
"No," she responds. "It's not faith. I wish it were that easy. It's work."
And so it is. Faith motivates us to do the hard and unpleasant work needed to give it meaning, to make others look at us and see something different, something that they want others to see in themselves. Fraternising with prostitutes and tax collectors didn't improve Jesus' reputation or make his social life any easier. But he knew that they, despite their hard exteriors, were the ones that needed someone to reach out to them, to care for them, the most.
And so it is today. It is the office gossip, the school reject, the town grouch, those who seem to deserve the least, who need the most. I've realized that, these days, my idea of extending grace to someone I don't particularly like is to avoid them (after all, if I stay away, I avoid confrontation and keep from making our relationship any worse. . . that's grace of a sort, right?) But not doing harm isn't equivalent to doing good. Not by a long shot. Reaching out and taking a stand for those who seem undeserving of and ungrateful for our love is hard, thankless, heartbreaking work. But those who persevere will be rewarded in the end. . . and the reward may take on unexpected shapes and sizes.
Tuesday, July 03, 2007
The latest challenge. . . wi-fi
So I finally got tired of tripping over all the cable wires and the power wires surging out of various electrical appliances. I also realized that I was sorely missing my wireless router. So last week, off I went to good ol' Bic Camera (the equivalent of Comp USA/Best Buy/Circuit City etc). I've wandered through the store enough times now to have a pretty decent idea of what's where (and the chart that shows what's on each floor is in English too. . . yaay!)
So I ambled up to the third floor, unusually confident and excited at the thought of doing away with at least one of the tiresome wires. I was a bit thrown when I got to the signs that read wireless LAN and wired routers (since I was looking for a wireless router) and decided to go with the wireless LAN option (I really should get more tech-savvy). I walked over to the shelves, and stared at the boxes, with all the vital information marked clearly. . . in Japanese. It just would have been too easy otherwise. With I sigh, I began picking up boxes, trying to decipher from the little pictures and the very few numbers which was the right one. (I would have asked for help but I've come to notice that at Bic Camera, all the sales people around me seem to mysteriously disappear when I turn around to ask for something!) I finally settled on one, shuffled over to pay for it and headed on home.
Exhausted with the effort of finding the router, I decided to put up with the wires for another couple of days until the weekend. So it was that on Saturday, I awoke refreshed and ready to tackle the daunting task of setting up my wireless router.
And four hours later, I was no nearer to a solution. The closest I came was to the panels that appeared to show that my computer was recognizing the router and was trying to set it up. At first, this pleased me immensely. But the process was so slow and my computer took so long to download each page that I realized (slightly late) that I might have gotten a router that was too slow. And when, after the first few panels, the characters on my screen began to look different from the ones in the instructions, I gave up in frustration, packed the router back in its box and hooked the wires back up.
Now all I need is to go back to the elusive store assitants, explain why I'm returning the router after I'd opened the box, and find the correct one. . . all in sign language.
So I ambled up to the third floor, unusually confident and excited at the thought of doing away with at least one of the tiresome wires. I was a bit thrown when I got to the signs that read wireless LAN and wired routers (since I was looking for a wireless router) and decided to go with the wireless LAN option (I really should get more tech-savvy). I walked over to the shelves, and stared at the boxes, with all the vital information marked clearly. . . in Japanese. It just would have been too easy otherwise. With I sigh, I began picking up boxes, trying to decipher from the little pictures and the very few numbers which was the right one. (I would have asked for help but I've come to notice that at Bic Camera, all the sales people around me seem to mysteriously disappear when I turn around to ask for something!) I finally settled on one, shuffled over to pay for it and headed on home.
Exhausted with the effort of finding the router, I decided to put up with the wires for another couple of days until the weekend. So it was that on Saturday, I awoke refreshed and ready to tackle the daunting task of setting up my wireless router.
And four hours later, I was no nearer to a solution. The closest I came was to the panels that appeared to show that my computer was recognizing the router and was trying to set it up. At first, this pleased me immensely. But the process was so slow and my computer took so long to download each page that I realized (slightly late) that I might have gotten a router that was too slow. And when, after the first few panels, the characters on my screen began to look different from the ones in the instructions, I gave up in frustration, packed the router back in its box and hooked the wires back up.
Now all I need is to go back to the elusive store assitants, explain why I'm returning the router after I'd opened the box, and find the correct one. . . all in sign language.
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