Looking Out on Lake Como

Lake Como is shaped like an inverted Y, and Lecco sits on its southeastern tip, where it debouches into the river Adda. This end of the lake is deep and narrow, hemmed in by high cliffs (a bit like a Norwegian fjord), so any wind from the north is funneled through a narrow passage before it comes screaming down on Lecco.

I woke up at 5:30 this morning to a high wind banging our shutters; I eventually had to get up and close them all.

Now the sun is finally rising, casting pink light on the freshly-snowcapped mountain that I can see from my studio, and there are fast-moving whitecaps on the lake.

This house is hazardous to my productivity. Instead of working, I gaze out the window, fascinated by the endlessly-changing panorama of light on the mountains. Few offices in the world can boast such a view. It may not be good for my output, but it’s definitely good for my soul.

A Home for a Horse

I mentioned long ago that my daughter and I both love horses, and that we’ve had one (for her) since 2001. Now, very sadly, we are having to say goodbye.

Ross had already been riding for about four years when I finally decided (and had the opportunity) to buy her a pony of her own. We went to England to look for one, because ponies are a lot cheaper there – even counting the cost of our trip and then transporting him to Italy, we paid about half what we would have in Milan. But the buying is only a small fraction of the cost of a horse…

In retrospect, it’s a sad irony that we found Hamish and agreed to buy him on September 8th, 2001. We returned to Milan on the 10th and, as everybody knows, the world changed on September 11th. Had I known then what I know now about the world economy and my personal finances, I probably would not have started down the path to horse ownership.

Back then, it didn’t seem so crazy. I had plenty of money in the bank from my Silicon Valley heyday, and the prospect of making more freelancing for my former employer, Roxio, writing manuals for their European software WinOnCD. (In fact I did write manuals for versions 5 and 6, and was set to do that and more for version 7, when Roxio closed its German office. WinOnCD – and many people’s jobs – vanished.)

We kept Hamish expensively at a snobby stable in Milan for two years. Ross rode a lot, but never won any show jumping competitions, in part because Hamish is… difficult. There are ponies that, if you more or less aim them at a jump, will do everything they can to get you over it and win for you, no matter how badly you ride them. Those sorts of ponies cost a lot, and Hamish isn’t one of them. He requires to be ridden very well, which Ross did, but not quite well enough.

We also had some friction with Ross’ riding instructor, I suspect partly motivated by the fact that we had not bought Hamish through her, so she didn’t get the customary cut on the purchase. Whatever the reason, this instructor had no patience with Hamish’s foibles, and kept nagging us to sell him and buy a better. Even had I had that kind of money (oh, say, $15,000), that was not the lesson I wanted my daughter to learn about horses and sportsmanship. To me the point was never “spend as much as it takes to win,” but to develop a loving, trusting relationship with an individual animal, and win whatever you can, together, in harmony and friendship.

God help me now, that loving, trusting relationship is exactly what Ross and Hamish had. She sometimes grew frustrated with his stubbornness, tired of feeling foolish in front of her peers at competitions, but she stuck by him and defended him, and was praised by some other parents tired of their kids’ endless (expensive) litany of “If I only had a better pony.”

By the time we moved to Lecco last summer, financing a horse was becoming a problem, and we all heaved a sigh of relief to be paying far less to keep him, at a place where he could even be out in a field every day. But we couldn’t find near Lecco a reasonably-priced stable which included professional instruction. And, now in high school, Ross has less and less time; as I’ve mentioned, her curriculum at liceo artistico requires a school week of 35 hours, which, along with homework, leaves little time for anything else.

Ross continued to ride as much as she could, until she broke her arm a year ago, falling off Hamish onto frozen ground. That put her out of action for several months. She rode a bit in the spring, then the remainder of the school year was a mess – between extra tutoring and lots of studying, there was simply no time. In the summer she was happily away at theater camp for six weeks, rode a bit when she came back, and then we were in the throes of moving again.

In sum, Hamish has been left largely to his own devices this year, and is now out to pasture, not being ridden, and increasingly unrideable. With the new house, family finances are squeezed to the point that we can’t afford to just keep him (at 12 years, he’s not quite in his prime, but nowhere near retirement, either), nor do we have the time or money to put into riding him the way he should be ridden. So we have come to a parting of the ways.

It’s far easier to acquire a horse than it is to get rid of one, if you care at all about where it ends up. It would be easy enough to sell him to a horse dealer, but he’d probably end up at a slaughterhouse – this is Europe: people eat horses, and wear them.

The solution we have found is a stable on Lago Maggiore, where some friends keep their horses and ride, and we know the owners fairly well. Most importantly, we like their attitude towards and handling of horses. They may eventually sell him (and we might even get a cut), but they won’t sell him off to just anybody. They’ll do their best to find a good home for him and, at worst, they’ll just keep him. Ross can even go and visit from time to time.

Hamish leaves tomorrow morning. It’s a horribly painful loss for Ross and me both. I wish I could spare my child this. I almost wish we’d never started. But, on the other hand, horses have given her so much, and can still give her so much more, and she them. I can’t regret it. I can only hang on, and help her to. This time tomorrow, it will be over, hopefully without any last-minute getting-Hamish-into-the-van traumas. It will be over, and Ross and I will have survived it. Somehow.

Suggested Reading: The Economist

If you aren’t already a reader of The Economist, I strongly urge you to try it. Financially conservative, socially liberal, truly international in scope, it’s one of the best magazines and news sources in the world.

It can be hard to find on the newsstand in much of the US; in Silicon Valley, travelling away from my home subscription, I could rarely find the latest issue. Once, heading out on vacation, I eagerly snapped up a copy in an airport somewhere. As I was standing in line to pay for it, the woman behind me looked over my shoulder and gasped: “You actually read that?!?” – as if ordinary mortals could not be expected to understand such a magazine.

Don’t let the title put you off. The Economist manages to explain difficult concepts and situations in clear, elegant language, and with a wry, dry, very British sense of humor. Agree or don’t with its politics, but read it – you’ll be in good company (in several senses).

Terms of Address: What to Call People in India

In response to my mumblings about “signora” vs “signorina,” Yuti writes:

In India, as you know, we are all related to each other. Kids routinely call complete strangers “Uncle” and “Aunty”, maid-servants call the woman of the house Bhabhi (brother’s wife), and the elderly are instantly your parents or grandparents (Maa-ji, Bapu-ji, etc). And so I have taken particular interest in what appellations complete strangers have used for me over the years.

As a young girl and teenager, I was a Beti (daughter), although I recall at least one occasion on which I was actually called “Daughter” in English by an elderly salesman. As a young “westernized” woman in my 20s, I would be called shishter (sister). If, however, I was dressed in Indian clothes (rather than jeans and t-shirt), I’d be called didi (older sister) if the person was much younger, or behen (sister) if the person was older. In my 30s, I noticed a gradual shift from shishter and didi to bhabi-ji (brother’s wife, with the extra respect of ji thrown in). Now, in my 40s, I am still mostly bhabhi-ji, unless I am accompanied by my children, in which case I graduate to “Aunty-ji”. With men, the shift is more or less parallel, from beta (son) to bhaiyya (brother) to “uncle”. I now await with consternation the day I finally become Maa-ji (mother), or even worse Dadi-ma (grand-mother). That’s when I’ll know I’ve well and truly aged!!

I asked Yuti for some clarification:

But why bhabhi, brother’s wife, instead of (I don’t remember the words) husband’s sister, etc.? And, in India and/or with Indian friends, even I am Deirdré-aunty to my friends’ kids. Which begs another question: why not the Hindi equivalent of aunty?

Yuti answered:

Yes, there are various words that can be and are used… these are just the ones most common in Mumbai, where the local lingo is a mish-mash of Hindi, Gujarati, Marathi and English. In various parts of India you may find Mausi (mother’s sister), Chachi (father’s brother’s wife), etc., but these are generally for older women. For a younger woman, Didi and Bhabhi are more appropriate. Bhabhi also acknowledges your status as a married woman, and therefore, presumably due the “respect” that comes automatically with marriage. Second, it also denotes a direct relationship to a close relative (i.e., the person is saying he is your husband’s brother), so you can trust them. These are just theories from the top of my head, and I seriously doubt such thoughts go through anyone’s head when they call me bhabhi, but that is probably part of the reason for its wide usage. Another possibility could have been wife’s sister, but the word in question (saali) is also used as a swear-word, so that won’t do! Also, words for relations tend to differ in different parts of the country. Bhabhi is one of the few which is more or less the same everywhere and also in languages other than Hindi.

I feel that the reason you are called Aunty rather than any Hindi equivalent – firstly, I think kids probably think it is cool to use English words (especially to a foreigner). Second, kids may not know (at least when they’re very young) that each word denotes a specific relationship, for example, they may know that both “chacha” and “mama” are uncles, but may not know that a chacha is always your father’s brother, whereas a mama is always your mother’s brother. Or, perhaps, even if they DO know, they must wonder as to whom they should relate you to – their mother or their father. So, the neutral Aunty is better!

Zafar adds some more thoughts and experiences on Indian terms of address:

[But why bhabhi, brother’s wife, instead of (I don’t remember the words) husband’s sister etc. etc.?]

Slightly more distant/less familiar? Though I think it’s probably a Bombay thing…in Delhi men shamelessly call women behenji (sisterji) with no thought for propriety.

[And, in India and/or with Indian friends, even I am Deirdre-aunty to my friends’ kids. Which begs another question: why not the Hindi equivalent of aunty?]

The generic thing:

I agree with Yuti that ‘Aunty’ is the generic fall-back. I’s also never used with your actual (biologically related) aunts, who are almost ALWAYS the Hindi (or whatever) word. In my own experience I also used Maasi etc. with very close friends of my parents, while Aunty was for everybody and anybody. (Er… unless they were Uncle, of course.)

The gender aspect:

Those couples who were friends of my parents and who had graduated, so to speak, beyond Uncle/Aunty to the Indian words when addressed, were called:

The men: Chacha (Father’s brother) and
The women: Maasi (Mother’s sister).

While the superficially correct thing to do (since they were married to each other) would have been to call them ‘Chacha and Chachi (father’s brother’s wife)’, the whole point of the exercise was to place these unrelated adults in a family context – at which point it became more ‘proper’ (and completely unconscious) to classify the women as your mother’s sisters and the men as your father’s brothers.

The ethnicity/language aspect:

Oddly enough, language/ethnicity also comes into this. (Which might explain why the instinctive ‘Deirdre Aunty’ in your case.) Sticking to mother’s friends, for the sake of consistency/simplicity, these included:

Devahuti Maasi (Punjabi Hindu)
Suchandra Mashi (Bengali Hindu, hence Maasi transforms to Mashi)
Zehra Khala (Gujarati Muslim, hence the use of the Urdu version, Khala, for Maasi.)

Gouging the European Customer

Why Do We Pay Higher Prices Higher for the Same Downloaded Software?

I have for some time been considering buying ACDSee, photo management software recommended to me by Tony Boccaccio, whose opinion I trust in the matter (he’s a professional photographer). I tried it last year and liked it, but at the time $99 was more than I was willing to spend on that particular set of functions. Most of what I need I can accomplish with other software I already own, though admittedly not as gracefully.

ACDSee now has a new version out, and, since I’m on their mailing list (they put out a nice newsletter with photo tips etc.), I received an email asking me to try it. Previous experience shows that they would keep sending special offers during the trial period, and today I was almost moved to take advantage of one of these, until I noticed:

Buy Now
North America & Other Areas
39.99 usd

Buy Now
Europe
39,99 euro

Given that the current exchange rate is 1.34 dollars to the euro, as a resident of Europe I’d be paying 34% more for this software. Why should that be? Shipping costs are not a factor – this is a download-only purchase. Localization (translating the interface and instructions) also not a factor – I speak English.

ACD Systems is not the only culprit; it’s standard practice for software companies to charge more for their products in Europe than in North America, sometimes hundreds of dollars/euros more. I’ve tried several times to get companies to tell me why, but have never had any answer at all.

By the tone of its newsletters, ACD Systems is a friendly company, so I went to their website to look for someone of whom I could ask this question. Finally tracked down an email address for Larry Langs, Executive Vice President of Sales, Marketing, and Business Development.

I wrote Mr. Langs a polite email with my query, and got the following reply from his mail system:

“(llangs@acdsystems.com) 64.114.67.86 failed after I sent the message.
Remote host said: 500 Resend your message with the word notacdspam in the subject line or contact the recipient through alternate means. Your message appears to be unsolicited spam or your domain is blacklisted.”

So I tried again, this time putting “notacdspam” in the subject line as requested, and got exactly the same error message in reply.

So much for “contact us.” No hope of an answer to my question, and therefore no hope that I will purchase their software. As a last resort, I’ve tried replying to the latest newsletter they sent. If their newsletter team is on the ball, and their system works as it should, someone will actually read that reply and answer it, or at least forward it appropriately – as I used to do when I worked for Adaptec/Roxio.

However, I’m not holding my breath.

Dec 8, 2004

Wow, just shooting themselves in the feet all over. Having put up this page, I tried to inform them about it. Filled out a web-based form to send email to a Ms. Monisha Khanna, head of PR. Got the exact same error message as for Mr. Langs. Do they even know that their anti-spam system is turning away all email?

Happy Ending

Mar 15, 2005

Back in December, I wrote about my difficulties trying to get anyone at a software company to explain to me why their software should cost more in Europe than in the US. A few days after I published that article, because I am stubborn and irritable about such things, I wrote to ACD’s tech support about the saga. To my pleasant surprise, I got a reply within a few days, suggesting a workaround on their e-commerce site that might even have worked to get me the software at the US price. But I was busy, figured I had already spent enough time on this, and I wasn’t that desperate for the software at that moment.

The software in question was ACDSee, a digital photo management and editing tool. I tried several others, including the free Picasa software from Google. Abandoned that one in a hurry when I realized it offers no easy way to crop photos, which seems a very strange oversight – anyone but the most amateur photographer knows that you can often improve a picture by judicious cropping. ACDSee’s crop tool darkens the area outside the crop, so you can see better what you’re cropping to, and gives you an exact pixel measurement of the crop area as you adjust it: very useful when you’re cropping a picture to fit a particular spot on a web page.

Some six weeks after my original complaint, I had another pleasant surprise from ACD Systems: a nice email from the man in charge of their online store. He made the usual corporate noises about not being able to discuss the reasons for their pricing, but promised that my comments would be considered in future decisions. He was pleased that I had complimented ACDSee’s newsletter (to reiterate: probably the best company newsletters I’ve seen, including the ones I used to do myself), since he had originated that project. We had an email conversation about our respective experiences with newsletters and software pricing, which culminated in him giving me a copy of the software, free except that he wants my comments on it (I’m working on that).

So, a happy ending with ACDSystems, and I do strongly recommend ACDSee, the best tool I know of for digital photographers.

Deirdré Straughan on Italy, India, the Internet, the world, and now Australia