Near as I can recall, I've only ever eaten in one American restaurant that claims to be in the same class as Les Nomades. That restaurant, where I ate a year or two ago in honor of my father's birthday-- was Spiaggia. I ate tonight at Les Nomades to celebrate my graduation and imminent birthday. The comparison is not even close.

Where Spiaggia is surly, rude, and made us wait 45 minutes for our reservation (made long in advance) because they were "slammed" (they explained unapologetically), Les Nomades seemed quite pleased when we arrived early and were already handing us deliciously bubbly beverages before it was even 8 o'clock (our scheduled arrival time).

Where Spiaggia's food was quite good, almost as good as Coco Pazzo's, Les Nomades' was fantastic. I ordered some fairly gamey food (quail and bison), which I only do out of a gesture of great faith. I've never trusted a kitchen that deeply since L'Avant Gout (and even that took me until my second eager trip); my faith here was not misplaced.

Normally I follow my co-blogger Amy's lead and place little stock in a restaurant's decor and ambience, figuring that what is splurged on gilt tile and prime real estate is money not spent on helicoptering the freshest salmon, or scouring for the best morels. That said, I've never felt as comfortable in a restaurant as I did at Les Nomades, which was quiet without being ominously still, bright without being glaring, brown without being drab, kind without being obsequious.

To be sure, there are people who want to go to nice restaurants to see and be seen, to see black-clad wait-staff act hip or cool or cooler-than-thou. There are people who want everything to be glass and stainless steel, who want a fortieth-story view out of their dining room, or a slightly edgy feel, or a grand entrance that makes them feel like they're out someplace . . . grand. Les Nomades is none of these things; it serves delicious, delicious, food with yummy wines with extremely helpful and nice service in an unpretentious and utterly comfortable room. If you have a very special occasion to celebrate in Chicago, go.

Even the complimentary birthday cake they brought was yummy.

There's nothing to make you (and by "you," I mean "me") like walking into a room of strangers and hearing someone I scarcely recognize say, "Oh my god, you're her sister!" One of my fellow trainees is a friend of my sister's from her Kuk Sool class. "Holy shit" several times over as the shock gradually wore off.

Now, if someone greets me like that in Kazakhstan, I'll know she's famous.

You don't need to watch too much television to be inundated with beer ads.

And, if you paying attention just the slightest bit, you'll have noticed that the current beer wars are over the Atkins dieter (or equivalent) who wants a good pint of suds... without all those pesky carbs.

While I can understand the marketing idea behind Bud Light's latest campaign, I think their latest television spot might backfire a bit:

With beer pouring in the background, we (the viewers) are reliably informed that "The fact is, all light beers are low on carbs."

As such, the slogan goes, we should "Choose on Taste"

I'm happy to oblige, but don't they want me buying a Bud Light, not an Amstel?

N.B.: If it's calories you count instead of carbs, have yourself a Yuengling Lager, which is not a light beer but only has 25 more calories than Bud Light.

Will is not the only graduating senior at the U of C. I, too, will bid farewell to the city gray that ne'er shall die this weekend.

For the last few years, my life has been consumed by writing papers in the A-level study space, getting ripped off at Bartlett, and sitting through endless class discussions. Not to mention my wasted summers working 50+ hours a week to pay the tuition bills. I don't have the same rosy view of this institution as do some. In fact, the great joy that my first glimpse of campus brought me will be matched only by the sight of this place in my rear-view mirror. Chicago has presented me with many challenges, and I appreciate having the opportunity to meet them and become all the wiser for the experience. Never before have I encountered so many people with whom I so vigorously disagree. But by encountering these folks, and engaging with them, I have gained the ability to see problems through new lenses. This is the most valuable aspect of my education.

But I must wave goodbye to academia. It is not a sad departure for me. A large portion of my college career was spent picking apart and tearing down the theories of others. I long for more constructive pursuits. With the return to my hometown next week, I shall embark on a lifelong venture to leave a positive mark on the world. So I must leave the Academy and its blogospheric counterparts behind. I thank Will for his kindness and encouragement in welcoming me to the Crescat cabal. And I wish everyone luck in their post-Chicago lives.

One more note for those following the Nabokov-as-cryptomnesiac-debate. My Nabokov-expert roommate just introduced me today to Zembla, run by the same folks who publish my beloved Nabokovian, and a rich resource for all who are uselessly obsessed with old V.N.

As much as I am loathe to accept this conclusion, Brian Boyd adduces some pretty good evidence that Nabokov sometimes made mistakes in his writing (though not as many as his editors and translators tried to make when working with his books!). The only book I've reread enough times to check Boyd on is Ada, but he does seem right there. In particular, Boyd makes a good case, working from Nabokov's master copy, that he would occasionally edit and forget what he had originally meant by a passage. That sort of literary absent-mindedness can be maddening (and heretical enough that I am tempted to deny it), but does lend a bit more support to the notion of a forgetfully inspired Nabokov.

Zembla also has a few observations here about possible inpsirations for Nabokov's Lolita.

From Ada:

The house was empty, and cool, and smelled of carnations. Good morning, and good-bye, little bedroom. Van shaved, Van pared his toe-nails, Van dressed with exquisite care: gray socks, silk shirt, gray tie, dark-gray suit newly pressed-- shoes, ah yes, shoes, mustn't forget shoes, and without bothering to sort out the rest of his belongings, crammed a score of twenty-dollar gold coins into a chamois purse, distributed handkerchief, checkbook, passport, what else? nothing else, over his rigid person and pinned a note to the pillow asking to have his things packed and forwarded to his father's address.

Way back when in January, I posted a tidbit from the campaign website of then Libertarian Party contender for the presidential nomination, Michael Badnarik.

Well, Badnarik has won the LP nomination and his campaign website has gotten a facelift. His bizarre musings on prison have disappeared. For better or worse, his updated site now looks more like that of a "real" candidate, with carefully chosen words describing just a couple party-line positions, and more space for pictures, pins, and donation requests than political positions and plans. I suppose the removal of the material espousing what Michael Badnarik stood for doesn't really matter anyway. It's not like he's going to be president.

Yesterday my law firm gave its summer associates the day off to go build houses. We took cabs out to northeast D.C. (and took the Metro back; no cabs will come to that neighborhood), received instruction from a pierced and punkish Americorps volunteer on what our tasks would be, and spent the rest of the day sweating, hammering, digging. By four o’clock we were all exhausted, but a day’s work by fifteen people amounted to a bit of landscaping, half a roof, and two beams. Compare this to the amount that a professional work crew of similar size could accomplish in the same time, and you will, like me, be underwhelmed by the Habitat program.

Considering the rate at which even summer associate time is billed, it’s almost certain that it would have been more efficient to simply donate the amount we otherwise would have made for the firm to pay for real construction workers. As in all Habitat projects, the future homeowner, D, was on-site, hammering away with us. She said that the anticipated completion date for her house (presently half framed on the first floor, with the second story still to come) was January. The house that the previous year’s summer class had worked on was down the row, still with its interiors unfinished. Several years ago my family had a house constructed and only four months elapsed between pouring the foundation and moving in. Surely we’d all like it if D could move into her new house more quickly? Why bother with corporate donations of extremely unskilled labor (we spent a significant period of time taking apart things we’d nailed together improperly) when another strategy would build more houses for the poor in the same time? At least pro bono work requires some abilities at which we have a comparative advantage. Making "decent shelter a matter of conscience and action" is all well and good, but the decision to make supposedly deserving families live for extended periods in whatever sub-standard conditions they currently inhabit so volunteers can feel better about themselves for donating time instead of money conflicts with my moral intuitions.

Upon further reflection, large coffee table photo books of America were probably not a wise choice of a host family gift.

I loaded my bags on to my shoulders, barely managing to finish before my younger sister had returned, at my mother's request, with the video camera. I hadn't paid that much attention to weight when packing. When I stepped on the scale, I discovered that I had a seven pound advantage on my luggage.

Back again to weeding things out. Out came clothes, out came computer disks, rain gear, Tabasco, and a back massager. I'd already bid farewell to the feather pillow and my favorite half-liter mug from which I drink the morning tea, and if I have classes that day, the day's first coffee. Books also came out, and it was a sad, sad morning. There's a stack of them on my desk, hoping to make it to me one day. The weight is now more manageable, though I'm not sure what I feel about this trade-off. I do have a lot on my laptop, courtesy of Project Gutenberg, but it's just not the same.

I have my parents to drive me to the Metro, and my dad to carry the big duffel on the Metro down to McPherson Square. When it comes to shlepping heavy stuff, there's no one I'd rather have around than him. Unfortunately, he can't come all the way.

Once I get to the Holiday Inn and register, I become a PCT (Peace Corps Trainee). That line in my welcome letter contained a tone of BEHAVE: YOU ARE NOW AN OFFICIAL REPRESENTATIVE. I can't shake the feeling, though, that I'm the Wizard in Oz, standing behind the curtain. Official. Teacher. Diplomatic passport. Right.

Maybe it will all seem more real after I arrive to staging and sit through countless briefings. I feel like I'm about to set off for half a week of perpetual motion (for that is what hotels feel like, though traveling in circles) through the initial part in DC and then the flights to Almaty. I really don't know what it will look like the first time I wake up in Kazakhstan. Camping has that advantage of consistency: same tent, same sleeping bag, same hatchet and propane stove, trip after trip. But now I've got the sterility of hotels and airplanes, and then an unimaginable new home. [Least cheering reaction: Almaty? That was Wesley Adamczyk's personal hell (part of the Soviet Union's treatment of Polish army families during WWII and after). Convincing reports say that Almaty's changed much for the better since then.]

So long...

Like many others, I now have some G-Mail accounts to distribute, and like Curtis, I have no interest in auctioning them. (Call it transaction aversion.) So, if you'd like one, email me.

However, strong preference will be given to those who I either A: know in real life or B: have gotten at least two emails from in the past, and will otherwise be determined rather idiosyncratically.

The degree to which this post makes me sound like Jeremy Blachman's co-workers is mostly unintentional.

UPDATE: Thanks to all who expressed interest. Further Gmail accounts available will again be posted on the blog.