COMING OUT — OF THE DARK
I’m Transitioning … to the Metric System
A Portuguese pupa publicizes his plight
Although I was born and raised in it, I fully understand just how crazy the so-called “English” system of measurement is.
I also realize the term “English” system of measurement is imprecise, but I’ll use it anyway since most will know what I mean.
The “English” system uses all sorts of zany units and conversions. Things like: * 12 inches to a foot * 3 feet to a yard * 16 ounces in a pound * 4 quarts to a gallon * and don’t even ask me about: minims and drams and palms, hands, shaftments, links and spans and plenty more, including freakin’ “barleycorns” of all things!
And on and on, ad nausum and add-massive-confusion to everyone in the world who wasn’t raised in this weird religion.
Actually, because of a life wasted in medical practice, I knew a bit about centimeters and kilos, and drams and even minims, otherwise known as “drops.”
I even felt pretty cocksure when I nurse would call out “this patient’s temperature is 38°C” and I’d know — without mentally converting to 100.4°F — this constituted what most in medicine consider to be a “fever” in an adult. Yippee!
My education — my slow transitioning — continued in 2003 and 2004 when I lived and worked in Amsterdam.
Temps in Celsius became a snap.
When I first moved into my Amster-house I had a temperature conversion chart taped to the back of the front door, right near a thermometer showing the outside temp. * 0°C = 32°F * 5°C = 41°F * 10°C = 50°F * 15°C = 59°F * 20°C = 68°F
But, after a short while this temp conversion chart fell by the wayside, replaced by a much more functional, internal, scale. * 0°C = Parts of my face will be frozen as I ride my bike to work * 5°C = Oh yeah! Only my fingertips will be numb after the ride * 10°C = Bring a jacket * 15°C = A sweatshirt will do * 20°C = All the cafes with outside tables will be jammed, mostly with crazy Dutch people wearing shorts and tee-shirts. Plan ahead. * 25°C = Spray on some sunscreen. * 30°C = Watch everyone in The Netherlands go bonkers and talk about nothing but the fucking weather. * 35°C = Alert the authorities and find a friend with a pool or a lake on their property. * 40°C = The dog shit that decorates every walking path in Amsterdam will be bubbling! Fun! Try shrooms, or the red light district to “beat the heat.”
And of course, after a time, centimeters and kilos and more, became second nature. Even now without half thinking about it — which is the thinking mode I prefer — I know I weigh 97 kilos and stand 188 cm in height. Seventy-four inches times 2.54 is not a conversion I can do in my head.
When I returned to The States in 2004, some of that new knowledge went with me.
Now my transitioning pace is picking up
That’s because I’m moving to Portugal.
I’m doing it in a roundabout way, so this long-winded bit of scholarship is being written in Tampere, Finland. Home to: saunas-every-50-meters, serious people with beards who look like Braveheart extras (many of whom are men), and lots of supermarket food being sold by the gram or the kilogram.
Then I’m off to Amsterdam, roughly 2,732 kilometers from Helsinki if I wanted to drive. I’ll fly, but my carbon footprint, even in kilos, is alarming.
Finally, after an Amsterdam-to-Porto-to-Lisbon-to-Terceira series of flights, this pupa will engage Portuguese society in all its glory and I’ll emerge, fully formed, to learn, not only the language but all the other metric measures I still don’t know.
Something tells me that amperes, the unit for current, will still be a challenge.
Oh well, I’ve already been jolted by the local current in Krka, Croatia and didn’t die. What’s a little arm numbness and a few swear words between friends while transitioning?
For now, though, it’s back to knocking bushels, pecks and stones out of my American head.