Burj-eye view

The Burj Khalifa (nee Dubai), the world's tallest structure as of this minute, is a sleek, mirror-plated skyscraper that towers above the UAE's newest (and biggest) mall/hotel complex/condo community. This weekend, I traveled to the top on the world's fastest elevator (64 mph!) with K and her brother, who is visiting. My brother, who visited two weeks ago, had previous made the trip solo, but his descriptions and pics couldn't do justice to the experience of being 1, 450 feet above a city without the aid of an aircraft.

The trip also provided an interesting view of the Dubai, both literal and figurative.

To get to the observation deck of the Burj, visitors first must find the access point in the maze of the Dubai Mall, which opened about this time last year to much fanfare. It features an aquarium, underwater museum, a dancing fountain (a la the Bellagio in Vegas), an ice skating/ice go-carting rink (ice go-carting?), an organic grocery store, every shop you can imagine from the four corners of the globe and the country's only Taco Bell. Once you locate the Burj entrance, you are ushered through a metal detector and down several long, windowless corridors that feature displays of the building process and reminders of how far Dubai has come in such a short time. One 3-D exhibit includes an old Bedouin-looking man with a falcon peering off into the "distance" where Dubai slowing (and digitally) is taking shape before his eyes. In the final panel, a comet is shooting into space, implying, perhaps, that not even the sky is the limit. This exhibit ends in a white wall and the line for the elevators. (pictured above is a new of the fountain and the hotel/souk complex right next to the Dubai Mall. You can see where the development stops right at the top of the photo)

The elevators. The lead up, already Disneyfied, infuses the wait for the elevator with a pre-roller coaster feel. The line is even organized into switchbacks, like at amusement parks or airports. There are two elevators that lead up to the observation deck, and there are three different staff people who eyeball guests to avoid overloads. (This may be because an unlucky group of tourists were stranded between floors for 45 minutes in February, forcing a shutdown until just a few weeks ago.) All the ultra-modern decor and careful prep add a frisson of thrill. It makes the elevator ride itself a bit anti-climatic, despite the dim lights, blue flashing arrows and a space-age soundtrack. It was almost impossible to detect any motion, though my ears popped several times. In a mere 30 seconds or so, the doors soundlessly opened and we stepped out onto the platform.

I'm pleased to report that building technology has changed over the years so much so that I could barely detect the motion of the tower from its 124th floor. (The Burj has 160 floors in total.) More than 15 years ago, my father and I clung to the inner walls of the Sears Tower observation deck; he because of the heights and me because of the very noticeable sway on that Windy City day. Although it was windy, the Burj barely moved at all. K explained that tall buildings, including the Taipei 101 (designed by the same people as the Burj) now feature a huge steel pendulum built into the top of the building to counteract the sway. Whatever it was, it worked like a charm.

Dubai spread out before us in all its glory. Sort of. Around the Burj were a thin cluster of skyscrapers lining the main highway, a low strip of housing developments, a few parks and malls, and then the vast expanse of desert stretching out as far as the eye could see. From 1,400 feet, the urban miracle of Dubai looked a little like one of the those movie sets of the Old West with buildings lining Main Street, but nothing but scrub just beyond the swinging saloon door. I experienced the double vision that often accompanies a trip to Dubai. Despite the manic expansion and shiny new feel of the place, I can't help but overlay a more tumbleweedy scene, as I imagine the years creeping by and the money running out. Dubai is doing everything in its power to stave off that day (as is Abu Dhabi), and I don't want to cast aspersions on their efforts. But you don't have to spend much time in the UAE before you get the feeling that large numbers of people just weren't meant to live here; that everything is necessarily temporary because eating 95% imported food, drinking desalinated water and being encased in an air-conditioned bubble for so much of the year simply isn't sustainable. It casts mega-projects like the Burj and the Dubai Mall in a different, almost melancholy light.

Or maybe it's me who is melancholy, since I won't be living in this strange, intriguing place for very much longer. I won't miss the out-of-synch feeling of it not quite being real. I will miss the audacity of the world's tallest building emerging from the sands.

The tao of softball

This post is about fate, karma, change, chance and the physics of force, speed and momentum. I'm not talking about the big universe of supernovas and shooting stars. I'm talking about the universe contained on a green diamond between two baselines, one of the most deceptive simple places on Earth, but one that contains constellations of events that Einstein himself couldn't tame. There are places that boggle the mind, because they are both real and magical at the same time. Venice is one; your neighborhood softball field is another.

This weekend, the JV girls team at my school traveled to Doha, Qatar, to play a tournament with five other international schools in the region. We went last year and got third. We went this year and took fifth (even though we were the only ones to beat the team who came in first). The fact was, we had lost our experienced pitcher, and a single season is not long enough to train another, given the number of regular-season games before the tournament (three, two of which we won). Standings and scores, however, are almost beside the point when discussing softball. As a coach, I know I'm supposed to want to win. And I do want to win, because winning is more fun than losing if that is the paradigm on the table. But this weekend, I was blown away by the beauty of the game well before the match that decided our last-place ranking.

My love of softball reaches back to elementary school and an early appreciation of a single basic truth: Softball is a game of skill, strategy and strength, like all sports. And softball is so much more than muscle mass and a good playbook, which is where the magical part comes in. In softball, anything can happen, and often does. The weakest player can tower above the greats in the blink of an eye. A whole game can turn on a butterfly effect, like the centimeters that separate a foul from a base hit or a ball from a strike. After practice is over, pep talks given, warm ups completed and the game begins, all a player or a coach can do is sit back and watch it unfold.

I most love the small moments, the hero moments, like our right fielder catching a ball up against the fence to prevent a grand slam: the crack of the bat, the endless arch of the long ball, the collective intake of breath from both dugouts...then the reach of the glove and the look on the face of a struggling player who realizes what she has done. It's a scene that's been rhapsodized and romanticized by writers and filmmakers through the years until it seems a cliche to non-fans--and yet I promise you, Hollywood technicolor cannot touch the true victory of such a moment. I would argue strenuously that no other sport so graciously distributes access to pure triumph. Softball throws open the curtain and allows anyone to step into the spotlight normally reserved for superstars.

It's no accident, then, that baseball and softball are common metaphors in the American narrative fueled by a rabid belief in progress, achievement and hope, along with a dash of kooky optimism. That the game is pretty much confined to the New World, and not just philosophically, is clear as a coach of an international-school team where some of the girls have been playing since kindergarten, and others aren't quite sure which base is which. One of my favorite players, however, is a sophomore and a native of Spain who is so thoroughly European that she threw a fit when I told her my shoe size was 8 1/2 rather than 38 (the Euro version). Yet she has played this most American of sports since 6th grade (having learned it here) and wouldn't dream of skipping a season. She also leaps into the air to catch a fly ball, regardless of her field position, jumping toward it, even as it races to her. It's a technique that lends itself to graceful plays, along with the occasional dramatic miss. Softball, however, is not a game where you tell your players to stop moving toward the ball, regardless of how artistically they choose to do it.

I returned to school today and had to face the questions, from the athletic director as well as other competitive sorts. In the league my school is in, last-place finishes are not common occurrences, and no one expected us to lose (including us, obviously). We'd had the best season in a long time. I understand the impulse, and tried not chafe. For competitive people, it's embarrassing to come in at the bottom. It makes me sad, though. I couldn't rewind to the moments that would allow them to move past the many walks of our rookie pitchers and arrive at our victories. The catches and leaps. The physics of tag outs, slides and line-drive shots. The confluence of fate and skill that leads, time and time again, to Possibility with a capital p. For me, the magic contained in those moments transcends the outcome. I wouldn't trade it for the world.

Bangkok hits

I'm not even going to try to say anything new about Bangkok. Millions of travelers (including most of you) have already experienced this pulsing, organic capital on the banks of the Chao Praya River. I say 'pulsing' because light and sound careen off the soaring, windowed walls of skyscrapers, down along the elevated Sky Train tracks and vibrate among the temple towers and tin market shacks. I say 'organic' not in the environmental sense, but to evoke an image of the vibrant green of the tropics meshed with the tentacles of urban sprawl all seen through a steamy haze of wet season humidity.

Bangkok is a living city, and there's nothing cooler than a living city, where history can co-exist with people who are alive right now, and need to get from point A to point B, find a podiatrist, buy toothpaste and hold down a job. As with many living cities worth a visit, the modern and the traditional meet in Bangkok in fascinating ways. People make sweet offerings of bottled sodas (complete with straws) as well as incense and marigolds at neighborhood shrines. Ronald McDonald's hands are molded into a respectful greeting at the door of his restaurant. The malls and the old-style markets are both packed, as are the temples and the bars. Writers much more skilled than I have pointed out Bangkok's seeming contradictions through the years (see the lyrics of "One Night In Bangkok" from the musical Chess for a nice summary), but what do you expect of any place after customs melt, blend and change over centuries? It's simply a function of being alive, organic, if you will. And, as previously mentioned, Bangkok tops the charts in that particular category.

It has also, apparently, inspired an outbreak of purple prose, so I'll back down a bit and resort to a list of Bangkok's greatest hits as experienced by K and me over six days, much of which was spent at a teaching conference (useful, but not your typical Bangkok, although the Royal Orchid Sheraton is quite a lovely experience, I won't lie...), with a few days at a much more low-key hotel in the exact middle of the Red Shirt demonstrations near the Democracy Monument. Impassioned speeches and calls to action (in Thai) added to the uplifting soundtrack of the trip, which also included international backpacker techno tunes and traditional Southeast Asia stings.

Suan Lum Night Bazaar--Come for the cheesy T-shirts and faux ninja stars, stay for the fish spa! Bangkok's biggest and most wholesome (ie: lots of Gucci knock-offs and not a pimp in sight) night market might be a tourist magnet but it attracts plenty of Thais looking for bargains in the four square blocks of flea market tents. Interspersed between the "teak" Buddhas and racks of flip-flops are islands of calm that offer massages and spa treatments for the price of a Starbucks latte. The fish spa, my personal favorite, features a jumbo tank of those little sucker fish--and they're not just for algae anymore! Your dead foot skin is a tasty alternative, and they detach from the glass walls of the tank in droves as soon as you stick your tootsies in. It feels like an assault of tiny pecks, super ticklish at first, soothing after awhile (pictured left are my very own feet, mid-spa). Also highly recommended: 60-minute foot, neck, shoulder and head massage for $8.

Jim Thompson's House--Who doesn't know a Jim Thompson? This particular Jim was an ex-CIA agent turned textile promoter who came to Bangkok, re-introduced the Western world to Thai silk, cobbled together a compound of eight gorgeous traditional Thai houses then disappeared without a trace in the hills of Malaysia. Conspiracy theories abound, to be sure, especially given that his sister was murdered the same year. The latest, though, is that he was accidentally hit by a truck driver who hid the remains for fear of reprisals. The fascinating back story adds allure to the small museum, Thai art exhibit and pleasant cafe his former residence has become, thanks to preservation efforts by his foundation and the Thai government. K and I were told by fellow tourists that the house was "expensive but worth it." It cost $3 to get in, which hardly breaks the bank in my book, but whatever. It was worth it, especially the ancient Chinese porcelain training potties and the warm wooden floors.

Wat Pho--You haven't lived until you've seen a Buddha recline like the one at the famous Wat Pho. His golden ear alone is almost as tall as I am. All told, the famous mega statue stretches 46 meters (that's 101 feet!) from headdress to heel. Also at Wat Pho are beautiful tiled prayer halls, playful garden statues, lavishly decorated monuments to various kings, and rows and rows of smaller, upright Buddhas in various states of repair, about 390 in all!


Cooking with Angsana--It has long been my dream to 1) go to Thailand and 2) take a cooking class. On our last day in the city, K and I visited the home of Angsana, a Thai cook and savvy businesswoman who has set up a cooking school in her back room. Like the more institutional set ups, Angsana buys the raw materials. Unlike the bigger schools, K and I did all the chopping, pounding, slicing and dicing ourselves (pictured below left). Not to mention the shrimp-head-decapitating, deveining, peeling and sauteing. And the mortar and pestling. And the wok-frying. In other words, we actually cooked for three hours with a chef on call to demonstrate, give advice and step in before a certain someone (me) scalded the heck out of the coconut milk. For one-on-one Thai cooking instruction, there's no one better in the city, I'm sure. Angsana charges a reasonable rate for a private lesson (K and I paid about $60 each, which included a cute apron, recipes and, of course, all the supplies for our luscious three-course meal). Unlike chez Jim T., Angsana really is pricey for Thailand, but K and I both agreed it was well worth it (and $20/hour seems reasonable for private cooking lessons) as well as respectful of Angsana's time. Plus, we were both in awe of her business model: offer a service people want and will pay for, host it in your home, do something you enjoy all day, all within three steps of your two year old and elderly mother. What kind of dream job is that? We were happy to add to the win-win-win of it all.

Tuk-tuks--I heart tuk-tuks! Scooters with a back seat zip around Bangkok with death-defying speed (when not caught in traffic jams). For a mere 90 cents to $3.20 per ride, they are an excellent deal as well as great fun. Again, the Lonely Planet is unnecessarily dismissive, in my opinion. Sure, the drivers will quote a ridiculous price up front, but the law of supply and demand (tuk-tuks are everywhere) gives the rider the upper hand in negotiations, and almost every price comes way down. We also gladly paid a bit more to prevent a "stop" at the cousin or uncle's store (also best negotiated up front). In the end, haggling for a tuk-tuk ride proved more efficient than the regular taxis. The taximen of Bangkok are either the only professional drivers in the world who cannot navigate the major landmarks of their own city or (much more likely in K and my opinion), intentionally get lost to run up the meter. We found, mysteriously, that metered taxi rides cost about the same no matter where we were going. Strangely, once we adopted a tuk-tuk strategy and decided on a non-metered price up front, the taxi driver never once lost the way.

Though there are worse things than getting lost in a city like Bangkok. In a few days, we could only scratch the surface. Which only means there will be more to do next time...Any suggestions? Please leave them here!

A burj by any other name...

This Saturday, the JV girls softball team that I coach had a double-header against our "cross town" rivals in Dubai (and the only other softball program in the country). The girls went 1-1 with a strong second game. Our two new pitchers (8th graders) are off to a solid start, and we have a shot at victory when the opposing team visits us on April 8.

But that is not the main topic of this post. The main topic of this post is our planet's newest tallest building, which dominates the view from the softball field at the American school where we played. Last year when our teams faced off on that same field, the tower was known as the Burj Dubai, and was still skeletal at about the 145th floor. This year it loomed over us throughout the day, the hot sun blazing off its smooth, glassy surface; its tower rising into the sky, a good 1,046 feet taller than its closest rival (the Taipai 101).

It also had a new name.

The Burj Dubai was renamed the Burj Khalifa sometime between the summer of 2009 and its opening on January 4, 2010. This is also, as you might recall, about the same time that Dubai's debt crisis hit with forecasts of gloom and doom for this once-shining light of x-treme capitalism. Burj is the Arabic word for tower. Khalifa is the name of the president of the UAE and the head of the royal family. Of Abu Dhabi. Not coincidentally, said sheikh had just approved a $10 billion transfer into Dubai's empty coffers.

Those of us who heard of the renaming and know a bit about politics in these here parts laughed ruefully at the news. Because the UAE might present a united front on the international stage, at, say, the Olympics or the U.N., but back at home, the emirates lead decidedly separate lives. They have their own royal families whose hands-on style of governance is a constant reminder that this country remains a patchwork of tiny sheikhdoms. Renaming Dubai's symbol of economic prowess after the sheikh of Abu Dhabi is tantamount to renaming the Boston Red Sox, the Boston Yankees. Yet as extreme as this comparison may seem to baseball die hards, it only hints at the vast amount of crow that had to be eaten by Dubai in order to suck it up and agree to the name change. You can only imagine the conversation as it unfolded. I've attempted to recreate it here, cutting through what must certainly have been days and days of ornate Arabic and desert etiquette.

Abu Dhabi: We have about $10 billion lying around and for the good of our collective image, our honor as Emeratis and to keep the creditors from tearing us all apart bit by bit, why don't we lend it to you. More tea?

Dubai: Don't mind if I do. Here, try some dates. Wow...that's really cool of you guys. How can we ever repay you?

Abu Dhabi: These dates are delicious! Well...there's just this one little thing...

And so the Burj Khalifa was born. No one has yet added 'The biggest naming gift in history" to the list of the tower's many world records, but it must be up there. So far, the Burj has been plagued by vacancies (30,000 apartments and nine different hotels!) and dodgy elevators (which, when not stranding tourists between floors, shoot up and down at speeds of 60 km/hr). But, it IS the world's tallest building. At least until the next one comes along...

Life as pi

Today is March 14, otherwise known as Pi Day. As you surely recall from middle school math, pi describes the ratio of a circumference of a circle to its diameter and begins with 3.14 (March 14, 3/14, get it?) Math nerds love it for its irrationality, meaning it can't be expressed exactly as a fraction. Some even memorize digits of pi as a sign of numerical prowess. I like that it's called a transcendental number. There is a technical math definition behind the word transcendental as used in this case, but the metaphorical implications cannot be ignored, especially when you realize that pi is a mathematical constant that never ends and never repeats. 'Nuf said.

Pi Day, and pi, has long been beloved of my sister Bec, who got married yesterday. (There was even a pi-shaped ice sculpture at the reception with a -.o1 underneath, a charming and geeky tip of the hat to the actual wedding day, 3/13) Like all siblings, Bec has been a constant in my life. As the next in line in the birth order of our sprawling, often irrational modern family, she was my first experience as a big sister. Whenever I hear third-trimester moms marketing the role of older sib to a dubious first born, I have to smile. Whatever my parents said to me as a two-year-old worked like a charm. I have inhabited the role of big sister so thoroughly I shudder to think of landing in any other spot on the family tree.

That being said, the marriage of one of my little ones is an occasion for some serious nostalgia, not to mention a poignant twinge, as the number of family members who share my last name dwindles. (In fact, as of today, I remain the only hyphen-less R of my generation.) It was impossible to look at Bec, dressed up in a bridal gown and ballet flats and not remember the girl who crawled through the bushes and backyards of our neighborhood, began a life-long love affair with baseball at age 10, and blazed a trail of extroversion through her young adult years until our family bulged at the seams with FOBs (friends of Bec) from all corners of the globe. Being at Bec's wedding was better than a college reunion, in that it featured multiple layers of her life through the years. As a sister, I've had a front-row seat for most of it. It was cool watching her flit between groups, all gathered to celebrate her big day. Family buzz about Bec's wedding has always featured big crowds. The actual event was so much more intimate than we had all pictured, not because there weren't 200+ people on the guest list, but because they all seemed to get along so brilliantly.

Bec is the sister I am closest to in life experience (we are only two years apart, attended the same schools and have traveled to many of the same places), but perhaps farthest away from in personality. With her, though, it has never mattered. We have always been the best of friends. It's like that, I think, with family at its most functional. Or maybe it's like that when you meet someone the day they are born and live with them for the next 18 years, building each moment on a solid foundation of love and exuberance. You take the same life experiences and live them different ways. You develop wildly divergent gifts and talents. You connect about some things and seem to live in alternative dimensions about others. So many changes, beginnings and endings, seasons, years and eras. What's one wedding but another decimal place in the string of life's memories, never ending, never repeating...and yet remaining a constant that defines reality, independent of time and space. Totally transcendental.

Just like pi.

Congratulations Bec and Chris...you are off to a great start!

RR of...

It's been almost two years since I headed out into the Great Unknown of Arabia, anticipating a move to a place that seemed foreign and a bit forbidding. I wasn't sure about the locals, as interested as I was in getting to know them and perhaps smashing a few stereotypes along the way.

This week, I found myself right back where I started from, anticipating another move as a stranger in a strange land. I'm heading to a place where the locals are just as foreign, where the role of religion is just a wee bit menacing, and where the native dress is both fascinating and very odd.

This June I'm leaving the familiar mellow of Abu Dhabi. And moving to Texas.

It's true. This Californian-Persian Gulf transplant is putting down roots in the Lone Star State. Lest you think I've completely lost my mind, I'm going to Austin, which is weird, wonderfully progressive and full of likeminded teachers. But it's still Texas, as many a relative has helpfully pointed out. It's the state of W and high school cheerleading scandals, chainsaw massacres and cowboy boots, big chili cook-offs and big hair.

And then again, to veer away from the knee-jerk reaction, it is also the home of the country's first out lesbian mayor (Houston! True!), a world-famous music festival (Austin) and the Alamo. What more do you need?

I'm happy about teaching at a school from the same network as I taught before and even happier to be switching subjects. I'll be teaching 6th grade nonfiction studies, a fancy name for history with a focus on writing and researching (all topics close to my heart). I'm excited about the position, excited about the school (which is in its second year), excited about moving to a place where I can serve low-income students of color AND bask in the sunshine most of the year. As a former San Franciscan, I am continually awestruck by the size of an apartment I can get for under $1,000/month (and Austin is considered woefully pricey by Texas standards). I'm also excited to know a few folks in town, former colleagues who share my educational orbit.

Right now, from a safe distance of 8,000 miles, everything looks rosy. It will be very hard to leave Abu Dhabi when June rolls around, but I also know it's the right time. I'm ready to meet the natives...

Addendum: books for the young reader

By popular demand (OK, my good friend Ange and my mom--but that's enough for this blog), I hereby submit my book list for the young reader. With two caveats.

Caveat #1: These are some of my favorite kids books. Some I loved as a kid. Some I've loved as an adult. Some I love as a teacher. Obviously, the ones I loved as a kid might not play as well today. I've included them nonetheless. You know me. You know your kids. You make the call.

Caveat #2: Once again, these do NOT in ANY WAY represent even the merest fraction of all the great books for kids out there (or even all the great books for kids I've read). These are a selection of particularly excellent and enduring works that have stayed with me through the years. If you'd like a recommendation targeted for your particular child (or for yourself), feel free to email!

Mid to upper elementary

• The Endless Pavement--Jacqueline Jackson (grade 2-6)
  

My favorite childhood book of all time. It's out of print, but it might be at your library. It's...well, it's a post-apocalyptic, dystopian view of a mechanized Earth taken over by sentient cars. And what happens when a young girl finds the last apple tree. Yes, it's written for kids. Yes, I loved it so much I lied to my teacher so I could check it out of the library more than once. It's a picture book (really!), but the reading level is at least 2nd grade.

• Sahara Special--Esme Raji Codell (reading/interest level: grade 3-6)
• Because of Winn-Dixie-- Kate DiCamillo (grades 3-5)
• Superfudge--Judy Blume (grades 3-6)
  
• The Watsons Go to Birmingham--1963--Christoper Paul Curtis (grades 4-8)
• The Gammage Cup--Carol Kendall (grades 4-6)
• My Father's Dragon and series--Ruth Stiles Gannett (grades 2-5)
  
• The Shredderman series--Wendelin Van Draanen

A GREAT series for boys grades 3-6 (the reading level is on the easy side...the interest level would remain high throughout elementary school) Girls will love them, too. Would also make good read aloud for younger kids.

• The Phantom Tollbooth--Norton Juster (grades 4-8)

For your budding grammar nerd

• The Great Brain series--John D. Fitzgerald (grades 3-6)

One of my all-time favorite series growing up. I'm relieved (though surprised) that they haven't made a movie of at least one of these books. They are so good and so funny. Also would be good to read aloud to younger kids.

• The Encyclopedia Brown series--Donald J. Sobol (grades 3-6)
• A Wrinkle in Time--Madeleine L'Engle (grades 4-8)
• The Wolves of Willoughby Chase--Joan Aiken (grades 4-6)
• Cheaper by the Dozen--Frank Gilbreth (grade 4-6) SOOO much better than the movie...
  
• James and the Giant Peach, The Witches and Danny, Champion of World--Roald Dahl (or anything else by him, but I loved these the best) (grades 4-6)
• Mrs. Frisbee and the Rats of NIMH--Robert C. O'Brien (grades 4-6)
  

Middle school

• The Hunger Games and Circle of Fire--Suzanne Collins

Two of the best middle school fiction books I've read in a LONG time. Very strong, independent girl protagonist, complex issues, empathetic/realistic take on oppressive violence. Very powerful and moving. As an adult, I could not put them down. I'd love to teach them. My students are just discovering them, but the reviews are good so far.

• The Lightning Thief (Percy Jackson series)--Rick Riordan
• The Golden Compass and His Dark Materials series--Philip Pullman
• The Chronicles of Narnia--CS Lewis
• The Princess Bride--William Goldman
• The Giver--June Lowry
• Ender's Game--Orson Scott Card
  
• The White Mountains (and series)-John Christopher
• The Dark is Rising (and series)--Susan Cooper
  
• Hatchet--Gary Paulson
• The View from Saturday--E. L. Konigsburg
  
• Harry Potter series--JK Rowling (duh)
• Summerland--Michael Chabon
• The Hobbit--JRR Tolkein
  
• To Kill A Mockingbird--Harper Lee

Enjoy!