Love at first click

It was 2002, I had returned to university after a hiatus because of health problems, was sitting again in a classroom at the most important university in my city; most of my classmates were chattering excitedly about what had happened in the last party, some were concerned because they had been told the subject that was going to begin was quite difficult, while I was gazing at the blackboard with an expectant look on my face, wondering how the classes would be and totally eager to start promptly. The professor entered and soon introduced us to the benefits of mastering the course he was going to lecture–this fact was not new to me–and then pointed out the necessity of using a computer if we wanted to succeed not only in his class but after leaving college.

Now I was convinced that I needed a computer right away, not when having a job; the problem was I could not afford it. Fortunately, my aunt Julia helped me once more (she was always willing to when necessity arose): she bought it for me. I will always be grateful for that. She told me to choose a machine that both best suited my needs and was not too expensive. Customized compatible personal computers were mostly sold in those days in Peru; the one which eventually started to be mine was no exception. A Pentium IV machine with 256 MB RAM became my most faithful companion for several years.

It came with two versions of a proprietary operating system: the last and the most used one. I was so excited that I began to use it as soon as it was put on my desk. Although I had already used computers, none of those opportunities compared to the sense of having one of mine and what was best is it was a state-of-the-art machine for that time (at least in my country), and I was told I could expand the memory to 512 RAM whenever I wanted. I was totally glad and beaming all the time, since I woke up till I went to bed, always thinking of her (yes, I began to treat it as a woman) everyday and wherever I was, expecting to see her soon if I was not at home, contemplating her as a boy in love for the first time stares at the most beautiful girl who happens to be his first love.

At university I discovered I could program the machine so I studied almost everyday and soon was pleased with the things she was able to do as long as I wrote the right instructions. No sooner had I written programs for performing engineering calculations than I got interested in the C and C++ programming languages and realized they were totally compatible with my way of thinking and were appropriate for a better communication with my computer. It would have been much better if I had learned her native language–that is, her machine language–or at least her assembly language but I did not have enough time so I stuck to the C/C++ family since it gave me more flexibility than a proper high-level programming language to make my machine carry out the tasks I wanted her to do, especially the direct access to the proprietary operating system API.

I remember perfectly the great happiness I felt when the program I had been debugging at last run properly and, as a result, I skipped around my house like a child when given a new toy. I also remember many times I would long to have a Unix-like machine and, having tried a Live-CD of a GNU/Linux distribution, I decided I had to have it installed on my computer. Shortly afterwards, I formatted my machine and installed both systems, the proprietary and the free one. This was an exciting new adventure my beloved desktop computer offered me, which I was utterly eager to embark on, and thenceforth I have been programming in these two environments.

As in all love relationships when one of the partners suddenly becomes ill, I got very worried when one day she began to make a long-pitched sound and did not start-up correctly. I was terrified that she would stop functioning forever. This very thought made my skin crawl and then I acknowledged that she may one day, sooner or later, undergo that fate. After a short period of normal operation since a technician had cleaned her, a memory management unit had to be replaced when the same problem occurred again; I thought this fact would solve it once and for all, but, unfortunately, one day this year I found out she had died after several attempts to turn her on.

Last year I bought my first laptop computer, which has become my only machine since the decease of my beautiful, unique, hard-working, faithful, desktop computer. Although it has features my old machine did not, it is completely different working with it and I miss the use of floppy disks, the boot loader screen, the capability of running full-screen DOS programs, the keyboard, and the old-fashioned mouse that were some of her more attractive characteristics.

I still have my old computer, lying on my desktop, where she was first laid, where she was always helping me each time I required her fast calculation capabilities, accompanying me all the nights I passed sitting in front of her programming an important piece of software. I strongly oppose getting rid of her despite my relatives suggest that I do it, and I will always stand on my decision. Perhaps I will dismantle her and keep her parts in a safe place as a way of preserving her for the future, for me to re-assemble her someday and be able to make her live again. This is the least I can do for the computer that has been my first technological love.

A set of memories of an intense human-machine relationship will always dwell in my mind and the warm and heart-breaking emotion that is provoked every time I see a desktop computer in a store will continue assaulting my heart, though the great satisfaction of having learned a lot with the help of my old computer wipes the tears as they are running down my face, assuring me that the knowledge thus acquired is a fitting tribute I pay to her.

Remembrances of a main square

I have travelled several times across Peru for work reasons, I have been to different cities and towns, gotten to know new people, stayed in rooms other than my bedroom, become accustomed to new climates, and eaten dishes that I had never tasted before. I've been a visitor to these places, not a proper apartment dweller, nor have I been called a tourist who is able to relish the visit to local landmarks; for most of the time I was at work and when I had spare time, apart from hanging out with friends, I would go downtown and would be keen to visit only the main square. Yet there was something missing in the experience; in spite of the sky being different and although in some places the buildings were smaller and in others bigger, they were only a part of the whole, and it did not make any difference whether the square was bigger or smaller, more or less crowded, quiet or loud; it was never the open space where I used to go when I wanted to since I was in high school. None of them compared to the main square of Trujillo.

I was walking down an avenue, along with a girlfriend–I was accompanying her to the bus stop–and carrying a book in my hand, when she asked me where I was going afterwards and I answered I was heading towards downtown to have a time on my own in order for me to think about important issues; those were poetry and art-related matters, my primary concerns at that time. I was sixteen years old, was going to enter my last year in high school, was more idealistic than my peers and found much joy in being in solitude. As soon as I got downtown I used to walk along a street where a bookshop was sited and there I sought literature books although I could only afford a few. Sometimes, after leaving the book store, I would go to the main square for a walk, or just crossed over it to go to the other streets before going home. Soon, this main square turned into my final destination, to where I would stride unconsciously or on purpose. There was something peculiar in it, something that attracted me and made me return several times: I had found it suitable for my need of calmness, peace and quiet, and thenceforth it became a witness to important events in my life.

Since I finished high school it became closer to me, for I used to attend art exhibitions in one gallery in the main square and in others situated on streets off it. Thus, it was closely associated to one of my great fountains of pleasure, with its trees reminding me of the ones I saw in the canvases hung on the walls of the galleries, and its sky always welcoming me even though the grey clouds of winter could appear to some people as though it was an invitation to look for shelter. I appreciated its beauty better in the darkling sky of the evening, when the street lamps drew shades of the cathedral and the statues of the main monument seemed to emerge from its centre, freeing themselves from their stone prison, and come to life leaving behind their shadows cast by the combination of the moonlight and the light of the lamps, watching the people as they passed by, sometimes looking as human as us and projecting an apparent gloominess like that of a loner.

This main square was also the scene of the unveiling of the actual nature of a girl's lies on a dismal day, acted as a friend that would rather unmask the liar than let their confidant believe deceptive tricks, providing me with a shield to defend myself against the temptation to embark upon a perilous journey from steadiness to a moment of madness. However, some years later it was the glade where I smelled the air of a summer's afternoon filled with the scent of the honesty of a lovely foreign woman–who had invited me an ice cream cone bought in a store on a street nearby–while we were seated on one of its benches, talking and laughing, wrapped up in our conversation, until a street trader interrupted us, and then we commented on his impolite way of approaching people.

When I graduated from university I was given my diploma in a Peru's colonial epoch building on one corner of this main square. It had to be present at the moment when I was officially declared a proper potential worker, like parents are at the birth of their children, hoping the best to happen to them, knowing a long road to walk on is expecting them. And as an adult visits their parents on vacation, I often went to this main square the first day off work, and it would greet me with an open and wide sky, a perfect ceiling under which I would feel quite safe while walking on the floor of this large and unusual room, sometimes pretending it is my own room, and then realizing it is also home to other people who have lived their stories there many times but have probably never been aware of this fact.

Nowadays, as I have been idle for a while, I hardly ever visit the main square, for I am taking advantage of this time to read and do some research by myself and to pass more time with relatives and friends; but when the necessity of breathing well arises, I head for the bus stop and within fifteen minutes I am walking down Pizarro street in downtown Trujillo, getting closer to the main square with each heavy footstep, knowing that only the air in there can clean my equilibrium lungs out, and as soon as I get there an absolute certainty of getting relieved fills my chest and an awareness of a strong attachment to it comes to my mind. I wonder whether I will find another intimate, warm, and mind-refreshing place.

On Reading A Novel In English

Several months ago I finished Mark Twain's The Adventures of Tom Sawyer. As I stated in my last post, I decided to read it without consulting a dictionary and simply trying to infer the meaning of the words from the context. I did so. I just sat cross-legged on my bed holding no more than the book in my hands and began the journey to the amusing world of Tom Sawyer and his fellow rascal Huck Finn, by doing a straightforward reading and hoping to understand the depicted adventures on my own.

Although I gained time, I could only gain a somewhat incomplete understanding of the novel. A number of unknown words referring to nature, others used to describe landscapes, and the slang used and the dialects spoken in the Mississippi river's surrounding area at mid-nineteenth century, appeared as I advanced through the pages of the book. It is clear the prospect of understanding all those words appeared unlikely but I managed to most of the times. The crux of the matter is I was able to arrive at the final page after a few weeks (by reading four to six pages a day), so I did fulfil the main goal: to enjoy the reading while doing it continuously.

When I finished the book I felt so glad that I sprang to my feet, headed towards my wardrobe, took my copy of Adventures of Huckleberry Finn out of it (yes, I keep some of my books in my wardrobe, my bookcase is too small) and began to read it the same way; of course it worked this time too. I was so excited to discover that this novel is, in some way, a continuation of the former, and was keen to totally read it in the course of a few days, but some days after I had started I got distracted by earthly matters. Notwithstanding, I had already proved to myself that one can read a novel written in a foreign language–at least one written in English, for non-native English speakers–without stopping every time they encounter an unknown word in order to look it up in a dictionary, and can, if not completely understand the novel, get an overall impression of it.

The next step is to reread the novel, this time using a dictionary. I am sure this undertaking will take longer than the preceding one, yet it will bring the satisfaction of understanding every single written word and thus the whole book on completion of the process of enjoying a great piece of writing. From now on I'll follow this procedure.

This way of approaching the reading of a novel, that is, to try to understand new words in their context, is found in Reading Comprehension exercises in tests given to students both when learning a new language and as a method of learning new words in their mother tongue. I reckon everybody has experienced it, one way or the other. So, it is obvious I am not the first person whom this idea has ever occurred to; and since it is universally acknowledged as a very good manner to learn new words, wouldn't it be reasonable to think this style of reading is highly appropriate for training the brain and accustoming it to the act of inferring?