raindropthe optimal solution
People with different industry backgrounds have different ideas about how to solve problems. However, the final optimal solution can not be obtained from a single perspective. Perhaps the optimal solution is a combination of offline handling and online crowdsourcing. For example, users ride vehicles scattered in remote areas to a series of parking spots that may not be where we want them to be, but are on the optimal path for moving vehicles offline. Moreover, the flexible setting of the rout...
raindropOne cold Sunday
One cold Sunday, Mark came home with a bag of small silver fish. This is Xiang Yu, or ice fish as the locals call it. He had bought it in a shop in the town to the south, opposite where a small village had sprung up on the ice of the lake, a collection of simple wooden houses with holes drilled around them. I've seen a snowmobile ride from the shore to a cabin with a six-pack of beer strapped to the back, like a half-dozen mini passengers. "Sit down and rest," Mark said. "I'll cook....
Do it all with passion.
raindropthe optimal solution
People with different industry backgrounds have different ideas about how to solve problems. However, the final optimal solution can not be obtained from a single perspective. Perhaps the optimal solution is a combination of offline handling and online crowdsourcing. For example, users ride vehicles scattered in remote areas to a series of parking spots that may not be where we want them to be, but are on the optimal path for moving vehicles offline. Moreover, the flexible setting of the rout...
raindropOne cold Sunday
One cold Sunday, Mark came home with a bag of small silver fish. This is Xiang Yu, or ice fish as the locals call it. He had bought it in a shop in the town to the south, opposite where a small village had sprung up on the ice of the lake, a collection of simple wooden houses with holes drilled around them. I've seen a snowmobile ride from the shore to a cabin with a six-pack of beer strapped to the back, like a half-dozen mini passengers. "Sit down and rest," Mark said. "I'll cook....
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The farm is a three-hour drive southwest. We set out before dawn, but the place had been covered by another winter snow for a week. The farm is on a windy plateau that is truly in the middle of nowhere. The plows had more pressing roads to shovel, and the last five miles were so deep that they were almost impassable. We skidded in circles all the way, with no traction compared to the man pulling the sledge in front of us, who was driving two steady Belgian mares. There was a box of brown chickens and spotted ducks on the sledge, and the horses' long manes on their chests and necks had frosted white with their breath. As we slid into what served as a parking lot, the man behind the wheel, his Pennsylvanian Dutch accent as flat as this windswept landscape, called his horse to a halt and asked if he wanted a ride to the barnyard. We thought with the bad weather, there would be fewer people and it would be easier to bargain, but the Amish really come rain or shine.
Two families are auctioning off, trying to move to Ohio, and it's a big deal. Since the Amish don't drive, I thought the auction was local. But the church had no policy against hitchhiking, so they took taxis and minibuses from all over New York and California. Groups of adults came to do the shopping and lots of teenage boys, I suppose, for a social event. A dozen teenage girls from the local community, wearing clean black dresses and black scarves, their hair parted in the middle, are selling coffee, sandwiches and homemade desserts in a barn, walled off by plastic panels and heated by a large wooden stove. The girls were supervised by several young mothers carrying babies, and an older woman in a black skullcap with a serious expression. A little girl of about eight appeared to be the designated babysitter, rocking a well-wrapped baby on her lap while keeping an eye on a group of toddlers from falling to the floor or approaching the stove, where doughnuts sizzled in hot lard. The horses were lined up in their gear on a field outside, and Mark and I walked among the things. Mark tells me how to pick from the mix: rough welds that reveal a history of breakage and repair, worn seams that sometimes lurk beneath the bright, newly painted exterior. The wind whipped snow around us and the temperature was below freezing. I had listened to the weather forecast the night before, and I tried everything I could to keep warm: two pairs of trousers, two blue goose down coats, one over the other.
The farm is a three-hour drive southwest. We set out before dawn, but the place had been covered by another winter snow for a week. The farm is on a windy plateau that is truly in the middle of nowhere. The plows had more pressing roads to shovel, and the last five miles were so deep that they were almost impassable. We skidded in circles all the way, with no traction compared to the man pulling the sledge in front of us, who was driving two steady Belgian mares. There was a box of brown chickens and spotted ducks on the sledge, and the horses' long manes on their chests and necks had frosted white with their breath. As we slid into what served as a parking lot, the man behind the wheel, his Pennsylvanian Dutch accent as flat as this windswept landscape, called his horse to a halt and asked if he wanted a ride to the barnyard. We thought with the bad weather, there would be fewer people and it would be easier to bargain, but the Amish really come rain or shine.
Two families are auctioning off, trying to move to Ohio, and it's a big deal. Since the Amish don't drive, I thought the auction was local. But the church had no policy against hitchhiking, so they took taxis and minibuses from all over New York and California. Groups of adults came to do the shopping and lots of teenage boys, I suppose, for a social event. A dozen teenage girls from the local community, wearing clean black dresses and black scarves, their hair parted in the middle, are selling coffee, sandwiches and homemade desserts in a barn, walled off by plastic panels and heated by a large wooden stove. The girls were supervised by several young mothers carrying babies, and an older woman in a black skullcap with a serious expression. A little girl of about eight appeared to be the designated babysitter, rocking a well-wrapped baby on her lap while keeping an eye on a group of toddlers from falling to the floor or approaching the stove, where doughnuts sizzled in hot lard. The horses were lined up in their gear on a field outside, and Mark and I walked among the things. Mark tells me how to pick from the mix: rough welds that reveal a history of breakage and repair, worn seams that sometimes lurk beneath the bright, newly painted exterior. The wind whipped snow around us and the temperature was below freezing. I had listened to the weather forecast the night before, and I tried everything I could to keep warm: two pairs of trousers, two blue goose down coats, one over the other.
Gloves were not enough to keep out the cold, but a pair of thick woolen socks were placed over them, and a Russian military fur cap with furry earmuffs was placed on his head. The auction won't start for at least an hour, and I jump around trying to regain my cold - numbed senses. The Amish also came out to see the machines, but they were only wearing black wool coats, and their flat brim straw hats did not cover their ears at all, but they looked warm. I tried to get a closer look at their hats. Some had straps made of black ribbon around them, others were just taped to the crowns. That's when Mark told me that the group of teenage boys were looking me up and down and giggling. They were obviously looking at my outfit, and I admit I looked like a giant blueberry aviator. "I think they're trying to figure out what you really are." Mark said. The Amish will think you're hilarious dressed like that. I left Mark and went back to the barn heating, where a line of people was waiting for doughnuts. The Amish called the non-Amish English, and a group of Englishmen began to arrive, all nearby farmers with chapped faces and cold expressions and hats worn far back. They dress like the Amish, except instead of black, they wear plaid or camouflage. When the auctioneer arrived, everyone rushed to the far end of the barn, where household goods and smaller farm goods were piled in a row on the floor or on top of the hay wagon. The auctioneer motioned with his hand for the first item, a set of bland dining-room chairs, and the crowd gathered to get a closer look. The household items were much like what you'd find at any rural yard sale, cheap stuff in weird colors. The atmosphere of the auction is more like a gathering, a joyous social business scene. No wonder Thomas lafontaine drove 150 miles to an auction, even if he didn't want to buy anything. "What did you buy?" "Asked his son when they got home. "A hamburger." He said.
Gloves were not enough to keep out the cold, but a pair of thick woolen socks were placed over them, and a Russian military fur cap with furry earmuffs was placed on his head. The auction won't start for at least an hour, and I jump around trying to regain my cold - numbed senses. The Amish also came out to see the machines, but they were only wearing black wool coats, and their flat brim straw hats did not cover their ears at all, but they looked warm. I tried to get a closer look at their hats. Some had straps made of black ribbon around them, others were just taped to the crowns. That's when Mark told me that the group of teenage boys were looking me up and down and giggling. They were obviously looking at my outfit, and I admit I looked like a giant blueberry aviator. "I think they're trying to figure out what you really are." Mark said. The Amish will think you're hilarious dressed like that. I left Mark and went back to the barn heating, where a line of people was waiting for doughnuts. The Amish called the non-Amish English, and a group of Englishmen began to arrive, all nearby farmers with chapped faces and cold expressions and hats worn far back. They dress like the Amish, except instead of black, they wear plaid or camouflage. When the auctioneer arrived, everyone rushed to the far end of the barn, where household goods and smaller farm goods were piled in a row on the floor or on top of the hay wagon. The auctioneer motioned with his hand for the first item, a set of bland dining-room chairs, and the crowd gathered to get a closer look. The household items were much like what you'd find at any rural yard sale, cheap stuff in weird colors. The atmosphere of the auction is more like a gathering, a joyous social business scene. No wonder Thomas lafontaine drove 150 miles to an auction, even if he didn't want to buy anything. "What did you buy?" "Asked his son when they got home. "A hamburger." He said.
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