Wednesday, June 27, 2012

Summer Reading

One of my favorite parts of summer is the bi-monthly library raid.  I like to do this during the school year too, but since I really don't have time to lose myself in extraneous reading material during the semesters I try to limit that.  Sometime in April my resolve usually snaps and I'll end up skipping a class to pillage the library and return with a stack of contraband right before finals week.  Not that I actually read the books at that point.  They usually root themselves in a prominent spot on my desk/bookshelf/floor among tor-like mounds of their denser relatives used for research papers.  But their presence directs me to a horizon beyond finals week, and for that I am always grateful.

But then summer.  Summer, which I loath for the humidity, the necessary absence of sweaters, and the increased possibilities of contact with swimming pools and fresh-cut grass, but love for the family meals, the open road, and...the books.  During the school year, I am a student of history.  In the summer I become an arm chair psychologist- neuroscientist-linguist-archaeologist, albeit of a very passive kind.  I most recently read Clotaire Rapaille's The Culture Code: An Ingenious Way to Understand Why People Around the World Live and Buy As They Do. 

Front Cover

 Rapaille, a cultural anthropologist, developed his method of understanding people and cultures from studying the idea of emotional imprints.  When he (with the help of an acquaintance) realized the potential for his ideas in the marketing world, the author left his work as a psychoanalyst in Paris to become a consultant for various companies, including Nestle, Chrysler, and L'Oreal. 

So what is this code?  Well, it's quirky, and companies were skeptical until it started boosting their sales, but it makes sense to me.  The code for a particular thing (concrete or abstract) is the emotional imprint a person or a society as a whole has of that thing.  For instance, Rapaille writes about his experience with Chrysler when he counseled them to stop making the Jeep prettier and and fancier.  Despite the fact that prospective customers seemed to ask for prettier and fancier, they weren't buying the Jeep.  It was only when the company took a different turn and followed Rapaille's advice to make the Jeep more accessible, free, and wilderness friendly that the sales went up.  According to Rapaille, this is because the code for Jeep is "HORSE."  For Americans, the Jeep is a ride into the wild.  It's not supposed to be a Lexus. 

Rapaille expands the "code" across cultures, for instance, what the Germans think of the Jeep (Liberator, dating from WWII days).  And what the French think of cheese (Alive vs. dead and moldy as Americans see it).  All of this is based on studies involving people who attend structured sessions where they tell Rapaille their associations and memories concerning different brands, objects, and ideas.  He then uses that information to determine what kind of advertisement would be "on code" for that particular group of people.  If the Jeep is supposed to be a horse, advertising it as a luxury vehicle isn't on code.  

My only complaint about the book is that I wanted more codes, more cultures.  Rapaille sets the book up with an element of suspense as he described his study on a particular object or idea (home, for example) and lets you guess a while before revealing his answer to the code.  And outside the USA he only covers a handful of European countries plus Japan.  Which is ok; I guess the guy can't know everything.  But it makes me want to go out and figure out codes for everything.  When I study abroad this fall I'll be walking around Bishkek saying to myself, "Hm, so what IS the Kyrgyz code for American College Student?" 

The Culture Code is an intensely personal twist on marketing, to the point of being scary.  They can read my mind.  At the same time, I firmly believe that humans are capable of self control.  I am not my buying impulses. I'm not really as interested in marketing as I am in understanding the world I live in.  And Rapaille makes it clear that the code does not just apply to marketing, but to how we understand the world around us.  This book is "on code" for me because it reveals the "secrets" to getting into people's brains.  Sneaky, I know. I don't know how much of my short life I've spent trying to figure out what people are thinking and what they meant with they said or did X, Y, or Z.  Of course, I've learned to curb a lot of the compulsive agonized fretting, but now that the fog has cleared a bit I've found that the advantage to this kind of bent is that you care about where other people are coming from.  That's a handy quality in this shrinking world, and The Culture Code is a handy tool to compliment it.    


Wednesday, June 6, 2012

If the Song Fits

I renamed and restructured this blog last week because the layout really bothered me before.  There wasn't space for me to come and roost. It wasn't a place I could stay comfortably in cyberspace.  The orangey gold works well because I think it fits the feel of the song the blog is named for (Fiona Apple's cover of Across the Universe, by The Beatles).

My sister says I need to get a different profile picture.  She thinks the photo of me being goofy with Ethan (our small brother) is smarmy.  I know what she means, but I'm not too photogenic and all my other photos just look like I'm trying too hard.  This one is more genuine, even if it could be mistaken for the oh my gosh look how amazing I am with small children vibe. "Just please don't be one of those moms who always posts pictures of their kids for their profile on Facebook," she moans.  Well, haters gonna hate. 

As for the song, I chose it because not only is it beautiful, but the lyrics are fitting for both a writing process and the idea of traveling around a lot.  I can't decide whether the oft repeated chorus "Nothin's gonna change my world" signifies that I am a very inflexible person or that I am a very badass person who is unperturbed by life's obstacles.  I choose to believe the latter.

It's hard to believe that this time last year I was posting on this blog about this obscure study abroad program I'd found, wondering if it might work out.  Here I am on a nine week countdown, accepted to the program, all scholarshipped up and ready to go.

In August I will be traveling to Ukraine for two weeks to be reunited with the Crowe family and other good friends in Rzhishchiv, where I stayed for nearly a year in 2008-2009.  After two weeks I'll hop on over a couple mountain ranges to Kyrgyzstan for a long awaited study abroad, where I will be delving into Central Asian and Russian Language studies for a semester in the capital city, Bishkek.  I hope to roam the mountainous country, visiting ancient ruins and national parks and overcoming my fear of large animals (horseback riding).

So although I'll begin posting regularly this summer, the resurrection of the blog is mainly with the intent of chronicling the adventures to come, more or less across the universe...

Friday, June 1, 2012

Cincinnati


Driving is my favorite.  I mean that.  I am in love with several things, namely, Simon and Garfunkel, city driving, truck stop coffee, and Laundromats on rainy days.  The Laundromat is where I am now, and whenever I come here it rains (all two times I’ve been this month).  But it’s cozy with the dryers and the detergent smell and the gum ball machines. 

Yesterday I was in Cincinnati, meeting my dear friends Rosanna and Alyssa at a good compromise between Berea and Indianapolis.  It was a beautiful day.  The only blight on it is that I am gravely disappointed that Cincinnati does not have two repeating syllables like I thought it did.  I checked every sign I passed but its true that Cincinnati only has three n’s.  I could swear I read it “Cinncinnati” somewhere.  But that somewhere was Divine Right’s Trip by Gurney Norman, and the fictional main character was the one discussing this. He was also stoned for most of the book. 

Every city I drive in issues a fresh challenge.  Driving the interstate reminds me of algebra II in high school. It builds on itself; once you get a concept it applies elsewhere.  You realize that when you get off an exit to switch directions you might have to drive through a sketchy neighborhood, but you will once more be reunited with the lifeline of green signs.  

You need to drive through a city twice.  Once on your own, maneuvering the loops and spaghetti bowl of interstates, then with an alternate driver, so that you can look at the scenery.  I admired the surprise view coming over the hill into Cincinnati and enjoyed the bridge crossing over from Kentucky.  I hadn’t been in Ohio since I was six, and hadn’t had the chance to feel the difference between the two.  Cincinnati was hillier than I expected.  The skyline wasn’t magnificent, but there was flavor to the city.  The shot gun houses standing like pieces of cake in a row, the bridges over the Ohio River (in various colors; blue, yellow, and lavender).  

I tried to be both a driver and a passenger for a while, but missed the junction to get back on I-75 north.  I knew the second it happened, but once off the google-mapped path, getting back was puzzle. 
Panic does not help anything.  And I had allotted myself 30 extra minutes for this express purpose of missing turns and “recalculating” as the GPS would probably say.  After a couple of GPS experiences, I have decided that if I want to travel the world, I’d better learn to follow, give, and work out my own directions. 

So, in the spirit of not panicking, I talk myself through it.   

Ok, we’re driving over the freaking Ohio River again.  Drive over the bridges.  Drive over all the bridges!  This one is yellow.  (In searching of a spot to turn around, I drove through downtown and headed back to Newport, Kentucky on I-471 South).  Newport looks fine.  The aquarium is in Newport.  I really have to pee. Surely I can still make it on time to Colerain.

Newport provides an exit, so I turn around and head back over the river into Ohio.   

That’s a good sign.  I was on I-71 North before so it stands to reason that I should get back on it.  Or does it?  I’m headed to Columbus.  That can’t be right.  I really need to pee.  Oh, look, the Zoo. 

After back tracking to the junction I am finally reunited with I-75 and continue to Colerain, pondering the mysteries of exit numbers that decrease instead of increase.  Off the exit onto I-74, up through that narrow winding of Colerain Road, which Rosanna later informs me I do NOT pronounce like a local, and soon I have just passed our meeting place for a detour to the nearest quick-stop-because-I-absolutely-have-to-pee. 

Our afternoon was truly wonderful, gallivanting about, hugging their necks, walking in the park, eating Graeter’s ice cream to our hearts’ content and laying in the sun, wandering back and forth across the different colored bridges, splashing in the fountains, enjoying Claddagh’s Irish Pub at dinnertime.  The violent thunderstorms held till the moment we drove away and we had a lightning show on the way home.