A Whole New World, An Undiscovered Country
Well, it's been a week since I arrived here at CERN, so I thought I'd share a few thoughts.
I'm living at one of the CERN hostels, the one right next to the cafeteria and across the street from B40 -- one of my places of work. Now, lest you imagine that I'm living in a dirty, run-down "abode" -- one made of corrugated tin and habituated by itinerant hippies smoking dope next to frat boys who are trying to act Bohemian to impress the American co-eds they want to take back to their dingy mattresses -- let me assure that it's more of a hotel. There's a maid service, towels are provided, and there's free soap -- I know! -- every day. That said, it's not the lap of luxury. The room is dirt cheap -- 13 CHF/day, or $10.13/day -- but the room is tiny. I mean tiny. There are two slender beds with maybe one or two feet between them. If I weren't so brachially-challenged, I'm sure I could reach both walls with my hands out-stretched. There's a wash-basin, and I'm fortunate enough to be right across the hall from the showers and bathroom.
I had a Pakistani roommate for the first two nights -- it turns out he works in B180 welding and assembling A-frames -- who is quite nice. He doesn't speak a lot of English, but he makes me cups of tea. I'll have to make something Hillal and bring it to him. Then he was moved down the hall and I had a single for a night. Now I have another roommate. By coincidence, he's also Pakistani, but he's a grad student working on CMS. He's been here at CERN before, but he used to commute from Lausanne, which is about 40 minutes away by train. He speaks English, so we have a few more discussions, mainly concerning gaming. He's a big Medal of Honor fan.
There's a kitchen in the hostel, but I've been going to the cafeteria to eat. While it's not that expensive -- about $16/day for some pains au chocolat and clementines for breakfast, a sandwich for lunch, and an entrée with salad and dessert for dinner -- it will be a lot cheaper to make some of the meals myself. Even if I just go to the grocery store to get sandwich fixings, clementines, and pains au chocolat, I'll save a bit of money. And who doesn't want that?
Lunch is best if brought with me, so that I can take only a short break to eat and then get back to work. While we're not crazy-busy, it is nice not to be seen as a person who takes leisurely lunch breaks and ignores the tasks at hand. So far, I've been working on the small-sector. Now, when I say small, I mean small comparatively. The ATLAS detector is cylindrical and has a radius of 11 meters. So, the small sector is close to 10 meters long and stands about 4 meters off the ground. I've been hooking up voltage cables, so we can test the electronics. If/when we get the fiber optics installed today, we'll get the diagnostics running.
As I have to work with things high off the ground, I get to use something called a Tapis Volant -- or flying carpet -- it's little lift on wheels. And it's incredibly fun to drive. I've gotten pretty good at it -- namely, I haven't run into anything, a prospect which scares the bejeezus out of me, given that I work with damn expensive equipment that takes thousands of man-hours to create. So, I flit around in the air plugging things in and beautifying with cable ties, for which I've gained new-found love/respect.
While the small sector is about to be tested, things just wrapped up on the large sector. After a couple months of testing, it's now being put in storage. It's a big operation, as the sector weighs about 5 tons -- include the frame it's on, and that's almost 11 tons. It's a hard-hat required area, but it makes me feel like a real man to sit back and talk about cranes. This is apparently light work compared to the end-cap toroids and their transport to the pit. They weigh 190 tons and have to be moved by double flat-bed trailers -- with 144 wheels and a 290 ton capacity to hold the toroid and the frame. This sort of thing isn't that surprising given that the entire ATLAS detector weighs in at 7000 tons. These are startlingly awesome numbers, and make me feel as though my work is of importance -- or at least has heft.
This type of work requires incredible man-power: from the Pakistanis building the frame to the schmucks like me connecting cables. This all has to be managed and organized, a feat made more difficult by the cornucopia of languages spoken by the different workers. One man was a great help in this as he spoke French, English, and Russian -- he's from Romania. Two days ago he was fine, though he had slight complaints about some cold symptoms. Yesterday he was rushed to the hospital and fell into a coma. He had an infection in his leg, which they amputated. The doctors gave him two hours to live. He was given a 24-hour reprieve, but he's still in a coma and not expected to survive the day.
It's a strange juxtaposition: I work in a place where man is humbled and dwarfed by his own titanic creation, but we were made to see how truly small we are when a seemingly-healthy man was felled by an unknown cause in twenty-four hours. It's scary that this can happen. These days, it seems that in the developed world disease is, for the most part, held at bay. Natural disaster can strike us down, but we can often avoid such fates by going somewhere else. Infectious attacks like the one that struck here have no warning, no means of avoidance. It's true that the odds of dying in such a manner are slim; but that doesn't detract from the fact that it can and does happen.
This man's family is rushing across the globe to try and be with him before he succumbs, even though we are all hoping beyond hope that the miniscule sliver of chance of survival will apply in this case. It often seems that it takes disaster for us to realize what the people in our lives mean to us. A tornado struck in New Hampshire near my house, and it was the first time I realized I really and truly loved my family. I disregarded personal safety to make sure they were okay because of that love. Perhaps it was foolish, but it was a relief to know that I did it and that I'd do it again.
Death scares me. I'm not afraid of dying, but, rather, I'm afraid of the people around me, friends and family, dying. I'm glad I'm the elder brother, because I really don't want to have my brother die while I'm alive. It's a horrible thing that I wish this fear of mine on him, but it's true. As I grow older, the thing that scares me most is not that I grow one step closer to death; it's that my parents do the same. I don't know what I'll do when they are gone. I've felt for a while that I should talk to them about it; but simply the thought of it makes broaching the subject terrifying.
Still, I think they can help me with this: both of my Dad's parents died, and my Mother has lost her father and many of her family. It's true that I lost them, too, but it's different when your grandparents die. They are, by definition, much older than you, and, horrible as it is to say, you grow up knowing and expecting them to die. Your parents are always there. They helped you your entire life. Since the day you were born, they have been at your side. But the symmetry is broken. Most likely, it is you who will be at their sides when they shuffle off this mortal coil. I want to be ready for this, but I want to cherish the time I have left with them. And mentioning the fact that day approaches seems to cut into that cherishing.
If we do talk about it, though, I think it might allow us to enjoy more fully the, hopefully, many years yet to come even more. We should talk about the elephant in the corner instead of hoping it's just some sort of Chekovian gun. My friends and family are the most important things in the world to me. I define my life by my interactions with them. I now realize why they were all so worried when I had that unknown thing -- now beknownst to us as numular excema -- on my foot. It could have caused my death, and they were rightly concerned. I would have been if I'd known what could happen. They were expressing their friendship, not worry-worting, and I thank them for that. I have the best friends in the world. They care for me in ways I can only hope to return.
Stay well, my friends. I shall return, for we have memories to create and times to share.
I'm living at one of the CERN hostels, the one right next to the cafeteria and across the street from B40 -- one of my places of work. Now, lest you imagine that I'm living in a dirty, run-down "abode" -- one made of corrugated tin and habituated by itinerant hippies smoking dope next to frat boys who are trying to act Bohemian to impress the American co-eds they want to take back to their dingy mattresses -- let me assure that it's more of a hotel. There's a maid service, towels are provided, and there's free soap -- I know! -- every day. That said, it's not the lap of luxury. The room is dirt cheap -- 13 CHF/day, or $10.13/day -- but the room is tiny. I mean tiny. There are two slender beds with maybe one or two feet between them. If I weren't so brachially-challenged, I'm sure I could reach both walls with my hands out-stretched. There's a wash-basin, and I'm fortunate enough to be right across the hall from the showers and bathroom.
I had a Pakistani roommate for the first two nights -- it turns out he works in B180 welding and assembling A-frames -- who is quite nice. He doesn't speak a lot of English, but he makes me cups of tea. I'll have to make something Hillal and bring it to him. Then he was moved down the hall and I had a single for a night. Now I have another roommate. By coincidence, he's also Pakistani, but he's a grad student working on CMS. He's been here at CERN before, but he used to commute from Lausanne, which is about 40 minutes away by train. He speaks English, so we have a few more discussions, mainly concerning gaming. He's a big Medal of Honor fan.
There's a kitchen in the hostel, but I've been going to the cafeteria to eat. While it's not that expensive -- about $16/day for some pains au chocolat and clementines for breakfast, a sandwich for lunch, and an entrée with salad and dessert for dinner -- it will be a lot cheaper to make some of the meals myself. Even if I just go to the grocery store to get sandwich fixings, clementines, and pains au chocolat, I'll save a bit of money. And who doesn't want that?
Lunch is best if brought with me, so that I can take only a short break to eat and then get back to work. While we're not crazy-busy, it is nice not to be seen as a person who takes leisurely lunch breaks and ignores the tasks at hand. So far, I've been working on the small-sector. Now, when I say small, I mean small comparatively. The ATLAS detector is cylindrical and has a radius of 11 meters. So, the small sector is close to 10 meters long and stands about 4 meters off the ground. I've been hooking up voltage cables, so we can test the electronics. If/when we get the fiber optics installed today, we'll get the diagnostics running.
As I have to work with things high off the ground, I get to use something called a Tapis Volant -- or flying carpet -- it's little lift on wheels. And it's incredibly fun to drive. I've gotten pretty good at it -- namely, I haven't run into anything, a prospect which scares the bejeezus out of me, given that I work with damn expensive equipment that takes thousands of man-hours to create. So, I flit around in the air plugging things in and beautifying with cable ties, for which I've gained new-found love/respect.
While the small sector is about to be tested, things just wrapped up on the large sector. After a couple months of testing, it's now being put in storage. It's a big operation, as the sector weighs about 5 tons -- include the frame it's on, and that's almost 11 tons. It's a hard-hat required area, but it makes me feel like a real man to sit back and talk about cranes. This is apparently light work compared to the end-cap toroids and their transport to the pit. They weigh 190 tons and have to be moved by double flat-bed trailers -- with 144 wheels and a 290 ton capacity to hold the toroid and the frame. This sort of thing isn't that surprising given that the entire ATLAS detector weighs in at 7000 tons. These are startlingly awesome numbers, and make me feel as though my work is of importance -- or at least has heft.
This type of work requires incredible man-power: from the Pakistanis building the frame to the schmucks like me connecting cables. This all has to be managed and organized, a feat made more difficult by the cornucopia of languages spoken by the different workers. One man was a great help in this as he spoke French, English, and Russian -- he's from Romania. Two days ago he was fine, though he had slight complaints about some cold symptoms. Yesterday he was rushed to the hospital and fell into a coma. He had an infection in his leg, which they amputated. The doctors gave him two hours to live. He was given a 24-hour reprieve, but he's still in a coma and not expected to survive the day.
It's a strange juxtaposition: I work in a place where man is humbled and dwarfed by his own titanic creation, but we were made to see how truly small we are when a seemingly-healthy man was felled by an unknown cause in twenty-four hours. It's scary that this can happen. These days, it seems that in the developed world disease is, for the most part, held at bay. Natural disaster can strike us down, but we can often avoid such fates by going somewhere else. Infectious attacks like the one that struck here have no warning, no means of avoidance. It's true that the odds of dying in such a manner are slim; but that doesn't detract from the fact that it can and does happen.
This man's family is rushing across the globe to try and be with him before he succumbs, even though we are all hoping beyond hope that the miniscule sliver of chance of survival will apply in this case. It often seems that it takes disaster for us to realize what the people in our lives mean to us. A tornado struck in New Hampshire near my house, and it was the first time I realized I really and truly loved my family. I disregarded personal safety to make sure they were okay because of that love. Perhaps it was foolish, but it was a relief to know that I did it and that I'd do it again.
Death scares me. I'm not afraid of dying, but, rather, I'm afraid of the people around me, friends and family, dying. I'm glad I'm the elder brother, because I really don't want to have my brother die while I'm alive. It's a horrible thing that I wish this fear of mine on him, but it's true. As I grow older, the thing that scares me most is not that I grow one step closer to death; it's that my parents do the same. I don't know what I'll do when they are gone. I've felt for a while that I should talk to them about it; but simply the thought of it makes broaching the subject terrifying.
Still, I think they can help me with this: both of my Dad's parents died, and my Mother has lost her father and many of her family. It's true that I lost them, too, but it's different when your grandparents die. They are, by definition, much older than you, and, horrible as it is to say, you grow up knowing and expecting them to die. Your parents are always there. They helped you your entire life. Since the day you were born, they have been at your side. But the symmetry is broken. Most likely, it is you who will be at their sides when they shuffle off this mortal coil. I want to be ready for this, but I want to cherish the time I have left with them. And mentioning the fact that day approaches seems to cut into that cherishing.
If we do talk about it, though, I think it might allow us to enjoy more fully the, hopefully, many years yet to come even more. We should talk about the elephant in the corner instead of hoping it's just some sort of Chekovian gun. My friends and family are the most important things in the world to me. I define my life by my interactions with them. I now realize why they were all so worried when I had that unknown thing -- now beknownst to us as numular excema -- on my foot. It could have caused my death, and they were rightly concerned. I would have been if I'd known what could happen. They were expressing their friendship, not worry-worting, and I thank them for that. I have the best friends in the world. They care for me in ways I can only hope to return.
Stay well, my friends. I shall return, for we have memories to create and times to share.