What makes a design(er) good? It is a question that plagued me while in school and has not let up since. It is the kind of question that pops up when you want it least and disappear just when you think you have it. Why are we taught about the work of Corbusier or Man Ray instead of the architect that designed my house? What makes them better designers?

Maybe great designers have a particular characteristic that makes them the best. Maybe it is being mindful. Or maybe being acutely aware of the world around them. Or maybe a good designer has a particular taste that just appeals to a wide range of people. But I don’t think this quite captures it – we are not really getting at the essence of what makes a good designer. These all describe a great designer, but they are not what makes a designer great. They are good descriptions, not driving forces.

Perhaps it’s genetics. Perhaps the great designers were simply born with something rare; they all have extra neuron connections in just the right place or a certain mole on their left leg. This could be it, but then why do we even bother to go to school? Why are we being taught architecture when there are already some people who are just gifted? Is it not just a fruitless endeavor for the moleless kids? Are there some people who will never be great, who will never have even one flash of inspiration no matter how much they try? That is pretty hard for me to believe.

With apple picking season in full swing across the northeast, I knew it was only a matter of time before Chris would stop by and let me know that we were going to make some cider. This visit always makes me a little bit anxious because, to be perfectly honest, my relationship with cider is at best, shaky. Don’t get me wrong, I love cider dearly. I often have a gallon in the fridge and I am known for my mulled cider recipe. But when it comes to making it, things just seem to fall apart.

It just never seem to go as planned. Our first time ended in everyone getting a bit sick after drinking it, but that was only after we started out with a few totally failed attempts at fermenting pasteurized cider with bread yeast. There was also the time in under my bed in my old dorm room that I try not to talk about. But this time, we hoped things would be different. Firstly, we were considerably more experienced, and second, I was not in charge of it this time, Chris was.

A hike up to the fire tower, Mt. Kineo, Moosehead Lake, Maine.

Some photos of the farm this summer, Hawkshead Farm, Westbrook, Connecticut.

Winemaking is a family tradition. My dad has been making it for almost 15 years, starting out with a trash can and some grapes in a cold back attic in his shop and graduating to a full range of equipment and techniques. It was only a matter of time before I learned the ropes.

I actually find it funny that it took so long to get around to making wine. My foray into alcohol production was done in reverse, starting with the most obscure and moving down the line to the most popular kind to make. That being said, it is always an enjoyable experience when you are doing something you have never done before.

This is a minimalist backpacking list for anyone going to the warmer parts of the developing world. This is my personal list, created and refined over six months of backpacking around India in 2011. It is amazing how little you need when you wash your clothes in the sink and try not to sleep outside.

Now here in Part III, we are getting into more personal opinions. The goal when traveling is to be happy. For me, that happiness comes when I get into where I am. Some travelers (from all over the world) don’t really bother – they wear their REI zip-off pants and safari hats and snap their D3000′s at anything that moves. And that’s awesome – they get the people who come up to them to chat with “the foreigner” and maybe even sell them something, and that makes them happy. Others enjoy stepping off the plane, pulling out their canvas knapsack and kurta, and trouncing around the country on a dollar a day. And that’s awesome too – they too get the people who come up to them to chat with “the foreigner,” and that makes them happy.

But I like taking a third approach, one that falls somewhere in between (although closer to the latter rather than the former). I try to dress totally neutral. I dress like the locals with pants and either collared shirts or t-shirts. I don’t carry a backpack around all day, and my camera stays in my pocket until I want to use it. I don’t wear any jewelry or branded clothes that scream out what class I am. I make it my job to learn as much of the local language as I can and to really get the pronunciation right. And I spend as much time outside getting into where I am as possible.

While all of this judging and staring is going on, you are also beginning to learn the ancient art of bartering; an art lost to most of America, except for car salesmen and those few who dabble in antiquing. It takes a while to get the hang of, but once you fail enough times, you start to win a few and you begin to realize that it all comes down to leverage. The more leverage you have, the better a price you can get. That is all it is.

For example, if you get off a bus in a bus station 4km outside of town with no choice but to approach one of the smiling taxi drivers for a ride, you have no leverage. You will be ripped off. But if you can walk 20 feet and hail a passing cab on the road, you have a bit of leverage and can often haggle a bit. Or if you see something you really like in a shop and keep telling the shopkeeper how much you love it and must have it, you have no leverage. You will be ripped off. But if you see something you like, but ignore it, or comment audibly on its defects, or even start to walk out of the shop, you can often get it for under a third of the asking price (at which point the shopkeeper will always remind you that you are getting it for the “Indian price.”)

As a traveler you are, by your very nature, not a local. You dress different, you walk different, you act different, you speak different, and you look different. Here in the States, we are used to cultural differences so we are not quite as quick to notice them. In India, I found that people were incredibly aware of each other in different ways than I was used to, and were always judging and being judged based on their dress, their language, their class, the cut of their beard, and of course, their caste. Everyone there does it without thinking about it – it is part of their culture. It is mostly out of curiosity and rarely hostile, but it’s always present.

Of course it is not much different here. We all size each other up and put each other into boxes. We just do it differently. We operate on a slightly more subtle level – both in judging and being judged. In India, you can tell where someone is from and what caste they are in just based on the clothes on their backs. It’s a bit harder to do here because there is not really a regional dress or style and most people belong to the “middle class” anyways. Those who don’t often dress down or dress up to try to blend in to that “middle class.” Religions too are easier in India. In the States, unless you are wearing a cross around your neck or a kippah on your head, it’s pretty hard to tell what religion someone is.

A graphic on where I went in India, what means of transportation I used, and how long I was in each place (area of circle based on number of days spent).