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(Photo: Trancepriest)Novatel's U727 EVDO Rev. A USB cellular modem is small, fast and works seamlessly with Windows PCs and Macs. Though an improvement over earlier models like the U720, it's still larger than most thumbdrives and those looking for something super-tiny will be disappointed. Joel bought one and sent it back, disappointed by its size, but I have no problem with it at all. It's one of the few things of its type that even fits in a MacBook Air. Setup is easier on Windows: plug it in, and the software autoruns and configures it automagically. On OS X 10.4, instructions are provided, but they didn't quite match up to reality, and you have to find your way to Internet Connect and punch some stuff in manually. Not a major problem – especially for anyone who has ever hacked a WiFi or WWAN stick to work on OSX – but this flashback to the dial-up era may give delicate Mac fans the vapors. Throughput was excellent in my location: 1.3 Mbps down and 500 kbps up on either platform, though it seems quite sensitive to location: moving a laptop just a few yards halved that. The stick's antenna is attractive enough, flush with its geometry when closed and not unattractive when up. There's also a tiny connector for connecting an external antenna. One untested bonus is the MicroSD card slot; it works as a card reader for cards up to 4GB. I've been using this all week as my iMac's sole internet connection, and haven't noticed much difference at all between it and Comcast cable internet for everyday browsing. Sprint's EVDO service is fine, assuming you get a decent connection: the iMac's web server is not accessible with the stick's global IP address, however, so perhaps there's some sanitization of connections going on. There's no noticeable degradation of images or other suggestions of "speed-boosting" proxies. The U727 costs $280 outright or is $80 with a 2-year contract subsidy with Sprint, on whose network it was tested. You'll need the $60 unlimited plan, as EVDO will eat the $40 40Mb plan in a few minutes.
Review: A week with Novatel's U727 EVDO stick
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6 Responses to "Review: A week with Novatel's U727 EVDO stick"
How well does it work with Linux?
Some people care about this.
I haven't tested it — I intended to, but I don't actually have a linux machine set up to test it with.
Just curious…what's a comparable piece of equipment to this run out there…this seems expensive compared to $50 / month for cable…hook it up to Wifi and it's good to go. The upside to this is you could use the laptop anywhere in spite of WiFi hotspots, I imagine?
If you have it try using a Linux live cd
Novatel's HSDPA sticks (with EDGE and GPRS backwards compatibility, available as USB or CardBus — the latter of which I'm guessing is just repackaged USB rather than mini-PCI-e) have also gotten solid positive reviews, for those of you who use T-Mobile or AT&T.
(and really, if we're talking about Apple users, either they're T-Mobile customers because T-Mobile has always had the best data/Internet plans, or they're AT&T customers because they're using the iPhone as "it just works" without jailbreaking and unlocking.)
If you're really clever you can even get a T-Mobile counter jockey to copy your SIM data from the COMP128-v3 card they give you onto a COMP128-v1 card you give them for use in the Novatel, and then clone that onto another COMP128-v1 card that you keep in your phone, so that you don't have to swap SIM cards between your phone and your laptop just to use EDGE (and soon HSDPA) service.
I've got an Aircard 875u that's USB and 3G on ATT if you guys want to do a comparison.


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In the midst of a severe rain storm the dog's food bowl is catching rain and the plants are flooded, but the roses are in full bloom and tomatoes are ripe on the … Read More
In the midst of a severe rain storm the dog's food bowl is catching rain and the plants are flooded, but the roses are in full bloom and tomatoes are ripe on the … Read More
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Each one of us has a favorite holiday or a favorite time of the year and each with a different reason for being our favorite. I believe that if Max could talk his favorite time of year … Read More
There is something amazing about calling dogs who love to come running and Max loves to come when called. Not even my children come to my side as fast as Max can get there. In fact, most times if they could my children would have run in the opposite direction. Or the would yell, "What?" … Read More
Max has learned a number of commands and one of those is to run. He loves to run. I clap my hands and give the command, "Run" and he takes off through the yard, … Read More
In the midst of a drought, a rainy day is welcome and enjoyed. While water conservation in Los Angeles is mandatory it makes it easier when there is so much rain. As residents … Read More
The sun is shining, the clouds are breaking up, although the ground is still muddy and streets and sidewalks are wet in many places. This last ran storm brought lots of water and I certainly won't have … Read More
Do you ever look up in the sky? I spend most of my time in the garden, looking down at the ground and digging in the dirt or moving containers to a … Read More
Max howls and he sounds like a wolf. He has a deep, deep howl that is kind of eerie. The other dogs Tasha and Spencer never sounded like he does. Both Tasha and Spencer had whiny barks, although Tasha's was deeper. But Max has a deeper howl than Tasha ever had. We live within a … Read More
We had a recent rain storm and some much needed rain. California is in the midst of a severe drought, so severe that the Department of Water and Power this summer put us … Read More
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I did go to the local fabric shop today. Zoubida, I forgot to wear the pants! Figures. Anyway I told the owner about my search for the fabric. I told her I would bring some in for her to see then if she finds it..... I did buy some black cotton/lycra double knit to make a pair of pants.


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My California: Journeys by Great Writersby Donna Wares
by Pico Iyer
To those of us who came to California from far away — as so many of us do — the place we imagine (and so find) seems located somewhere around the day after tomorrow. Ever since Hernando Cortez named this stretch of land, by some accounts, after a fictional island of the Amazons (fashioned in a fifteenth-century Spanish novel), California, more than anywhere, has been a province of the imagination that confounds most of us who confront it in reality. A state of consciousness, you could say, on which outsiders, who soon become honorary Californians, famously project their hopes and frustrations. It has always seemed apt to me that the home of physical and metaphysical gold rushes — the "Great Western Paradise," as the Chinese called it — is also the place, some say, where the fortune cookie was invented. Fortunes, futures, gimcrack versions of futures: They're all mixed together here, drawing us from afar, potential consumers, potential producers of a dream that — we come to see too late — can best be appreciated from afar.
"It's a state of mind," Robert Redford once said of California's fictional capital, Hollywood, passing on the conventional wisdom, and it's an actual location. The location is scarred, scary and full of those who've lost their way; but as a state of mind, in Redford's words, "it's transporting and unique: the end of the rainbow, the melting pot, the edge of the continent." Or, to put it another way, Hollywood Boulevard has long been a slum, but the Hollywood sign shines in the world's imagination.
This all has become part of the received wisdom of the place, the first cliché for the newcomer to see through; but what the Californian veteran often loses sight of is that the place really has managed to remain one step, one thought, ahead of the rest of us. Perhaps it's only from afar, or only in the eyes of those who have never been to the "broken promise land," that one can see the pattern: a center of the aerospace industry, when people were just beginning to leap across oceans (eight airports around L.A. even today); the epicenter of the Image, just as the whole globe was falling under the spell of TV, the silver screen; then home to the computer industry, the nerve center of the global village; and now ever more a cacophony of discarded futures, longed-for futures, pasts in a state of endless becoming, which seems to speak to the global anarchy of tomorrow.
Yet all of these industries — it's easier to see from afar — are based on teaching the world how to fly. All of California's major exports to the world are attempts to get us to look up from, and beyond, where we are. Outer space is being mapped at Caltech; inner space is being charted at Esalen and the other cathedrals of the "human potential" movement; cyberspace is being pushed forward in Sunnyvale; and California's promise to many of us is that it will eliminate time — erase age, annul the past, leave all sheets clean — by replacing it with space. Infinite horizons.
I write all this as one of the millions who came here in pursuit of all that, drawn by a family from India, living in England, who wanted to put those pasts behind it. The first time I set foot in the state, in 1964, at the age of seven, the little town of Santa Barbara was presented to us as "the Athens of the West." Staring up from a row of eucalyptus trees, the ocean stretching out below — farther than the widest expanses of Oxford, England — the skies an exultant blue, everyone around with a light in his eyes, the hope that had brought him here, we could easily believe it.
My father moved us from England to Santa Barbara to join a think tank that was busy creating a new future; the school where I was sent was in an area called Hope Ranch (California has never been shy with its symbols), and Mike Love of the Beach Boys, a character from allegory it could seem then, had a place nearby. Down the coast a few miles was a community founded by spiritualists, given the archetypal California name — Summerland; across the hills was the little town where they'd located Shangri-La for the Lost Horizon movie that had given people around the world a new sanctuary to dream of. Up the road, in the years to come, would be Ronald Reagan and Michael Jackson, cocooned in their respective Neverlands.
We didn't stop to think then that we were conflating proper names with high ideals, or that reinventing the weal might involve dissolving even the certainties that had held up humanity for centuries. We knew only that we could find the wisdom of our native India thirty miles to the south, where Krishnamurti addressed the world's innocent in his oak grove; we could revisit Europe, amidst the faux-gingerbread castles and windmills of Solvang, a Danish settlement thirty miles to the north. Somewhere in the middle, conforming to the ideas we'd formed in frigid Oxford, the surfers were drinking wheat-grass juice at the Paradise Cafe and an eccentric old European opera singer was developing a fantastic private garden she called Lotusland.
Exiles, all, living permanently in their heads, we might have seen; people keeping distant hopes alive in a desert that accommodated all. When people stop believing in the conventional deities, as G.K. Chesterton notoriously said, they don't believe in nothing; they believe in everything. And belief is what we came for, the chance to build castles in the air, in a place where the air was big and bright enough to seem to house more constructions than any piece of soil. "Stepping westward," as Wordsworth wrote providentially, "seemed to be a kind of heavenly destiny."
These ideas all seem a little quaint to me now: the Beverly Hills we had eagerly devoured on our TV sets in England is largely speaking Farsi, and Long Beach, where the Queen Mary rests, is the home of the latest L.A. dramas, in which Cambodian gangs face off against Hispanic ones. The passenger disembarking at LAX finds himself in a swirl of Koreans and Guatemalans and Ethiopians who look nothing like the characters on the soap opera Santa Barbara that is broadcast to a hundred nations; the visitor bumping along the streets of San Francisco soon realizes that it does not conform to the California Dreams program screened on the government educational channel in Japan. The very arts that have long kept the state afloat, and shining around the world, are ever more threatened, as a California Arts Council budget that was $31 million in 2000 shrank quickly to $26 million and then to $1 million in 2003. (Canadians spend $145 per capita every year to fund their arts, Germans $85 and Californians three cents.) It takes someone from somewhere else — a Reyner Banham, a Christopher Isherwoood, someone who sees the West as "El Norte" or Taiwan East — to look past the two thousand street gangs, twenty thousand sweatshops and one hundred thousand homeless souls that anti-historians of L.A. grimly enumerate.
And I, after forty years here, see that endless summer has its problems, if it refuses to take in winter and fall. The street that leads to the beach volleyballers' paradise in Santa Barbara is called Salsipuedes and, trained now in Spanish by California, I can see that this means, "Leave if you can." Perpetual youth can be a kind of sadness, and endless reinvention sometimes feels like the Hollywood script of legend, the self in permanent development and being worked over by other hands. But reality — what remains when the projector stops rolling — was never what brought us here, and it will never be reality that causes us to stay. The gift of California, for those who have not just dreamed of it, but dared to stake everything on those dreams, is to look far beyond the everyday, and in the general direction of the stars. It was just when Nietzsche pronounced the death of God, we tell ourselves, a little hopefully, that California, our California, was first conceived.
Excerpted from the book, My California: Journeys by Great Writers. Copyright © 2004 by Angel City Press. All Rights Reserved. Published by Angel City Press, Santa Monica. No reproduction of this work without express written permission of the publisher.
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