Tanya Khovanova's Math Blog

Have you ever been punished for being too good at spider solitaire? I mean, have you ever been stuck because you collected too many suits? Many versions of the game don’t allow you to deal from the deck if you have empty columns, nor do they allow you to get back a completed suit. If the number of cards left on the table in the middle of the game is less than ten — the number of columns — you are stuck. I always wondered what the probability is of being stuck. This probability is difficult to calculate because it depends on your strategy. So I invented a boring version of spider solitaire for the sake of creating a math problem. Here it goes:

You start with two full decks of 104 cards. Initially you take 54 cards. At each turn you take all full suits out of your hand. If you have less than ten cards left in your hand, you are stuck. If not, take ten more cards from the leftover deck and continue. What is the probability that you can be stuck during this game?

Let us simplify the game even more by playing the easy level of the boring spider solitaire in which you have only spades. So you have a total of eight full suits of spades. I leave it to my readers to calculate the total probability of being stuck. Here I would like to estimate the easiest case: the probability of being stuck before the last deal.

There are ten cards left in the deck. For you to be stuck, they all should have a different value. The total number of ways to choose ten cards is 104 choose 10. To calculate the number of ways in which these ten cards have different values we need to choose these ten values in 13 choose 10 ways, then multiply by the number of ways each card of a given value can be taken from the deck: 8¹⁰. The probability is about 0.0117655.

I will leave it to my readers to calculate the probability of being stuck before the last deal at the medium level: when you play two suits, hearts and spades.

No, I will not tell you how many times I played spider solitaire.

Is there a way to put a sequence of numbers to music? The system that comes immediately to mind is to match a number to a particular pitch. The difference between any two neighboring integers is the same, so it is logical to assume that the same tone interval should correspond to the same difference in integers. After we decide which tone interval corresponds to the difference of 1, we need to find our starting point. That is, we need to choose the pitch that corresponds to the number 1. After that, all numbers can be automatically matched to pitches.

After we know the pitches for our numbers, to make it into music we need to decide on the time interval between the notes. The music should be uniquely defined by the sequence, hence the only logical way would be to have a fixed time interval between two consecutive notes.

We see that there are several parameters here: the starting point, the pitch difference corresponding to 1, and the time interval between notes. The Online Encyclopedia of Integer Sequences offers the conversion to music for any sequence. It gives you freedom to set the parameters yourself. The sequences do not sound melodic because mathematical sequences will not necessarily follow rules that comply with a nice melody. Moreover, there are no interesting rhythms because the time interval between the notes is always the same.

One day I received an email from a stranger named Michael Blake. He sent me a link to his video on YouTube called “What Pi Sounds Like.” He converted the digits of Pi to music. My stomach hurt while I was listening to his music. My stomach hurts now while I am writing this. He just numbered white keys on the piano from 1 to 9 starting from C. Then he played the digits of Pi. Clearly, Michael is not a mathematician, as he does not seem to know what to do with 0. Luckily for him the first 32 digits of Pi do not contain zero, so Michael played the first several digits over and over. My stomach hurts because he lost the basic math property of digits: the difference between the neighboring digits is the same. In his interpretation the digits that differ by one can have a tone interval of minor or major second in a random order corresponding to his random starting point.

I am not writing this to trash Michael. He is a free man in a free country and can do whatever he wants with the digits of Pi. Oops, I am sorry, he can’t do whatever he wants. Michael’s video was removed from YouTube due to an odd copyright infringement claim by Lars Erickson, who wrote a symphony using the digits of Pi.

Luckily for my readers Michael’s video appears in some other places, for example at the New Scientist channel. As Michael didn’t follow the symmetry of numbers and instead replaced the math rules with some music rules, his interpretation of Pi is one of the most melodic I’ve heard. The more randomly and non-mathematically you interpret digits, the more freedom you have to make a nice piece of music. I will say, however, that Michael’s video is nicely done, and I am glad that musicians are promoting Pi.

Other musicians do other strange things. For example, Steven Rochen composed a violin solo based on the digits of Pi. Unlike Michael, he used the same tone interval for progressing from one number to the next, like a mathematician would do. He started with A representing 1 and each subsequent number corresponded to an increase of half a tone. That is, A# is 2 and so on. Like Michael Blake he didn’t know what to do with 0 and used it for rest. In addition, when he encountered 10, 11, and 12 as part of the decimal expansion he didn’t use them as two digits, but combined them, and used them for F#, G, G# respectively. To him this was the way to cover all possible notes within one octave, but for me, it unfortunately caused another twinge in my stomach.

In August I visited my son Alexey Radul, who currently works at the Hamilton Institute in Maynooth, Ireland. One of the greatest Irish attractions, Broom Bridge, is located there. It’s a bridge over the railroad that connects Maynooth and Dublin. One day in 1843, while walking over the bridge, Sir William Rowan Hamilton had a revelation. He understood how the formulae for quaternions should be written. He scratched them into a stone of the bridge. Now the bridge has a plaque commemorating this event. The plaque contains his formulae. I don’t remember ever seeing a plaque with math, so naturally I rushed off to make my pilgrimage to Broom Bridge.

Quaternions have very pronounced sentimental value for me, since my first research was related to them. Let’s consider a simple graph. We can construct an algebra associated with this graph in the following way. For each vertex we have a generator of the algebra. In addition we have some relations. Each generator squared is equal to −1. If two vertices are connected the corresponding generators anti-commute, and they commute otherwise. The simplest non-commutative algebra associated with a graph corresponds to a graph with two vertices and one edge. If we call the generators i and j, then the we get the relations: i² = j² = −1, and ij = −ji. I we denote ij as k, the algebra as a vector space has dimension 4 and a basis: 1, i, j, k. These are exactly the quaternions. In my undergraduate research I studied such algebras related to Dynkin diagrams. Thirty years later I came back to them in my paper Clifford Algebras and Graphs. But I digress.

I was walking on the bridge hoping that like Hamilton I would come up with a new formula. Instead, I was looking around wondering why the Broombridge Station didn’t have a ticket office. I already had my ticket, but I was curious how other people would get theirs. I asked a girl standing on the platform where to buy tickets. She said that there is no way to buy tickets there, so she sometimes rides without a ticket. The fine for not having tickets is very high in Ireland, so I expressed my surprised. She told me that she just says that she is from the town of Broombridge if she is asked to present her ticket.

Being a Russian I started scheming: obviously people can save money by buying tickets to Broombridge and continuing without a ticket wherever they need to go. If the tickets are checked, they can claim that they are traveling from Broombridge. Clearly Ireland hasn’t been blessed with very many Russians visitors.

by Tanya Khovanova and Alexey Radul

Sleeping Beauty participates in the following experiment. On Sunday she is put to sleep, and a fair coin is flipped. Regardless of the result of the coin flip, she is awakened on Monday and is offered a bet. She may pay $550 in which case she will get $1000 if the coin was tails. If the coin was tails, she is put back to sleep with her memory erased, and awakened on Tuesday and given the same bet again. She knows the protocol. Should she take the bet?

As we discussed in our first essay about Sleeping Beauty, she should take the bet. Indeed, if the coin was heads her loss is $550. But if the coin was tails her gain is $900.

To tell you the truth, when Beauty is offered the bet, she dreams: “It would be nice to know the day of the week. If it were Tuesday, then the coin must have been tails and I would gladly take the winning bet.”

In our next variation of the riddle her dream comes true.

Every time she is awakened she is offered to buy the knowledge of the day of the week. How much should she be willing to pay to know the day of the week?

Sleeping Beauty participates in the following experiment. On Sunday she is put to sleep, and a fair coin is flipped. Regardless of the result of the coin flip, she is awakened on Monday and asked whether she thinks the coin was heads or not. If the coin was tails, however, then she is put back to sleep with her memory erased, and awakened on Tuesday and asked the same question again. She knows the protocol. She is awakened one morning and instead of the expected questions she is offered a bet. She may pay $600 in which case she will get $1000 if the coin was tails. Should she take the bet?

by David Wilson

We know that tripling the triangular number 1 yields the triangular number 3. The figure shows how we can use this fact to conclude that tripling the triangular number 15 yields the triangular number 45.

Using this new fact, can you modify the figure to find even larger examples of tripling triangles?

by Tanya Khovanova and Alexey Radul

This post is inspired by the following problem:

Sleeping Beauty participates in the following experiment. On Sunday she is put to sleep, and a fair coin is flipped. Regardless of the result of the coin flip, she is awakened on Monday and asked whether she thinks the coin was heads or not. If the coin was tails, however, then she is put back to sleep with her memory erased, and awakened on Tuesday and asked the same question again. She knows the protocol. She is awakened one morning: What is her probability that the coin was heads?

Some people argue: asleep or awake, the probability of a fair coin being heads is one half, so her probability should be one half.

Other people, including us, argue that those people didn’t study conditional probability. On the information of the setup to the problem and the information of having awakened, the three situations “Coin was heads and it is Monday”, “Coin was tails and it is Monday”, and “Coin was tails and it is Tuesday” are symmetric and therefore equiprobable; thus the probability that the coin was tails is, on this information, two thirds.

So who is right? We are, of course. A good way to visualize probability judgements is to turn them into bets. Suppose each time Beauty wakes up she is offered the following bet: She pays $600 and gets $1000 if the coin was tails. Should she take it? If her probability of the coin being tails were one half, then obviously not; if her probability of the coin being tails were two thirds, obviously yes. So which is it? Consider the situation from her perspective as of Sunday. She can either always take this bet or always refuse it. If she always refuses, she gets nothing. If she always accepts: If the coin turns up heads, she will be asked the question once and will lose $600. If the coin turns up tails, she will be asked the question twice and will gain $800. So on average she will win, so she should take the bet. By this thought experiment, her probability of tails is clearly not one half.

To make matters more interesting, let’s try another bet. Suppose she is given the above bet just once, in advance, on Sunday. She pays $600, and she gets paid $1000 on Wednesday if the coin was tails. This has nothing to do with sleeping and awakening. If she takes the bet she loses $600 with probability one half and gains $400 otherwise. So she shouldn’t take the bet. Her probability on Sunday that the coin will come up heads is, of course, one half. The point is that just as these two bets are different bets, the sets of information Beauty has on Sunday vs at awakening are different, and lead to different conclusions. On Sunday she knows that the next time she wakes up it will be Monday, but when she then wakes up, she doesn’t know that it’s Monday.

Parting thought: The phenomenon of predictably losing information leads to the phenomenon of predictably changing one’s assessments. Suppose for some reason she decided to take that unprofitable bet on Sunday. When she wakes up during the experiment, should she feel happy or sad? From her perspective during the experiment, the odds of gaining $400 vs losing $600 are two to one, so she should be happy. Given that she knows on Sunday how she will (with complete certainty!) feel about this bet on Monday, should she take it, even given her Sunday self’s assessment that it’s a bad bet?

If you buy one Mega Millions ticket, your probability of hitting the jackpot is one in 175,000,000. For all practical purposes it is zero. When I give my talk on lotteries, there is always someone in the audience who would argue that “but someone is winning and so can I.” The fact that someone is winning depends on the number of people buying tickets. It is difficult to visualize the large number of people buying tickets and the miniscule odds of winning. For example, the probability of you dying from an impact with a meteorite is larger than the odds of winning the jackpot.

I receive a lot of emails from strangers asking me to advertise their websites on my blog. I always check out their websites and I often find them either unrelated to math or boring. That is why I was pleasantly surprised when I was asked to write about a useful website: Understanding Big Numbers. In each post Liam Gray takes a big number and puts it into some perspective. For example, he estimates Mark Zuckerberg’s Hourly Wage by dividing Mark’s estimated wealth in 2011 by the number of hours Mark might have worked on Facebook. Facebook has existed for 7 years and, assuming 10 hours of work a day every day, we get 25,000 work hours. That is more than half a million dollars an hour.

Imagine someone calls Mark Zuckerberg and asks to talk to him for a minute. Mark wouldn’t be out of line to request nine thousand dollars for that. Lucky am I, that I do not need to talk to Mark Zuckerberg.

by Sergei Bernstein, Tanya Khovanova and Alexey Radul

Here is a game that John Conway popularizes. It is called “Finchley Central,” which is a station of the London Underground. The game goes as follows. Alice and Bob take turns naming London Underground stations, in any order. The first person to say “Finchley Central” wins.

Alice, who starts, can just name the station. But then Bob will give her a look. It is not fun to win a game on the first turn. To avoid appearing rude, Alice will not start with “Finchley Central.” It would be impolite of Bob to take advantage of Alice’s generosity, so he also won’t say “Finchley Central.” The game might continue like this for a while.

The game has a hidden agenda: winning it after 10 turns will supply many more bragging rights than winning it right away would. We can make this hidden agenda explicit by assigning a value to the honor of continuing the game. For example, suppose every time Alice (or Bob) says a station, she puts one dollar into the pile. The person who says “Finchley Central” first takes all the money from the pile. The implicit goal of the game becomes explicit: you want to say “Finchley Central” right before your opponent says it.

By the way, Finchley Central is not actually a particularly central station — it is the station between Finchley East and Finchley West, serving the relatively small place called Finchley; and is not even under ground. It has the distinction of being one of the oldest still-standing pieces of London Underground physical plant, because plans to rebuild it were interrupted on account of World War II and never resumed. It also has the distinction of having served the home of the guy (an employee of the Underground system) who had the brilliant idea that since the Underground was, indeed, mostly under ground, the right way to map it was topologically, rather than geographically.

Here is another way to model the game. Alice writes an odd number on a piece of paper, and Bob writes an even number. When they compare, the person who wrote a smaller number wins that number of dollars. This version loses the psychological aspect. When you take turns, it is to your advantage to read the non-verbal signs of your opponent to see when s/he is getting ready to drop the bomb.

People play this game in real life. Here are Alice and Bob looking at the last piece of a mouth-watering Tiramisu:

• Alice: You look like you want this piece of cake. Why don’t you take it?
• Bob: You seem to like it too. Please, go ahead.
• Alice: I am fine. You take it.
• Bob: You have it; I insist.

At this point Alice wins with some extra brownie points for being polite.

We can model the honor points differently. We can say you will be the most proud of the game if you name the station write before you opponent is about to do so. Then the model is: everyone writes down their next move; if your move is Finchley Central when your opponent’s next move was going to be Finchley Central, then you win.

Here we suggest another game that we call “Reverse Finchley Central.” Alice and Bob name London Underground stations in turns and the person who names “Finchley Central” first loses. This game can continue until all the stations are exhausted, if the players are forbidden to repeat them, or it can continue indefinitely otherwise. But this is quite tiresome. The hidden agenda would be to not waste too much time. Clearly the person who values time less will win.

But let us model this game. We want to fix the value of winning. Let us set aside ten dollars for the winner. On their turn, each player puts one dollar into the pile, and as soon as one of the players says “Finchley Central,” the other one wins and takes the ten dollars. The pile goes to charity. Alternatively, Alice and Bob can each write a number. The person with the larger number wins the prize, while both have to pay the smaller number to charity.

We play this game with our parents. They nag us to do the dishes. We resist. Then they give up and do the dishes themselves. They lose, but we all pay with our nerves for nagging or being nagged at. Later our parents get their revenge when we have children of our own.

At the 2011 IMO, Lisa Sauermann received yet another gold medal. Now she tops the Hall of Fame of the IMO with four gold medals and one silver medal.

In addition, in 2011 she achieved the absolute best individual result and was the only person with a perfect score. In previous years, there were several girls who tied for first place, but she is the first girl ever to have an absolute rank of 1.

I told you so. In my 2009 essay Is There Hope for a Female Fields Medalist?, I predicted that a girl will soon become an absolute champion of the IMO.

In that essay I draw a parallel between the absolute champion of IMO and a Fields medalist. Indeed, we get one of each per year. Lisa Sauermann is the best math problem solver in her year. Will she grow up to receive a Fields medal? I am not so sure: the medal is still unfriendly to women. Lisa Sauermann is the best math problem solver ever. Will she grow up to be the best mathematician of our century? I wonder.