More about Life

Today there were actually people at breakfast. It rather spoiled the feeling that we had the hotel to ourselves. But we didn't take it out on them. We just said "Bonjour" politely. There was an older French couple and a younger one with a baby that expressed a general dissatisfaction with everything. It seemed a bit too early in life to be disillusioned. Give it a chance, baby. It even disapproved of the Brahms.

After breakfast, we drove to Campagne, a cute, little village with a church and castle and very little else. Then we went to have a look at the castle and village perched on the hill at Castelnaud, but the streets were filled with the staggering, undead hoardes of Vaykatiun, so we drove on. We passed by the PREHISTO Parc, which is something like an outdoor Cro Magnon Madame Tussauds (or Madam Ugg). We didn't stop, figuring it would be full of the modern world's Neanderthals, children. Instead we paid a wee visit to Sarlat, a medieval tourist town to buy shoes and bad chocolatines (or pains aux chocolates).

A very common thing on the menu in this area is Foie Gras. The word "Foie Gras" is derived from people trying to say "Fat Goose" with a mouth stuffed full of food. Foie Gras as you may know is the somewhat controversial liver of an overfed goose.

Après la, went we to Lascaux. This was somewhere well known to Cath, who has studied some art. It's the site of some of the best-known cave paintings (or peintures des caverns (I should really stop guessing at French translations)). The name didn't ring much of a bell to me, but the pictures were familiar. Cath was genuinely excited as she never thought she'd get to see them. Not that she actually ever did, because the originals started to decay some time ago and so the whole cave was recreated as accurately as possible in another cave next door. It's incredibly realistic, recreated using the old methods and materials. They had to keep reminding us this wasn't the real thing.



Since the discovery of the original cave in 1940, and the opening to the public in 1963, a little community of Lascaux cave-related exhibitions have sprung up. As well as the original cave (now closed to non-scientific humans), there is the recreation (Lascaux II), an interesting exhibit about how it was all done with possible interpretations of meanings and purposes of the pictures (Lascaux Révélé (a word which is clearly suffering from "acute overload")) and Le Thot. The latter we didn't make it to, but is the now-obligatory Madam Ugg-style museum with animatronic early humans doing all those things that people in that area would have done 17,000 years ago. Hunting, cooking, making animal-skin clothes, painting, and discussing the essential pointlessness of existence in between bouts of lovemaking. (They were still French after all.)

We drove back below La Maison Forte de Reignac. Basically it's a huge house hewn out of the side of a cliff. We didn't have time to go in, so drove under. But we suspected the most impressive thing about this was the view of it from the outside. Although apparently it is also impressive inside.

On our way home, we passed des châteaux, several fat goose farms, and drove through the pretty, pre-history-filled village Eyzies which seems to be hiding beneath an outcrop of rock.

We ate at the Restaurant next to the hotel. It was more expensive but not as good as the meal night before. My hard-to-read notes seem to say we had asparagus, foie gras and toad. I know what you’re thinking. "Asparagus, yuck."

Labels: Anthropology, Europe, Food, History, Language, Travel

Le Domaine de la Barde is a 3-star hotel in 5-star setting at 4-star prices. The breakfast was a little pricey, but respectable if little cold. It also has the decency to be available until 11. Most hotels think their guests are the sort of people who like to be up and out with the crowing of the cock. Decent hotels know that civilised people don't go in for eating breakfast at 8 am when they're on holiday. To accompany your food Brahms is piped in. All very civilised.

We walked around town, took in the tourist office and regarded the River Vézère. There is not a great deal to the village – it is, after all, only a village. It has 3000 people but a disproportionate number of hairdressers. To put it in perspective, we only saw 1 shoe shop, 1 clothes shop and 1 Irish pub on this wander yet 3 hairdressers.

High Tea (pain au chocolates, tea and orange juice) was consumed on the hotel terrace to the sounds of birds, running water and traffic. Most of the grounds are away from the traffic noises, but the terrace at that time, was not one of them. It was after all, a work day for those people who do that sort of thing.

Time Out Amsterdam called and asked if I wanted to interview a comedian the next day. Sounds glamorous, but it's the only time they ever called me. Probably because the first time they ever did call me, I gave the oldest excuse in the book: I'm in an old chateau in France.


Our room came with a basket of books in a couple of languages. One particularly excited me, La Grande Fenêtre. I'd only recently finished the original, The High Window, by a chap called Raymond Chandler. Of course in French, it's pronounced Raymon Sharndley. I never managed to finish the French version, as we'd have needed a week or two longer for that. But it felt good to do something to knock my French up a knot or two.

We had a good, well-priced dinner at the Hotel Le Cygne where the waiter even recognised me as the guy who asked for directions to a different hotel the day before. It was almost like a little jab to say, "I bet the people in your hotel don't remember who you are." I'm sure we tipped him well.

Labels: Books, Europe, Food, Language, Travel

Much of the US was "discovered" and named by Europeans whose career plan was "to find gold." Today, the equivalent would be a career based on winning the lottery. Many other names come from Native American tongues which are quite different to European ones. It means American names often have an innate comedy value. We passed Whatcom Community College, Nooksack Indian Reservation and Skagit. Skagit sounds exactly the sort of place a Coen Brothers movie would be set. We even sailed past a Free Unitarian Church, a name I always enjoy.

Everything was well and good until shortly after we popped into Barstucks for a pee, coffee and cookies. Driving along, we found we had lost a bag.

We had definitely had it upon arriving at the border and so we either lost it there or at the Barstucks. Cath had a vague thought she had taken it with her into the "Welcome" centre. This was a couple of hours back up the road and knowing how draconian they had been there, if the bag had been left there, it seemed likely one of the guys with all of their charisma in a holster would have had it destroyed as a terrorist device. Calling and claiming it could be a one-way ticket to the dark side of Cuba. Despite this, we found a number for the customs area, but got no answer. So we evaluated our options and likely outcomes and decided it wasn't so irreplaceable that we had to drive 4 hours extra and have a stressed, sleep-deprived evening for the chance we may get it back. It was only a bag of stuff, after all, and not a child. The only painful things to lose were a small notebook of Cath's and several weeks' worth of knitting (also Cath's).

We arrived in Seattle and joined the many, many other vehicles trying to drive through it. We eventually got off the free/high/expressway and found our hotel but not before going round the block a few times. This was because of one-way systems and the fact that Google maps is not so good when it comes to distances. We returned the car and headed for food. Lack of options in the immediate area lead us to The Daily Grill, which is not a talk show but a restaurant. Here I was seized by a whim to have pork chops with, my notes tell me, blackberries. They were on or near it as I recall in some sort of appetising mush. No froth was involved.

We were already missing the gentle accent of Canadians. City dwelling Americans seem to want to stab you in the chest with their words whereas Canadians tend to caress your limbs with theirs.

Back at the hotel we started listing lost things whilst I dug around the ubernet to get the right number for the customs point we came through. A very friendly person answered and yes, they had our bag. It had not been blown up and we were not on the most wanted list with a free pass to Guantanowitz Bay. However, we would only have just had time to get it and go straight to the airport the next morning. And we were already tired. Driving all night was probably not a good idea. We'd prefer to die defending democracy or resting contentedly, and not picking up knitting. The guy said he'd let us know if it could be shipped within the US, and we gave them Cath's parents' address in Texas. I thanked him profusely in as English an accent as I could muster. That stuff usually works.

This was a big relief, although there was no guarantee we would actually get it back, it seemed probable. US border patrol needs to justify its huge budget and we were certainly helping with that. So as to not keep you in suspense, I should tell you the bag has since been received safely, knitting included. It would have been most amusing had she been knitting a weapon of mass destruction, but actually it was a sweater.

Labels: Americas, Anthropology, Drink, Food, Language, Politics, Transport, Travel, US

It was time to leave this sleepy paradise and begin our journey back towards civilisation (via the US). We said goodbye to our temporary landlords, from whom we bought a couple of great wildlife pictures, and then drove across the island towards the ferry.

We followed the windy, windy roads, through the mountains and past rain forest and lakes. Shortly after starting out, we got to cross off the last big thing on our holiday to-do list. There in the morning mist, by the side of the road, a mother and baby bear were chewing grass. It was a better sighting than we could have hoped for. Pity we were not able to stop and take a picture, but that's life.

Although there were several bear spotting trips organised in the area we stayed, they all started at about 6 am or before. We were too much on holiday to get up and be active at such a time. Not even for bears. Many of the reasons I am not a religious icon are the tenets by which I live. These would translate religiously as, "If the mountain won't come to Morehammett, then, quite frankly, I'm not going skiing;" and "It is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter the kingdom of God. And even then, you try sewing a button on with a camel."

Not long after the bears, we passed another deer. This one was dead. I think we managed 2 dead and one living on the deer front. I never saw this deer; Cath did and uttered, "Oh. Deer," which I heard as "Oh, dear," and didn't relate to the presence of any horned, woodland creatures. Ah homonyms.

One of the interesting things we noticed about signs in this area ("go on," I hear you say) was that the French names for places were usually exactly the same as the English ones. The only exception we saw was Green Point, which, as you guessed, had been translated. To Pointe-Green. Even I can do a better translation than that.

We eventually found our way to Nanaimo and Duke Point ferry terminal. Here we waited for the next boat off the island and had some of the worst coffee ever made. It was hard to say exactly what was wrong with it, but at a guess I'd say: the milk was off, the coffee decaffeinated and it had been stirred with a festering rat foot.

On the island, tannoy (PA) announcements are much more sensitive than those on the mainland. No "ha ha, someone stalled on discharge" here. In fact all the announcements were for the "craft fair." We had time and the tent containing the dozen tables of jewellery, cards and dog-related products was on our way back to the car. Somehow even the term "craft fair" was bigging it up a little.

The ferry trip took 2 hours and I passed some of the time with a soup and a roll which nicely used up our Canadian coins. Then, we discharged without embarrassment and headed south.

After the normality of the island, the mainland seemed weird. We passed llamas and signs telling people not to drive on the central reservation (the way they did in The Blues Brothers). I suppose that's the danger of half the population driving off road vehicles.

The mainland is also not nearly as beautiful as the island. At least that bit wasn't. I think if we'd headed north, it might have been a different story. We passed through a grassy savannah called Prairieland. It was exactly how you picture somewhere called Prairieland. At one point, we even passed two old men sitting on the veranda of an old, wooden house. They were just sitting there watching the cars go by, and, one imagines, spitting into spittoons and muttering that if one of those cars heads this way, they'll reach for the Winchester. This was almost as great as seeing the bears.

Eventually Canada ran out and we joined the line of cars for US customs. The US border patrol has to justify the employment of thousands of men and women who otherwise would clog up the army or mail service. One way they keep them busy is a computer randomly selects people for a search. This is called a "compex" search because the piece of paper they give you says "compex" on it. It all sounds sinister, but the computer side of it, it seems, is not some clever algorithm to find likely people to search, it’s completely random. The computer side of this system would have taken about an hour to develop including testing. Although I suspect the US Government was charged for several months.

How it works is: a man in a Perspex box is told by the computer to direct you over to where a surly man with more gun than charisma tells you to park the car and sends you to an office where someone with no gun but an ability to deal with people makes you wait while he has a quick look over the car for things he knows he won't find because the car has not been selected as a likely source of problems, but randomly by a computer. Many of these people are so hopped up on the thought they are defending their country, they forget that most people coming in are not actually the enemy.

Once the guy with people skills finds nothing amiss, you are free to continue, feeling you've experienced some of that good old-fashioned American hospitality you hear about.

Labels: Americas, Anthropology, Drink, Food, Language, Politics, Transport, Travel, US, War, Wildlife

In our bed and breakfast, the latter is served disturbingly early by our chirpy British hosts. I was still on some Mid Atlantic time so it wasn't an issue for me. But Cath, when she is determined to sleep, could represent her country at the Slumberland Olympics. I wrote on the balcony (that is I wrote on paper whilst on the balcony) and listening to the chirping of chirpy birds and scurrying of scurrying mammals. Setting myself up for the main wildlife event of the day: whale watching.

Whales are contradictions. Lumbering yet intelligent. Fish-shaped yet mammalian. Less fun than dolphins, yet the phrase is "a whale of a time." Dolphins don't even have a phrase. Except perhaps, "dolphin friendly," which ironically means fish dolphins don't hang out with.

That afternoon, we boarded a boat with about 20 or so other tourists armed with water-proof clothes and cameras. The boat then took us to likely and recent whale spots. We were lucky to come across two whales pretty soon into our trip. This was fortunate because we didn't see another whale for the rest of it. The boat hung around the whales for a while we got millions of shots and metres of footage of the whales lying just below the surface and the occasional glimpse of whale tails as they dived down for another serving of cold krill.

Despite not seeing more whales, we did see many beautiful islands, eagles, puffins and big fat sea lion suitably annoyed to be bothered during his afternoon nap.

After the whale expedition, I was feeling somewhat queasy. More to do with the sea than the whales, really. Cath, however was hungry. We went to a place called the Schooner, which looks like another nautical word appropriated from the Dutch, but in Dutch it means "cleaner" as in "more clean" so where not sure where the boat got its name.

The menu had a broad cross section of things. Many of which sounded exciting, although one, something like steamed fish with boiled vegetables. It seemed the sort of thing that would never get picked being in the same column as the crabs and Herb Crusted Salmons.

In there was a couple that excited Catherine because they could pretty much eat nothing. Cath has a couple of allergies and aversions that means she can't just wolf down every thing that happens upon a menu, but these poor souls had to give so many pre-requests before their food was prepared: gluten and dairy free and devoid of nuts. But things weren't so bad they had to order the steamed fish with boiled vegetables. Having got their abridged meal, they complained constantly about it to each other. And they could drink wine, we noted, although they complained about that as well. It was actually heart-warming in a way. It was great that they had found each other.

And before we left, an elderly lady came in and ordered the steamed fish with boiled vegetables which pleased and astounded us no end.

Having eaten too much, we had to walk it off on the beach. Poor us. Here we observed more of Canada's wonderful wildlife. Sand fleas and types of seaweed with which I was not familiar hopped and lay along the sandy shore.

That night we watched Aboriginal TV before going to bed. Yes, there is a channel here called Aboriginal TV. We watched a documentary on a man who became a hockey star, then an alcoholic and then a community leader and hockey coach. It tried its best to be upbeat but somehow failed. But it helped us realise something about Canadian culture: It's all aboot hockey, eh.

Labels: Americas, Anthropology, Drink, Food, Language, Transport, Travel, Wildlife

Having taken off at 11 am and flown for 9 hours, it was now, obviously, 11 am. The day had nearly run its course, yet it was still morning. Welcome to the exciting world of jetlag.

The second language of Seattle-Tacoma Airport for signs and announcements is Japanese. (That is except for a couple of signs where Spanish was the second language.) It seemed an odd choice, but I'm sure there is a good reason for it.

We drove through the industrial part of town in a taxi that reminded me of the death traps that used to patrol the streets of Beijing. In fact when Cath got out, she nearly brought a bit of the interior with her.

We checked into our luxurious waterfront hotel with its four-poster beds made out of tree trunks, balconies over the bay and TVs the size of cinema screens.

In Seattle there are fish motifs on everything including most hotel pillows; and you are never more than a few hundred yards from the nearest totem pole. But the real motif for this hotel was the bear. Bears sat on the pillows waiting for you to hug them, bears leant against columns on the reception desk, bear footrests stood proudly in the room. Not a place to be ursophobic. I hear that they get a lot of large, bearded gay men in the bar too, but it could just be a rumour.

We had lunch at a fast-food middle-eastern place in one of the mazes adjoining Pike Place and followed it up with iced tea in a crumpet shop. We were too full to try the crumpets, although they looked authentic and hand-made.

There seem to be a lot of runners in this town. We watched a couple jog up the steep hills. And then noticed a few heavier people struggling up the same hills. It seemed to contradict Cath's theory that larger people should be healthier as are used to carrying more weight around.

Back at the hotel, we napped and enjoyed the cooing gulls that nested in hotel crevices.

After registering early for the conference so that Catherine could collect her free rucksack, we had dinner at the hotel's restaurant. It's a five-dollar place. That is in any guide it will have five dollar signs next to it. It was what is still called nouvelle cuisine, despite it being as old as I am. I ordered the ribs as I was feeling hungry, and a plate arrived with two of them. Two ribs! Tasty and attractively complimented, but a rack it was not. If that was a rack, Kate Moss has a rack.

That night, as the door proclaimed "No Moleste" to the world, we slept on Catherine's observation that we seemed to be only two people in town without tattoos.

Labels: Anthropology, Food, Language, Travel, US, Wildlife

Coping with long-haul flights is different for each person. Catherine can often manage to sleep on planes, especially in her ear-plugs, eye-mask and mind-shield. I can rarely it. Even with less than four hours sleep under my lids I still was not able to drop off on the plane. Two large coffees didn't help matters. But then being stuck on a plane is a good chance to catch up on the three W's: watching, writing and reading.

Out of curiosity, and the fact I've watched all the others, I took in Quarter of Sausages (also know as The Bond Conspiracy). In it, Jason Bond moods and broods through a succession of killings frequently juxtaposed with similarly dramatic performances (operas, fiestas and other fights). Bonds are a lot more psychological these days and villains no longer want to take over and/or destroy the world. In Question of Sportsnight, the secret organisation (excitingly more spectre-like than Spectre ever was) wants to get in on the lucrative game of utilities management. Anyone who didn't already think that water providers were more evil than al Qaida of Saudiarabia can feel a Quantum of Smugness.

In all, Quest for Seweragerights is enjoyable and somehow gritty yet over the top at the same time. Three Roger Moores out of 5.

Sitting in a plane, you can't help but get a glance of other people's screens. These, half-glimpsed images (always from the same small subset of films) often get merged in the mind and you wonder how you missed the subplots in the film you saw about the street kids in India and escaped cartoon zoo animals. Personally, I think this would have made a much better film (worthy of 4 or even 5 Roger Moores) and would be called Quantum of Slumdog Madagascar.

The second film I watched was Suspect X, a Japanese cop drama starring your favourites: Masaharu Fukuyama, Matsuyuki Yasuko and Tsutsumi Shinichi. A repressed yet somewhat tense story where emotions are kept in except for the odd crime of passion or vent. In the end, love wins over science although this being a Japanese film not in a happy singing-dancing way but in an "everyone's doomed to a life of depression" sort of way. Two Masaharu Fukuyamas out of 5.

Sometime during the films, the cabin crew offered "doody free" items. Implying everything else they offered so far had been filled with faeces.

Labels: Anthropology, Drink, Language, Movies, Science, Transport, Travel, US

Having convinced the security guy our electronics were our own, we could finally get to see the plane. Although we booked our tickets with KLM, the flight was operated by NWA (who I am always disappointed isn't owned by rappers and doesn't stand for Niceguyz With Altitude (or whatever their name was)). And although the flight was operated by NWA, the plane was emblazoned with "Delta."

This all seams confusing until you realise that Delta now owns NWA and all three are members of something called SkyTeam, which to me sounds like a 1950s superhero collective.

SkyTeam

From More's Uncyclopaedia, the free uncyclopaedia
The three main members of SkyTeam were Kite-Like Man, Negro With Altitude and Delta, who - along with Aero Mexico, the flying Mexican; the clumsy Russian superhero, Aeroflot; and the seductive Alitalia - fought crime and generally made the skies safe until the mid 1970s when the comic series was stopped after allegations of racism.

The plane saying Delta was a disappointment to Cath who had vowed never to fly with them again after they were decidedly unhelpful at a time of family tragedy. However, despite saying "Delta" on the outside of the plane, on the inside all of the entertainment screens and staff uniforms said "NWA." So really they'd just borrowed their boss' plane. It was good to see the NWA safety videos again. They have gone for the inclusive approach of cramming in as many "minorities" as possible, including the minority groups of smiley old women and handsome staring men. After each long passage in English, there is the shortest possible summary in Dutch.

English: "Should it become necessary to perform a water landing, life-vests are available under your seats. Place the life vest over your head and tie the straps around your waist securely in a double-bow. Use the nozzle to top up the air and the whistle to attract attention. A light will come on with contact with water"
Dutch: "Er zijn Zwemvesten."

Whilst all this is going on there is in the background a soundtrack that was pure 1970s Jazz Pop. It is almost, but not quite, porn music. Were this music to be played over the top of the Singapore Airlines safety instruction video, most men would forget that their life was in any sort of peril.

After the safety rigmarole in English and Dutch, a map appeared showing the plane's progress. It was in English and German. And later also in French and Spanish. In fact anything except Dutch. But then, German with added English, French and Spanish IS, in fact, Dutch.

Take off took a long time due to, firstly, the "tug" breaking down and secondly, Schiphol's noise-reducing policy of having most of their runways in Belgium. But eventually we the ground was receding behind us and ready to save the world from SkyTeam's mortal enemies of Commies and the evil Count Von Lufthansa.

Labels: Anthropology, Language, Music, Netherlands, Transport, Travel, US

Notice the UFO in the above picture. Is any more proof needed?

We grabbed our breakfast from the hall and then headed out. There was a whole saga in searching for a stamp. We gave up for then, but eventually had word that there was a post office beneath Macy's. We wandered down to Market Street via a somewhat dodgy area. There were many beggars and at one point a guy had fallen out of his wheelchair. Two motorcycle cops were already on the scene and taking charge firmly but friendlily. We caught the historic Tram Line F where old trams (not just from San Francisco but also from other cities are run for the use of locals and the joy of tourists. We caught it in a bad part of Market Street but it meant the tram was not too busy before the stop where all the tourists get on it. The line goes to the end of Market Street and then heads up along the harbour. We went to Pier 33 as the night before we'd booked tickets to go to Alcatraz.

Once the last place you might want to be sent, now huge queues of people wait to get on the boat to go there. The island is prime real estate; plumb in the middle of the bay with great views of both bridges and of the city itself. The trip over is quick, and the boats are large but full. You need a couple of hours to really do the island properly, even though there is much of the island you can't get to, either due to renovation / dilapidation or because birds are nesting. The island is prime nest site for gulls, guillemots and other sea-faring birds.


Most people start with the short film giving an overview of the history. It was originally made by or for the Discovery Channel and I had seen it before as it was somewhat familiar. So I even knew vaguely about the Indian Occupation which Catherine didn't. This, for those of you who didn't know was in 1969 when a group of Native American activists took over the island as a protest about the generally dreadful treatment they were receiving and had been receiving since the first boat load of immigrants piled into the country. In particular it was against a kind of forced integration that was in action at the time.





Wandering around the island is pleasant and no doubt good for you. But the most interesting part is the audio tour of the prison itself. Ex wardens and former prisoners tell you what was where, what it was like to be there, and about the various escape attempts. Some of the latter were studies in patience and ingenuity.




We took the ferry back. This is the only way if you discount swimming which is ill-advised because the waters have treacherous currents and sharks. The sharks however are only vegetarian, which means they kill you by boring you to death about how they don't eat meat. (Only kidding. Smiley face.)

San Francisco is one of the few major cities that still have abandoned harbour warehouses. In many other cities these have all been converted from crummy, rat-infested eye-sores to some of the most expensive places to live in the city.

We headed over to Chinatown. Actually half the city could be called Chinatown, but we were heading to the bit that has most of the restaurants. It was curious to hear the children on the bus all speaking Chinese to each other. It's not what I would have expected, but it was nice to hear. I don't hear enough Chinese these days except from random conversations on the train via the airport and from my Shanghai neighbour at work.

We ate in a Vietnamese restaurant that we think was called Pho or Golden Flower. I know, go to Chinatown to eat Vietnamese is a bit like getting French food in a Tapas bar, but Amsterdam is short of Vietnamese places. Keeping with the Asian theme, we went on to the famed Japanese Tea Garden. However it was shut.

That evening we decided to check out the real nightlife of the city. We took the old-fashioned tram to Castro, the lively gay side of town. Even for a Wednesday it was pretty happening. A few restaurants were open but we decided to look for our light supper in another part of town, supposed to be the main going-out centre, the Mission District. We walked there, avoiding dark streets, and for those of used to the scale of Amsterdam maps, it was a touch further than anticipated. The Mission District is a going-out sort of place, but it's also a bit down-at-heel. It's supposed to be good for bar hopping, but it's not like there is a line of bars, you have to know where the next one is. Most bars and restaurants were closing as we were arriving. The only clearly open eatery was a Mexican fast-food 'restaurant' (it had a counter and no chairs as far as I could see) which was packed and needed a security guard. The two guys who went in as we passed smelt like they had come from a cannabis sauna. They seemed to be in good spirits.

We also passed a guy who was dressed a pimp. The very stereotype of a pimp. If you'd have seen him in a movie or gangsta rap video you'd have said how clichéd surely pimps don't dress like that any more. I'm not saying he was a pimp, I'm only saying he dressed like one. And the girl on his arm dressed like a ho.

We realised a snack would not be forthcoming without queuing for a long time behind two guy who could be classed as a class-C narcotic. We bought some nuts and hailed a taxi. The taxi sped through the city and afforded us our first Bullitt moment. A Bullitt moment can only happen in San Francisco on those streets where the roads slope up or down but are level for an intersection. It's when you go too fast on the up or down and it causes a bit of a suspension crunch you hit the flat. I was so happy to have had this experience. Someone should start a Bullitt tour, so that any tourist can experience this (as well as a few key sites from the movie).

Labels: Anthropology, Fashion, Food, History, Language, Movies, Transport, Travel, US, Wildlife

There is some controversy about Marriott hotels that I did not know about. Apparently the owners are Mormon. In theory you'd think they'd then not allow alcohol or porn. Mormons I know even look down on tea and coffee as stimulants. But no, you can get tea, coffee, alcohol AND porn in Marriott hotels. What would be the ultimate in hypocrisy would be if they then did not let you check in because you arrived with two wives. I've yet to try them out on this.

Obviously the controversy is that as 10% of the earnings of these top people goes to their church (by holy decree) and a % of this comes from porn, it means part of the splendour of the headquarters of Mormonism in Salt Lake City is paid for by alcohol and porn sales. But I assume it is okay if the porn has a Mormon flavour. I didn't look, but I assume the titles available are things like "The Book of Mammon", "The Story of Bring'em Young", "Seven Brides for One Brother", "Latter-Lay Saints" and "Salt Lake Titties."

The second and final day of Cath's conference. In posh hotels such as this, checking out is easy and can even be done over the phone. So Cath went off to the conference and left me with the luggage. Footballers' entourages include WAGS – wives and girlfriends; Internet Marketers' have BAHS – boyfriends and husbands. Although I found no others like me to form a club, so I had to go shoe-shopping on my own.

At home having to walk (or in fact cycle) over to the bank seems a chore and is met with apathy or even recalcitrance. But when you are on holiday, you will happily walk the few blocks to the bank. It's mainly to do with the fact the route is new to you.

Having done my research, I knew almost exactly where the Barnes and Noble was and how to get there from the bank. Even this wasn't enough to locate it first go. Normally these bookstores are visible from miles away - sometimes even from space - this one was more subtle and I really only stumbled upon it. The book store was mostly in the very large basement, see tomorrow for a history of that.

It took a while but eventually I arrived back at Pike Market and found a place to have breakfast. It was a French-style bakery. I ordered a pain au chocolat. Now the nice thing about pains aux chocolats is that they have this thin line of chocolate running through them which gives them a sweet kick. Obviously in America this isn't enough. This one had three thick strips of chocolate which totally took over the flavour of the thing. I didn't enjoy it. One of the school-kids on a trip to learn French (it being cheaper to take the kids to a bakery than to France) declared it as the greatest thing he's ever had. One day he'll go to France an have a real pain au chocolat and be disappointed. But by that time he'll be as fat as a house and the painier will just sneer at him.

I also ordered a coffee, but it took a while to get to me owing to the dishwasher suddenly flooding the place. I was on the outskirts of the water and quick enough to save my laptop bag from getting damp and threatening my new writing laptop, but the confusion consumed the whole of the staff for many minutes. I read and watched the good-natured mayhem.

Eventually the teacher of the kids came over and spoke to them in French. She had such a strong American accent that I could barely understand her. These poor kids are so going to get sneered at when they go to French. But I expect they are prepared for Canada.

I wandered along the piers and found myself outside of Ye Olde Curiosity Shop. It's THE place to buy shrunken heads, mummified bodies, stuffed Siamese-twin calves and random Native American memorabilia. They had totem poles for every occasion as well as jokes, t-shirts and dead creepy crawly paper weights. One favourite was a sign of a pirate saying "all ye who enter here, surrender the booty." Even the patrons had great gift ideas. The most Seattle gift I saw was a coffee holder that fits onto your pram or push chair. Just because you are walking your kids doesn't mean you don't want coffee. Sure coffee suspended above the feet of young children presents some health risks, but they should have thought of that when they asked to be born.

Labels: Anthropology, Books, Drink, Food, Language, Sex, Shopping, Transport, Travel, US