More about Life

Christmas is a time for family, buying stuff and remembering the world's most famous magical Jew. Many of us cram onto planes, spend hours queuing in shops and feel very lucky not to have to spend the holidays giving birth to babies, surrounded by animals because we'd forgotten that the Holiday Inn Beth Lehem is always booked up this time of year.

A few days before the famous day itself, we crept early out of our flat, leaving our feline family to fly to see my human one. My parents live near Brighton, the British Florida. The main difference is, of course, that the British sun retired a long time ago to the American Florida.

With a few days before Christmas, we used our time wisely: We shopped amidst the crowds and pockets of hopeful carol singers; pretty much the way early Christians did, although there was less tinsel in those days.

We did much of our shopping in the nearby town of Lewis. Lewis is a pretty, historic town populated by people who only read first editions of ancient books. This is based on the fact that there are two small shops selling new books, two small second hand bookstores and about a dozen antique bookstores. All of the rest of the shops are charity shops which is a well-recorded phenomenon in the UK.

The main shopping area was filled with seasonal busking, often done by kids who of the age when they really ought to be out hanging round bus shelters. Most notable being one young guy playing carols mournfully on a clarinet. I enjoyed it because, for me, it summed up the pathos of the season and was a nice break from the otherwise relentless good cheer.

We also used our time to grab some kultcha. Cath is a fan of Mark Rothko who was having a retrospective at the Tate Modern (formerly Battersea Power Station). For those of you know don't know, Rothko is famous for his huge works such as Black Square on Red Background; Red Square on Black Background and Black Square on Black Background.

The pieces are not only impressive in their size, but also in the work that went into them. It may seem like a simple shape painted on top of a painted canvas, but it took a surprising amount of planning and experimentation. Even the often rough edges of the shapes are very deliberately and specifically so. And they do have an impact when you see them in the flesh that a tiny little reproduction in a book or on a computer screen doesn't convey. It is however a very homageable style, and I have tried my own emulations. One of my efforts now hangs in a millionaire's villa in Southern France.

Christmas period itself was the usual mix of too much traditional British Christmas foods (minced pies, Christmas cake, sausages wrapped in bacon), traditional British Christmas television (James Bond, Morecombe and Wise. Wallace wrapped in Grommit) and the local village's annual Boxing Day pram race.

A couple of days after the festivities, it was time to return home. Our flight back was delayed a little. They tried to hide this for a while by not telling us, but sooner or later the cat was let out of the bag.

As usual the flights to Amsterdam are serviced by Sterile Island, a block of gates separated from the main terminus by a bridge into which is piped bird noises and new age music. As I have said before, standing on the conveyer belts in this bridge, with this calming audioscape coming at you and arriving at a half-empty, cold, remote, sterile place increasingly makes me think of a Soylent Green-style old folk reprocessing plant. It explains why 90% of the time, airline meals are "chicken." Old people taste of chicken. If you get "beef" or "lamb," you've got a Mediterranean labourer.

I wrote in my notes that we got upgraded to Club. This was so many flights ago and so short a flight, I don't recall it. And it wasn't as exciting as the time I got upgraded temporarily because I was allocated a seat where the stewardesses sleep. Actually that was more disappointing than exciting, and a different story.

For once the plane landed close to the terminal instead of in Utrecht, where it normally seems to land; there was no queue at immigration; so that meant the last possible delay to getting home was, yes of course, waiting for Schiphol's computer system to stop contemplating the meaning of life and deliver our luggage. Anyway, Merry Magical Jew Day!

Labels: Anthropology, Art, Christmas, Food, Music, Religion, Shopping, Transport, Travel, TV, UK

On checking out of our plush hotel, we couldn't help notice a big advertising board extolling "A Great deal for a great room." And we thought, yes it was a great room... and it was expensive. We assume they meant "a great deal" as in a deal that was great, but advertisers should beware of phrases that have two meanings.

We popped over to Baker Street, famous for being the home of musician turned detective Gerry Rafferty and his sidekick, Doctor Egan, who both lived together in Shylock Homes, an apartment block owned by a former money-lender. I think that's right. Anyway, I do know his nemesis was a man named Arthur Mori.

We were here to meet up with one of Cath's cousins, her husband and their kids for a very pleasant lunch in a nice neck of London.

However, before long it was time to head back. And time became more pressing when at Victoria we not only had problems trying to get the ticket machine to sell us a ticket, but we had to run to the express service just in time to watch it leave. So we ran back and jumped on a slow service. Once we did get to our destination, we found that the signs from the station to the airport were just plain confusing. I believe we British think travelling is sinful and only bad sorts and foreigners do it, so we do anything to make it impossible for them to get anywhere. Eventually we found the line to check in for our flight, but we were only in it 20 seconds before we were called out as our plane was hoping to leave soon.

Flights to Amsterdam from Gatwick generally leave from The Island. The Island is a small outcrop of gates joined by a high bridge, tall enough to clear big planes. The whole trip along the tunnel is accompanied by bird song and new age music. I think it's supposed to be calming, but I have a problem with the whole concept that natural noises need to have a soundtrack put behind them. If it was supposed to be like that, Nature would produce its own muzak. But it doesn't. The long conveyer belts and this supposedly restful soundtrack, reminds me of some science fiction film where old people are shunted off along extensive corridors to some place of final rest. Usually to be turned into food.

Obviously, one more snag is due, to make the quota, and that came in the form of the state-of-the-art Schiphol baggage system getting all confused and not being able to deliver our luggage for quite a while. Another clear example of people waiting for these time-saving computers to sort themselves out. But eventually, after their mini strike, the computers spat our bags out and we dragged them home to feed our surprisingly indifferent cats.

Labels: Anthropology, Books, Music, NL, Transport, Travel, UK

I met some of the wedding guests for breakfast at a greasy spoon [café] for a delicious, artery-closing, British breakfast. Sausages, egg, fried bread and a delicate rocket salad. Oh, hang on, there was no salad.

After breakfast, Cath and I wandered over London Bridge to Borough Market. Borough Market used to be a wholesale fruit and vegetable market. It has since been restyled and upmarketed (if that's a word) as a tourist attraction and popular lunch spot. We picked up some tasty-looking flapjacks and brownies before lunching at Prêt-A-Manger. I'd missed Prêt-A-Manger, but this time it was disappointing, especially after the previous day's Eat. (How can jalapeno chicken be disappointing? I don't know. it has everything: bread, chicken and jalapeno.) I know I should be finding more interesting places, but I've missed these chains. I even missed Benjy's, which has long since gone.

After wandering by Tottenham Court Road and checking out old haunts such as The Actors' Centre, where I used to perform improv before being thrown out by Zaphod Beeblebrox, we slipped back to the hotel for coffee and flapjacks.

(I kid you not, Zaphod Beeblebrox himself threw us out. Or at least the guy who used to play him. I think he thought we were taking the Mickey when we played two-headed expert.)

For dinner, we shipped down to Parsons Green to a promising-looking Indian place that was very good indeed. The condiments alone were worthy of many medals.

Before we ate we had a chance and find more of those curiosities London has lurking about. Such as a luxury boutique for dogs and cats as well as our future robot overlords having a night out.

However, the rigours of travel had taken their toll. Despite pleas to favour parties with our presence (it's grand to feel popular), it was actually bed that lured us anywhere.

Labels: Food, Improv, Transport, Travel, TV, UK

Bam! Gom!

No, we didn't start the trip by fighting Batman; we started it on a train. The train happened to go past a couple of companies that amused me. These were "Bam!" and "Gom!" Or to give them their full names: "BAM Utiliteitsbouw Regio Noordwest" and "Gom Specialistische Reiniging." I believe if you take the other route to the airport, you pass "Shazamm Internet Solutions" and "Kapowww Kippenboerderij."

Having recently been to the US, I was very familiar with how it felt to be in the slow foreigners' line. This time, however, it was Catherine's turn to take this line whilst I took the quick one where some youngster pretends to not even look at your passport and wave you through.

Once through, however, I joined a combined line of confused foreigners and grumpy Brits to be sold train tickets by a very weary Italian. This was before we got our bags. Basically, there's a little kiosk that gives all the appearance of being convenient, but is then purposefully understaffed and decorated with confusing signs. The modern British railway system is no longer about getting U (designating you) from A to B; it's about getting ₤ from U to B (designating board members and shareholders). The more confused you are, the more money you throw at them.

Lunch was had with friends and family in a pub somewhere not too far from the airport. Somehow they were out of burgers and steak pies, which is pretty much everything in a pub like that.

After this, we were dropped off at the airport where we had to once again negotiate the confusing fare structure that privatisation has unnecessarily imposed on us poor train-travelling folk. There are three different tickets to get to London because there are three different carriers. (This is ignoring the class structure that doubles the number of tickets.) Train companies wish they were airlines and have real trouble accepting they are not.

Our hotel was grand and prestigious. It sat in a cul-de-sac just around the corner from New Scotland Yard. It was run by Italians which meant the staff were handsome and stylishly dressed. Plus they had those accents where you couldn't completely be sure they weren't asking you to go to bed with them. It's always safer in these circumstances to assume they're not.

New Scotland Yard no longer looks like what it does in all those old cop series. Especially because it's hard to find an angle from where you can clearly see that rotating sign thing with all the security barricades. It makes it look like the Sweeney was set in simpler times.

After checking in, we made our way to the headquarters of Clarion where an old flatmate was working keeping Noddy in check. For those of you who didn't know, Noddy is back. Again. Noddy first disappeared in the 1980s. Nobody quite knows where but when he came back Mr Golly and all the other Gollies had disappeared. Nobody talks about this sinister aspect of Noddy's history. In fact it seems to be heralded as a good thing.

I finally got to see The London Paper which has come and gone during my time away from London. It was a free competitor to Metro and The Evening Standard but somehow far more downmarket than either. Yes, than either. It's gone now, and from what I saw, won't be missed.

As we came back to the hotel, the girl behind the desk bid us goodnight.

I turned quickly to Catherine, "Do you think she means..."

"No," she said.

Labels: Anthropology, Books, Transport, Travel, TV, UK, War

Our final day. We got up late and checked out, forswearing breakfast in the hotel to grab tea, coffee and croissants at a café in the historic town of Lalinde. The coffee they served restored my faith in that great drink after a few days of our hotel's urn-brewed mud. The café was a curious mix of old men and loud urban music. We guessed the old men were there for the great coffee and not because they enjoy run-of-the-mill r'n'b played too loud.

We stopped at an Intermarché to stock up on some of the local goodies we'd discovered this trip. Mostly walnut related.

Dordogne airport leads a double life, I imagine. During most of the week, it is a quiet little flying club for enthusiasts, playboys and would-be terrorists. But two days a week, the airport becomes bedlam as half a dozen planes from budget airlines land, refuel, repassenger and take off again. Ironically, the time in the air is probably the least stressful for the cabin crew of these flights.

it is a tiny and chaotic airport with a management style that seems to be of the "manage by panic" variety. Several new airports use this method. Procedures and order are deemed too expensive and instead the staff react to everything second by second.

We arrived, checked in and tarried in the departure "lounge" for 20 minutes before the powers-that-be told us to urgently hurry to the gate. There only seemed to be one gate, and this is shared several other flights. So that the playboys, hobbyists and terrorists don't get disrupted too much - and so that they only hire staff for as small a period as possible - all the flights arrive and leave at about the same time. Sure, they would spread the flights out a bit and make it more relaxing for everybody, but airports don't make money from relaxing and money can be especially tight when dealing with bargain-basement airlines who cut costs at every single level.

Having been hurried to the gate, we had to wait some more because the panic wasn't justified as the plane hadn't even landed yet. In fact, we watched it land.

Dordogne airport is like a miniaturised version of a holiday town. For most of the week, it's a sleepy little place, a collection of sheds and a runway. But once a week, 5 groups of British budget tourists (as well as a couple of Beneluxian) fly into town and skew the local economy. Temporary customs officers, security officers and so forth are hired or sequestered for a small few hours. And then suddenly it's a sleepy little flying club again.

Of course it's not luxurious. You are herded from one room to another and when the plane lands you are herded onto that. But if you fly for the cost it takes to transport a cow, you can't complain that you are treated like cattle. Actually, cattle get better treatment as it is required by law that they feed them.

Plus, crammed into an animal pen for an hour I could take; but forced into a cramped chair and made to listen to screaming kids for an hour, is entirely another matter. For some reason our flight was the perfect one for families with babies. Everyone seemed to have with them a screaming, little brat as if it was the latest fashion accessory. And the louder your brat screamed, the hipper you were. (I think it's called something like "baby bling" or "bawling".)

It lead me to invent my latest device for improved air travel. The Sound-Proof Baby Capsule™. You know those headphones that eliminate outside noise so you only hear silence? Well, my idea is like that only in reverse and contained in a bubble. The ankle-biter sits (or stands) inside said capsule where he can scream, shout, yell, cackle, burble, call, bawl and drool to his little heart's content; but the sound is eliminated so we can't hear it. The capsule can be clear so that the parents can see their kid and the kid can see them. And I guess there should be some optional air-inlet apparatus because babies don't understand that their screaming uses up more oxygen than just shutting up. Anyway, this invention is patent pending, plus we need to do some health and safety tests – I mean, people could trip over them.

Labels: Anthropology, Drink, Europe, Food, Transport, Travel

Since retiring, my parents have become much harder to track down. It doesn't help that some years ago they bought a run-down little farm in the under-populated part of France (i.e. that bit which isn't Paris). So a couple of months of the year they are there, making the place habitable. Which two months of the year is anybody's guess. You never really know until the last minute whether they'll be there or not, because they answer to no one. No one, that is, except the bowls club in their local village.

So it happened that Cath and I who, at the time, were still answerable to the man, or I suppose more accurately, the men, booked our wee trip in advance only to find my parents couldn't be in France then and had to ship back to the UK. We could have gone to my parent's place without them being there, but it was quite a long way to go to end up surrounded by nothing but sheep. So we decided to not stray quite so far from the airport as all that. To this end we selected the village of Le Bugue in the Dordogne.

We flew on Transavia, which is the Dutch equivalent of easyjet. There is a Dutch equivalent of Ryan Air which is locking yourself in a car boot (trunk) and being driven there.

Bergerac airport is one of these tiny airstrips or air fields that have been hurriedly turned into an airport because of the increase in cheap flights. The list of airlines who use it is small and a summary of bargain-basement airlines. Most of which are British. Bergerac as you know was named after an ex alcoholic policeman based on the channel islands (or Les Malvinas as the French call them). A line of portacabins outside the shed where you collect your luggage represent all of the budget car rental companies. The portacabin for our particular firm was populated by a lone Englishman. A small queue formed but it didn't seem to bother him any more than he already was. It was not a great job, but in a country with so many English people with only adequate French, it's a rare "proper" job.

By the time we had our car it was dark. We had a couple of hours' drive along generally pretty good roads and through some great-looking villages before we arrived at Le Bugue. We drove around the village a few times and eventually had to stop and ask in Hotel Le Cygne where OUR hotel was. It seemed very insulting to do that. "Say you, man with a perfectly good hotel, where is the less conveniently-placed one that we picked instead of yours?" But the man was very friendly (and helpful) about it.

Our hotel for the next few days was the Domaine de la Barde, which we picked partly for the name, but mainly for it being a beautiful old place in plush grounds. The receptionist very kindly waited late for us and 'upgraded' us to a very large room in the loft with some curious furniture including a tiny rocking crib. The downside of the room was that the windows were very small but did offer a great view of one of the staff's motorbikes. A tree blocked the sumptuous gardens. On the plus side the bed was solid and firm and the room quiet and dark. We slept like two snug logs in a large ipod.

Labels: Anthropology, Europe, Geography, Transport, Travel, TV, Wildlife

Somewhat refreshed from a few hours' sleep, I grabbed some breakfast and wrote a note to the cleaner to explain the damp toilet roll in the bin was not the actions of hedonistic rock'n'roll stars hell-bent on trashing the place. I think the fact that otherwise the place was pristine should have made that clear.

The toilet roll incident was caused by a dodgy toilet roll holder that upon first touch sent the brand-new toilet roll flying into the toilet bowl. It was such a perfect action that I wondered if I was on Candid Camera. Had the toilet roll started rapping round me and dragging me into the toilet, I would have wondered if I was on a Japanese hidden camera show.

Our cab driver was from somewhere in the middle of the 21st Century. He had a futuristic Bluetooth ear piece with which to make calls. When we asked if we could swing by an open Borders, he used his GPS system to find one and also get the number to call up it. When he got no answer he called a nearby Barstucks to see if they knew when it was opened. It seemed the numbers could be automatically transferred from the GPS to the phone. There was even a webcam which was presumably for video surveillance. The guy was clearly some kind of spy. Probably working for the Indian security services. He was far too helpful and efficient which had to be a cover for some sort of shenanigans. It was certainly a lot of technology to use to replace our lost copy of Bitch magazine.

Like spies posing as taxi drivers, some airports are amazing centres of efficiency and organisation. Seattle is state-sponsored chaos. But it did have a "family washroom." I'm not sure what a "family washroom" is and how it differs from a regular washroom. I guess it means the graffiti is clean. It’s clearly another example of wholesome American values. The family that pees together...

We had a little time to check out the gift stores and chuckle at the latest novelty gifts such as Titanic ice-cube moulds and a Barack Obama cleaning bar called "The Audacity of Soap."

Having gone through the several layers of security, we were in the tunnel going to the plane and here found yet another layer. Customs officers were randomly stopping people to check if they had $10,000 or more on them. I think I've explained before that US Customs has a huge budget to justify.

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The Delta safety rigmarole is still my personal favourite of all the safety rigmaroles I've seen. It starts with a casual pilot telling you to pay attention and it is filmed in the style of a movie trailer. It features an Angelina Jolie clone in full close-up and a comedy, bald, bearded, fat man. At one point the comedy fat man smiles and his teeth ping. During the video, the captain has time for a sex change. You can see it here.

The choice for in-flight food was the same as it always is now: Chicken or pasta. This still bugs me as they are far from mutually exclusive. Next time I'm asked, "Chicken or pasta?", I'm saying, "Yes."

On the long, flight, I managed to watch some previously unseen (by me) sitcoms, Big Bang Theory (which I enjoyed*), and Chuck (which I barely remember*); I got some writing in, did a crossword and possibly snatched a five minute nap. Not quite the best method for beating jetlag, but it's slightly better than the rockstar method of drinking way too much and urinating in the aisle.

(* - that's the extent to which I'm reviewing them.)

The one thing I didn't find space to mention was Cath's underlying fear for this whole trip regarding Swine Flu, or as they still call it in the Netherlands, Mexican Flu. People have been encouraged to drop the name Mexican Flu because it somehow associates the disease with Mexicans. Instead the preferred name is Swine Flu, despite associating the disease with the golden animal that gave us ham, bacon, gammon and pork scratchings. So basically, for the entire trip, Cath had in the back of her mind a fear of coming into contact with Mexican Flu. A fear, that right up until the end seemed thankfully unfounded. That was until we got on the plane. As Cath sat there hoping the seat beside her would not be filled, it became filled by a man who boarded the plane carrying a huge sombrero and who proceeded to sniffle the entire flight. This is not a joke. If you had to draw a cartoon of "Mexican Flu" it would be a man with a sombrero and a runny nose. This is exactly who sat next to Cath for 9 hours. It only could have been worse had he had a pig under one arm and a Chinese bird under the other.

Labels: Americas, Anthropology, Drink, Food, Movies, Transport, Travel, TV, US

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

Turns out Blenz must have been good as I went back there the next day. I was getting coffee to take in the car, which being American had dozens of places to hold drinks. From in number of drink holders you get in American cars, you would think that the average American drove everywhere with half-a-dozen cokes and coffees ready at any moment to be slurped. Some cars even have pull-out trays for eating burgers whilst driving, and I'm sure there are Sat-Nav systems that can automatically send your drive-through order to the nearest outlet of your choice. The obvious joke is to call it a Fat-Nav, so I won't. I'll call it a TumTum system instead.

We checked out of the hotel and drove to one of Vancouver's many ferry terminals. It seems to be Vancouver's top export. We had allowed a lot of time, expecting Monday morning traffic to be quite heavy, but instead arrived super early. We paid up and joined the queue. We were on holiday and I had coffee, so waiting was not a problem.

We were waiting for the ferry that would take us to Vancouver Island, British Columbia's wilderness paradise. Well, actually British Columbia is nearly all wilderness paradise, but this bit has even less trucks driving through it as it's an island.

The ferry, it was announced, was delayed due to a "stall on discharge" which is a very serious medical complaint where I come from. We chuckled a while, getting the full comedy value from the statement. But we acknowledged that it was a pretty bad thing to happen to you. Experiencing a "stall on discharge" and holding up all the other people eager to discharge behind you is bad enough, but to have it announced over the tannoy on top of that... Gloik!

After an uneventful and somewhat productive crossing we went back to our car. Those of you familiar with comedy karma (or karmady), will not be surprised at what happened next.

Sitting at the front of the boat, scores of cars behind us, I turned the key, but the car wouldn't start. It just stood there. People behind us got annoyed, eager to shoot off out of the hull. We got flustered, I turned the key in all sorts of directions, pushed it, tugged it, nudged it, but nothing we did could start the car. We had "stalled on discharge." We had not only delayed people the way we had joked about other people doing, but presumably it got announced to the next generation of passengers, who sniggered into their coffee beakers like stupid immature children.

It was acutely embarrassing and I'll never forget the look of disappointed seamen. But it does happen to a lot of drivers. You've heard that, right?

-

Once safely on the island and moving, we headed for the tiny harbour of Tofino. It wasn't too long before Cath spotted her first deer and sometime later a chipmunk. This could only mean more wildlife was on its way. We started reading up on what to do in case you encounter a bear.

Soon we arrived at Tofino and the guest house that was to be our home for the next week. They excited us with news that only that morning they had to scare a bear away from pestering their bins. It's funny that one of the very things we wanted to see was actually a pest to those who lived there. But I suspect there are people somewhere in the world who yearn to see a rat, pigeon or mosquito.

Our room was a nice size and shape and the furniture new and clean. The bathroom window opened up on a splendid view of the forest. It was almost like bathing in the jungle.

After settling in, we drove into Tofino itself to check out the lay of the land. It's a quaint holiday village still with a thriving local population. A large part of this thriving local population is Native American. There are numerous Native American settlements around the area. A small group of teenagers hung outside the supermarket, you know, like they was regular kids and all that. Cath was quite surprised to hear them refer to each other as Indians, as in the US, the word has long fallen from favour. Especially as it was wrong in the first place. Well, it makes sense they are not called Native Americans in Canada, and Native Canadians sounds silly. In Canada, they call them Indians, Aboriginals or First Nations People. Or, often, by their name.

That night we ate at the Shelter pub/restaurant where Cath tried the local delicacy Thai yellow curry.

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

The racial mix of a city is often what gives it its identity as much as the architecture, street signs and predominant shops. Certainly as far as visitors are concerned. Vancouver has a very large Asian contingent. It seemed to me, from my unscientific survey, even more so than San Francisco, but Wikipedia said, "No." Seems that they came to dig for gold, build railways and, more recently, to get away from Hong Kong to somewhere else with the Queen's picture on the money.

On a junction near our hotel, two Starbucks stand on opposite corners like identical twin boxers. Starbucks breed like rats and spread like fungus. It has a business model very similar to that of cancer cells. We adjourned to a branch of local chain Blenz and planned our day. (We don't know that Blenz is actually any better, but their clone army is no where near as developed as Starbucks' and so they seem less dangerous.)

In fact, having taken too long to write this up, I am no longer able to read my writing fully and can't be sure whether the coffee at Blenz was "tasty", "nasty", "pasty" or "roasty." I think the latter. And the breakfast we had there seemed to be very gree.

It was a slow news day in Vancouver, which I am sure is an expression somewhere. "This conference is as dull as a slow news day in Vancouver." The local Metro headline read: "Vancouver 2010 Games Ticket Design Unveiled." I realise that it's the Olympics, or at least the Winter Olympics, but in very few places round the world would the unveiling of ticket designs fill the front page of anything except the Ticket Designers' Gazette. Or perhaps also The Counterfitters Courier. But not normally the newspaper for a city this size.

In other non-news, a scout volunteer faced sex charges. Again, this would not normally be news. We were under the impression there was now even a badge for that.

Having failed to be entertained by the newspaper, we moved on to the money. The money is actually very interesting. It has both French and English on it as well as a picture of the British Queen. On the back of the 20 dollar bill, there is a depiction of a small boat laden with Native Americans or, as the Canadians call them, Indians. They looked like refugees trying to find somewhere to preserve their culture.

Fully caffeinated, we ventured off across the city. We walked over a long bridge that passes over the island of Granville. A sign advised us "Left turns restricted ahead, use hemlock." Hemlock is a good old fashioned poison, the one that was supposed to have killed Socrates, in fact. Somehow it seemed to us that no matter how impossible it was to turn left, resorting to any form of poison seemed a tad drastic.

We fully expected to see follow up signs like, "Lane closed ahead; consider driving your car over side of bridge" and "No Parking: It really is quite pointless when you really think about it."

As our next point of call after Vancouver City was the semi-wilds of Vancouver Island, we were heading to an outdoor clothing store to stock up on non-extreme survival products. We caught a bus for the rest of the way. Canadian bus drivers are very, very friendly and very, very helpful. In most places in the world, bus drivers are grumpy and petty. Not in Canada. Here, they are more than happy to tell you how to pay; to not worry about a lack of change; where you should get off; how far you will have to walk afterwards; and what better ways there are to get there. It was only marred by the fact that our bus driver on the way back told us to change to get a connection that would take us closer to where we wanted to be, but the second bus never came. It could mean that beneath the very, very friendly exterior, Canadian bus drivers are actually more twisted than bus drivers elsewhere, but I find that hard to believe. We were probably too impatient by Canadian standards or something unexpected had happened, such as the bus driver stopped the bus to help deliver a calf.

It wasn't a big problem as we were not too far away from where we wanted to be and there was an ice cream store on the way. The weather was that kind of ice cream hot. It was also in part a pleasant walk, through a small park where a sign warned of coyotes. Coyotes were very much dissed in this sign. I'm sure they're just cute, misunderstood pooches who just need a hug and a tummy rub.

We traversed a small wooden walkway and found ourselves on Granville island, which is basically a huge market place filled with sumptuous, fresh delights and a gathering point for street performers. There is even a theatre there where a local group of thespians do some of that improv stuff I've been hearing so much about. How do they do that? They're like magicians or something. You should really check it out.

We took a cute little Disney ferry back to the main downtown area and walked back to our hotel.

Canadians, as well as having the Queen on their cash, do spelling correctly. Harbour has the necessary extra "u" and centre is spelt like that and not the American way, which I believe is "santa."

For dinner, we took ourselves to the Gastown part of town, famed for its gas. We ate so-so food and drank great self-brewed stout at the Steamroom bar, built around a room famous for its steam. After eating and visiting the Vapourcloset, we jumped on a larger ferry across a larger stretch of water to North Vancouver.

The ferries are almost exactly the same as the ones that chug people and bikes to and from Amsterdam North. Already a tad delayed, we had a little trouble finding the way out of the ferry terminal on the other side, which made us even later. Eventually we found a way out and climbed the steep, deserted streets to find a tiny community centre. I had managed to locate us some improv on a Sunday.

Way back, when the hills were mere mounds and people still believed electrons moved around the atom, I learned how to do a crazy little thing called improv. It's basically making stuff up like kids do and follows a simple pattern of basically agreeing with everything. One of my first teachers was Canadian Alan Marriott. Since then he's gone back home and formed his own group there.

Sunday, when the sun is still shining, in a part of town barely connected with the centre are not things that help shows have audiences. We arrived (late) and doubled theirs. But, we were on holiday and so having what felt like your own improv show given by one of the best improvisers I've known just adds to that holiday feeling. After all, it's what a Saudi prince would do.

After, we took the ferry back and wandered around Gastown, with its trendy and sleazy drinkeries. We found these kid's pyjamas. Had the shop not been shut, we would have bought them for any of our nephews and nieces we were planning to give nightmares to.

We eventually decided to grab a Guinness in the Lennox Irish bar on the edge of the old China town area. We sat near the window and watched people catch the helpful busses home. We also realised that even in Canada, there are people who are homeless. "Jebus, where is this Utopia you promised us? You did promise us a Utopia, right?"

Labels: Americas, Anthropology, Drink, Food, Improv, Transport, Travel

Today is definitely a slow news day. The headline of the Seattle Times was about a dead cow and sightings of wolves.

After our breakfast waffle and coffee (or rather mine, as Cath had something healthier with her tea), we packed up and headed out. We first made an unscheduled stop at the kilt shop. That's right, the kilt shop. We'd seen a couple of people around town in kilts the colour of khaki shorts. I believe the colour is called khaki. They looked practical and not too out of place. And now we'd found the shop. I was sorely tempted: I even got measured up and talked models with the assistant. But the fact that they are only really practical in warmer climes and would be seen as weird in most places in the world put me off. I would not wear them enough. I'm still torn, and reserve the right to buy one in the near future.

We did some research in Borders and bought a selection of magazines, including the essential Bitch. This was one of the few Borders in the country without a public restroom. This is due to the undesirables who often hang out on the street out back and on one occasion set fire to it. Having bought some stuff, we were allowed to be escorted to the bathroom.

Car rental companies always offer about 15 schemes all of which probably work out to cost the same amount, but the implication is if you pick the right one, you'll save money. The fact that Messrs Hertz, Avis and National are very well off implies otherwise.

Mr Hertz, feeling very generous in his vast mansion (so big he probably needs to rent a car to go from one wing to the other), we got a free upgrade to a "brand new Toyota Camry." Somewhat like being supersized for free. No, exactly like that. The car really was brand new. It had 104 miles on the clock. It felt so new, I wondered if it had been a stowaway on the Hyundai boat I saw the other day.

We drove back to our hotel to pick up our bags and use the toilets. I'm glad I did because I solved the mystery of the washroom sign. This mystery was caused by a sign on a door stating that the toilet was out of use, whereas last year the same door lead to the spare dining area which Cath was certain had no toilet facilities.

I also got to witness a slightly drunk and increasingly annoyed homeless guy being seen off the premises. He was insistent that he had been given a cheap room before and wanted one again. The hotel staff didn't deny it, but said the hotel was full. Which, judging by the breakfast room, was true. He started off calm, but eventually got frustrated and threw some business cards off the counter. He wasn't dangerous, crazy or particularly drunk, as far as I could tell; it was more like he was grasping at straws.

And then we were off. The US has so many small towns dotted around its vast and mostly empty country that naming them got hard after a while. There is a lot of repetition and many end up with quite odd names like (all from the Seattle area) Possession, Humptulips and Aberdeen.

We passed by a couple of Sacred Gambling Grounds (or "casinos" as the Slotmasheen Indians call them) and stopped off at a gas station / minimart in a genuine "redneck" community where I made the mistake of trying to find a healthy snack.

We slipped into the border patrol area and, where a sign declared that it was is open 24 hours. It's good to know as some countries aren't.

As the most foreign, I had to answer a few questions. But because this was a drive-through point, we didn't have to leave the car. In fact it was no different to finding a curious and chatty toll-booth operator, which is not uncommon in the US. She raised the barrier and we were in the fabled land of Canada.

Labels: Americas, Anthropology, Drink, Food, Religion, Transport, Travel, US, Wildlife

Due to time travel, I woke up at 6:20 am. I sat on the balcony over the sea and listened to the roar of the city. Like many big cities, Seattle has a background roar of traffic and... well, just traffic really. I observed a pair of seagulls clamour around the tin roof just below our balcony. One had an odd tendency to stand on one leg. In fact, for the first 15 minutes I thought he only had one leg. Every now and again one or the other would fly off or disappear under next door's balcony. They didn't even know or care that I existed.

Ships came in and out the harbour. I watched the steady progress of a huge container ship laden down with containers bearing the name Hyundai.

At shortly before nine we grabbed some coffee from the conference breakfast area, and I attended one of the sessions available to anybody (only Cath had paid up, I was a conference husband for the next few days; Free to play golf and have tea with other conference husbands, of which there seemed to be none).

During the late morning, I wandered through the maze of Pike Place Market and then topped up my caffeine level at a branch of Seattle's Best Coffee. It's pretty good, but I'm not sure it's the best.

After that, I wandered around some more; joined Greenpeas; bought an ironic hat and some bubblegum cigarettes; and visited the bubblegum wall. I don't normally do so many bubblegum related things in one day, but when in Rome... The latter is a wall outside an improv theatre which has lots of bubblegum squashed into it. It's a local attraction and somewhat artistic and somewhat gross at the same time. Back at Pike Place Market, I finally got to see some fish being thrown. It's apparently one of the things that you must see and there are often tourists hanging about the same corner waiting for a new fish to emerge.

For dinner we had Vietnamese and were happy to see that some places do serve more normal American portions. Nouvelle cuisine isn't very American, being French and hard to spell. And small in size.

In a random drugstore, we found another of those American products that make you shake your head in wonder. This month it was Identigene – home DNA test kit. "for mother, child and alleged father." It's not really a home testing kit. It's a kit for taking the necessary swabs and an envelope to send them to the lab. It does not include the $119+ for the actual test.

Down one of the narrow alleys between buildings, we caught sight of a scampering. And sure enough, as large as life and twice as smart, was a rat. We pretty much saw a rat every day after that. Seattle is all about coffee, rain, rats, fish, tattoos and totem poles. Not necessarily in that order. Somehow grunge got dropped off the list.

On the way back, we had to wait for a huge long train heading from the harbour area out of town. It was loaded with Hyundai containers. I guess they'd finished unloading the boat I'd seen that morning.

Luxury hotel it may be, but either the walls are really thin or the people next door were really loud.

Labels: Anthropology, Drink, Food, Science, Transport, Travel, US, Wildlife