We left Madrid on the night train to Barcelona--in a lucky turn of events, all coach seats were sold out and Robyn and I were forced to splurge on a couchette (a cot instead of a seat) to earn a spot on the train. More importantly, we had a place to get horizontal, finally!
It wasn't much, actually it was reminscent of my nights at Castle Irwell, but it was far better than trying to fall asleep while sitting up, or folded awkwardly or on the shoulder of the stranger next to you.
We were sharing a "cabin" with a Spanish lady (presumably, because she didn't speak a word to anyone else) and two lesbians on the tail-end of their 8-month backpacking tour of all over. Not that any of these people were particularly noteworthy room mates..but, once we were off the train I think my and Robyn's first spoken words were:
How about our room mates being a lesbian couple?
Yeah...interesting. Coffee?
Yes (said in the style of Almost Famous' Russell Hammond, for you, Robyn).
We decided to treat ourselves to a "relaxing end," meaning a place to stay and minimal walking in Barcelona. Though we were seriously considering ditching mainland Europe for Ireland one last time (our Madrid hosts were that bad), giving Barcelona one last chance was a good idea.
There is a lot to offer in that city, being thousands of years old, with a history that far outdoes Madrid's and other more contemporary attractions as well. La Rambla is Barcelona's"main drag," like a tourist promenade with all the shopping, eating and other randomn things you could ask for.
Randomn things like: vendors selling pigeons, roosters, other various birds, rabbits, fish, reptiles and more. Not to mention the status quo t-shirts, fridge magnets and post cards.
Street performers--my favourite being the golden man with the giant clock enrusted into his chest. He didn't do anything, but he had the biggest crowd. Hoards of people would stand and watch him, and his clock, ticking away.
It got entertaining when frustrated bystanders would stomp off:
"he doesn't do ANYthing!" leaving their fifty cents or couple euros in his open bag. For not doing anything, I would say he made the most monely soley on the fact that everyone thought their donation would certainly be the one to stir him into action. And for some reason, he so compelled me I was considering letting everyone else in on the secret I swear only he and I understood:
Don't you see!? It's a clock, and you're watching it! The joke is on you...he's Time, you're watching Time, fly ...by ..or something!!!!
You know it's time for your trip to end when you think you're making special connections with the street performers.
Barcelona is tourist friendly, in fact La Rambla is entirely dedicated to tourists. Neither Robyn nor I speak a word of Spanish and we were completely fine; okay, that's an exaggeration. Day 1 of my journal read:
Attempts to speak Spanish: 4
Attempts to speak Spanish words other than Hola, Per favor, Gracias and Adios: 0
By Day 11 we had imroved immensely with two important additions to our developing mono-lingual-and-a-quarter selves:
1. cafe con leche (very important to know because washrooms are indicated with signs, cheques and reciepts have numbers and a good map will go a long way; but starting your morning out of your backpack without coffee the way you like it just makes the day so much more difficult than it has to be).
In fact, the trip confirmed for both of us that there is a direct correlation between caffeine in your bloodstream and your mood--yes, the epiphanies do not come often, but when they do they come boldy.
And the second addition to our grasp of the Spanish language:
2. guapa: ...people--more accurately the guys working the doors of every resturant on La Rambla--kept on saying it to us. But like this, guaaaapppaahhhh
Finally we asked. Guapa means pretty. But remember, I said we were hearing it from all the Spanish guys working the doors. In other words, they were being paid to call us pretty. We still giggled like little school girls every time we heard it, but I personally subscribe to the "I'm a tourist, might as well soak it up" line of thinking.
In my opinion, when you're a tourist you should take advantage of a few things:
a. the chance to admit that you don't know something and it's pefectly okay, or embarassingly okay
- oh, I didn't know that in Spain the toilets don't have seats and the toilet paper is located outside of the stalls. Squat and wag. Sometimes, you just have to get over yourself.
b. the chance to look completely out of place and be able to chalk it up to another culture's "style"
- oh, sure. In Canada, coordinating orange with pink, green, red and flourescent deflective strips is all the rage.
c. the chance to climb all over national monuments (that are lions more often than not) as though you were a child again, or as though you had never seen a giant statue before
- since this trip, "take my picture with the lion" has been a regular request
We left Barcelona that morning, but thanks to a roundabout wrong-way incident, our bus on leg 3 of the the journey was delayed so that leg 3 was soon styled like Microsoft Windows and developed a 3.1, 3.2, 3.3 and all the way to probably about 3.7 version of leg 3. Eventually, we ended up in Lincoln, Robyn's home and place of employment.
In an occurance of miraculous travelling-together-fate, Robyn and I probably were getting along better by the end of the trip than at the beginning. Not that we weren't getting along well to begin with, but who extends their nine-day backpacking whirlwind tri-city tour by two more days...
well we did, for:
- the most amazing shower I've ever been in
- a lot of food
- a real bed
- a Sex & the City marathon
- and three kids, a dog that snores and a 16-week-old puppy that acted as though their favourite au pair had been gone for months...
Ah, but like all good things....eventually the trip did end. Robyn dropped me off at the train station today and I made my way back to Manchester, where I will take a flight back to Canada tomorrow morning.
See you soon.
Friday, December 22, 2006
Saturday, December 16, 2006
Madrid, thus far
No sleep.
No food aside from the granola bars and oranges in our bags.
Over sixteen hours on a train.
It was like a pilgrimage to Madrid--the place of rest and riches of running water, feasts and internet access. When we finally made it into the train station our nerves were shot and probably talking in incoherent blurbs. Fortunately, we´re foreigners and so allowances are made.
We were expecting Kenny to pick us up, but via a handful of text messages we discovered it would be his friend, Jazz, instead. We didn´t care who it was, as long as they picked us up and delivered us to food, a shower and a bed.
One text message informed us about Burgo´s, the place we would meeting Kenny.
Burgo´s. Sounds like a fantastic burger joint to me.
We started rambling about burgers and food in general, about how much we would eat and considering if asking for drive-thru so as not to interrupt our journey to bed would be bad manners.
Jazz arrives, saying ¨Hi, we´re meeting Kenny at Burgos, he´s already there.¨
Perfect, maybe he has ordered ahead.
¨Yeah, we heard. We don´t know what Burgo´s is but it sure sounds good!¨
It is Burgos. Not Burgo´s. And it is a city, not a burger joint, two and a half hours north of Madrid.
The looks of sheer panic that struck across our faces would have been priceless had we caught them on film. Instead, we could barely manage a reply. We prayed it was a joke; we hoped that Jazz was, instead, whisking us away to said mecca of rest and riches.
But alas, it was not a joke and Burgos is definitely every minute of two and a half hours north of Madrid. Even more heartbreaking, we saw buildings and landmarks that we had already passed hours before on the train, whizzing by us like some cruel form of deja-vu. We sat, in a dejected state of shock, our heads bobbling back and forth, fighting off sleep (or perhaps coma) while the three other people in the van jabbered in Spanish.
We found out later each and every one of our chauffeurs was born in America with English being their native tongue. It was the beginning experience of some bizarre Spanish-speaking club we are excluded from, or so it seems.
Kenny explained it like this: a fierce attachment to Spain and the culture, resulting in the unwillingness to accomodate non-Spanish speaking individuals.
I´ve experienced it like this: an ignorant and snobbish decision to exclude indiviuals you are perfectly capable of accomodating. This is particularly true, for me, of the American-born ¨Spaniards,¨who didn´t bother to say so much as hello or inquire as to what we were doing.
We spent the evening at an ¨underground worship,¨where nearly everyone was capable of speaking English to us but chose not to. But to each their own, and perhaps they weren´t appreciative of us gatecrashing their worship.
underground worship -- a group of young people gathering to listen to a band and meditate on their faith in general.
Either way, it wasn´t entirely heartbreaking because we weren´t exactly in any state to be interacting with anyone, let alone with a language barrier of sorts to contend with. Eventually, we made it back to Madrid and collapsed into bed at 3:30 am.
Woke up around noon and have lazed since then. Our feet our still swollen and bruised, but it is glorious to know that today we will eat and tonight we will sleep.
We are recuperating. To be continued...
No food aside from the granola bars and oranges in our bags.
Over sixteen hours on a train.
It was like a pilgrimage to Madrid--the place of rest and riches of running water, feasts and internet access. When we finally made it into the train station our nerves were shot and probably talking in incoherent blurbs. Fortunately, we´re foreigners and so allowances are made.
We were expecting Kenny to pick us up, but via a handful of text messages we discovered it would be his friend, Jazz, instead. We didn´t care who it was, as long as they picked us up and delivered us to food, a shower and a bed.
One text message informed us about Burgo´s, the place we would meeting Kenny.
Burgo´s. Sounds like a fantastic burger joint to me.
We started rambling about burgers and food in general, about how much we would eat and considering if asking for drive-thru so as not to interrupt our journey to bed would be bad manners.
Jazz arrives, saying ¨Hi, we´re meeting Kenny at Burgos, he´s already there.¨
Perfect, maybe he has ordered ahead.
¨Yeah, we heard. We don´t know what Burgo´s is but it sure sounds good!¨
It is Burgos. Not Burgo´s. And it is a city, not a burger joint, two and a half hours north of Madrid.
The looks of sheer panic that struck across our faces would have been priceless had we caught them on film. Instead, we could barely manage a reply. We prayed it was a joke; we hoped that Jazz was, instead, whisking us away to said mecca of rest and riches.
But alas, it was not a joke and Burgos is definitely every minute of two and a half hours north of Madrid. Even more heartbreaking, we saw buildings and landmarks that we had already passed hours before on the train, whizzing by us like some cruel form of deja-vu. We sat, in a dejected state of shock, our heads bobbling back and forth, fighting off sleep (or perhaps coma) while the three other people in the van jabbered in Spanish.
We found out later each and every one of our chauffeurs was born in America with English being their native tongue. It was the beginning experience of some bizarre Spanish-speaking club we are excluded from, or so it seems.
Kenny explained it like this: a fierce attachment to Spain and the culture, resulting in the unwillingness to accomodate non-Spanish speaking individuals.
I´ve experienced it like this: an ignorant and snobbish decision to exclude indiviuals you are perfectly capable of accomodating. This is particularly true, for me, of the American-born ¨Spaniards,¨who didn´t bother to say so much as hello or inquire as to what we were doing.
We spent the evening at an ¨underground worship,¨where nearly everyone was capable of speaking English to us but chose not to. But to each their own, and perhaps they weren´t appreciative of us gatecrashing their worship.
underground worship -- a group of young people gathering to listen to a band and meditate on their faith in general.
Either way, it wasn´t entirely heartbreaking because we weren´t exactly in any state to be interacting with anyone, let alone with a language barrier of sorts to contend with. Eventually, we made it back to Madrid and collapsed into bed at 3:30 am.
Woke up around noon and have lazed since then. Our feet our still swollen and bruised, but it is glorious to know that today we will eat and tonight we will sleep.
We are recuperating. To be continued...
Paris
After a train ride that lasted from 5pm to 7:30am, that spanned southern Spain to northern France and that meant very little in the way of food and even less in the way of sleep, we arrived à Paris before light. And by deciding to set out on discovering Paris before finding a place to sleep, eat or orientate ourselves, we made one of the best decisions of the trip.
Consequently, Paris was a whirlwind.
We eventually discovered where we were and where we wanted to go by using the maps located on the back of bus stops. They were brilliantly marked with vous etes ici (you are here), unlike Spanish maps. Something I never thought I might take for granted.
Paris, like most major cities in Europe I have explored, is walkable if you are willing to seriously walk. Of course, there are tourist bus routes and metros, but neither Robyn nor I have a problem with walking --and take my word for it, by walking you get a better feel for the destination than you will on any tourist bus no matter how charismatic or informative the tour guide.
We came across Notre Dame by early dawn. The cathedral itself is beautiful without taking into account the pinkish hue that was descending on the city and la Seine. And from there, we continued to walk on.
To name a few, (and the ones readers and I most recognized):
- le sacre coeur
- le Louvre
- le Musee d´orsay
- le Arc de Triomphe (similar to the Arc de Triomf in Barcelona, both giant arcs looking very triumphant)
- des Champs d´Elysees, which is one reason why Paris has earned a name for fashion. For the fashionistas reading, Louis Vitton is its own building rivalling some of the most luxurious and imporant buildings I´ve seen on my journies...and it has its own flag.
- and of course, le tour Eiffel, as it is known in France.
The Eiffel Tower was my greatest expectation for Paris. At first, however, I was disappointed because the tower barely pokes above the Paris skyline, and only once you are quite close to it. To be honest, in appearance, it isn´t nearly as majestic or romantic as it is made out to be.
It isn´t until I was standing, as we so tactfully described it, under the skirt (and that was the most tactful of all the descriptions we spent five minutes coming up with) of the Eiffel Tower that I experienced it in any romantic way.
To put it as straightforward and honest as possible, it´s very industrial. It isn´t the clean lines of stone and marble. It´s greyish brown. It isn´t THAT big. But then, sitting beneath it, you realize what it symbolizes. And of course, sitting beneath, it feels THAT big. In an odd turn of events though, the Eiffel Tower was my favourite part of Paris, possibly because it wasn´t as impressive and amazing as everything else was. It won my heart, in some bizarre unepected-underdog sort of way.
It is difficult to explain, in any believable or accurate way, that the Eiffel Tower is the underdog of Paris. But it is, or was for me.
Some other unexpected discoveries and/or confirmations re: Paris --
- the French are not exclusiely as snobbish as they are made out to be.
In fact, almost all of the people we encountered were charmingly patient and accepting of our miserable attempts to converse en français. But, we were smart enough to avoid even approaching certain Parisians, case in point: the doorman of Louis Vitton who looked like someone out of the secret service/ someone with the importance of the Queen/ someone who considered himself with as much disillusioned grandiosity of celebirty as someone like Paris Hilton.
- Paris is very tourist-friendly, however, it´s fair to point out that those tourists it has in mind are of the financially-well-endowed kind. But essentially, by tourist-friendly I mean that a map isn´t absolutely necessary and there are plenty of signs that are decipherable regardless of what language you speak.
- the French really know coffee. I had three cups of cafe au lait during my time in France. They were the three best cups of coffee I have ever had. From the hole-in-the-wall concession-like stand in the hole-in-the-wall train station in Ceberre (on the way to Paris) to the expensive Cafe Austerlitz, each one was like a cup of caffeine heaven.
But don´t get me wrong: Tim Horton´s will forever have a place in my heart, and I think I actually ran into the Starbucks we came across whilw lost somewhere in the middle of non-tourist area Barcelona. But, kudos to authenticity. If I could have three wishes for every coffee-lover one of them would be that they all had the chance to stand au bar avec un cafe au lait à Paris just once.
- there is a very visible securty presence in Paris, in the way of armed guards patrolling certain destinations, like the Eiffel Tower, and train stations.
- Paris is less crowded than London, and you get a feel for Parisians and that they might actually live in the city. In London, if you manage to speak with someone who isn´t a tourist, then you will be hard-pressed to find someone originally from London and who isn´t just working there for a short period of time.
- French men really do possess a certain je ne sais quoi, at least from arm´s length away--as do the equally coiffed, preened and perfected French women on their arms. Now, granted I am backpacking and I am certainly attaining l´air de backpacker with success, I think even at my most scrubbed-clean, put together and presentable state I might just catch the eye of a French construction worker.
So Paris: Robyn and I put in several (nearly twelve) hours of walking. We rested once for about half an hour beneath the Eiffel Tower. But it was worth it. We experienced Paris all at once, like a long movie reel of amazing sites that were strangely familiar. And once we were done, we decided to move on.
They say that Rome wasn´t built in a day, and obviously neither was Paris. And although I could and plan to spend days on end in Paris--still never discovering or experiencing everything it has to offer, I am glad my virgin experience of that city was what it was:
One entire day, from dawn to dusk, of seeing the city as it unfolded before me on foot. We walked into and out of that city like travellers who find a mirage in the middle of a desert, except that it all proved to be real.
It is difficult to explain the experience accurately because describing one day in Paris obviously seems about several days short of what that city would require. But I don´t have any regrets about Paris.
We got on a train at 11pm headed for Madrid, scheduled to arrive sixteen hours later.
Au revoir Paris. À la prochaine.
Consequently, Paris was a whirlwind.
We eventually discovered where we were and where we wanted to go by using the maps located on the back of bus stops. They were brilliantly marked with vous etes ici (you are here), unlike Spanish maps. Something I never thought I might take for granted.
Paris, like most major cities in Europe I have explored, is walkable if you are willing to seriously walk. Of course, there are tourist bus routes and metros, but neither Robyn nor I have a problem with walking --and take my word for it, by walking you get a better feel for the destination than you will on any tourist bus no matter how charismatic or informative the tour guide.
We came across Notre Dame by early dawn. The cathedral itself is beautiful without taking into account the pinkish hue that was descending on the city and la Seine. And from there, we continued to walk on.
To name a few, (and the ones readers and I most recognized):
- le sacre coeur
- le Louvre
- le Musee d´orsay
- le Arc de Triomphe (similar to the Arc de Triomf in Barcelona, both giant arcs looking very triumphant)
- des Champs d´Elysees, which is one reason why Paris has earned a name for fashion. For the fashionistas reading, Louis Vitton is its own building rivalling some of the most luxurious and imporant buildings I´ve seen on my journies...and it has its own flag.
- and of course, le tour Eiffel, as it is known in France.
The Eiffel Tower was my greatest expectation for Paris. At first, however, I was disappointed because the tower barely pokes above the Paris skyline, and only once you are quite close to it. To be honest, in appearance, it isn´t nearly as majestic or romantic as it is made out to be.
It isn´t until I was standing, as we so tactfully described it, under the skirt (and that was the most tactful of all the descriptions we spent five minutes coming up with) of the Eiffel Tower that I experienced it in any romantic way.
To put it as straightforward and honest as possible, it´s very industrial. It isn´t the clean lines of stone and marble. It´s greyish brown. It isn´t THAT big. But then, sitting beneath it, you realize what it symbolizes. And of course, sitting beneath, it feels THAT big. In an odd turn of events though, the Eiffel Tower was my favourite part of Paris, possibly because it wasn´t as impressive and amazing as everything else was. It won my heart, in some bizarre unepected-underdog sort of way.
It is difficult to explain, in any believable or accurate way, that the Eiffel Tower is the underdog of Paris. But it is, or was for me.
Some other unexpected discoveries and/or confirmations re: Paris --
- the French are not exclusiely as snobbish as they are made out to be.
In fact, almost all of the people we encountered were charmingly patient and accepting of our miserable attempts to converse en français. But, we were smart enough to avoid even approaching certain Parisians, case in point: the doorman of Louis Vitton who looked like someone out of the secret service/ someone with the importance of the Queen/ someone who considered himself with as much disillusioned grandiosity of celebirty as someone like Paris Hilton.
- Paris is very tourist-friendly, however, it´s fair to point out that those tourists it has in mind are of the financially-well-endowed kind. But essentially, by tourist-friendly I mean that a map isn´t absolutely necessary and there are plenty of signs that are decipherable regardless of what language you speak.
- the French really know coffee. I had three cups of cafe au lait during my time in France. They were the three best cups of coffee I have ever had. From the hole-in-the-wall concession-like stand in the hole-in-the-wall train station in Ceberre (on the way to Paris) to the expensive Cafe Austerlitz, each one was like a cup of caffeine heaven.
But don´t get me wrong: Tim Horton´s will forever have a place in my heart, and I think I actually ran into the Starbucks we came across whilw lost somewhere in the middle of non-tourist area Barcelona. But, kudos to authenticity. If I could have three wishes for every coffee-lover one of them would be that they all had the chance to stand au bar avec un cafe au lait à Paris just once.
- there is a very visible securty presence in Paris, in the way of armed guards patrolling certain destinations, like the Eiffel Tower, and train stations.
- Paris is less crowded than London, and you get a feel for Parisians and that they might actually live in the city. In London, if you manage to speak with someone who isn´t a tourist, then you will be hard-pressed to find someone originally from London and who isn´t just working there for a short period of time.
- French men really do possess a certain je ne sais quoi, at least from arm´s length away--as do the equally coiffed, preened and perfected French women on their arms. Now, granted I am backpacking and I am certainly attaining l´air de backpacker with success, I think even at my most scrubbed-clean, put together and presentable state I might just catch the eye of a French construction worker.
So Paris: Robyn and I put in several (nearly twelve) hours of walking. We rested once for about half an hour beneath the Eiffel Tower. But it was worth it. We experienced Paris all at once, like a long movie reel of amazing sites that were strangely familiar. And once we were done, we decided to move on.
They say that Rome wasn´t built in a day, and obviously neither was Paris. And although I could and plan to spend days on end in Paris--still never discovering or experiencing everything it has to offer, I am glad my virgin experience of that city was what it was:
One entire day, from dawn to dusk, of seeing the city as it unfolded before me on foot. We walked into and out of that city like travellers who find a mirage in the middle of a desert, except that it all proved to be real.
It is difficult to explain the experience accurately because describing one day in Paris obviously seems about several days short of what that city would require. But I don´t have any regrets about Paris.
We got on a train at 11pm headed for Madrid, scheduled to arrive sixteen hours later.
Au revoir Paris. À la prochaine.
Nottingham to Barcelona
Robyn and I were to meet at the train station in Nottingham, about two hours from Manchester. However, on arriving I had a distinct feeling we weren´t going to meet there. I spent a semi-frantic, mostly just irritated, fifteen minutes of prescious time looking for Robyn.
Decided something definitely happened.
Decided had to get to East Midlands airport, which isn´t conveniently located anywhere near Nottingham train station) very soon.
Hailed taxi: an option that is always available, but one you never concede to very happily because it means all the other cheap alternatives have, for whatever reason, been disregarded for a very expensive--albeit convenient one.
Arrived at East Midlands airport to find Robyn, who had been delayed and rerouted several times due to a freak accident involving a semi-truck and a telephone pole on the only road out of the little town in which she lives. That is her story, she´s sticking to it... and as for the taxi ride, which cost me an amount that will never be disclosed, those are the breaks.
The flight to Barcelona, more accurately Girona--an hour and a bit outside of Barcelona--went swimmingly enough. We eventually located the place we were staying, after navigating the streets of a city constructed with octagon-shaped intersections. That may sound unimportant, but it means you actually go in three or four different directions to turn one corner.
Barcelona wasn´t bad. I use that term, both boring and anticlimatic, when explaining an amazing city like Barcelona because our experience there was mostly marred by two things:
- the expectation of Paris in the near future
- the fact that our host was violently ill. The term violent could never be more appropriate.
Needless to say, we were anxious to move on. Although we did enjoy the sun and cloudless skies of Spain, and we know we will be back to Barcelona to fly home, making it all the easier to leave.
But we´ve heard nothing but good things about Barcelona, and our experience there was far from being a negative one. It was an embarassing shock to realize that, yes, they do indeed speak Spanish here and English is not spoken as frequently as we had been told.
Those experiences must have been of the Spanish-resort vacation types. Neither one of us speaks Spanish. Neither one of us attempted to prepare for the language barrier either. But we did manage to find our way, eventually.
My journal, Day One: Barcelona, reads:
Got lost trying to find place because of Robyn´s map, or lack thereof.
It looked like some minimalist artist´s interpretation of Barcelona, more accurately--three blocks of Barcelona. It was so bad it was funny. We´ve consistently found our lack of preparation for these trips comical, and fortunately so, comical right away. Neither one of us minds being lost; again, fortunately because we have been a lot.
My journal, Day Two: Barcelona:
- found park and first "Spain feeling" in front of water falls, monuements and palm trees.
Sunny and warm, but Spaniards wearing scarves and winter jackets.
Everyone has a dog here.
At the end of Day 2, we miraculously ran into a group of English blokes that we had sat in front of on the plane over. This is miraculous because Robyn and I were wandering in the truest sense of the word, because Barcelona is a city with a population of approximately 3-4ish million, and because we didn´t talk in detail, let alone plan to meet these guys.
We went for dinner with them and discovered they were a group of seven English men in the Queen´s service visiting Barcelona for a couple days to say goodbye to two of their team´s members. But they were wonderful because:
We were lost.
They were distinclty English, meaning familiar, amongst millions of Spaniards.
A couple of them spoke Spanish fluently.
And they were a lot of fun--as are most military men who are holiday-ing from The service.
We spent the night with Rich, Richie, Gethin (from Wales, hence the name), Chris, Iain, Fitz and the seventh (forgotten his name) English guy with a lazy eye and a cold.
Taking the long night that lasted until 8am the next day into account, Robyn and I slept until noon and then caught the train to Paris early in the evening.
Decided something definitely happened.
Decided had to get to East Midlands airport, which isn´t conveniently located anywhere near Nottingham train station) very soon.
Hailed taxi: an option that is always available, but one you never concede to very happily because it means all the other cheap alternatives have, for whatever reason, been disregarded for a very expensive--albeit convenient one.
Arrived at East Midlands airport to find Robyn, who had been delayed and rerouted several times due to a freak accident involving a semi-truck and a telephone pole on the only road out of the little town in which she lives. That is her story, she´s sticking to it... and as for the taxi ride, which cost me an amount that will never be disclosed, those are the breaks.
The flight to Barcelona, more accurately Girona--an hour and a bit outside of Barcelona--went swimmingly enough. We eventually located the place we were staying, after navigating the streets of a city constructed with octagon-shaped intersections. That may sound unimportant, but it means you actually go in three or four different directions to turn one corner.
Barcelona wasn´t bad. I use that term, both boring and anticlimatic, when explaining an amazing city like Barcelona because our experience there was mostly marred by two things:
- the expectation of Paris in the near future
- the fact that our host was violently ill. The term violent could never be more appropriate.
Needless to say, we were anxious to move on. Although we did enjoy the sun and cloudless skies of Spain, and we know we will be back to Barcelona to fly home, making it all the easier to leave.
But we´ve heard nothing but good things about Barcelona, and our experience there was far from being a negative one. It was an embarassing shock to realize that, yes, they do indeed speak Spanish here and English is not spoken as frequently as we had been told.
Those experiences must have been of the Spanish-resort vacation types. Neither one of us speaks Spanish. Neither one of us attempted to prepare for the language barrier either. But we did manage to find our way, eventually.
My journal, Day One: Barcelona, reads:
Got lost trying to find place because of Robyn´s map, or lack thereof.
It looked like some minimalist artist´s interpretation of Barcelona, more accurately--three blocks of Barcelona. It was so bad it was funny. We´ve consistently found our lack of preparation for these trips comical, and fortunately so, comical right away. Neither one of us minds being lost; again, fortunately because we have been a lot.
My journal, Day Two: Barcelona:
- found park and first "Spain feeling" in front of water falls, monuements and palm trees.
Sunny and warm, but Spaniards wearing scarves and winter jackets.
Everyone has a dog here.
At the end of Day 2, we miraculously ran into a group of English blokes that we had sat in front of on the plane over. This is miraculous because Robyn and I were wandering in the truest sense of the word, because Barcelona is a city with a population of approximately 3-4ish million, and because we didn´t talk in detail, let alone plan to meet these guys.
We went for dinner with them and discovered they were a group of seven English men in the Queen´s service visiting Barcelona for a couple days to say goodbye to two of their team´s members. But they were wonderful because:
We were lost.
They were distinclty English, meaning familiar, amongst millions of Spaniards.
A couple of them spoke Spanish fluently.
And they were a lot of fun--as are most military men who are holiday-ing from The service.
We spent the night with Rich, Richie, Gethin (from Wales, hence the name), Chris, Iain, Fitz and the seventh (forgotten his name) English guy with a lazy eye and a cold.
Taking the long night that lasted until 8am the next day into account, Robyn and I slept until noon and then caught the train to Paris early in the evening.
Halfway
Hola, this comes to you from Madrid. I´ll try to be both detailed and succinct, which is a tall order for me, but it will exercise my journalistic muscles.
This is the morning--mental space--of Day 6 and the afternoon--real-time space--of Day 6 of my last minute Christmas escape to wherever the wind takes me. We´re in Madrid today, staying with a friend of Robyn´s, Kenny.
We are forever grateful to Kenny for providing us with his bed, his shower, his fridge and his internet access--all of which we have gone without since we left England on the 11th. We arrived in Madrid yesterday afternoon, after a sixteen-hour train ride from Paris. So, today is for recuperation and I´ve got a bit of time to play catch up on my blog. We´ll see how far I get.
This is the morning--mental space--of Day 6 and the afternoon--real-time space--of Day 6 of my last minute Christmas escape to wherever the wind takes me. We´re in Madrid today, staying with a friend of Robyn´s, Kenny.
We are forever grateful to Kenny for providing us with his bed, his shower, his fridge and his internet access--all of which we have gone without since we left England on the 11th. We arrived in Madrid yesterday afternoon, after a sixteen-hour train ride from Paris. So, today is for recuperation and I´ve got a bit of time to play catch up on my blog. We´ll see how far I get.
Sunday, December 10, 2006
Farewell Irwell
I'm writing this in Room 27 of House 17 in much the way it was on my arrival, sparse. Not that it was ever much more than sparse, but whatever it was has been packed up and moved out. It's always weird to say goodbye to a place you've inhabited, but even moreso to one you know will never see again, let alone be in.
Don't think I'm about to shed a tear or wax lyrical about Castle Irwell--but a goodbye is a goodbye; unless it's a good riddance, and I don't think I would go so far as to condemn this place in such a way. But good riddance to the dirty kitchen... and the dirty Spanish house mate (mostly responsible for the state of said kitchen). Otherwise, being an Irdweller never was that terrible.
I leave for Spain tomorrow morning from Nottingham, about an hour train ride from Manchester. It will be Robyn and my last trip, a Christmas-escape to Barcelona, Madrid and Paris. After nine days, I'll fly back to Nottingham and take the train to Bramhall, to the home of Norm and Grace Ryan. The Ryans have very much been like surrogate grandparents to me since I've been in England.
I met them at the Keg, where I served them and their daughter Beth and her family. When they found out I was moving to Manchester for four months, they immediately opened up their home to me. Grace picked me up at the airport in September and I spent my first three days in England with them.
I've also come to know Grace's other daughter, Fiona, and her family very well. They have taken me out on occasion to see "touristy" sites, as well as just to feed me and make sure I had a ready escape from student life.
Fiona, her husband Wayne, and their 8 year-old son, Toby, are heading to Canada in a few days to visit Beth. Beth and her family moved to Canada last January, and--unbelievably enough--live on the same street as me. Hopefully, I will have the opportunity to return just some of the hospitality their entire family has shown me over the past four months.
But until then, I'll make sure to thank and say goodbye to the people that have made my time at the University of Salford and in England better than it would have been without them.
- Shaun Fennell - my first friend, trusted travel guide (particularly while navigating across English roads), South African informant, always dutiful it's-late-and-dodgy-in-the-black-scally-infested-streets-of-Salford-home-walker, and all around gentleman.
Enjoy the Greeks, Shaun. Good luck with everything.
- Fatima Abrar - my editor at Student Direct, "first ever Muslim friend!" and my favourite person to sit in the newspaper office dungeon with for hours on end.
See you on the BBC, Fatima, headscarf and all.
- Niall Brown - my favourite Irishman, provider of late-night tv, endless questions and useless sayings, and the one who was always on the other end of the phone ringing me at two, three, four and five in the morning. Oh, and I suppose forever in my heart for being the one who brought me to a Manchester United game.
Nighty night night, Niall. Who was it?
- Martin Pye - the guy with the best Northern-English accent I've heard, and the one person most taken with my Canadian accent.
Good luck in America, Martin; but you have to see Canada --and the burrs in my backyard. You cannot rugby tackle one, no matter how caught-off-guard you think it might be. Badger!
- Robyn Roste - fellow Canadian amidst all these crazy English people, and travel companion to Dublin, Chicago (the musical), Dublin again, Barcelona, Madrid and Paris.
Good luck without me, Robyn. Think of me in J-lab OM 1411.
- Nicola Boyd - the best girl in England, and go figure... she's Scottish! my favourite sinful-food-indulging partner in crime, and just a level head; responsible for my first ceilidh and Highland flinging it with a boy in a kilt ..oh and also as taken by the idea of straightening and/or styling in any general manner...leg hair.
You promised to gatecrash me in Canada, where the "Scottish goddess" will be a shoe in.
Honourable mentions: James from Student Direct and my own personal photographer, Ben Clay, also from SD, my house mates, Flick, Sophia, Saffron, Hattie, Lyn, Felicity, Eva, Donna. Always friendly and always generous with their randomn coveted items I didn't have from home (pots, pans, cutlery, nail polish...nail polish remover, flat irons etc)...
...oh and Mojo - who nailed with ease and grace the role of the ever questioning-worried-and-interested mom. And sender of one very important care package containing another travel wallet, another hair dryer (I guess she thought I needed spares), Mr. Noodle soup, tea (because she though I wouldn't be able to find any in ENGLAND?!?), and among other things--the contraption that made the use of my flat iron, curling iron and (first) hair dryer possible.
See you soon.
And Korey Gannon - the boyfriend who has been patient enough to let me live on the other side of the world for four months--no questions asked.
December 23rd, Canada, British Columbia, Kelowna: airport: some gate, 11pm-ish. Be there.
Don't think I'm about to shed a tear or wax lyrical about Castle Irwell--but a goodbye is a goodbye; unless it's a good riddance, and I don't think I would go so far as to condemn this place in such a way. But good riddance to the dirty kitchen... and the dirty Spanish house mate (mostly responsible for the state of said kitchen). Otherwise, being an Irdweller never was that terrible.
I leave for Spain tomorrow morning from Nottingham, about an hour train ride from Manchester. It will be Robyn and my last trip, a Christmas-escape to Barcelona, Madrid and Paris. After nine days, I'll fly back to Nottingham and take the train to Bramhall, to the home of Norm and Grace Ryan. The Ryans have very much been like surrogate grandparents to me since I've been in England.
I met them at the Keg, where I served them and their daughter Beth and her family. When they found out I was moving to Manchester for four months, they immediately opened up their home to me. Grace picked me up at the airport in September and I spent my first three days in England with them.
I've also come to know Grace's other daughter, Fiona, and her family very well. They have taken me out on occasion to see "touristy" sites, as well as just to feed me and make sure I had a ready escape from student life.
Fiona, her husband Wayne, and their 8 year-old son, Toby, are heading to Canada in a few days to visit Beth. Beth and her family moved to Canada last January, and--unbelievably enough--live on the same street as me. Hopefully, I will have the opportunity to return just some of the hospitality their entire family has shown me over the past four months.
But until then, I'll make sure to thank and say goodbye to the people that have made my time at the University of Salford and in England better than it would have been without them.
- Shaun Fennell - my first friend, trusted travel guide (particularly while navigating across English roads), South African informant, always dutiful it's-late-and-dodgy-in-the-black-scally-infested-streets-of-Salford-home-walker, and all around gentleman.
Enjoy the Greeks, Shaun. Good luck with everything.
- Fatima Abrar - my editor at Student Direct, "first ever Muslim friend!" and my favourite person to sit in the newspaper office dungeon with for hours on end.
See you on the BBC, Fatima, headscarf and all.
- Niall Brown - my favourite Irishman, provider of late-night tv, endless questions and useless sayings, and the one who was always on the other end of the phone ringing me at two, three, four and five in the morning. Oh, and I suppose forever in my heart for being the one who brought me to a Manchester United game.
Nighty night night, Niall. Who was it?
- Martin Pye - the guy with the best Northern-English accent I've heard, and the one person most taken with my Canadian accent.
Good luck in America, Martin; but you have to see Canada --and the burrs in my backyard. You cannot rugby tackle one, no matter how caught-off-guard you think it might be. Badger!
- Robyn Roste - fellow Canadian amidst all these crazy English people, and travel companion to Dublin, Chicago (the musical), Dublin again, Barcelona, Madrid and Paris.
Good luck without me, Robyn. Think of me in J-lab OM 1411.
- Nicola Boyd - the best girl in England, and go figure... she's Scottish! my favourite sinful-food-indulging partner in crime, and just a level head; responsible for my first ceilidh and Highland flinging it with a boy in a kilt ..oh and also as taken by the idea of straightening and/or styling in any general manner...leg hair.
You promised to gatecrash me in Canada, where the "Scottish goddess" will be a shoe in.
Honourable mentions: James from Student Direct and my own personal photographer, Ben Clay, also from SD, my house mates, Flick, Sophia, Saffron, Hattie, Lyn, Felicity, Eva, Donna. Always friendly and always generous with their randomn coveted items I didn't have from home (pots, pans, cutlery, nail polish...nail polish remover, flat irons etc)...
...oh and Mojo - who nailed with ease and grace the role of the ever questioning-worried-and-interested mom. And sender of one very important care package containing another travel wallet, another hair dryer (I guess she thought I needed spares), Mr. Noodle soup, tea (because she though I wouldn't be able to find any in ENGLAND?!?), and among other things--the contraption that made the use of my flat iron, curling iron and (first) hair dryer possible.
See you soon.
And Korey Gannon - the boyfriend who has been patient enough to let me live on the other side of the world for four months--no questions asked.
December 23rd, Canada, British Columbia, Kelowna: airport: some gate, 11pm-ish. Be there.
Saturday, December 09, 2006
What English Heroes Are Made Of
So I've accomplished everything I set out to do.
My ultimate goal has been attained.
If this trip's purpose were a Christmas dinner turkey, then it's a cooked bird.
I will die a happy woman because....
I attended a Manchester United football match. (gasps of admiration; trumpets; hoohurrah etc.)
Yes, indeed. It was a glorious night last Wednesday when I set out to catch the all important Champions League match between Manchester United and, hailing from Portugal, Benfica. Both teams needed the points to cement a spot in the impending knockout phase of the Champion's League.
The UEFA Champions League, also referred to as the European Cup, is an annual club football competition put on by the Union of European Football Associations. Only the most successful football clubs in Europe partake, and the cup is one of the most prestigious club trophies in football (soccer). Over a billion people follow the Euorpean Cup.
With so many people watching, it is no surprise that Champions League competitions stimulate plenty of cash flow for the clubs that qualify to compete. The UEFA distributes part of the revenue obtained from tv deals between participating clubs; for example, the 32 participants of the 2005/06 group stage are estimted to share €430 million. Clubs also make additional money from ticket sales, corporate hospitality, and merchandising--evident when you make the pilgrimage to Old Trafford hours before the game where streets are lined with merchandise trailors and food stalls.
The Champions League is not to be confused with the the FA Premier League, or the Premiership, which is a league football competition for top clubs in the English football league. The Premiership is England's primary football competition, and apparently the most-watched sporting league in the world. If the Champions League is a moneymaker, then the Premier League is even more impressive for club ownership because it also has over a billion people following it, and it is based within just one country.
The Premiership is a league of twenty clubs, currently. It's often criticised (by non-English, and some bitter non-Manchester United fans) for the fact that in it's entire fourteen-season existence, only four teams have won its title: London-based Aresenal and Chelsea, and North Western England's Blackburn Rovers and (of course), Manchester United.
Manchester United is the most successful Premiership team, having won the title eight times in total and being the only club to win it for three consecutive years. However, United is not the only Premiership team in these parts (thankfully, I will be long gone when some of my newest friends/die hard Man U fans read this because they would beg to differ) --but, there is in fact a whole other team in the league from the same city. Again, I hesitate to even mention said "other" team, but for information's sake--that's my story and I'm sticking to it--the other Premiership team is Manchester City.
Who knew? At least I didn't, not until I arrived here to find that the world's greatest, uncontested and most wonderful football club was, in fact, a matter of opinion. There are plenty of fans for either side. Actually, tonight the city was host to a very important match: Manchester City v. Manchester United. Of course, everyone was out in support, meaning I could hardly get a plot of space on the sidewalk, let alone a seat in a restaurant tonight. There are even places that forbid patrons from entering wearing their team's colours on such a night--the bouncer asked my company to unzip his jacket before we got in to ensure he wasn's sporting any particular shade or hue implicitly announcing where his loyalties lie.
Manchester United 3 - Manchest City 1 ...but I was with a United fan, so thank the stars because football is serious over here and I didn't want the game's outcome to affect the ride on Manchester's giant wheel we were about to embark on.
(By the way --it's Manchester's version the London Eye and the laugh of the city is that the wheel is shy in height of the actual buildings surrounding it, which wasn't entirely true. But really--how exciting can riding a giant wheel be?)
Back to football--hopefully diehards and anyone else scouring my blog for football inaccuracies will excuse the digression...
The rival between United and City: not so much of a rival considering United almost always comes out on top. From what I've had the opportunity to take in as a completely unbiased and partisan observer, the rivalry is really more about what type of club you support, and how it's a direct reflection of the type of person you supposedly are. To generalize and in short:
City fans: diehard to the bitter end, which is usually the type of end it is; rougher around the edges (but that is a massive generalization because it implies that all the other football fans are not a little rough around the edges); stick-it-to-the-man types with a little guy's mentality. City fans say: it's only their payroll.
And United fans are: loyal; obnoxiously, undyingly, hopelessly proud; diehard in every sense of the word; defensive and a member-of-the-aristocracy types with the hero's mentality. United fans say: the history is proof.
I was in United territory on Wedesnday night at the team's stadium, Old Trafford, which is impressive in itself. It has a capacity of something near 76,000 spectators--it is massive. I mentioned the pilgrimmage to Old Trafford beforehand, and it is an accurate description. What with 76,000 people making their way to the same destination, the effect is accurately compared to some long journey to some sacred place as an act of religious devotion.
An example of how football in England is comparable to religion:
In Scotland, there are two main football clubs: the Rangers and Celtic. Both are historically supported by Protestants and Catholics, respectively.
Another football-religion example: the permenant MSN name of my friend is "MUFC - THE RELIGION." Do you think he supports the Manchester United Football Club as defiantly as he does his catholic religion? I'll tell you, if his enthusiastic participation in United chants at the match, in all their riddled-with-not-so-inconspicuous-versions-of-the-word-shit glory, the answer might be yes, and then some.
We set out from Castle Irwell, about fifty minute's walking distance. But once you're within twenty minutes of OldTrafford, the traffic that was heavily moving in one direction is then almost at a crawl, and you're joined with ranks of more and more fans--mostly decked in some form of United garb and not uncommonly in possession of a can of beer.
But before I go any further, I have to stomp on the angry-mob-of-maniacal-murdering football fans image I'm sure my can of beer statement just conjured. It was entirely civil--or perhaps I've been living in England for four months and I just didn't notice the brawls breaking out overhead or the punches being thrown to my right. Granted, you won't see thousands of fans congregating for hours before a sporting match to "rally" and consume beer in Canada, at least not on a regular basis (Stanley Cup finals exempt), but I was perfectly safe at all times. And I will dare say, disappointed at the lack of frightening football-fan mêlée.
But it wasn't a sleeper either. Benfica scored the opening goal, which put United fans even further off the edges of their seats. The home squad looked jittery off the bat and there were pensive "I know what you're thinking because I'm thinking it but don't you dare say it" looks on everyone's faces that a Portuguese club would oust the all-mighty United from the Champions League in a repeat of last year's apparently shocking and bitter defeat.
However, as always, United came through once they found their groove, obviously dominating the other team offensively. I was surprisingly close to the pitch, probably within 50 yards and just to the right of the net, and so I was close enough to take in all sorts of interesting details I wasn't expecting:
- the field is, believe this or not, just the size of a regular soccer field, exactly like the ones I've been playing on all my life (the same ones I think I'm going to die on if I have to run another length), but the same size nonetheless.
- unlike hockey fans that hold up caught pucks like gold at the end of a rainbow, football fans dutifully throw wild balls escaped into the stands back to the pitch.
- Ronaldo's footwork really is that impressive.
- Wayne Rooney's backside is larger than you would think a professional athlete of any sort should ever have, exempting sumo wrestlers. I guess he's as much a fan of the UK's Galaxy chocolate as I've become...
Other noteworthy observations from the match:
- the level of sound 76,000 fans can make, without interruption.
- the variation of chants in the United fans' repertoire--well exceeding "ole, ole ole ole!"
- the number of curse words in the United fans' repertoire, and that they are mostly nasty versions of nursery rhymes or children's songs, or similar to such
- there isn't an endless progression of mascots, vendors, volunteers, charity and/or organization and/or company representatives plying free t-shirts or chances to win $10,ooo or dream vacations during half time. The players walk off the feild; maintenance fixes divots in the feild; players walk on the feild. And there is a welcome absence from anyone on a loudspeaker.
In general, there is a lot less "official-ese" about a football match than there is a hockey game. For example, there wasn't an exchange of anthems at the beginning, only about 20 seconds of the chorus of the UEFA Champions League Anthem--technically, it's actually a hymn.
You know you're in England when hymns are preludes to sporting events.
- the spectators are mostly men, which leads me to assume that going to the football match isn't as commonly thought of as a nice date activity or night out for a couple the way catching the hockey game is in Canada.
Afterwards, everyone (civilly) filed out--but I attribute much of the civilty to the fact that United won and there were only about several hundred Benfica fans present and all relegated to one corner in the very attic of the stadium.
At the end of the day, the live version far outdid any professional football match I've seen on tv. Despite this very obvious observation: live, the game is far more real and alive. And 76,000 fans might help.
I have never wanted to play soccer and realized how limited my soccer ability is to such an extent and at exactly the same time as I did on Wednesday. But I suppose that's what they pay professional athletes/our heroes the big money for--something to idolize and aspire to be at the same time.
My ultimate goal has been attained.
If this trip's purpose were a Christmas dinner turkey, then it's a cooked bird.
I will die a happy woman because....
I attended a Manchester United football match. (gasps of admiration; trumpets; hoohurrah etc.)
Yes, indeed. It was a glorious night last Wednesday when I set out to catch the all important Champions League match between Manchester United and, hailing from Portugal, Benfica. Both teams needed the points to cement a spot in the impending knockout phase of the Champion's League.
The UEFA Champions League, also referred to as the European Cup, is an annual club football competition put on by the Union of European Football Associations. Only the most successful football clubs in Europe partake, and the cup is one of the most prestigious club trophies in football (soccer). Over a billion people follow the Euorpean Cup.
With so many people watching, it is no surprise that Champions League competitions stimulate plenty of cash flow for the clubs that qualify to compete. The UEFA distributes part of the revenue obtained from tv deals between participating clubs; for example, the 32 participants of the 2005/06 group stage are estimted to share €430 million. Clubs also make additional money from ticket sales, corporate hospitality, and merchandising--evident when you make the pilgrimage to Old Trafford hours before the game where streets are lined with merchandise trailors and food stalls.
The Champions League is not to be confused with the the FA Premier League, or the Premiership, which is a league football competition for top clubs in the English football league. The Premiership is England's primary football competition, and apparently the most-watched sporting league in the world. If the Champions League is a moneymaker, then the Premier League is even more impressive for club ownership because it also has over a billion people following it, and it is based within just one country.
The Premiership is a league of twenty clubs, currently. It's often criticised (by non-English, and some bitter non-Manchester United fans) for the fact that in it's entire fourteen-season existence, only four teams have won its title: London-based Aresenal and Chelsea, and North Western England's Blackburn Rovers and (of course), Manchester United.
Manchester United is the most successful Premiership team, having won the title eight times in total and being the only club to win it for three consecutive years. However, United is not the only Premiership team in these parts (thankfully, I will be long gone when some of my newest friends/die hard Man U fans read this because they would beg to differ) --but, there is in fact a whole other team in the league from the same city. Again, I hesitate to even mention said "other" team, but for information's sake--that's my story and I'm sticking to it--the other Premiership team is Manchester City.
Who knew? At least I didn't, not until I arrived here to find that the world's greatest, uncontested and most wonderful football club was, in fact, a matter of opinion. There are plenty of fans for either side. Actually, tonight the city was host to a very important match: Manchester City v. Manchester United. Of course, everyone was out in support, meaning I could hardly get a plot of space on the sidewalk, let alone a seat in a restaurant tonight. There are even places that forbid patrons from entering wearing their team's colours on such a night--the bouncer asked my company to unzip his jacket before we got in to ensure he wasn's sporting any particular shade or hue implicitly announcing where his loyalties lie.
Manchester United 3 - Manchest City 1 ...but I was with a United fan, so thank the stars because football is serious over here and I didn't want the game's outcome to affect the ride on Manchester's giant wheel we were about to embark on.
(By the way --it's Manchester's version the London Eye and the laugh of the city is that the wheel is shy in height of the actual buildings surrounding it, which wasn't entirely true. But really--how exciting can riding a giant wheel be?)
Back to football--hopefully diehards and anyone else scouring my blog for football inaccuracies will excuse the digression...
The rival between United and City: not so much of a rival considering United almost always comes out on top. From what I've had the opportunity to take in as a completely unbiased and partisan observer, the rivalry is really more about what type of club you support, and how it's a direct reflection of the type of person you supposedly are. To generalize and in short:
City fans: diehard to the bitter end, which is usually the type of end it is; rougher around the edges (but that is a massive generalization because it implies that all the other football fans are not a little rough around the edges); stick-it-to-the-man types with a little guy's mentality. City fans say: it's only their payroll.
And United fans are: loyal; obnoxiously, undyingly, hopelessly proud; diehard in every sense of the word; defensive and a member-of-the-aristocracy types with the hero's mentality. United fans say: the history is proof.
I was in United territory on Wedesnday night at the team's stadium, Old Trafford, which is impressive in itself. It has a capacity of something near 76,000 spectators--it is massive. I mentioned the pilgrimmage to Old Trafford beforehand, and it is an accurate description. What with 76,000 people making their way to the same destination, the effect is accurately compared to some long journey to some sacred place as an act of religious devotion.
An example of how football in England is comparable to religion:
In Scotland, there are two main football clubs: the Rangers and Celtic. Both are historically supported by Protestants and Catholics, respectively.
Another football-religion example: the permenant MSN name of my friend is "MUFC - THE RELIGION." Do you think he supports the Manchester United Football Club as defiantly as he does his catholic religion? I'll tell you, if his enthusiastic participation in United chants at the match, in all their riddled-with-not-so-inconspicuous-versions-of-the-word-shit glory, the answer might be yes, and then some.
We set out from Castle Irwell, about fifty minute's walking distance. But once you're within twenty minutes of OldTrafford, the traffic that was heavily moving in one direction is then almost at a crawl, and you're joined with ranks of more and more fans--mostly decked in some form of United garb and not uncommonly in possession of a can of beer.
But before I go any further, I have to stomp on the angry-mob-of-maniacal-murdering football fans image I'm sure my can of beer statement just conjured. It was entirely civil--or perhaps I've been living in England for four months and I just didn't notice the brawls breaking out overhead or the punches being thrown to my right. Granted, you won't see thousands of fans congregating for hours before a sporting match to "rally" and consume beer in Canada, at least not on a regular basis (Stanley Cup finals exempt), but I was perfectly safe at all times. And I will dare say, disappointed at the lack of frightening football-fan mêlée.
But it wasn't a sleeper either. Benfica scored the opening goal, which put United fans even further off the edges of their seats. The home squad looked jittery off the bat and there were pensive "I know what you're thinking because I'm thinking it but don't you dare say it" looks on everyone's faces that a Portuguese club would oust the all-mighty United from the Champions League in a repeat of last year's apparently shocking and bitter defeat.
However, as always, United came through once they found their groove, obviously dominating the other team offensively. I was surprisingly close to the pitch, probably within 50 yards and just to the right of the net, and so I was close enough to take in all sorts of interesting details I wasn't expecting:
- the field is, believe this or not, just the size of a regular soccer field, exactly like the ones I've been playing on all my life (the same ones I think I'm going to die on if I have to run another length), but the same size nonetheless.
- unlike hockey fans that hold up caught pucks like gold at the end of a rainbow, football fans dutifully throw wild balls escaped into the stands back to the pitch.
- Ronaldo's footwork really is that impressive.
- Wayne Rooney's backside is larger than you would think a professional athlete of any sort should ever have, exempting sumo wrestlers. I guess he's as much a fan of the UK's Galaxy chocolate as I've become...
Other noteworthy observations from the match:
- the level of sound 76,000 fans can make, without interruption.
- the variation of chants in the United fans' repertoire--well exceeding "ole, ole ole ole!"
- the number of curse words in the United fans' repertoire, and that they are mostly nasty versions of nursery rhymes or children's songs, or similar to such
- there isn't an endless progression of mascots, vendors, volunteers, charity and/or organization and/or company representatives plying free t-shirts or chances to win $10,ooo or dream vacations during half time. The players walk off the feild; maintenance fixes divots in the feild; players walk on the feild. And there is a welcome absence from anyone on a loudspeaker.
In general, there is a lot less "official-ese" about a football match than there is a hockey game. For example, there wasn't an exchange of anthems at the beginning, only about 20 seconds of the chorus of the UEFA Champions League Anthem--technically, it's actually a hymn.
You know you're in England when hymns are preludes to sporting events.
- the spectators are mostly men, which leads me to assume that going to the football match isn't as commonly thought of as a nice date activity or night out for a couple the way catching the hockey game is in Canada.
Afterwards, everyone (civilly) filed out--but I attribute much of the civilty to the fact that United won and there were only about several hundred Benfica fans present and all relegated to one corner in the very attic of the stadium.
At the end of the day, the live version far outdid any professional football match I've seen on tv. Despite this very obvious observation: live, the game is far more real and alive. And 76,000 fans might help.
I have never wanted to play soccer and realized how limited my soccer ability is to such an extent and at exactly the same time as I did on Wednesday. But I suppose that's what they pay professional athletes/our heroes the big money for--something to idolize and aspire to be at the same time.
Tuesday, December 05, 2006
Scotland
I completed my tour of the United Kingdom this weekend with a four-day trip up to Scotland. I've heard Scotland is similar to Canada a few times: the vast expanse of countryside, the smaller population, the chip on the shoulder due to the bigger, obnoxious neighbour it's always being confused with ...
So perhaps that explains my affinity for Scotland; but whatever it was, I loved it and my company. Scots, much like the Irish, have a unique quality that sets them apart from the English. The three different cultures are without a doubt different from each other. And from what I've heard about the Welsch, they too are a little bit different --like a Newfie to other Canadians.
Embarassingly enough, my idea of a Scottish person was only what I had barely scraped together from popular culture--think Austin Powers' Fat Bastard and the Scottish school groundskeeper on the Simpsons (Simpsons' buffs, fill his name in here _______). And sure enough, such stereotypes weren't exaclty fulfilled. Although, there was plenty of tartan (yeah, it's tartan--not plaid. Plaid is the Canadian lumberjack wear you find at Mark's Work Warehouse; tartan is Scottish). So, for technicality's sake: a tartan is a specific woven pattern that symbolizes a particular Scottish clan.
My mother's maiden name being McLean, I most definitely have roots in Scotland somewhere. However, the Mac denotes the Scottish heritage--and Mc is Irish. Although, Scotland and Ireland have a long history together, going back further than the Irish Potatoe Famine of the 1840s ...so most people with one background, almost inevitably has roots in the other.
And with my last name being Young, obviously English--it has definitely been a trip to the motherland...
I took the train to Scotland from Manchester, which took about three and half hours. By train, it's a relatively comfortable and easy trip to make, although I've heard from a few Brits about how they can't be bothered to go "all the way up there." I went with Nicola, a girl from my program who is from Perth in central Scotland. But we were headed to Glasgow, Scotland's biggest city, to attend her friend's ceilidh.
It's pronounced kaylee, and it's essentially a Scottish party--Scottish dancing and all. It is the traditional Gaelic social dance in Scotland, and Ireland as well. And my first ceilidh was probably the best night out I've had since I've been here thanks to the dancing. If you're Scottish, you've attended plenty of ceilidhs, as in "a couple a year." And although there are specific dances, everyone familiarizes themselves with each dance as the night goes on. Fortunately, it makes being a beginner a little less obvious.
To my delight, the first dance the band called for was called the Canadian Barn Dance--yeah, I was actually delighted. And it made for an impossible opportunity to find a dance partner:
Excuse me, do you know the Canadian Barn Dance?
"Aye, course I doo."
Wonderful, would you be so kind as to teach a Canadian how to do her own barn dance?
"AYE o'course!!"
Before you get too excited: he was about 65 years old. But that didn't mean he left anything to be desired as a dance partner. He guided me skillfully through several dances, including the Dashing White Sergeant. And another of the names I recall, and could pick up through the mic and accent static, was Strip the Willow. The last one consisted of endless spinning and being whipped about by enthusiastic Scottish men who hoot and hollar whenever the fancy catches them. Reference the Scottish/Irish immigrants throwing a good ol' fashioned party in the hull of the Titanic ...leading to Leo and Kate's romantic romp, steaming up windows and hiding from security.. My ceilidh didn't end this way, but at least we know there is the possiblity...
And yes, there were kilts. I made sure to find a dance with a true-blue Glaswegian boy, Bryan McCann, who confirmed that true-blue Scots do indeed wear their kilts sans underwear (he told me so, and nothing more because I took his word for it).
I actually caught a bad case of the giggles several times that night--I think it was a combination of the spinning and trying to remember the names of the dances and their steps, hops, spins and kicks...or maybe it was the haggis.
Haggis is the traditional Scottish dish I think most people are familiar with. It is famous for its ingredients: sheep's heart, liver, lungs and minced onion, oatmeal and spices. Traditionally, it's boiled in the stomach of the sheep, although the person sitting beside me at the ceilidh happily allayed my fears, saying that today it is most often prepared in a casing of some other less natural matter. And without further buttering it up, no pun intended ...
It really wasn't that bad. I've already mentioned that I'm not the pickiest food critic--but haggis is pretty good. I think I prefer it to meatloaf.
What a shock.
Haggis: It's meaty, almost like a beefier hot dog. Now I realize that the longer and more intensely I try to describe haggis, the more harm I will do its reputation. So take my word for it: try it.
There is even a meat-free recipe specifically for vegetarians; I tried it too--also prettty good. The haggis at the ceilidh was served in little balls as appetizers, but normally it is served with "neeps and tatties," or turnips and potatoes that are mashed. Other Scottish food I encountered: tablet, which is a sugary confection served, well, in sugar cubes. Scottish whiskey of course and kangaroo.
I'll let that one sink in because I had to look once or twice too....
Now, to be fair, the kangaroo was being served at Walkabouts, an Australian restaurant/bar/club that has locations thoughout the UK, but technically I did come across it IN Scotland.
And I'm sorry to report, but I didn't have the nerve to try kangaroo and went for an always safe chicken caeser burger instead. But in case there is interest:
Myself and Nicola, along with our host Mhairi (pronounced very) also took the train to Edinburgh, the capital of Scotland and its second largest city. Edinburgh's architecture is the most impressive I've seen, moreso than London. There are endless amounts of impressive buildings in London, but none that match the beauty of Edinburgh's architecture, with the exception of the Scottish parliament. Apparently billions of pounds went into designing and building the Scottish parliament buildings that resulted in what I witnessed as one of the most hideous displays of post-modernismsomething-er-other ...it was awful.
As per usual in the United Kingdom, there were people everywhere. There is probably a scientific diagnosis for experiencing claustrophobia around people, but I'll just call it human-claustrophobia. I've developed, or realized my tendency for suffering this panic attack. Both Glasgow and Edinburgh were full of people, but I'm told that's where everyone is in Scotland and otherwise it is considerably deserted.
For some reason, probably due to all the English comments about the country, I was expecting a much more rural Scotland. Granted, I did spend my time in the two most populated cities in the coutnry, but those two cities were certainly comsmopolitan by my standards and in comparison to my own home city.
I will definitely visit Scotland again. It was wonderful, aside from the fact that it rained the entire time I was there--which didn't strike anyone out of the ordinary but still earned several bitter remarks. The English are the same: oh, it's raining again!?
Well surely, if it doesn't surprise me after four months --after an entire lifetime you can't genuinely be caught off guard by the fact that it's "pissing it down." --a wonderfully tact phrase, no? Given the weather patterns and the local vernacular, it's as common as a Canadian "he shoots, he scores!"
So perhaps that explains my affinity for Scotland; but whatever it was, I loved it and my company. Scots, much like the Irish, have a unique quality that sets them apart from the English. The three different cultures are without a doubt different from each other. And from what I've heard about the Welsch, they too are a little bit different --like a Newfie to other Canadians.
Embarassingly enough, my idea of a Scottish person was only what I had barely scraped together from popular culture--think Austin Powers' Fat Bastard and the Scottish school groundskeeper on the Simpsons (Simpsons' buffs, fill his name in here _______). And sure enough, such stereotypes weren't exaclty fulfilled. Although, there was plenty of tartan (yeah, it's tartan--not plaid. Plaid is the Canadian lumberjack wear you find at Mark's Work Warehouse; tartan is Scottish). So, for technicality's sake: a tartan is a specific woven pattern that symbolizes a particular Scottish clan.
My mother's maiden name being McLean, I most definitely have roots in Scotland somewhere. However, the Mac denotes the Scottish heritage--and Mc is Irish. Although, Scotland and Ireland have a long history together, going back further than the Irish Potatoe Famine of the 1840s ...so most people with one background, almost inevitably has roots in the other.
And with my last name being Young, obviously English--it has definitely been a trip to the motherland...
I took the train to Scotland from Manchester, which took about three and half hours. By train, it's a relatively comfortable and easy trip to make, although I've heard from a few Brits about how they can't be bothered to go "all the way up there." I went with Nicola, a girl from my program who is from Perth in central Scotland. But we were headed to Glasgow, Scotland's biggest city, to attend her friend's ceilidh.
It's pronounced kaylee, and it's essentially a Scottish party--Scottish dancing and all. It is the traditional Gaelic social dance in Scotland, and Ireland as well. And my first ceilidh was probably the best night out I've had since I've been here thanks to the dancing. If you're Scottish, you've attended plenty of ceilidhs, as in "a couple a year." And although there are specific dances, everyone familiarizes themselves with each dance as the night goes on. Fortunately, it makes being a beginner a little less obvious.
To my delight, the first dance the band called for was called the Canadian Barn Dance--yeah, I was actually delighted. And it made for an impossible opportunity to find a dance partner:
Excuse me, do you know the Canadian Barn Dance?
"Aye, course I doo."
Wonderful, would you be so kind as to teach a Canadian how to do her own barn dance?
"AYE o'course!!"
Before you get too excited: he was about 65 years old. But that didn't mean he left anything to be desired as a dance partner. He guided me skillfully through several dances, including the Dashing White Sergeant. And another of the names I recall, and could pick up through the mic and accent static, was Strip the Willow. The last one consisted of endless spinning and being whipped about by enthusiastic Scottish men who hoot and hollar whenever the fancy catches them. Reference the Scottish/Irish immigrants throwing a good ol' fashioned party in the hull of the Titanic ...leading to Leo and Kate's romantic romp, steaming up windows and hiding from security.. My ceilidh didn't end this way, but at least we know there is the possiblity...
And yes, there were kilts. I made sure to find a dance with a true-blue Glaswegian boy, Bryan McCann, who confirmed that true-blue Scots do indeed wear their kilts sans underwear (he told me so, and nothing more because I took his word for it).
I actually caught a bad case of the giggles several times that night--I think it was a combination of the spinning and trying to remember the names of the dances and their steps, hops, spins and kicks...or maybe it was the haggis.
Haggis is the traditional Scottish dish I think most people are familiar with. It is famous for its ingredients: sheep's heart, liver, lungs and minced onion, oatmeal and spices. Traditionally, it's boiled in the stomach of the sheep, although the person sitting beside me at the ceilidh happily allayed my fears, saying that today it is most often prepared in a casing of some other less natural matter. And without further buttering it up, no pun intended ...
It really wasn't that bad. I've already mentioned that I'm not the pickiest food critic--but haggis is pretty good. I think I prefer it to meatloaf.
What a shock.
Haggis: It's meaty, almost like a beefier hot dog. Now I realize that the longer and more intensely I try to describe haggis, the more harm I will do its reputation. So take my word for it: try it.
There is even a meat-free recipe specifically for vegetarians; I tried it too--also prettty good. The haggis at the ceilidh was served in little balls as appetizers, but normally it is served with "neeps and tatties," or turnips and potatoes that are mashed. Other Scottish food I encountered: tablet, which is a sugary confection served, well, in sugar cubes. Scottish whiskey of course and kangaroo.
I'll let that one sink in because I had to look once or twice too....
Now, to be fair, the kangaroo was being served at Walkabouts, an Australian restaurant/bar/club that has locations thoughout the UK, but technically I did come across it IN Scotland.
And I'm sorry to report, but I didn't have the nerve to try kangaroo and went for an always safe chicken caeser burger instead. But in case there is interest:
Kangaroo is a versatile, mouthwatering, lean red meat. It's regarded as a healthy alternative to more traditional red meats and is a part of a low-fat diet. Kangaroo is especially good at reducing cholesterol and is particularly delicious when served pink --apparently.
Other Walkabout meat selections (really, this lunch alone was an experience in itself):
Springbok --the small South African antelope. It, again apparently, has a unique taste and is consdiered a prized venison in Europe. I had no idea, but I did find it interesting that the idea of Springbok and kangaroo seemed barbaric to me only because I had never heard of it before.
But cow, pig, lamb, moose, even rabbit ..I've tried them all, and only the rabbit seemed a little tough to swallow (pun intended)...but only for a moment.
Glasgow--all food oddities aside, is a brilliant city. It's city centre is entirely paved with cobblestones and slate-like material. It has, and then some of the impressive architecture much of the UK has, and all the buildings reach the same height--making long, level lines up and down the streets. A perfectionist's dream..
The Glaswegians, and their local dialect of the same name, are friendly and impossible to understand all at the same time. Actually, I was expecting a more difficult time deciphering the accent, but it was still a task, especially when they were talking amongst themselves.
Myself and Nicola, along with our host Mhairi (pronounced very) also took the train to Edinburgh, the capital of Scotland and its second largest city. Edinburgh's architecture is the most impressive I've seen, moreso than London. There are endless amounts of impressive buildings in London, but none that match the beauty of Edinburgh's architecture, with the exception of the Scottish parliament. Apparently billions of pounds went into designing and building the Scottish parliament buildings that resulted in what I witnessed as one of the most hideous displays of post-modernismsomething-er-other ...it was awful.
As per usual in the United Kingdom, there were people everywhere. There is probably a scientific diagnosis for experiencing claustrophobia around people, but I'll just call it human-claustrophobia. I've developed, or realized my tendency for suffering this panic attack. Both Glasgow and Edinburgh were full of people, but I'm told that's where everyone is in Scotland and otherwise it is considerably deserted.
For some reason, probably due to all the English comments about the country, I was expecting a much more rural Scotland. Granted, I did spend my time in the two most populated cities in the coutnry, but those two cities were certainly comsmopolitan by my standards and in comparison to my own home city.
I will definitely visit Scotland again. It was wonderful, aside from the fact that it rained the entire time I was there--which didn't strike anyone out of the ordinary but still earned several bitter remarks. The English are the same: oh, it's raining again!?
Well surely, if it doesn't surprise me after four months --after an entire lifetime you can't genuinely be caught off guard by the fact that it's "pissing it down." --a wonderfully tact phrase, no? Given the weather patterns and the local vernacular, it's as common as a Canadian "he shoots, he scores!"
Thursday, November 23, 2006
Curry Mile
One of the things most often associated with England is bad food. Now I may not be the most discerning critic--given my unforgiving nature towards food--but I can't say I agree. Mind you, I really am not the most discerning critic; in other words, food is a serious passion of mine and I'm always willing to give it the benefit of the doubt.
Except for meatloaf.
Sorry to meatloaf lovers, but there is just no way I will ever enjoy it.
What is it supposed to be anyway?
But that's for another blog. Fortunately, I haven't come across any meatloaf here. But it wouldn't surprise me if England is its country of origin. Meatloaf has many of the characteristics a lot of British food has: few ingredients, greasy and heavy.
By observing the eating habits of my house mates (six of whom are English), I've gotten a pretty good idea of the British diet. Some essentials:
Except for meatloaf.
Sorry to meatloaf lovers, but there is just no way I will ever enjoy it.
What is it supposed to be anyway?
But that's for another blog. Fortunately, I haven't come across any meatloaf here. But it wouldn't surprise me if England is its country of origin. Meatloaf has many of the characteristics a lot of British food has: few ingredients, greasy and heavy.
By observing the eating habits of my house mates (six of whom are English), I've gotten a pretty good idea of the British diet. Some essentials:
- Gravy. I come from a family where gravy accompanies special meals, like turkey dinners and expensive pot roasts for which the grandparents are invited to dinner. But here, gravy is as common as a bowl of Wheaties. In fact, almost all of my house mates have instant gravy pellets in their cupboards.
- Chips. Not potato chips (those are crips), but French fries. Chips in England accompany almost ever meal. Again, most of my house mates have a bag of frozen chips in their freezer bins. Restaurants too.
- Beans. Yeah, I thought 'ew' too. But they have really grown on me. Beans & Chips...only in England.
- Pasties, which are essentially various forms of pot pies: Cheese pasty, onion pasty, stew pasty etc.
- Fruit juice. All of my room mates have a 2L bottle of fruit juice in their fridge--a popular flavour over here being Blackcurrant. Breakfast, Lunch & Dinner is juice time ...I mean, breakfast, tea and ...tea, or is it supper? When in doubt, refer to "tea."
- And without further ado, the most popular meal in Britain...
Curry.
I never would have gussed it, and the first time I was told about curry's popularity among Brits I was skeptical. But there is no doubt. Curry has taken Britain by storm. Curry Mile is the area in Manchester with an endless row of "curry shops" along both sides of the street. I visited it last week for the first time to find that it can be described as "the English version of Las Vegas...on curry."
Neon lights and flashing signs decorate every restaurant, where managers stand outside the doors to beckon you into what they promise to be the finest curries around. I decided on Lal Haweli, it turned out to be the same place someone had recommended to me, but it was really just its impressive light display that won my attention.
The whole curry phenomenon is all very new to me. I had never tried a curry dish before arriving in England, but I'm hooked now. It all seemd so foreign and spicy. And spicy. But it was really the spiciness I was shying away from.
I can confidently report that I'm a reformed spice-wimp. But I'm still really wimpy. Just an adventurous wimp.
A curry is any of a variety of distinctively spiced dishes. I always associated it with Indian cuisine, but it is a common occurence among Thai, Malaysian and South Asian menues as well. And apparently it has been adopted into all of the mainstream cuisines of the Asia-Pacific area.
The popularity of curry in the UK encouraged the growth of Indian restaurants several years ago--Curry Mile being a Class-A example. And the British culture has gone on to influence what was originally a very Eastern dish. For example, one of the most familiar dishes served in British restaurants, Chicken Tikka Masala was apparently invented in the UK by Bangladeshi chefs. It has since gone on to be referred to as the "British national dish" over the past decade.
British curry has taken on a life of its own, and some British variations are now reportedly exported from the UK to India. British-style curry restaurants are also popular in Canada, so I hear, among other places.
A curry dish is essentially rice topped with a sauce, flavoured with spices and containing ingredients like chicken, beef, lamb and other vegetarian alternatives. Below are the few curry dishes I've become accquainted with over the past few weeks:
Chicken Tikka Masala - a tomato-based sauce with beef. The most popular, and the one I first tried in London.
Chicken Korma - mild, yellow in colour, with almond and coconut powder sauce. It's very sweet, which is difficult to imagine for a curry--at least I thought so. But it's great, particularly for spicy-food wimps like myself.
Rogan Josh- a tomato-based sauce that is considered a medium curry. I almost passed out.
Vindaloo - always classed as the classic "hot" restaurant curry--but apparently a true Vindaloo doesn't specify any particular level of spiciness. I wouldn't dare try it. Even the name sounds spicy....vindaloooooooooooothaspicy
So curry is the flavour in England. I recommend it to everyone who has yet to try it--except for those who would likely be taking me out for a meal..if you could wait for my return, it would be much appreciated. Bon appetite!
Sunday, November 19, 2006
An argument
My time here is fast coming to an end, being less than five weeks left before I return to Canada and leave everything here behind--including my bed linen. I'm sure my house mates will be thrilled at the treasures left for them to scavenge.
- A nearly-used box of Soft Touch laundry detergent with Aloe Vera.
- A comforter and two pillows --"to the highest bidder" would make me a few quid no doubt.
- Two towels and a roll of quarter-ply toilet paper.
- A dwindling bag of sugar and what will be a few kernels of couscous
And perhaps most coveted: cupboard and fridge and freezer shelf space. You have to make six eggs, four apples, half a cube of butter and a vanishing bottle of soya sauce look as generous as a Chinese buffet or you will lose your shelf-space before you can restock it.
My freezer bin was taken over while I was in Dublin. I stole someone else's. I've mastered a few the tricks of the trade during my stay: like always take your keys with you because the security at Castle Irwell takes great amusment from making locked-out Irdwellers wait for long periods of time before letting them back into their cells.
...And, if you're going to lock yourself out of your room--best do it in your pajamas or in a towel after having a shower because then Castle Irwell security is quick to please.
And I've all but mastered the transportation system. Okay, strong word. But the thought of planes, trains, busses, Metro Links, Tubes and (when in Ireland, horse-drawn rickshaws) does not stike the fear of anything in me anymore.
But all these things I've realized are just a part of my everyday life, and I decided I was torn between declaring homesickness and wondering where my time in England went.
The case for wondering where the time has gone:
1. The thought that I won't see Ireland for a long time, if ever again, isn't something I can easily shrug off. And then I think, "so how feasible IS moving to Ireland?"
2. I panic because my ability to impersonate the English accent, and its innumerable varieties, is sub-standard at best. And then I set out practicing right away: Liverpeewwl, you alriiight, errmm, hiya...
4. I tally up the five assignments I have due in four weeks.
5. I realize it's nearly December and that I wore jeans and a tank top off the plane upon my arrival.
6. My made-in-Manchester friends ask me how many days I have left and whether they will ever see me again.
7. I tell my friends from home "I'll see you soon," and I mean it.
The case for homesickness:
1. I'm reading, watching and listening to Canadian media on a regular basis.
- this includes following the Parliament squabble resulting from Peter McKay reffering to his ex-girlfriend, Belinda Stronach, as a dog, which made for the most exciting Canadian politcal news since I've been gone
- Kamloops' new country music station, Country-103 and its running call-in prize for a set of "brand new winter tires!"
And then you know you're still Canadian when you hear the prize and think: "ooo, could use that."
3. I missed the Grey Cup and was genuinely disappointed. And then I was even more disappointed to find that 75% of the Canadians I was talking to via the internet while the game was being aired were not watching it. And then I thought--how Canadian to call it the Grey Cup and not the Super Bowl.
4. I think about snow. I even wrote about snow in my creative writing class--if that isn't a strong argument for homesickness, I don't know what else is...
5. When people ask me how I've found England and whether or not I'm looking forward to leaving, I say "I really like England, but I love Canada."
The truth is, I can't long for home or want to stay here because one will inevitably exclude the other. And it is both, Canada and England--more accurately, what England has done for me--that I am lucky to have a part in.
Tuesday, November 14, 2006
It's All Irish to Me
I flew to Dublin again this weekend. Robyn extended the invitation to visit Tom, a Dubliner we had met the first time around; and what with the cheap flight and my time across the Atlantic winding down, the offer proved difficult to pass up.
We arrived at Dublin airport late Friday evening and eventually found who would be our chauffuer for the weekend, Tom Reville---Revel? I asked. Like the ice cream Revel bar?
He's heard of them, but he said: No, like orr--ee-vi-dubblelleee.
Cut to two minutes later: I've figured out his last name really is Reville and the tone is set for the rest of the weekend. The fact that we both speak English is a technicality because we were speaking two entirely different languages the whole weekend.
To accurately explain what an Irish accent is like would be a difficult task, in fact I don't think I could do it justice. To say it sounds lyrical fails to convey how saturated with slang and colloquial catch phrases it is. But to describe only how colloquial it is, implies that it's common, when it's anything but. The Irish accent is without a doubt my favourite. With its unique vocabulary and its charming lilt I could listen to a recorded reading of a dissertation on the anatomy of an earthworm if it were spoken with an Irish accent.
To be fair, there are various kinds of accents, the two biggest differences probably being between northern and southern accents. I've spent all of my time in Dublin, but I've met a handful of students from the north of Ireland, and so I've managed to cultivate an almost sophisticated idea of who is from where--but almost everyone seems to be from Dublin, so when in doubt--assume they're a Dubliner. The thicker the accent is, the further north they are from-generally. However, one of the most difficult accents I've encountered is Jon Jon's--a Dubliner through and through.
The most obvious trait of an Irish accent is the absence of the "th" sound and the drop of every word's ending, particlarly if it ends in an "r" sound.
Think is "tink"
Them, they and the is "dem," "dey," and "duh"
And "quarter past four" is "a quohdah pas fawh"
Another tell tale sign you might be speaking with someone from Ireland would be their seemingly endless number of catchphrases, idioms and rhetorical comments that either don't require a response or mean absolultey nothing:
"What's the craic," (pronounced "crack") is the equivelant of "what's up?" Although, it has a lot more flexibility, like a how-are-you "what's the craic," or a what-are-we-doing "what's the craic" or what-should-I-do "what's the craic," and even was-it-a-good-time "what's the craic."
"Whaddyahink"s and "'Hinkso?"s are versatile as "huh?"s, "are you sure?s", obviously "what do you think?s" and many more.
It is "Honest?" instead of "honestly?" But the word is emphasized as though you just conceded to something unimaginable, even if it is as simple as admitting you prefer rye over white.
HonnEST?
And "eye"s become either "eers", "oys", "eye-ers" or "ars". For instance, I've apparently travelled to Eerland, Oyreland, Eyerland and Arland.
My friend from Newcastle County Down, near Belfast in Northern Ireland says "who was it" almost as often as a North American school girl peppers her commentary with the word "like." But "who was it" doesn't mean anything--at all. Even the Irish can't explain it to me.
It pops up randomnly in conversation, and the closest it ever seems to get to relevant is when he says "who was it" on the phone--but only ever after already knowing who is calling.
When two Irish people speak to each other, translation is impossible. Even when it's a one-on-one conversation, you need the luck of the Irish to catch everything as intended. Some examples include:
My and Robyn's misunderstanding that Tom was telling us about the death of his brother when, in fact, he was telling us about the death of a friend of his brother's. We listened in horror as he talked candidly about what, we thought, was a personal description of how his brother managed to mistake the edge of a bridge for the edge of a sidewalk.
The ten minute conversation required to introduce Tom's dog, Jerry ...or Geri to me. I still don't know what her name was exactly. She was named after either Tom & Jerry's Jerry or the Spice Girl's Ginger Spice Geri. Or both. Or intended after one and the other was a coincidence. I still don't know.
The five minute conversation I had with someone about some place in Canada named after a place in Ireland. Or it might have been a place in Ireland and sounded like a place in Canada. Or it might have been a place in Ireland and he just has relatives in Canada. Either way, I somehow managed to make him think I've visited this place, but I don't even know where it is let alone have I been there.
The conversation I had with with Tom about Irish tea was the conversation he had with me about Irish breakfast.
And the countless other conversations that were abandonned entirely due to irreconcilable communication differences. But regardless of whether or not I actually know what anyone Irish is saying to me, it's music to my ears!
We arrived at Dublin airport late Friday evening and eventually found who would be our chauffuer for the weekend, Tom Reville---Revel? I asked. Like the ice cream Revel bar?
He's heard of them, but he said: No, like orr--ee-vi-dubblelleee.
Cut to two minutes later: I've figured out his last name really is Reville and the tone is set for the rest of the weekend. The fact that we both speak English is a technicality because we were speaking two entirely different languages the whole weekend.
To accurately explain what an Irish accent is like would be a difficult task, in fact I don't think I could do it justice. To say it sounds lyrical fails to convey how saturated with slang and colloquial catch phrases it is. But to describe only how colloquial it is, implies that it's common, when it's anything but. The Irish accent is without a doubt my favourite. With its unique vocabulary and its charming lilt I could listen to a recorded reading of a dissertation on the anatomy of an earthworm if it were spoken with an Irish accent.
To be fair, there are various kinds of accents, the two biggest differences probably being between northern and southern accents. I've spent all of my time in Dublin, but I've met a handful of students from the north of Ireland, and so I've managed to cultivate an almost sophisticated idea of who is from where--but almost everyone seems to be from Dublin, so when in doubt--assume they're a Dubliner. The thicker the accent is, the further north they are from-generally. However, one of the most difficult accents I've encountered is Jon Jon's--a Dubliner through and through.
The most obvious trait of an Irish accent is the absence of the "th" sound and the drop of every word's ending, particlarly if it ends in an "r" sound.
Think is "tink"
Them, they and the is "dem," "dey," and "duh"
And "quarter past four" is "a quohdah pas fawh"
Another tell tale sign you might be speaking with someone from Ireland would be their seemingly endless number of catchphrases, idioms and rhetorical comments that either don't require a response or mean absolultey nothing:
"What's the craic," (pronounced "crack") is the equivelant of "what's up?" Although, it has a lot more flexibility, like a how-are-you "what's the craic," or a what-are-we-doing "what's the craic" or what-should-I-do "what's the craic," and even was-it-a-good-time "what's the craic."
"Whaddyahink"s and "'Hinkso?"s are versatile as "huh?"s, "are you sure?s", obviously "what do you think?s" and many more.
It is "Honest?" instead of "honestly?" But the word is emphasized as though you just conceded to something unimaginable, even if it is as simple as admitting you prefer rye over white.
HonnEST?
And "eye"s become either "eers", "oys", "eye-ers" or "ars". For instance, I've apparently travelled to Eerland, Oyreland, Eyerland and Arland.
My friend from Newcastle County Down, near Belfast in Northern Ireland says "who was it" almost as often as a North American school girl peppers her commentary with the word "like." But "who was it" doesn't mean anything--at all. Even the Irish can't explain it to me.
It pops up randomnly in conversation, and the closest it ever seems to get to relevant is when he says "who was it" on the phone--but only ever after already knowing who is calling.
When two Irish people speak to each other, translation is impossible. Even when it's a one-on-one conversation, you need the luck of the Irish to catch everything as intended. Some examples include:
My and Robyn's misunderstanding that Tom was telling us about the death of his brother when, in fact, he was telling us about the death of a friend of his brother's. We listened in horror as he talked candidly about what, we thought, was a personal description of how his brother managed to mistake the edge of a bridge for the edge of a sidewalk.
The ten minute conversation required to introduce Tom's dog, Jerry ...or Geri to me. I still don't know what her name was exactly. She was named after either Tom & Jerry's Jerry or the Spice Girl's Ginger Spice Geri. Or both. Or intended after one and the other was a coincidence. I still don't know.
The five minute conversation I had with someone about some place in Canada named after a place in Ireland. Or it might have been a place in Ireland and sounded like a place in Canada. Or it might have been a place in Ireland and he just has relatives in Canada. Either way, I somehow managed to make him think I've visited this place, but I don't even know where it is let alone have I been there.
The conversation I had with with Tom about Irish tea was the conversation he had with me about Irish breakfast.
And the countless other conversations that were abandonned entirely due to irreconcilable communication differences. But regardless of whether or not I actually know what anyone Irish is saying to me, it's music to my ears!
Monday, November 06, 2006
Who Guy Fawkes Really Was
The fifth of November is better known as Guy Fawkes night in Britain and commemorates the failed assassination of King James in the fifteenth century.
The failed attempt, known as the Gunpowder Plot, was organized by a group of Catholic conspirators, including the mercenary Guy Fawkes. The plan was to blow up the Houses of Parliament in Westminster when the Protestant king (along with the rest of the aristocracy)
was within its walls.
Fawkes and his fellow conspirators were aiming to revolutionize the government of England and install a Catholic monarch. Instead, the plot was discovered and Fawkes was captured, tortured and executed. It's said he cheated his fate in some sense by jumping from the gallows to snap his neck instead of being left to hang.
Historically, Fawkes was campaigning for equal rights for Catholics; however, the Gunpowder Plot is seen as only having painted Catholics as treasonous and prolonging their inequality for another 200 years.
Despite all of this, the significance of Bonfire Night (as it's also known) is less historical and seemingly just a good excuse to set off a bunch of fireworks. I was expecting a lot more hoorah about the day, but it seems modern day Guy Fawkes celebrations are most enthusiastically pursued by the kids and the scallies. As my room mate put it:
You will be safe to walk around tonight because the scallies are all busy setting off their fireworks.
So I did venture into the Salford night, but not too far. And eventually I just ended up on the back steps of the Pav. To my surprise, the night was uneventful, except for a group of Castle Irdwellers scavenging a dumpster for what I presume was bonfire material. And despite my assumptions for the evening--and despite two straight nights of endless firework displays--there really isn't much to the celebration of Guy Fawkes' failure.
I expected more troublemaking and hooliganism I suppose, but no one really seems to take notice to the continual snaps, crackles and pops--or the whistles and hisses for that matter--that litter the night air. I, on the other hand, felt like one of the pets the police and animal activists warn their owners about before Guy Fawkes celebrations kickoff: keep them indoors in case they are provoked or endure sensitivity to firework explosions.
The night before November 5th was a Saturday, so once dusk had fallen the firworks began. The number of fireworks was impressive, it sounded similar to what I imagine a modern-dary warzone must sound like. And the next night even moreso.
The full moon and whispy-clouded skies added to the effect, but the dull roar that became the background track to the night was duly impressive for someone who only experiences fireworks once a year.
Fireworks were in any direction you turned and for every second that ticked by. Almost all of the displays are from residential backyards, I walked under one of them--so close that the shell of the explosian bounced to the street I was walking on an clattered to a halt just in front of me.
I didn't witness any burning Guy Fawkes effigies, only the construction of one bonfire during the day. However, the other Canadian on British soil for the 5th of November--Robyn, did see one. She said it was only a little disturbing.
So you might learn something new everyday, but you learn two somethings new on Bonfire Day: To begin, Guy Fawkes is not a hero, but a foiled fop that might be compared to a modern-day terrorist. Not that anyone seems to care anyway because, secondly, the night is only an excuse to set mini-explosians from your yard--not an excuse to go drinking, which, for the British, caught me by surprise.
The failed attempt, known as the Gunpowder Plot, was organized by a group of Catholic conspirators, including the mercenary Guy Fawkes. The plan was to blow up the Houses of Parliament in Westminster when the Protestant king (along with the rest of the aristocracy)
was within its walls.
Fawkes and his fellow conspirators were aiming to revolutionize the government of England and install a Catholic monarch. Instead, the plot was discovered and Fawkes was captured, tortured and executed. It's said he cheated his fate in some sense by jumping from the gallows to snap his neck instead of being left to hang.
Historically, Fawkes was campaigning for equal rights for Catholics; however, the Gunpowder Plot is seen as only having painted Catholics as treasonous and prolonging their inequality for another 200 years.
Despite all of this, the significance of Bonfire Night (as it's also known) is less historical and seemingly just a good excuse to set off a bunch of fireworks. I was expecting a lot more hoorah about the day, but it seems modern day Guy Fawkes celebrations are most enthusiastically pursued by the kids and the scallies. As my room mate put it:
You will be safe to walk around tonight because the scallies are all busy setting off their fireworks.
So I did venture into the Salford night, but not too far. And eventually I just ended up on the back steps of the Pav. To my surprise, the night was uneventful, except for a group of Castle Irdwellers scavenging a dumpster for what I presume was bonfire material. And despite my assumptions for the evening--and despite two straight nights of endless firework displays--there really isn't much to the celebration of Guy Fawkes' failure.
I expected more troublemaking and hooliganism I suppose, but no one really seems to take notice to the continual snaps, crackles and pops--or the whistles and hisses for that matter--that litter the night air. I, on the other hand, felt like one of the pets the police and animal activists warn their owners about before Guy Fawkes celebrations kickoff: keep them indoors in case they are provoked or endure sensitivity to firework explosions.
The night before November 5th was a Saturday, so once dusk had fallen the firworks began. The number of fireworks was impressive, it sounded similar to what I imagine a modern-dary warzone must sound like. And the next night even moreso.
The full moon and whispy-clouded skies added to the effect, but the dull roar that became the background track to the night was duly impressive for someone who only experiences fireworks once a year.
Fireworks were in any direction you turned and for every second that ticked by. Almost all of the displays are from residential backyards, I walked under one of them--so close that the shell of the explosian bounced to the street I was walking on an clattered to a halt just in front of me.
I didn't witness any burning Guy Fawkes effigies, only the construction of one bonfire during the day. However, the other Canadian on British soil for the 5th of November--Robyn, did see one. She said it was only a little disturbing.
So you might learn something new everyday, but you learn two somethings new on Bonfire Day: To begin, Guy Fawkes is not a hero, but a foiled fop that might be compared to a modern-day terrorist. Not that anyone seems to care anyway because, secondly, the night is only an excuse to set mini-explosians from your yard--not an excuse to go drinking, which, for the British, caught me by surprise.
Thursday, November 02, 2006
What Are You Supposed To Be?
I had the fortune of experiencing Halloween in the midst of as much student enthusiasm and ardour the residents of Castle Irwell could muster. The event was celebrated with both introductory and closing fireworks; in fact, they continue on even now. And despite all honest intent on my part, I did end up particpating in the Pav's Tuesday night Halloween bash.
The Pav is an endless fount of human interaction--or more accurately, student interaction, which is all the more interesting. I could probably charge sociologists a pound for entry and earn enough to make up for my bi-weekly trip to the Tesco. The fact that last Tuesday was everyone's annual opportunity to live out some fantasy or another via costume only made for a more interesting night than usual.
With Halloween in full swing, I still hadn't bothered to find a costume and I was prepared to forego celebrations. Howevever, by ten o'clock and with the Pav's familar bass line thumping in the near background, I decided I might actually regret missing out on Halloween in England and went in search of a costume.
Within twenty minutes I had impressively collected a variety of odds and ends my house mates weren't using or that I already owned. I managed a respectable costume and made a fashionably late arrival at the Pav.
The traditional idea of a costume is clothing that is worn to portray the individual as some character or type of character other than the regular persona. With this in mind, observing the antics at the Pav was interesting, to say the least.
I'm always curious as to why people choose the costumes they do. There is inevitably something that draws an individual to create a persona other than his true identity. Or is it that people tend to be drawn to something that will express some aspect of the true, but unexpressed, identity. Regardless, students are some of the most enthusiastic Halloweeners around. Is it to say that students are hopelessly in touch with their childish side; or perhaps university students thrive on creation, immitation and--undoubtedly--a chance for a party? Fantasy and imagination are at the heart of Halloween celebrations, particulary those enjoyed by anyone "too old for Halloween" in the conservative sense.
There are the guys living out a night as their boyhood heroes--Supermen, Batmen, athletes and debonair characters of strength and charm.
There are the girls that will unashamedly take the year's single opportunity to defy all believable hem lengths, wearing dresses originally intended as shirts, lingerie, shorts originally intended as underwear, lingerie, plunging necklines, and even--believe it or not-- lingerie.
And there is always a minority representation of guys who choose to dress as girls. I was torn between who was most disturbing: the guy that pulled off the feminine version of himself with absolute ease and conviction, or the guy that wouldn't let go of his "breasts" because...well, he was just really excited to have a pair at his disposal?
My favourite costume of the night goes to one indivual wearing a giant, cardboard box--his head out the top and his arms out the sides. About midway down, nearing below the belt territory was written in thick, black marker: May Contain Nuts. Points for originality and bonus points for irony. And kudos to him for posing even the possibility of doubt that his package was sans nuts.
After considering the Pav's Halloween patrons, it's safe to say that often costumes are chosen to exaggerate some aspect of a charater...or lack thereof
(case study A: the guy that loves his "breasts").
And after two months here, I've witnessed several occasions deemed costume-worthy by the British, including birthdays, stags, theme nights, parties and "just because." They will dress up for anything.
Call it escapism, but who doesn't need a chance to give reality the slip every once and awhile?
I would venture to say that Halloween anywhere is as much a celebration as it is an excuse to get up in fancy dress--the hopelessly lame English version of a "costume." Any Brit will jump at the chance to dress up; but then again, so will most North Americans and even the Euros at the Pav were game for the festivities--except for Dimitris the Greek. He went as, well, Dimitris the Greek. And as for myself: well, I went as a devil. Go figure.
The Pav is an endless fount of human interaction--or more accurately, student interaction, which is all the more interesting. I could probably charge sociologists a pound for entry and earn enough to make up for my bi-weekly trip to the Tesco. The fact that last Tuesday was everyone's annual opportunity to live out some fantasy or another via costume only made for a more interesting night than usual.
With Halloween in full swing, I still hadn't bothered to find a costume and I was prepared to forego celebrations. Howevever, by ten o'clock and with the Pav's familar bass line thumping in the near background, I decided I might actually regret missing out on Halloween in England and went in search of a costume.
Within twenty minutes I had impressively collected a variety of odds and ends my house mates weren't using or that I already owned. I managed a respectable costume and made a fashionably late arrival at the Pav.
The traditional idea of a costume is clothing that is worn to portray the individual as some character or type of character other than the regular persona. With this in mind, observing the antics at the Pav was interesting, to say the least.
I'm always curious as to why people choose the costumes they do. There is inevitably something that draws an individual to create a persona other than his true identity. Or is it that people tend to be drawn to something that will express some aspect of the true, but unexpressed, identity. Regardless, students are some of the most enthusiastic Halloweeners around. Is it to say that students are hopelessly in touch with their childish side; or perhaps university students thrive on creation, immitation and--undoubtedly--a chance for a party? Fantasy and imagination are at the heart of Halloween celebrations, particulary those enjoyed by anyone "too old for Halloween" in the conservative sense.
There are the guys living out a night as their boyhood heroes--Supermen, Batmen, athletes and debonair characters of strength and charm.
There are the girls that will unashamedly take the year's single opportunity to defy all believable hem lengths, wearing dresses originally intended as shirts, lingerie, shorts originally intended as underwear, lingerie, plunging necklines, and even--believe it or not-- lingerie.
And there is always a minority representation of guys who choose to dress as girls. I was torn between who was most disturbing: the guy that pulled off the feminine version of himself with absolute ease and conviction, or the guy that wouldn't let go of his "breasts" because...well, he was just really excited to have a pair at his disposal?
My favourite costume of the night goes to one indivual wearing a giant, cardboard box--his head out the top and his arms out the sides. About midway down, nearing below the belt territory was written in thick, black marker: May Contain Nuts. Points for originality and bonus points for irony. And kudos to him for posing even the possibility of doubt that his package was sans nuts.
After considering the Pav's Halloween patrons, it's safe to say that often costumes are chosen to exaggerate some aspect of a charater...or lack thereof
(case study A: the guy that loves his "breasts").
And after two months here, I've witnessed several occasions deemed costume-worthy by the British, including birthdays, stags, theme nights, parties and "just because." They will dress up for anything.
Call it escapism, but who doesn't need a chance to give reality the slip every once and awhile?
I would venture to say that Halloween anywhere is as much a celebration as it is an excuse to get up in fancy dress--the hopelessly lame English version of a "costume." Any Brit will jump at the chance to dress up; but then again, so will most North Americans and even the Euros at the Pav were game for the festivities--except for Dimitris the Greek. He went as, well, Dimitris the Greek. And as for myself: well, I went as a devil. Go figure.
Halloween Pictures
My outfit was namely a pair of black shorts and a corset-styled top to match. However, thanks to the perfect--and questionable--possessions of my house mates, my devilish look was complete with: a foam triton; obnoxious red jewellery with obnoxious red fingernails; home-made horns of red construction paper and red tights complete with fiery sequins licking at my legs. Slip on a pair of black gloves for dramatic flair and slip into a pair of heart-stomping, black leather boots that reach mid-way up my calves and voila!
Devilish
Me, Shaun as Zorro & Jess
Panos, Me & Shaun
Halloween = lisence for cheese.
A devil, Zorro & Dimitris ...the Greek.
And the Pav's North American reps: me & Jess, from Boston.
Wednesday, November 01, 2006
Another World
London is the most difficult part of this trip to describe. I spent two and half days there this weekend and, even now, I have a hard time expressing the trip in much more than generalities. London can be called every big, descriptive word imaginable: amazing, striking, impressive, magnificent grandiose and on and on. But the most tangible way to describe London is to say that it is entirely another world. I have never seen anything else like it.
Entering London is nothing short of what I imagine landing on another planet would be like: the landscape is foreign, the people all reflect the same culture (of which I am not familiar with) and you feel unessential to the place as a whole--merely a bystander.
If you don't keep moving in London you are literally pushed to the side. You could spend an entire day, even longer, standing tucked into a corner in London and the city would operate around you, like a piece of the backdrop of the city. It might seem as though this is the case wherever you go, particularly in a big city; but the difference with London is the feeling that if you aren't careful, you will end up sidelined as a piece of the backdrop. A great example is the tube--the underground transit system that deserves a blog all its own--and when people get on and off the train. My travel mate and London guide for the time being gave me this as one of the first pieces of advice for the weekend:
When you get off the tube, get moving.
And if you don't, you will inevitably catch someone's elbow as they move past you. This is because there are two types of people in London: Londoners, who are all going somewhere; and tourists, who have all gotten there.
The people of London deserve as much observation as the physical landscape; in fact I spent half of my time looking at the "sights," and the other half staring at the people. But look and do not touch-or speak-because Londoners will engage in neither with you.
I spent nearly three entire days in London and I spoke to one native Londoner the entire time. This is a city with 7.5 million people in it, and I spoke to one person who was, in fact, obligated to speak to me and--deservedly so--suspicious that I was shoplifting from his store. In a city where you will find over 3,000 people every square kilometre, I managed to engage zero people in conversation--my hosts being the exception, but they were all South African anyway.
The only two people who approached me were not from London: creepy Italian, Antonio who seemed desperate to take me into the National Portrait Gallery; and a Cuban whose name now escapes me, who was excited to find out I was from Canada because he has "a lot of friends in Canada, in the province of British Columbia."
Oh, well go figure. I'm from British Columbia. Where do your friends live?
It's near Vancouver, very very close ..Sss ...Shhi ...Ssurrrey. Yes, Surrey, British Columbia.
Oh, Surrey. Yes, of course your Cuban friends are in Surrey. Where else would they be?
I managed to fit a fair bit of London into three days; but, a person could spend three weeks in London and still not see everything. I am convinced even the Londoners have yet to discover London. But everyone suits their bill, and mine included:
Big Ben, which is essentially a big clock--but impressive all the same. However, if anyone can manage to nearly walk right by Big Ben and fail to see him looming overheard--it is yours truly. I had only been in London two hours and the culture shock was proving to be most overwhelming, the result being a less than alert me. Emerging from an underground tube station, I was busy trying to digest what I had already learned: the tube has about three different lines, I'm on the green one, we went West even though we want to get to Southfield, insert ticket here--remove up here, get on the train--"mind the gap," get off here. Follow signs, follow arrows, follow people that look like they know where they're going. On the escalator and stand to the right because in London that is where you stand so that people who care to run up the left have room to do so.
Find the right exit (because everywhere in London has fifteen), up the stairs and what is that? Natural light? Could it be ... slam into the back of my tour guide. He got a nasty look from me, to which he replied: "Look up."
And there it was. A giant clock. Big Ben done and a lot more to go so, when in London, keep moving. I saw the London Eye, which is essentailly a giant ferris wheel. And I walked along the Thames into the evening to see London Bridge--it is blue and it is not falling down-- and Tower Bridge, which we walked across under a cresecent moon.
I also managed to experience
-the appropriately named Picadilly Circus: at night it was completely lit up, think an English version of Las Vegas but less tacky.
-the daunting department store that does not befit the classification "department store," Harrods, owned by the family of Princess Di's lover, Dodi Al-Fayed.
Gucci, Prada, Armani, Karen Millen, Jimmy Choo, Versace and the names that, peon that I am, did not recognize. Shoes for hundreds of pounds, coats for thousands and dirty looks from sales clerks that own outfits more illustrious than my entire monetary worth. I got lost in Harrods, literally, and took about twenty minutes to right myself.
-Buckingham Palace, Hyde Park, Leicester Square, Covent Gardens, another impressive park, Camden Town and Trafalgar Square. Everywhere is literally crawling with people, and everywhere illicits some sort of response along the lines of "wow."
By the end of my trip I was navigating London's tube system with relative ease. I found my way to the bus solo, and thoroughly enjoyed the five hour ride back up to Manchester. Leaving London feels like escaping by the skin of your teeth, escaping what is hard to say.
Entering London is nothing short of what I imagine landing on another planet would be like: the landscape is foreign, the people all reflect the same culture (of which I am not familiar with) and you feel unessential to the place as a whole--merely a bystander.
If you don't keep moving in London you are literally pushed to the side. You could spend an entire day, even longer, standing tucked into a corner in London and the city would operate around you, like a piece of the backdrop of the city. It might seem as though this is the case wherever you go, particularly in a big city; but the difference with London is the feeling that if you aren't careful, you will end up sidelined as a piece of the backdrop. A great example is the tube--the underground transit system that deserves a blog all its own--and when people get on and off the train. My travel mate and London guide for the time being gave me this as one of the first pieces of advice for the weekend:
When you get off the tube, get moving.
And if you don't, you will inevitably catch someone's elbow as they move past you. This is because there are two types of people in London: Londoners, who are all going somewhere; and tourists, who have all gotten there.
The people of London deserve as much observation as the physical landscape; in fact I spent half of my time looking at the "sights," and the other half staring at the people. But look and do not touch-or speak-because Londoners will engage in neither with you.
I spent nearly three entire days in London and I spoke to one native Londoner the entire time. This is a city with 7.5 million people in it, and I spoke to one person who was, in fact, obligated to speak to me and--deservedly so--suspicious that I was shoplifting from his store. In a city where you will find over 3,000 people every square kilometre, I managed to engage zero people in conversation--my hosts being the exception, but they were all South African anyway.
The only two people who approached me were not from London: creepy Italian, Antonio who seemed desperate to take me into the National Portrait Gallery; and a Cuban whose name now escapes me, who was excited to find out I was from Canada because he has "a lot of friends in Canada, in the province of British Columbia."
Oh, well go figure. I'm from British Columbia. Where do your friends live?
It's near Vancouver, very very close ..Sss ...Shhi ...Ssurrrey. Yes, Surrey, British Columbia.
Oh, Surrey. Yes, of course your Cuban friends are in Surrey. Where else would they be?
I managed to fit a fair bit of London into three days; but, a person could spend three weeks in London and still not see everything. I am convinced even the Londoners have yet to discover London. But everyone suits their bill, and mine included:
Big Ben, which is essentially a big clock--but impressive all the same. However, if anyone can manage to nearly walk right by Big Ben and fail to see him looming overheard--it is yours truly. I had only been in London two hours and the culture shock was proving to be most overwhelming, the result being a less than alert me. Emerging from an underground tube station, I was busy trying to digest what I had already learned: the tube has about three different lines, I'm on the green one, we went West even though we want to get to Southfield, insert ticket here--remove up here, get on the train--"mind the gap," get off here. Follow signs, follow arrows, follow people that look like they know where they're going. On the escalator and stand to the right because in London that is where you stand so that people who care to run up the left have room to do so.
Find the right exit (because everywhere in London has fifteen), up the stairs and what is that? Natural light? Could it be ... slam into the back of my tour guide. He got a nasty look from me, to which he replied: "Look up."
And there it was. A giant clock. Big Ben done and a lot more to go so, when in London, keep moving. I saw the London Eye, which is essentailly a giant ferris wheel. And I walked along the Thames into the evening to see London Bridge--it is blue and it is not falling down-- and Tower Bridge, which we walked across under a cresecent moon.
I also managed to experience
-the appropriately named Picadilly Circus: at night it was completely lit up, think an English version of Las Vegas but less tacky.
-the daunting department store that does not befit the classification "department store," Harrods, owned by the family of Princess Di's lover, Dodi Al-Fayed.
Gucci, Prada, Armani, Karen Millen, Jimmy Choo, Versace and the names that, peon that I am, did not recognize. Shoes for hundreds of pounds, coats for thousands and dirty looks from sales clerks that own outfits more illustrious than my entire monetary worth. I got lost in Harrods, literally, and took about twenty minutes to right myself.
-Buckingham Palace, Hyde Park, Leicester Square, Covent Gardens, another impressive park, Camden Town and Trafalgar Square. Everywhere is literally crawling with people, and everywhere illicits some sort of response along the lines of "wow."
By the end of my trip I was navigating London's tube system with relative ease. I found my way to the bus solo, and thoroughly enjoyed the five hour ride back up to Manchester. Leaving London feels like escaping by the skin of your teeth, escaping what is hard to say.
Friday, October 27, 2006
Chicago to London
Friday afternoon I met my friend Robyn at the Manchester Picadilly train station. She was in town to see the musical Chicago with me, playing at the city's Opera House Theatre on Quay Steet. The movie version of Chicago happens to be one of my top five favourites, and so I jumped at the chance to see the story live.
Even despite soaring expectations, I was not disappointed. Of course the production had been formatted to fit live theatre, but the effect was essentially the same. Skimpy costumes, a storyline of sex, murder, fame and deceit, a live band and feather flumes and sequins --it was all there. There was also a healthy dose of corny comedy, something that is more subltle--if not nonexistent, in the movie production.
Most of the actors managed satisfactory 1930s American accents, but I am sure the two Canadians in the audience were the only ones who noticed any differently. And unfortuantely for the girl playing Thelma Kelly, Catherine Zeta-Jones absolutely owns the role in the movie production, making anyone else's portrayal of the ousted stage-baby killer pale in comparison. Otherwise, it was well done and well worth getting a taste of something extending beyond the student life culture.
It is 7:30 a.m. and I have logged a very light three hours of sleep--but I am heading to London by coach this morning for three days.
I hope everyone is well!
Even despite soaring expectations, I was not disappointed. Of course the production had been formatted to fit live theatre, but the effect was essentially the same. Skimpy costumes, a storyline of sex, murder, fame and deceit, a live band and feather flumes and sequins --it was all there. There was also a healthy dose of corny comedy, something that is more subltle--if not nonexistent, in the movie production.
Most of the actors managed satisfactory 1930s American accents, but I am sure the two Canadians in the audience were the only ones who noticed any differently. And unfortuantely for the girl playing Thelma Kelly, Catherine Zeta-Jones absolutely owns the role in the movie production, making anyone else's portrayal of the ousted stage-baby killer pale in comparison. Otherwise, it was well done and well worth getting a taste of something extending beyond the student life culture.
It is 7:30 a.m. and I have logged a very light three hours of sleep--but I am heading to London by coach this morning for three days.
I hope everyone is well!
Tuesday, October 24, 2006
Think of me when...
Last night, in my prison cell and awaiting the welcome light of dawn, I found myself surfing the web: couscous recipes, Canadian news, travel sites, British news ...back to Canadian news, Canadian sports and then...
And then I found myself there.
I really cannot pretend I don't know what brought me there. I suppose the eventual onslaught of homesickness is bound to hit me eventually--particularly because I have survived thus far unscathed.
But there I was, basking in the familiar and always cheeky banter of none other than ...
Don Cherry.
Yes. Hockey Night in Canada and Coach's Corner.
It was the theme song that first hit me, triggering a similar nostalgia I experienced so many weeks ago when a wayard flock of Canadian geese triumphed their awkward cry above Castle Irwell.
Coach's Corner--a piece of Canadian culture so integral to my sense of home, identity and personal comfort that even its simple trumpet instrumental was a near catalyst for a fallen tear, streaming down my cheek.
A near catalyst. I did not cry. At least that's my story, and I'm sticking to it.
Right. So, instead, I watched as a goofy smirk of comfort spread across my face.
What could be more Canadian than odd couple, tag-team Ron MacLean and Don Cherry?
Memories washed over me of countless nights where the Hockey Night in Canada theme song flooded the house as dinner simmered on the stove:
...homework in front of the tv while the third period winded down
...shouts and roars of excitement, disgust and "ahhhhh, you bum!"
...the suspense of the instant replay, one from every angle imaginable and everyone in the living room on the edge of their seats, heads cocked sideways and eyes squinting for the best vantage point
...entire dinner tables cleared out as the family stampeded into the living room because there was a goal ("He shoots, he scorrrrres!!!"), an unbelievable save, an enormous hit or simply because the play-by-play commentator raised the intensity of his voice just so...
And my favourite: the first intermission and Don Cherry's almost infallible ability to hold my attention for a handful of minutes that have become the hours in my lifetime dedicated to Hockey Night in Canada. I remembered it all; and then there it was:
Homesickness that hit me square in the nose, just about as abruptly and obnoxiously as Don Cherry's tie clashes with his jacket.
But it was wonderful. And so, I watched; and Don did not disappoint:
He cut Ron off.
He got fired up --"I really have to control myself here...but it's gutless, gutless!!"
He interrupted Ron.
He raised his voice ...he yelled.
He cut Ron off again.
He praised.
He denounced
He preached -- "If you're gonna talk the talk, you gotta walk the walk!"
He rushed to fit everything into his segment --"Hurry up! We gotta go quick...we got all this stuff and we gotta go quick!"
And he called Ron "sweetheart," repeatedly.
It was glorious, and the thought of all the Coach's Corner segments I have been missing was suddenly very troubling for me--in that moment, in my prison cell.
I think I dreamed of obnoxious plaid patterns and high-collars that night. There was the sound of trumpet instrumentals as well, and hockey clips (dizzying dekes, spectacular saves and flying fists) flashed in and out of my consciousness. And I slept soundly, or about as soundly as a Canadian girl can so far from the comforts of Hockey Night in Canada.
So for those of you who will find yourself in front of a tv watching the game: when the first period comes to a close, and when you hear that infamous instrumental--I hope you will think of me.
And then I found myself there.
I really cannot pretend I don't know what brought me there. I suppose the eventual onslaught of homesickness is bound to hit me eventually--particularly because I have survived thus far unscathed.
But there I was, basking in the familiar and always cheeky banter of none other than ...
Don Cherry.
Yes. Hockey Night in Canada and Coach's Corner.
It was the theme song that first hit me, triggering a similar nostalgia I experienced so many weeks ago when a wayard flock of Canadian geese triumphed their awkward cry above Castle Irwell.
Coach's Corner--a piece of Canadian culture so integral to my sense of home, identity and personal comfort that even its simple trumpet instrumental was a near catalyst for a fallen tear, streaming down my cheek.
A near catalyst. I did not cry. At least that's my story, and I'm sticking to it.
Right. So, instead, I watched as a goofy smirk of comfort spread across my face.
What could be more Canadian than odd couple, tag-team Ron MacLean and Don Cherry?
Memories washed over me of countless nights where the Hockey Night in Canada theme song flooded the house as dinner simmered on the stove:
...homework in front of the tv while the third period winded down
...shouts and roars of excitement, disgust and "ahhhhh, you bum!"
...the suspense of the instant replay, one from every angle imaginable and everyone in the living room on the edge of their seats, heads cocked sideways and eyes squinting for the best vantage point
...entire dinner tables cleared out as the family stampeded into the living room because there was a goal ("He shoots, he scorrrrres!!!"), an unbelievable save, an enormous hit or simply because the play-by-play commentator raised the intensity of his voice just so...
And my favourite: the first intermission and Don Cherry's almost infallible ability to hold my attention for a handful of minutes that have become the hours in my lifetime dedicated to Hockey Night in Canada. I remembered it all; and then there it was:
Homesickness that hit me square in the nose, just about as abruptly and obnoxiously as Don Cherry's tie clashes with his jacket.
But it was wonderful. And so, I watched; and Don did not disappoint:
He cut Ron off.
He got fired up --"I really have to control myself here...but it's gutless, gutless!!"
He interrupted Ron.
He raised his voice ...he yelled.
He cut Ron off again.
He praised.
He denounced
He preached -- "If you're gonna talk the talk, you gotta walk the walk!"
He rushed to fit everything into his segment --"Hurry up! We gotta go quick...we got all this stuff and we gotta go quick!"
And he called Ron "sweetheart," repeatedly.
It was glorious, and the thought of all the Coach's Corner segments I have been missing was suddenly very troubling for me--in that moment, in my prison cell.
I think I dreamed of obnoxious plaid patterns and high-collars that night. There was the sound of trumpet instrumentals as well, and hockey clips (dizzying dekes, spectacular saves and flying fists) flashed in and out of my consciousness. And I slept soundly, or about as soundly as a Canadian girl can so far from the comforts of Hockey Night in Canada.
So for those of you who will find yourself in front of a tv watching the game: when the first period comes to a close, and when you hear that infamous instrumental--I hope you will think of me.
Saturday, October 21, 2006
The Day After the Attack of the Pink
Last night I abstained from the typical Friday night activities --and damn, it feels good that the Pav did not get a hold of three of my pounds for once...
However, it seems by not painting the town red I caught myself a nice case of pink...eye, that is.
Pinkeye, or for you ER-junkies, conjunctivitis.
However, it seems by not painting the town red I caught myself a nice case of pink...eye, that is.
Pinkeye, or for you ER-junkies, conjunctivitis.
- an inflammation of the conjunctiva (the outermost layer of the eye and the inner surface of the eyelids). Causes redness, itching, swelling and oozing.
Lovely.
There are three common varieties of conjunctivitis, viral, allergic and bacterial. I will go ahead and state the obvious: I have obviously fallen victim to some form of bacteria. Who would have imagined, living so cozily in this little den of infestation of mine.
Student accomodation is not for the faint of heart--or immune system. It is a battle everyday. If you want to emerge somewhat unscathed and considerably healthy: suck back the OJ, invest in some multi-vitamins and cross your fingers. And even then, it is an uphill battle.
Considering that most students incorporate frequent binge-drinking escapades, late nights and inadequate (if not downright bizzare) eating habits into university life, it is a wonder more of us do not fall victim to some sort of Deplorable Conditions mortality rate.
Nevertheless, the student, particularly one living away from home, is a hearty creature. Termites come to mind:
- Both are "economically important as pests that can cause serious structural damage to buildings"
- Both "typically inhabit dark nests and tunnels"
- Both are social species, living in colonies that exemplify "decentralized, self-organized systems using swarm intelligence to exploit food sources and environments" otherwise unavailable or undesirable to the individual
...so that explains the bar phenomenon?
- Oh, and both student and termite colonies typically contain "nymphs, workers, soldiers, and reproductive individuals of both sexes, sometimes containing several egg-laying queens"
...freshers, P.I.M.Ps and floozies.
Or am I thinking of cockroaches...
- Both are generally scavengers
- Both are mainly nocturnal and will run away when exposed to light
- And both are perhaps among the hardiest species on the planet, capable of living for a month without food and remaining alive headless for up to a week.
(Okay, the last one applies only to cockroaches because I know plenty of students that have managed their entire university career despite a "headless" state of one kind or another.)
- Students and cockroaches have the ability to slow their own heart rate--students accomplish such a feat with excessive alcohol consumption--I do not know the cockroach's secret.
- Researchers have found a balance between cooperation and competition in group decision-making behavior
example-- girls travel in packs to washrooms,
and the ubiquitous phrase, "I'll have another if you do"
- Both depicted as vile and resilient pests in popular culture
- And both are popularly suggested to "inherit the earth" after the destruction of humanity in a nuclear war.
Well....at least it sounds like I will survive Pinkeye.
______________________________________
Helpful hints for ridding yourself of a cockroach/student infestation:
- keep all food stored away in sealed containers
- use garbage cans with a tight lid
- frequently clean kitchen and regularly vacuum
- seal off any entry points, such as holes around baseboards, pipes, doors, and windows with some steel wool and some cement or putty (Or, change the locks).
Friday, October 20, 2006
This & That & Some Pictures
I am currently boycotting Friday night, for no other real reason other than marching into Manchester city centre did not appeal to me and the Pav may have finally lost its luster.
It had any in the first place?
Okay, not really. But you have to try everything once, right?
No, not really. It never seems a logical line of reasoning to me, especially not when used as the supporting argument for why I should drink "just one drink:"
Oh, come on. How will you know until you've tried?
The same way I know I never care to become a heroine addict or a Seventh Day Adventist.
Not that I am comparing alcohol to heroine or a strict religious line. But it explains--however unduly--that, sometimes, experience is not necessary to gain knowledge. Sometimes we just know.
That is what they say about love, right?
You will just know.
And...
If I knew then what I know now, I never would have.... They say that too, right?
And, Oprah's favourite:
What is it that you know for sure?
I know that the muzzle of each lion is like a fingerprint--no pattern of whiskers is ever duplicated.
I do not know what good that fact will ever do me, aside from filling blog space.
I know that the current fashion obsession--no, infatuation, in the UK is tights.
I do not know if I can resist it much longer.
However much I know I will regret buying a pair of tights at some point in the near future, the influence is too strong. They are everywhere: on trendsetters--those girls that manage the look without looking retro-- and on everyone else too, unfortunately.
Regarding such a future: when I do blog about buying tights--it will be with all due shame, even if I deny it at the time. Trust me.
It had any in the first place?
Okay, not really. But you have to try everything once, right?
No, not really. It never seems a logical line of reasoning to me, especially not when used as the supporting argument for why I should drink "just one drink:"
Oh, come on. How will you know until you've tried?
The same way I know I never care to become a heroine addict or a Seventh Day Adventist.
Not that I am comparing alcohol to heroine or a strict religious line. But it explains--however unduly--that, sometimes, experience is not necessary to gain knowledge. Sometimes we just know.
That is what they say about love, right?
You will just know.
And...
If I knew then what I know now, I never would have.... They say that too, right?
And, Oprah's favourite:
What is it that you know for sure?
I know that the muzzle of each lion is like a fingerprint--no pattern of whiskers is ever duplicated.
I do not know what good that fact will ever do me, aside from filling blog space.
I know that the current fashion obsession--no, infatuation, in the UK is tights.
I do not know if I can resist it much longer.
However much I know I will regret buying a pair of tights at some point in the near future, the influence is too strong. They are everywhere: on trendsetters--those girls that manage the look without looking retro-- and on everyone else too, unfortunately.
Regarding such a future: when I do blog about buying tights--it will be with all due shame, even if I deny it at the time. Trust me.
I recently covered the Agecroft Small Boats Rowing Event for the newspaper. Inbetween races, my photographer, James Lester, and I spent our down time with the swans. This picture doesn't depict it well, but the swans in the UK are very socialized. They seem almost indignant when you don't have anything to feed them--and yes, for all you non-believers--swans have teeth.
Timed-trials at the Salford Quays. Rowers raced over three kilometres in single sculls, two-man, four-main and eight-man boats.
Monday, October 16, 2006
Walks, Talks & Dances Like An American
Our second day in Dublin left Robyn and I to check out the National Museum of Ireland and wander more of the city's streets. By late afternoon, we were understandably dragging. And the previous day's sunny skies had turned to grey, drizzling rain and only helping along our growing fatigue.
We did not have a place to stay for that night because our flight was leaving at 6:30am the next morning. Being self-described adventurous, more importantly on a budget and disinclined to search out an open hostel, we decided to find something to occupy our attention late into the evening--or slum it for a few hours at the airport. Fortunately, the luck of the Irish smiled in our favour and the latter was how we spent the remainder of our time in Dublin.
The Porterhouse: a pub that was warm, dry and serving food. Paradise. It was the eve of Thanksgiving for us, and knowing we would not have eachother, let alone family, to celebrate the next day's Canadian holiday, we decided to celebrate at the Porterhouse. Turkey dinner became pizza and homemade pumpkin pie was replaced with a brownie and ice cream.
A live set, the Glen Baker Band, was playing what turned out to be covers of numerous popular North American hits: everything from Jack Johnson to Neil Diamond. Their energy was a welcome contribution to the Porterhouse atmosphere, and the exhausted morale of myself and Robyn. The dance floor was busy most of the night, occupied primarily by a certain group of people.
My first impression of this handful of individuals that walked into the Porterhouse was that they were different. And when I notice that something is different over here, it usually means I am noticing something that is actually very familiar to me--example being, the squawk of Canadian geese.
This group was different: the guys were wearing ball caps and outfitted in jeans and t-shirts. And the girls were loud. In fact, the whole group was loud. I noticed their overall demeanour was more agressive than I have typically experienced in the UK, as well as Ireland.
I turned to Robyn to point them out, saying "I don't think they're Irish--they're too obnoxious."
This group continuted to grab my attention for different reasons: camera flashes, yelling at eachother, yelling at the band, throwing things, dropping things...and then there it was:
Hollister emblazoned down a shirt sleeve.
South Beach across the front of another.
And the New England Patriot's logo branding the cap of a visor, worn backwards.
Of course. It was all beginning to make sense.
They were American.
They had struck me as different--or familiar-- since the moment they walked into the Porterhouse. And their antics throughout the night, including one liquored American girl staggering into the men's washroom and their terrible dance displays of dance. How undeniably, embarassingly, familiarly American.
One Irish patron even approached our table and said to Tom, a Dubliner we had met the night before and who had joined us at the Porterhouse:
"How many Americans can you pick out of the crowd?"
And so they did spend the next five minutes picking Americans out of the crowd--bringing to mind the phrase: Like shooting fish in a barrel.
Robyn and I helped be demonstrating some obvious Americanisms, a convenient example being the way they danced because it is so similar to the way Canadians dance. I have not felt the red crush of embarassment so strongly as I did that night: watching the spastically goofy dance moves of fellow North Americans.
Yeah, they do that.
And that too.
ooh ...yeah, that one is popular..unfortunately.
At one point I stood up to impersonate a popular North American dance move. It is predominantly a move executed by the guys, and was immortalized in the pop-culture motion picture blockbuster of the late 90s, "Night at the Roxbury":
1. while standing, raise your arms above your head
2. with a bend in the knees, gyrate hips in back and forth motion
3. and at all times, remain irritably close to the person you will be molesting with this move
For anyone still needing clarification: see Ryan Kurzac at the Thirsty Dog.
Not two minutes after I had demonstrated what is possibly the epitome of corn-dog dance moves that typify the dance floors of North America, there it was.
Bombarding through the crowd on the dance floor was Joe America. In his backwards ball cap, brand name t-shirt and Timbaland boots, he landed nearly on top of poor, unsuspecting Dancing Girl and proceeded his own self-perfected version of the Roxbury Rumba.
Oh, wait. She must be American because as the assualt continued she broke into peels of laughter, slowly collapsing under the weight of her All-American boytoy. Unfortunately, sometimes we develop acceptance for those things we cannot change--like the forever hopelessly cheesy dance moves performed night after night on dance floors across North America.
We did not have a place to stay for that night because our flight was leaving at 6:30am the next morning. Being self-described adventurous, more importantly on a budget and disinclined to search out an open hostel, we decided to find something to occupy our attention late into the evening--or slum it for a few hours at the airport. Fortunately, the luck of the Irish smiled in our favour and the latter was how we spent the remainder of our time in Dublin.
The Porterhouse: a pub that was warm, dry and serving food. Paradise. It was the eve of Thanksgiving for us, and knowing we would not have eachother, let alone family, to celebrate the next day's Canadian holiday, we decided to celebrate at the Porterhouse. Turkey dinner became pizza and homemade pumpkin pie was replaced with a brownie and ice cream.
A live set, the Glen Baker Band, was playing what turned out to be covers of numerous popular North American hits: everything from Jack Johnson to Neil Diamond. Their energy was a welcome contribution to the Porterhouse atmosphere, and the exhausted morale of myself and Robyn. The dance floor was busy most of the night, occupied primarily by a certain group of people.
My first impression of this handful of individuals that walked into the Porterhouse was that they were different. And when I notice that something is different over here, it usually means I am noticing something that is actually very familiar to me--example being, the squawk of Canadian geese.
This group was different: the guys were wearing ball caps and outfitted in jeans and t-shirts. And the girls were loud. In fact, the whole group was loud. I noticed their overall demeanour was more agressive than I have typically experienced in the UK, as well as Ireland.
I turned to Robyn to point them out, saying "I don't think they're Irish--they're too obnoxious."
This group continuted to grab my attention for different reasons: camera flashes, yelling at eachother, yelling at the band, throwing things, dropping things...and then there it was:
Hollister emblazoned down a shirt sleeve.
South Beach across the front of another.
And the New England Patriot's logo branding the cap of a visor, worn backwards.
Of course. It was all beginning to make sense.
They were American.
They had struck me as different--or familiar-- since the moment they walked into the Porterhouse. And their antics throughout the night, including one liquored American girl staggering into the men's washroom and their terrible dance displays of dance. How undeniably, embarassingly, familiarly American.
One Irish patron even approached our table and said to Tom, a Dubliner we had met the night before and who had joined us at the Porterhouse:
"How many Americans can you pick out of the crowd?"
And so they did spend the next five minutes picking Americans out of the crowd--bringing to mind the phrase: Like shooting fish in a barrel.
Robyn and I helped be demonstrating some obvious Americanisms, a convenient example being the way they danced because it is so similar to the way Canadians dance. I have not felt the red crush of embarassment so strongly as I did that night: watching the spastically goofy dance moves of fellow North Americans.
Yeah, they do that.
And that too.
ooh ...yeah, that one is popular..unfortunately.
At one point I stood up to impersonate a popular North American dance move. It is predominantly a move executed by the guys, and was immortalized in the pop-culture motion picture blockbuster of the late 90s, "Night at the Roxbury":
1. while standing, raise your arms above your head
2. with a bend in the knees, gyrate hips in back and forth motion
3. and at all times, remain irritably close to the person you will be molesting with this move
For anyone still needing clarification: see Ryan Kurzac at the Thirsty Dog.
Not two minutes after I had demonstrated what is possibly the epitome of corn-dog dance moves that typify the dance floors of North America, there it was.
Bombarding through the crowd on the dance floor was Joe America. In his backwards ball cap, brand name t-shirt and Timbaland boots, he landed nearly on top of poor, unsuspecting Dancing Girl and proceeded his own self-perfected version of the Roxbury Rumba.
Oh, wait. She must be American because as the assualt continued she broke into peels of laughter, slowly collapsing under the weight of her All-American boytoy. Unfortunately, sometimes we develop acceptance for those things we cannot change--like the forever hopelessly cheesy dance moves performed night after night on dance floors across North America.
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