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:

• 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!

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.

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!

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.

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.

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.

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.

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!

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.

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.

• 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:

1. keep all food stored away in sealed containers
2. use garbage cans with a tight lid
3. frequently clean kitchen and regularly vacuum
4. 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).

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.

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.

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.

Irish Lads & Irish Jigs

It did not take long for me to notice that the British culture, at least the younger crowd, is considerably more laidback than its Canadian counterpart. The two are very similar, but one difference that never fails to strike me is the sub-culture of bar life in the UK.

A British friend of mine recently admitted that "yes, we do know how to do the pub scene." And it is true. Life within a pub, a bar, a club--and undeniably on a dance floor--is much more animated here than in Canada. I will be the first to admit that I do not have an impressive reputation for partying; however, I have enough experience to make the observation.

And Dublin--being so nearby England--did not fail to impress.

It stikes me almost as a revelation would; in the beginning, it was awe and an almost pleasantly incredulous gape:

Boys ....dance???

But now, with several nights out under my belt and two being among the Irish my reaction is like an affirmation--as though if I did not confirm it, all the boys might sit down and proceed with their too cool for you facade:

Boys ...dance. Yes, they do. Boys can dance!

And the Irish boys love to dance: it mostly consists of a lot of hopping, at least it is anything but the terrible array of dance moves that litter most North American dance floors.

The trio of Irish boys that treated us out the first night in Dublin even danced without us. They did not appear ready to sit out a song just because two Canadian girls were calling 'er quits. And I dare say they outnumbered girls on the dance floor as well.

Guys outnumbering girls on a dance floor: you will see that in a Canadian bar when hell freezes over--or when the DJ plays Tenacious D, whichever comes first.

So we left them dancing. They actually found us later, wandering the streets of Dublin--lost--much to their amusement. But the night was proof that the Irish are fun.

The next night: proof that if it looks like an American, walks like an American and dances like an American--it will be an American.

When Darkness Falls on Dublin

The most impressive thing about Dublin is its nighttime atmosphere. This is not to say that Dublin is not a welcome place during the day; but once the evening crowd takes over the streets, the city seems alive with activity that does not usually transcend sunset hours.

The hub of the city's nightlife is Temple Bar, an area of Dublin on the south bank of the River Liffey. What makes Temple so intriguing for tourists (aside from the fact that it has been completely developed to attract them), is that the area has preserved its medieval street pattern. Narrow cobbled streets lined with endless numbers of restaurants, pubs, clubs, shops, hotels , hotels and even street performers make Temple a veritable amusement park of life, especially at night. Ireland has enjoyed a considerable economic boom over the past ten years, consequently much of the city has been modernized; but Temple retains a feeling of old Irish charm, which makes wandering its streets worthwhile.

My pictures haven't been developed, but this is Temple Bar. The picture isn't an accurate representation of the area at night: the streets and sidewalks are thick with people and all the buildings are adorned with lights--so bright it seems to be dusk instead of the middle of the night. The picture does, however, do justice to the size of the area, as well as the cobbled streets.

The area really is charming, but the catch being: you will be hardpressed to meet any Irish people at Temple Bar. The streets are literally crawling with tourists. We were asked for directions more often than we asked for them ourselves. And this is how the goal of our Dublin weekend was set in stone: meet the Irish.

Fortunately with a little Canadian charm, I doubt our goal was really that far out of reach.

Robyn and I ran into three of what I think were the only Irish people at Temple, and on the outskirts of it at that. They were Simon, Will and ...I will say Fetz because it was something peculiar that escapes me now. They promised to show us where the "real Irish" people go, a spiffy-looking joint by the name of Howl at the Moon. I say spiffy looking because we never did get inside. Yours truly was turned away by the doorman for being under twenty-three.

Twenty-three!?

Yes, I had that very same reaction. The drinking age in Ireland is eighteen. However, a couple theories have developed as to why I never did make it past Howl at the Moon's velvet ropes:

1. the bouncer was a jerk (the immediate assumption)
2. I wasn't convincingly "authentic Irish" (in fact, I am unmistakingly Canadian at times)
3. (my favourite theory): fake IDs are prevelant in Ireland and it is more difficult for a 16-year old to appear twenty-three than it is for her to appear to be twenty-one

This theory was thanks to another Irish lad we met the next night--it is a great theory (bonus points for creativity), but I do not believe it for a second--it is a good example of Irish charm.

And my personal theory:

4. I was dressed like a tourist who could only bring one ten-pound carry-on bag on the flight and had been walking the streets of Dublin for twelve hours

Whatever the reason, I was shamefully denied entry. Adding insult to injury, I discovered all of my companions were over the age of twenty-five. So there I was, on the wrong side of the rope looking in, hatching plans to return to Dublin wearing my A-game and getting revenge on shallow, judgemental Irish Bouncer. Because I wil be honest--we all know the truth likes in theory number four.

Fortunately though, neither Robyn nor my newfound Irish mates decided to leave me in my poor, rejected juvenile state to the streets. We regrouped, hailed a cab and found a much less posh (but equally as Irish) part of the city to spend the night: the Palace (take my word for it, the name was ironic).

To be continued...
Irish Lads, Irish Jigs and Irish Women.

When Irish Eyes Are Smiling

So it is about time I documented my trip to Dublin because the invitations for return visits have already come about. It is tempting to visit the Irish again for two reasons: now we personally know a couple Irish lads willing to extend their hospitality our way; and secondly, the Irish accent is really just that charming.

Robyn and I flew into Dublin around 9:30am on a Saturday morning without a place to stay or any definite plans for the weekend. We were putting our faith in "something coming through" and good ol' Irish luck. From the airport we took a double-decker bus into the city centre, O'Connell Street, and literally just wandered down the first street we came to. It happened to be Talbot Street, which also happened to be where we stumbled across The Pillar Bed & Breakfast.

The buildings in Dublin do not have the same architectural detail that they do in Manchester--for the most part. Of course, the city has some amazing displays of architecture, namely the National Museum of Ireland and the Irish parliament building. However, much of the city centre's buildings are not highrises and do not have a lot of fancy architectural detail on the building faces. The effect is much like the scene of an old Western film, a long road flanked by flat-faced buildings rising up either side of it.

So The Pillar was literally a pillar of a building with a doorway. Later in the day, we walked right by it once or twice once we had checked in because it was so inconspicuous. However, we did stumble upon it about ten minutes after stepping off the bus and decided--being homeless and all--that we should check it out. Inside we found what turned out to be an opportunity we could not pass up.

A young guy named Washington, of all things, welcomed us. The Pillar had two rooms vacant and promised us no luck anywhere else. We were willing to take Washington on his word because everything was booked hostel-wise. Being a bed & breakfast, we got more than we had expected from any hostel: one (entirely clean) room with a bunk bed outfitted with a blanket and pillow that put my already shameful Castle Irwell provisions to further shame. The deal also included breakfast in bed, delivered at whichever time we chose.

Once we had a place to stay for the evening, Robyn and I set off for a meal. We ended up at a small breakfast diner that obviously catered to locals more than anyone else. I think we both regretted the breakfast as soon as it was placed in front of us, but it was certainly our hunger and the spirit of a traditional Irish breakfast that drove us there in the first place.

We got two sausages, two pieces of bacon, two pieces of toast, one egg, black and white pudding and a cup of coffee. A cup of coffee in the UK is literally one cup--no refills, and often the cup is 3/4 full. Our one egg was cooked sunny-side-up and apparently we did not have a choice. And black and white pudding sounded deliciously appetizing on the menu, but turns out to be two miniature pucks of sausage-pancakes. We still do not know what they are. But one was a brownish colour and the other was most definitely black.

The rest of our first day in Dublin was spent wandering streets and browsing stores. The area of the city we were in is greatly developed for tourists, and so is particularly accssible to those travelling by foot. Much of the city of Dublin is like this--the main streets are packed with people.

The day was especially sunny, with blue and cloudless skies helping along my impression of Dublin quite well. But the city at night is what really tipped the scales in good favour for me.
More to come...

An anecdote:
I was telling my South African friend a story today that involved mentioning The Great One. In case the obvious needs to be stated: #99.
Anyway, I noticed a blank look from the South African when I mentioned Canada's golden boy, so I asked:

You do know who Wayne Gretzky is, right?

"Uhhh," a vacant glance comes my way, "... he's .... he's an ice hockey player ...right?" said Shaun, his tone drowning in uncertainty.

________________________________

Culture shock factor: Wayne Gretzky does not cause people around the globe to drop to their knees and pray "I'm not worthies" to the Great One. I never knew.

Off to Dublin

Everything About the Pav Is Cheesy, Including Its Patrons

This weekend brought a trip to Dublin, Ireland with my Canadian friend, Robyn. Robyn and I met in the journalism program at TRU last year, and Robyn took a job as an aupair in England after graduating last spring.

We live a few hours apart in England, she in a small town near Lincoln and myself in Manchester. For Brits, it is an ungodly distance apart--three hours in Canadian terms. And both being true-blue Canadians, we don't consider the distance much more than a short drive. It has been a running joke between the two of us to listen to non-Canadians discuss distances.

On Friday night, my South African friend, Shaun, was expecting his friend Joe to visit Manchester for a wedding the next day. Joe is living in Southampton, which is a three and a half hour trip by car, maybe four with traffic. When we asked Shaun what time Joe would be arriving in Manchester to join the party, his reply was typical of most Brits and generally all Europeans:

ohhhh, I don't know. Not tonight that's for sure.

If he even makes it here at all.

Journeys exceeding one hour are almost unimaginable for those not acclimitized to the expansive True North landscape. When I tell people I'm from Canada, I usually use Vancouver as a reference point of where I am actually from. Although, when I refer to my city as being "near" Vancouver, people assume I mean within the means of a municipal transit system. When they find out I can't walk to the city, let alone live nearly four hours away, they are appalled.

I thought you said you lived NEAR Vancouver!?

And it is understandable. In four hours you can drive from one end of this country to the other. In less time than that, you can drive from East to West. And if you put in a serious day of driving--ten to twelve hours by Canadian standards--you would find yourself well into France or driving off the end of Scotland.

Robyn & Me At the Pav - Pre-trip Party

However, Robyn and I exemplified Canadian travellers (particularly from small-town Canada) on Friday morning while trying to rendez-vous in Manchester. Our plans are embarassingly sparse in hindsight, but at the time knowing Robyn arrived in Manchester at the Picadilly Gardens around 9 o'clock seemed more than enough information.

So I arrived at the Picadilly Gardens around 9 o'clock Friday morning to find Robyn. I soon realized that finding Robyn in a block stretching some 100 square metres in a city that boasts a density of nearly four thousand people every single square kilometre...might be a problem. Not surprisingly, the morning turned into a few hours of Where's Waldo-esque wandering (I am without a cellphone in England, and times like this prove just how wrong I was about spending four months "disconnected"). By 2:30pm, Robyn and I were reunited, looking forward to the weekend's trip, and swearing up and down that the morning's display of mediocre communication would never be repeated.

Needless to say, Joe never did make it to Manchester that night. I suppose he dropped off somewhere between hour two and hour three.

And Robyn and I were off to Dublin the next morning...after all--it is only an hour's plane ride away.

Robyn, Shaun & Me - plenty of fun without Joe.

Get it together like your big brother, Bob

In a testament to the ghetto-ness of my neighbourhood, my house mate Hattie was mugged today on her way home from class. Hattie was walking down Wallness Lane, a road on campus that I also walk to and from university every day. It was 3:30 pm as Hattie came across two young men, she guesses, between 17 and 20-years-old. She describes them as chavs, what I would liken to the Canadian equivelent of skids. One of these punks--a most suitable word--approached Hattie on the sidewalk, asking her for the time. As she glanced down at the cell phone she was carrying in her hand, he grabbed for it.

What ensued really amounts to something that sounds like an awkward exchange between first graders. He held a tree branch, or a stick of some description, in one hand and told Hattie that she had better not force him to use it against her. Hattie eventually let go of her phone as he grabbed for the bag she had slung over her shoulder, and the two muggers took off running down the street.

Hattie said the entire incident lasted no more than a minute. She describes it calmly, and laughs when repeating the painfully unimaginative and immature threat of her mugger:

Don't make me use this.

Use what? Your twig? I won't let this digress into a diatribe about boys and their only too obvious inferiority complexes--but the temptation is there.

Of course, the situation was fortunately minor. The end result was better than other alternatives. And we are all just thankful that Hattie is safe.

But niceties aside. They don't operate with any decency, so why accord any to them--even indirectly--by being thankful that they were only amateurs?

What's most aggravating about this story is that hundreds of students walk along Wallness Lane every day. Had the situation gone on another ten seconds, I'm assured of the fact that someone would have come along the road-on foot, by car or riding a bike.

The amateur nature in which the whole thing was carried out makes the fact that useless members of society like these boys are making perfectly safe situations unsafe for thousands of students. People like these boys affect my personal safety, yes; but more frustrating for me is how people like these boys affect my personal independence, freedom and quality of life.

What is unfair about the situation is a moot point, but I'll make it anyway: How unfair and disappointing is the situation that has a paying university student preparing for a future of contributing to society giving up personal posessions to other members of society with no thought for the future, except perhaps, who to inconvenience next?

And it really is only an inconvenience. Replacing a cell phone will only inconvenience Hattie by measures of time, and possibly a small monetary value--such rationalizations our muggers today use in their defence, I'm sure. But the pettiness of the crime doesn't make it any less infuriating.

Anyone who engages in petty crimes--be it theft, vandalism or abuse--are nearly as despicable as the most violent, deranged mastermind criminals of society. If only for the sole purpose that their crimes do not require any thought; their crimes are not driven by complex or psychologically entangled motives; their crimes are without purpose, and truly even without personal gain. This is in no way a defence of serious crimes. But petty thieves: young, bored, ignorant and disrespectful criminals are wholly unworthy of any sympathy, any understanding and any reprieve for their "inconvenient" actions.

Appropriately, George Thoroughgood said it as splainly as Hattie's muggers deserve: get a haircut and get a real job.

One thing I miss from home is my car. I picture it, shiny and silver, that perfect vehicle of freedom and independence, waiting so loyally in a garage in Canada.
I rode in someone's citrus green Vauxhall today-- a make of car that is as ubiquitous in England as the Honda Civic is in North America. I told the driver that their car reminded me of my Honda Civic hatchback at home.

Oh, a Civic. Yes, nice. Quite a big car then, isn't it really?

To point out the obvious, a Honda Civic hatchback by Canadian standards is a mouse among the elephant-sized SUVs and ostentatious trucks driving on Canadian roads.

Yes, well...we drive up mountains and stuff....in Canada.

I'll apologize right now for the inaccurate stereotypes I am perpetuating during my stay in the United Kingdom; but you can't expect me to be a flawless amabassador around the clock. Usually I come up with replies that both amuse and educate--so my embarassing reply today about how Canadians "drive up mountains" can be written off.

I may long for my car but certainly not to the extent that I would ever get behind the wheel of a horse and cart over here, let alone a motor vehicle and not to mention anything with a clutch. I take my own life into my hands every day simply by trying to cross the street, I would never dream of endangering and certainly putting the breaks on someone else's life by attempting to drive.

Driving in the UK has been one of the most terrifying experiences of this trip (runs a close second to wandering the dark and scally-ridden streets of Salford). My first impression of England was on the road after leaving the airport--airports are like parallel universes that exist according to their own set of guidelines. So England didn't actually begin until I left the airport.

The culture shock that is driving begins as I approach the vehicle: on the wrong side. Passengers get in on the left-hand side, something I still haven't adjusted to. Once inside you can forget about being an annoying backseat driver because all the mirrors are turned in bizarre directions and so shoulder and blind-spot checking are lost causes. Not that I would have time do any of that in between white-knuckling the seat and ducking my head between my knees.

Driving in the UK is an experience with some semblance to what I imagine riding the luge must be like. Hold on. Tuck your head. Point your toes...okay, that last one only applies to the luge.

The vehicles are much smaller, and so they should be--the roads are mere goat trails. There is no concept of a grid system over here: roads simply wind and curve and veer off so that the road maps of England look like the varicose veins that meander across the back of your grandmother's legs (not my grandmother, of course--Don't worry Nana, your calves are lovely).

Whether it be because the roads are small and winding or every English driver is actually insane behind the wheel--everyone drives fast. I'm sure I've nearly lost my life several times on the road, twice by the same driver of some delivery truck on Ring Road (the highway-like road that is in essence, a ring encircling greater Manchester). Apparently he doesn't practice checking his blind spots--at least we got to shout things like "bugger," "sod," and "toss off" at him.

To add to the chaos:
- stop signs are an endangered species in England, I've maybe seen two.
- street signs are not where they should be: practically, at the top of a sign post at the intersection of two streets. Instead, they are sometimes found somewhere on the side of a building about two feet off the ground. I mean sometimes, because often times they are no where at all.
- stop lights flash Green-Amber-Red and then Red-Amber-Green. I can't understand the logic behind this and apparently the British can't either because it's pedal to the metal on amber.
- round-abouts are everywhere. There are rarely four-way stops, and especially not where you would think they are most needed, like a busy intersection of two main two-lane streets. Instead, drivers careen into the round-about, hugging the corner all the way and fly out (sometimes across two lanes) in order to hit their exit point. Extra laps are required when exits are missed.

Within a car occurs particular conversation as well, specifically about driving. While driving, the British talk about driving. Now that I've experienced it for a month it makes perfect sense to me: to get from point A to point B in the UK requires a team effort to decipher the roads. Often times there are five different ways to get to point B and the conversation is simply an argument over which way is the better. It's an open game for the driver, his passenger, anyone in the backseat and anyone who might be on a cell phone with anyone else actually in the vehicle.

The driving experience draws to an end as you enter a car park in search of a stall where you eagerly await falling out onto asphalt and slobbering kisses on it for the very fact that it is stationary unless subject to an earthquake. You can do that if you can get out of the car. But to do so, first slither your way inbetween the half inch the door is allowed to open before scraping against the car in the next stall. Every space is a small cars only space here.

I saw the driver of a Land Rover literally inch back and forth for minutes, desperately trying to back out of a stall and into the parking lot. After labouring at what was beginning to look like a lost cause, Land Rover finally passed its nose out of the end of the stall (by running up against a lamp post in the process). The Brit watching with me replied in conclusion:

And that is why you don't drive SUVs in England.

Extricated from the vehicle, door closed and safely five steps away from what is surely to be my coffin one day--I exhale, and decide on walking home.

Just stab me riiiiight ....there.

I'm relegated to my room tonight, which has taken on an uncanny resemblance to a prison cell to accomodate my situation. Normally, number 27 is a cozy safehaven from the social obligations of a long day. Tonight though, the cement walls and the cot reqiure more imagination than I can muster to appear as anything but institutional--not to mention, the mattresses in Castle Irwell come from Strangeways, a nearby prison that features but a few horror stories being the local execution locale up until capital punishment was ended.

Strageways has been the site of a 100 hangings since its official opening in 1868, not to mention an array of all the other wonderful events that happen within prison walls. Of course the locals have been happy to share a few stories with me, a favourite being about the Strangeways ghost:

The condemned block, which housed the prisoners awaiting execution is reputed to be haunted by the ghost of one of the hangmen who officiated there. Staff on night duty have reported seeing a mysterious man in a dark suit carrying a small briefcase. He is always seen walking along wing 'B' from just outside the condemned cell towards the central control area. When they try to follow this dark suited man, he vanishes just before the old iron staircase leading up to the main office.

The ghost apparently looks exactly like a long serving hangman of Strangeways, who also wore a dark suit and carried a small briefcase. The breifcase is said to have held his hangman's gloves and the black cloth hood he used to mask his victims with before dropping them to their death.

Cue Unsolved Mysteries theme song... and sweet dreams to me on my mattress.

On an only slightly lighter note, a handful of my house mates paid a visit to a tattoo and piercing parlour this afternoon. Results included:

One titanium barbell stabbed through a tongue,
A belly button punctured twice by another, slightly smaller, titanium barbell
One more puncture wound from a stud located in the style of a Cindy Crawford mole
And ink imbedded into the skin on a lower back, styled after a panda bear.
_______

And four ripped off house mates that didn't even get a discount from the guy who is putting his kids through university on the whims and misguided rebellions of Salford freshers

Silken Laumann anyone?

This week marked the first official week at school, which is noteworthy considering I have been in England nearly a month and on campus for over two weeks. But with all the preparation, anticipation and last-ditch effort grasps at so-called freedom, classes arrived just as uneventfully and as stalwartly as they ever do. Mine being the exception: the first lecture was cancelled and the other two got off the ground with barely a sniff at the idea of homework...blessed are my lucky stars.

My friend, on the other hand, was greeted with the news that his program was aiming to stuff three years worth of material between the very few months between September and July. And the content presented in one class was described as being so far beyond what anyone was capable of even taking notes on, the only alternative being taking in the comedy of the situation.

Blessed are my lucky stars, or did I already say that?

Repititiously or not, I do say it with complete sincerity for there will come a time when my stars will fire and fizzle and burn out in a depressing state of affairs, and school will again be the bane of my existence.

Meanwhile, I will figure out my own problem what with having to choose between rowing and soccer. Unfortunately, there isn't enough time for both, as well as writing for the newspaper and putting a worthy effort into classes.

I've been to one soccer practice and to a swim test for the rowing team. The weigh in:

Soccer practice --an old favourite. I will always love kicking a ball around and it isn't only because I look impressive in knee-high socks and Adidas shorts (sidenote to Adidas: yes, I will consider a modelling contract--but only because I believe in the company's product). Soccer seems like an obvious choice, but England isn't about doing what I normally do. Are not I supposed to return a changed person?

Rowing --so far I've only been to the social and a swim test, which consisted of jumping into a pool fully clothed to swim one length and back. Hardly a test.

Are you sure this accurately simulates flipping over an eight-man rowboat into an icy river that will drag me beneath the surface and extinguish my flame of life?
Wouldn't you like to see me swim beneath the surface? Tread water? Hold my breath?
Not even blow bubbles?

Guess not. But apparently I'm qualified.

In the spirit of this whole experience--experience being England, I think I am leaning towards the unknown--the wild blue yonder. Or the muddy Irwell River; it will work too.

I'm also banking on the fact that football, to fall in line with nation, is an obsession with the British and so I should be able to find someone to kick a ball around with if the passion strikes me. The professional footballers live just a drive away apparently--they would certainly be game for a friendly kick-around in the street before supper. Or does that only happen in the World Cup advertisements?

So Row, row, row your boat,
Gently down the stream.
Merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily,
Life is but a dream.