Madeline McCann. 4 years old, missing from her family's vacation villa in Portugal since May. This story has been impossible to miss here, as it's been front page news for 4 months, and recently took a surprising twist. But I'm getting ahead of myself. A few observations/random thoughts about this news item.
Firstly, much has been made of the fact the her parents, Kate and Gerry McCann, both highly educated and comfortably well-off, would leave their children unattended while they had dinner with friends. People tend to see this and condemn the McCanns as irresponsible. I've even heard people imply that they had it coming.
What seems to be perpetually overlooked, though, is the fact that the resort at which they were staying is entirely geared toward the production of an environment in which parents can do exactly what the McCanns did. Having talked to people who've actually stayed in a Mark Warner resort, it's not uncommon for parents to leave their children unattended for long periods of time. Let's not condemn the parents for doing what many, many others have simply because we have the benefit of hindsight.
Second, and here's where it gets interesting, the McCanns have done a tremendous job of keeping the story alive, ostensibly in the hope that by doing so, someone will come forward and say that they've seen the girl and her abductor. In the last week or so, though, the Portugese police formally placed the McCanns under suspicion, and it's now up to ajudge to determine based on the current evidence whether formal charges should be brought against the parents.
While details of the evidence against them are sketchy and unreliable (there's a huge amount of speculatory "evidence" sprayed around various news outlets), from what I gather, a large quantity of Madeline's hair and some "bodily fluid" which was an 80% match for Madeline's DNA were found in the trunk of a rental car used by the McCanns some 25 days after Maddy's disappearance. Her parents accidentally killed her with an overdose of sleeping pills, hid the body, then disposed of it later, or so goes the theory.
Now, it may just be me, but I think this new evidence is just a bit hard to swallow. My issues with it are fairly simple. First, where, exactly, does one hide a body in a foreign country? And didn't the police thoroughly search the resort compound and surrounding areas immediately after the disappearance? OK, so maybe the McCanns initially hid the body somewhere else. But if the they were at dinner with friends, when would they have had time to get far enough away that that the body wouldn't be found and then get back without arousing curiosity from their dinner companions? And if the killing was accidental, as has been suggested, wouldn't they have been noticeably shaken during dinner?
OK, set that aside for the moment. Consider the evidence that's been found in the car. A "large amount" of hair? Come on. I just can't imagine that people who are clever enough to have stashed a body for 3 weeks while a massive manhunt and media frenzy raged around them would make the schoolboy mistake of not vacuuming out the car after they'd dumped the body. And just how would they have been able to elude the photographers, journalists and random strangers who've surrounded them for long enough to retrieve the body, move it and then bury it again. Aren't the chances pretty good that someone would have noticed that? Or did the McCanns kill the onlookers, too?
In fact, I'm not alone in thinking that the rental car evidence is a little dodgy. Dr. Michael Baden, chief forensic pathologist for the New York State Police, was quoted as saying that a body which had been decomposing for 25 days would leave a large amount of putrefying matter behind unless it was tightly wrapped. It doesn't seem that a great deal of anything was found in the car. But, as Dr. Baden points out, if the body were so tightly wrapped, how did the hair get out?
Since everyone seems to be in mystery solving mode these days, I'll offer my two alternative theories:
- The Portugese police planted the evidence in the car because they're tired of looking like the Keystone Kops. I admit that this is pretty unlikely since the police would have had to obtain Maddie's hair and some sort of bodily fluid in order to put these into the car, but certainly, given that they had access to the villa, they could have obtained these fairly easily. I'm not fond of this theory, since it feels a bit too Hollywood for me.
- Maddy is alive, and her abductor planted the hair in the rental car to make it a) look like she's dead so as to reduce the intensity of the search and b) make it look like the McCanns did it. Win-win. This is also admittedly a bit of a stretch, since, just as it's unlikely that the McCanns could have exhumed, moved and reinterred the body unnoticed, it's equally improbable that anyone would be able to break into their rental car unnoticed, but I don't think it's outside the realm of possibility.
So maybe my theories aren't watertight, and I certainly don't have all the facts in my posession, but from what's been reported, it doesn't seem like the police have it quite right, either.
Either way, I hope I'm right, and that Madeline is found. The sad fact is, though, that children go missing all the time, from all parts of the world, and no one's looking for them. Maybe we should be.
Wednesday, September 12, 2007
Sunday, September 9, 2007
Bad Habits
We've been toilet training Michael. He's pretty much done, and none too soon, as he starts nursery school next week. He's acquired an interesting habit along the way, though. In the early days, he was afraid to poop on the toilet, so, like any good parents, we incented him to do so. In his case, his favorite thing is Thomas the Tank Engine, so we gave him a little toy train. Every single time.
Clearly this wasn't a sustainable practice, since he's always been fairly regular and merchandising tie-ins are expensive. Predictably, this has created a sort of inverse Pavlovian response, as every time he moves his bowels he now expects to receive a toy train by way of compensation.
Apart from the strange looks we get from other patrons in the Gents' as he wails about 'wanting Annie' while we wash his hands, the Trains for Excrement Exchange Programme has had the desired effect in that he's now happy to have a poo nearly anywhere.
In fact, he's proudly deposited the contents of his lower digestive tract in some of the poshest toilets in all of Christendom: Buckingham Palace, The British Museum, Windsor Castle, the Tower of London, some Indian place at the Notting Hill Carnival, and the Island Gardens DLR station (this last, though you may not have heard of it, was quite an achievement, as we had to convince the station attendant to let us use the 'secure' toilet. Apparently, we don't look like the type of people to leave a bomb in his toilet. For the record, we didn't - we flushed.)
This has become something of a hobby with him - seeing on how many famous places he can leave his skid mark. Still, while somewhat inconvenient, this habit is fairly benign. Caroline, on the other hand, has several habits of which Michele and I feel obliged to divorce her as quickly as possible.
First, she cries when we drop her at school. This happens every day, and it's getting old, especially because the wailing starts when we leave the house and it's a 10 minute walk to school. She's fine once she gets there and starts playing with the other kids, but now one of the boys calls her 'the crying girl'. I hate little boys. I think they should all be rounded up and sent off to break large rocks with small hammers. Failing this delightfully Dickensian childcare approach, however, we'll have to figure out a way to stop her crying before the other kids figure out that she's an easy mark and start making her cry just for the hell of it. Because that's exactly what they'll do. Maybe not all of them, but enough of them to make her life miserable.
Second, she's a nose picker. OK, I know, we all are. Yes, you are, too, stop denying it. The real trouble is, she also eats it. Eww. I don't think I ever did that, so I figure she must get it from Michele. The frequency of this has decreased recently, so I assume she's either growing out of it or has gotten full, but I don't want her growing up like that girl we all knew in high school who got busted eating snot in the second grade and spent the remainder of her school years sitting in a corner obsessively picking lint from her sweater and drawing astonishingly realistic pictures of large knives slicing through various body parts. Come to think of it, getting away from one's early childhood history may be one of the benefits of moving around, as I doubt very much that booger snarfing goes on one's permanent record. Does it?
Finally, and perhaps most troubling, is the butt scratching. And I don't mean your run of the mill oh-dammit-I'm-gonna-have-to-change-my-undies-now sort of scratching, I mean full on, both hands down the back of the pants, subtle as a trainwreck sort.
It's not that I'm embarrassed of her behavior. Well, the crying is a little embarrassing because it makes me feel like a bad parent. But let's face it, not one of these things is self destructive, and they certainly don't hurt anyone else; so as far as I'm concerned, she can wail, pick and scratch to her heart's content if that's what makes her happy. The problem is that I know she'll be teased mercilessly for these things. Yes, I also know that if it's not one of these, the kids will find something - that's how kids are - but these behaviors are just too obvious, too juicy for even the most kind-hearted child to pass up.
On the other hand, maybe it's better for her to learn the cruel lesson now. To take a drubbing in her early years and be thereby fortified to face the challenges which will surely come in adolescence and beyond.
No, as rational as that may sound, I think our focus will have to be on breaking these habits. Too bad she doesn't like trains.
Clearly this wasn't a sustainable practice, since he's always been fairly regular and merchandising tie-ins are expensive. Predictably, this has created a sort of inverse Pavlovian response, as every time he moves his bowels he now expects to receive a toy train by way of compensation.
Apart from the strange looks we get from other patrons in the Gents' as he wails about 'wanting Annie' while we wash his hands, the Trains for Excrement Exchange Programme has had the desired effect in that he's now happy to have a poo nearly anywhere.
In fact, he's proudly deposited the contents of his lower digestive tract in some of the poshest toilets in all of Christendom: Buckingham Palace, The British Museum, Windsor Castle, the Tower of London, some Indian place at the Notting Hill Carnival, and the Island Gardens DLR station (this last, though you may not have heard of it, was quite an achievement, as we had to convince the station attendant to let us use the 'secure' toilet. Apparently, we don't look like the type of people to leave a bomb in his toilet. For the record, we didn't - we flushed.)
This has become something of a hobby with him - seeing on how many famous places he can leave his skid mark. Still, while somewhat inconvenient, this habit is fairly benign. Caroline, on the other hand, has several habits of which Michele and I feel obliged to divorce her as quickly as possible.
First, she cries when we drop her at school. This happens every day, and it's getting old, especially because the wailing starts when we leave the house and it's a 10 minute walk to school. She's fine once she gets there and starts playing with the other kids, but now one of the boys calls her 'the crying girl'. I hate little boys. I think they should all be rounded up and sent off to break large rocks with small hammers. Failing this delightfully Dickensian childcare approach, however, we'll have to figure out a way to stop her crying before the other kids figure out that she's an easy mark and start making her cry just for the hell of it. Because that's exactly what they'll do. Maybe not all of them, but enough of them to make her life miserable.
Second, she's a nose picker. OK, I know, we all are. Yes, you are, too, stop denying it. The real trouble is, she also eats it. Eww. I don't think I ever did that, so I figure she must get it from Michele. The frequency of this has decreased recently, so I assume she's either growing out of it or has gotten full, but I don't want her growing up like that girl we all knew in high school who got busted eating snot in the second grade and spent the remainder of her school years sitting in a corner obsessively picking lint from her sweater and drawing astonishingly realistic pictures of large knives slicing through various body parts. Come to think of it, getting away from one's early childhood history may be one of the benefits of moving around, as I doubt very much that booger snarfing goes on one's permanent record. Does it?
Finally, and perhaps most troubling, is the butt scratching. And I don't mean your run of the mill oh-dammit-I'm-gonna-have-to-change-my-undies-now sort of scratching, I mean full on, both hands down the back of the pants, subtle as a trainwreck sort.
It's not that I'm embarrassed of her behavior. Well, the crying is a little embarrassing because it makes me feel like a bad parent. But let's face it, not one of these things is self destructive, and they certainly don't hurt anyone else; so as far as I'm concerned, she can wail, pick and scratch to her heart's content if that's what makes her happy. The problem is that I know she'll be teased mercilessly for these things. Yes, I also know that if it's not one of these, the kids will find something - that's how kids are - but these behaviors are just too obvious, too juicy for even the most kind-hearted child to pass up.
On the other hand, maybe it's better for her to learn the cruel lesson now. To take a drubbing in her early years and be thereby fortified to face the challenges which will surely come in adolescence and beyond.
No, as rational as that may sound, I think our focus will have to be on breaking these habits. Too bad she doesn't like trains.
Monday, September 3, 2007
Tube Strike
"Woke up this morning, what did I see
A big black cloud hanging over me
I switched on the radio and nearly dropped dead
The news was so bad that I fell out of bed
There was a gas strike, oil strike, lorry strike, bread strike
Got to be a Superman to survive
Gas bills, rent bills, tax bills, phone bills
I'm such a wreck but I'm staying alive"
- The Kinks
I got my first taste of industrial action today when the union for Metronet, one of the companies that maintains the London Underground, went on strike. In actual fact, I wasn't really affected. I used the dire predictions of thousands left stranded in various parts of the city and having to subsist on day old curry and bits of rat as an excuse to slag off work early.
The strike is set to last 72 hours, with another 72 hour strike scheduled for Monday. While inconvenient, it's certainly not the end of the world. I'm fortunate enough to be able to work from home if I need to. The odd thing, though, is that neither I nor anyone I talk to seems to have the foggiest idea what the strike is about. Unlike in the States, when a strike is used to call attention to something the union wants, and where the striking union is highly verbose, if not entirely articulate, in its explanation of matters, this strike is entirely different. The union isn't saying anything. Not one word has been published about why there's a strike, what the union's hoping to accomplish, and what demands need to be met to avoid next week's strike. It appears that the union is simply striking because it can. Or because they really, really enjoy inconveniencing people.
If anyone can offer an alternative explanation, I'm all ears.
A big black cloud hanging over me
I switched on the radio and nearly dropped dead
The news was so bad that I fell out of bed
There was a gas strike, oil strike, lorry strike, bread strike
Got to be a Superman to survive
Gas bills, rent bills, tax bills, phone bills
I'm such a wreck but I'm staying alive"
- The Kinks
I got my first taste of industrial action today when the union for Metronet, one of the companies that maintains the London Underground, went on strike. In actual fact, I wasn't really affected. I used the dire predictions of thousands left stranded in various parts of the city and having to subsist on day old curry and bits of rat as an excuse to slag off work early.
The strike is set to last 72 hours, with another 72 hour strike scheduled for Monday. While inconvenient, it's certainly not the end of the world. I'm fortunate enough to be able to work from home if I need to. The odd thing, though, is that neither I nor anyone I talk to seems to have the foggiest idea what the strike is about. Unlike in the States, when a strike is used to call attention to something the union wants, and where the striking union is highly verbose, if not entirely articulate, in its explanation of matters, this strike is entirely different. The union isn't saying anything. Not one word has been published about why there's a strike, what the union's hoping to accomplish, and what demands need to be met to avoid next week's strike. It appears that the union is simply striking because it can. Or because they really, really enjoy inconveniencing people.
If anyone can offer an alternative explanation, I'm all ears.
Sunday, September 2, 2007
Home Alone
Well, not exactly, but all of our visitors have gone, so it feels as if the house is empty again. We spent 3 of the last 4 weeks entertaining relatives and, although it was great fun having everyone here, now it's back to reality.
I have work next week, and this will be my first full week in about a month. I'm not looking forward to it, even though I've been keeping up with my email, more or less, as I know there will be a pile of undealt-with stuff waiting for me. Caroline starts school again on Tuesday, and is none too happy about that. Michael starts school the week after and, while he's ambivalent about the whole thing, Michele's pretty excited to have time to herself every day, even if it's only two and a half hours.
We've also (finally) booked a European trip. We're going to Vienna for a long weekend in November for the Christmas Market. This is apparently a tradition that dates back either 300 (according to historians) or 700 (according to marketers) years, in which the streets around the Vienna City Hall (the Rathaus, which would be an appropriate name for any government building, really) are transformed into a pine-scented, ornament-selling, mulled-wine-drinking wonderland. We've no idea what to expect - this could be either a really great time or complete bollocks - but we're really excited about the prospect of going to Vienna. For the weekend. How cool is that?
We're also planning a long weekend in Stockholm in October. Somehow, Michele and I always manage to travel in the off season. We went to Paris in October, Rome in November, Nevis in the summer. Nearly all of my trips to London were between November and March, and New Hampshire in early October isn't as colorful as you might think. But so far, we've been really lucky with our travelling. We've never had a bad time anywhere we've been, the weather has generally been good (though Paris in late October is really rainy and windy, so much so that the Eiffel tower was closed), and the tourists have mostly gone home. Maybe we'll make a practice of this off-season travelling. I hear Iceland in February is, um, Icy.
I have work next week, and this will be my first full week in about a month. I'm not looking forward to it, even though I've been keeping up with my email, more or less, as I know there will be a pile of undealt-with stuff waiting for me. Caroline starts school again on Tuesday, and is none too happy about that. Michael starts school the week after and, while he's ambivalent about the whole thing, Michele's pretty excited to have time to herself every day, even if it's only two and a half hours.
We've also (finally) booked a European trip. We're going to Vienna for a long weekend in November for the Christmas Market. This is apparently a tradition that dates back either 300 (according to historians) or 700 (according to marketers) years, in which the streets around the Vienna City Hall (the Rathaus, which would be an appropriate name for any government building, really) are transformed into a pine-scented, ornament-selling, mulled-wine-drinking wonderland. We've no idea what to expect - this could be either a really great time or complete bollocks - but we're really excited about the prospect of going to Vienna. For the weekend. How cool is that?
We're also planning a long weekend in Stockholm in October. Somehow, Michele and I always manage to travel in the off season. We went to Paris in October, Rome in November, Nevis in the summer. Nearly all of my trips to London were between November and March, and New Hampshire in early October isn't as colorful as you might think. But so far, we've been really lucky with our travelling. We've never had a bad time anywhere we've been, the weather has generally been good (though Paris in late October is really rainy and windy, so much so that the Eiffel tower was closed), and the tourists have mostly gone home. Maybe we'll make a practice of this off-season travelling. I hear Iceland in February is, um, Icy.
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