Familial disapproval and the scratching pens of potential future employers be hanged, I'll admit it: there's nothing I enjoy more than a good piss-up on a sunny Sunday afternoon. We have friends in town this weekend, so, equipped with a good excuse and my Panama hat, I made my way to the old Walmer Castle in Ledbury Road.
There are a number of differences between British pubs and American bars. For starters, the pub is a social event, where the bar tends to be primarily focussed on drinking. But drinking IS a social event, you say. True, but moreso the way they do it here. A proper pub is as much about the meeting of new people and the enjoyment of the company of friends as it is about the drink. The pub is traditionally the centre of social life here. A good local and a love of talking bollocks all afternoon is as key to the enjoyment of London as is, say, a love of curry and an appreciation of high rates of taxation.
Another key difference between British pubs and American bars is the sense of community ownership of furniture. I've seen fistfights break out in American watering holes over elbow rights to a table, or possession of a stool. Here, a table is a shared commodity. If you don't have enough people in your party to surround the table on which you've staked your claim, you're liable to find yourself sharing it with others. Occasionally, these others are not people you'd normally choose to associate with.
Today, while half the population of Notting Hill rammed themselves, a stinking, seething, sweating mass, into the Castle, I stood outside with my mates around a convenient table. We are fairly good-sized blokes, so it was somewhat surprising when a gangly chap in a 'Great Britain' shirt set his jug of Pimms down between the sweaty shoulders of my friend David and me and struck up a conversation. He was clearly not much of a conversationalist, but I tend to be a nice guy in these situations and engage anyone, mainly because I'm not very good at going out by myself and meeting people, and there but for the grace of God and so forth. It became clear in the first minute or so, though, that this was not someone we'd really find entertaining, and he had to go. I'm also not good at ignoring people, so it was a while before he wandered off, and he returned a few times afterwards.
During halftime, we were joined at our table by a girl, also alone and socially awkward, and strangely, dressed very similarly to our new friend. "Perfect," I thought, "let's get them together!" And together they got.
We cheered them on from the sidelines as they found a comfy seat in the back of the pub (it had cleared out by this time, England having lost rather badly to Germany), where they spent a fair bit of time getting to know each other. We thought our man had sealed the deal when the two of them exited together, still engrossed in amiable conversation. I think his folding bicycle that turned her off, though, and she hastily made her way back into the bar. Perhaps she'd mistaken his offer to take her for a ride on his bike to mean a spin on his Harley. He loitered a bit until the bouncers asked him to remove his preposterous little Brompton from the front of the bar, and he rode off into the sunset, alone. She's still there for all I know.
They might have been perfect for each other, but they'll never know. I wonder if, in ten years, he will consider how his life might have turned out, or whether she will come to deeply regret her choice to leap from his hook and back into the murky pond. I wonder if they will remember each other and, with the remembering, smile, just a little. I wonder if they missed a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.
Sunday, June 27, 2010
Butterfly Effect
A midday call between my boss in London and someone in Budapest runs over, causing my early morning call from New York with the same manager to start and finish late. This causes me to miss my intended train from New York to Philadelphia. The next train is delayed by 5 minutes, which results in my taxi arriving in the car park at the office in Philadelphia at precisely the same moment that a woman named Rosemary, on her way to her great aunt's funeral, eases her new Honda out of its parking spot and directly into the passenger door of my cab.
One cannot help but wonder at the staggering number of minor events around the world (and these are just the ones I know of) which conspired to leave poor Rosemary with a shredded bumper and airbags scrotal and shriveled. Due to the split-second timing of events like this, given sufficient time, I could enumerate an endless number of factors that affected the timing of my journey and therefore contributed to this minor incident, from the number of vehicles on the Schuylkill Expressway to the friction caused by the specific configuration of the atoms on the rails over which my train passed. Surely you can think of any number of similar situations in your own life - seemingly minor events which, aggregated, give rise to a significant event. How did you meet your partner, for example?
But one must also realize that these coincidences did not actually cause the event; they merely acted as inputs to an incredibly complex system, producing a specific reality in which Rosemary's car is damaged. This event itself probably had unknown knock on effects.
And this, I suppose, is how life really happens. Every action produces a small change in a complex system, this change gives rise a specific reality immediately around it. This reality combines with other realities produced by other small changes, giving rise to a broader reality which, in turn, combines with other broad realities which have been influenced by events elsewhere, and on and on and on, an endless dance of molecules and phone calls and automobile accidents. If Rosemary's car is single pebble thrown into a pond, we live in a rain-rippled ocean.
Chaos theorists call this the "butterfly effect," positing that in a system as complex as weather, the flap of a butterfly's wing in one part of the world can, when combined with other specific small incidents, give rise to dramatic shifts in the overall weather. This is commonly misrepresented as a butterfly in Brazil "causing" a tornado in Texas. That is, of course, an absurd oversimplification; but if one considers how small events are contributing factors to significant ones, one cannot but conclude that absolutely everything is interconnected in a way that we cannot understand, let alone predict.
The children are both in our bed, displaced by visiting grandparents. I have been awake since two this morning, the jetlag playing its usual tricks with sleep and appetite. I have moved downstairs to the couch to avoid waking the kids. It's now four o'clock, and it's hot and sticky and I have opened the windows. The sky is brightening and the birds are just warming up their morning cacophony. I've spent some time writing this, you've just spent a few minutes reading it. Our lives have both been altered in ways that we cannot comprehend.
One cannot help but wonder at the staggering number of minor events around the world (and these are just the ones I know of) which conspired to leave poor Rosemary with a shredded bumper and airbags scrotal and shriveled. Due to the split-second timing of events like this, given sufficient time, I could enumerate an endless number of factors that affected the timing of my journey and therefore contributed to this minor incident, from the number of vehicles on the Schuylkill Expressway to the friction caused by the specific configuration of the atoms on the rails over which my train passed. Surely you can think of any number of similar situations in your own life - seemingly minor events which, aggregated, give rise to a significant event. How did you meet your partner, for example?
But one must also realize that these coincidences did not actually cause the event; they merely acted as inputs to an incredibly complex system, producing a specific reality in which Rosemary's car is damaged. This event itself probably had unknown knock on effects.
And this, I suppose, is how life really happens. Every action produces a small change in a complex system, this change gives rise a specific reality immediately around it. This reality combines with other realities produced by other small changes, giving rise to a broader reality which, in turn, combines with other broad realities which have been influenced by events elsewhere, and on and on and on, an endless dance of molecules and phone calls and automobile accidents. If Rosemary's car is single pebble thrown into a pond, we live in a rain-rippled ocean.
Chaos theorists call this the "butterfly effect," positing that in a system as complex as weather, the flap of a butterfly's wing in one part of the world can, when combined with other specific small incidents, give rise to dramatic shifts in the overall weather. This is commonly misrepresented as a butterfly in Brazil "causing" a tornado in Texas. That is, of course, an absurd oversimplification; but if one considers how small events are contributing factors to significant ones, one cannot but conclude that absolutely everything is interconnected in a way that we cannot understand, let alone predict.
The children are both in our bed, displaced by visiting grandparents. I have been awake since two this morning, the jetlag playing its usual tricks with sleep and appetite. I have moved downstairs to the couch to avoid waking the kids. It's now four o'clock, and it's hot and sticky and I have opened the windows. The sky is brightening and the birds are just warming up their morning cacophony. I've spent some time writing this, you've just spent a few minutes reading it. Our lives have both been altered in ways that we cannot comprehend.
Wednesday, June 16, 2010
Long Walk
On Saturday, my mate Clive and I went for a walk. This phrase has a different meaning here - we didn't just go for a little stroll in the park, we hiked. We slogged through a vile, squidgy mixture of mud and cow shit. We panted our way up long, steep inclines. We stopped at a few pubs, as you do, for refreshment and sustenance.
We have, by sections, been walking a trail called the North Downs Way, which runs about 150 miles from Farnham, west of London, out to Dover on the east coast. While passing through a number of towns is unavoidable over such a long distance, much of it has been out in the open countryside, and it has provided me a view of this country which I'd never have acquired living in London. On this section, we passed the 79 mile marker, a not insignificant accomplishment for an aging fattie like me.
Once outside of London, people are generally friendlier, the pace of life is generally a bit slower, and the landscape becomes almost unimaginably varied. Deep silent pine forests end without warning on open, gently rolling fields, which in turn suddenly become steep slopes, the chalk rock slick underfoot at the first sign of damp. The beauty of walking is that you never know what's around the next corner. Sometimes, it's a 3,000 year old stone monument, sometimes a Norman church or a tiny pretty village. A 13th century pub called the 'Dirty Habit'. Eventually, this walk will bring us a glimpse of the sea and Dover's famous chalk cliffs. Other times, it shows us the back of a petrol station, or an overgrown car lot, or a back street in a dirty little town populated by drunken chavs. But regardless of what it brings, the road ahead always brings something new, something different from where you are now.
It was about midway through this 18km walk that we got to talking about birthdays, and it was at that point that I realized that I'm about 4 months shy of my 40th. This should hardly have been a revelation; I know when my birthday is, I know in what year I was born, I can do math, albeit with that certain lack of precision common to those who spend their time thinking in shades of grey. (Odd - in writing that, I remembered that I had a dream about slide rules last night. I wonder what that means?).
I'm shocked. How can I be almost 40? When did this happen? I can remember my grandparents in their 40's (I have a very young family).
From the standpoint of life and living, this milestone 14,610 days from the date of my birth is no more significant than any other day. Life, like a walk, is made up of a progression of individual moments, each coming on the heels of the last, and each of these moments, whether today or ten years from now, should be anticipated and celebrated equally.
Today is my 14,463rd day. Now where are my presents?
We have, by sections, been walking a trail called the North Downs Way, which runs about 150 miles from Farnham, west of London, out to Dover on the east coast. While passing through a number of towns is unavoidable over such a long distance, much of it has been out in the open countryside, and it has provided me a view of this country which I'd never have acquired living in London. On this section, we passed the 79 mile marker, a not insignificant accomplishment for an aging fattie like me.
Once outside of London, people are generally friendlier, the pace of life is generally a bit slower, and the landscape becomes almost unimaginably varied. Deep silent pine forests end without warning on open, gently rolling fields, which in turn suddenly become steep slopes, the chalk rock slick underfoot at the first sign of damp. The beauty of walking is that you never know what's around the next corner. Sometimes, it's a 3,000 year old stone monument, sometimes a Norman church or a tiny pretty village. A 13th century pub called the 'Dirty Habit'. Eventually, this walk will bring us a glimpse of the sea and Dover's famous chalk cliffs. Other times, it shows us the back of a petrol station, or an overgrown car lot, or a back street in a dirty little town populated by drunken chavs. But regardless of what it brings, the road ahead always brings something new, something different from where you are now.
It was about midway through this 18km walk that we got to talking about birthdays, and it was at that point that I realized that I'm about 4 months shy of my 40th. This should hardly have been a revelation; I know when my birthday is, I know in what year I was born, I can do math, albeit with that certain lack of precision common to those who spend their time thinking in shades of grey. (Odd - in writing that, I remembered that I had a dream about slide rules last night. I wonder what that means?).
I'm shocked. How can I be almost 40? When did this happen? I can remember my grandparents in their 40's (I have a very young family).
From the standpoint of life and living, this milestone 14,610 days from the date of my birth is no more significant than any other day. Life, like a walk, is made up of a progression of individual moments, each coming on the heels of the last, and each of these moments, whether today or ten years from now, should be anticipated and celebrated equally.
Today is my 14,463rd day. Now where are my presents?
Tuesday, June 15, 2010
How the Mighty Have Fallen
I did something tonight that I swore I'd never do. I watched a sporting event on television. With my daughter.
Broadly speaking, I've never liked sports. I don't enjoy playing them, I don't enjoy watching them, I don't enjoy talking about them. One of my earliest memories is of my grandfather watching the Giants on our 13" black and white TV in a tiny room under the roof on the third floor of their house. While the snowy grey blobs zigzagged around the screen, I made a fort of the couch cushions and fell asleep, lulled by the whitenoise of static and crowd. As an adult, most sports, televised or otherwise, still induce those same soporific tendencies, though I almost never build couch-cushion forts anymore.
This month, though, and in this year, is different. This month, every four years, I actually relish a major sporting event. This month sees the finals of the Fédération Internationale de Football Association World Cup being played in South Africa.
I enjoy this not because I'm a football fan, but rather because I am enamored with the concept of national teams competing for a single world-wide title, the qualification for which goes on literally for YEARS. I love the kind of nationalistic but (generally) good-natured fervor on display - the flags taped to people's monitors at work, the nation vs. nation banter, the national anthems slurred and vomited by intoxicated Antipodeans on my street at 2am. Well, maybe not that last one so much.
I've no head for sports. I can't remember team names (which, come to think of it, may be one reason I enjoy the World Cup so much - it's not hard to remember 'Australia' or 'USA'). I can't recall player names. I can't tell you who won the last one. I don't know all the rules (though football is mercifully uncomplicated). Fact is, I don't particularly care about any of the mechanics. I just enjoy watching a really well-played footie, and this month offers that in spades.
And so it was that tonight as I watched the North Korea-Brazil match (which I must admit I switched off after Brazil scored a second goal with about 10 minutes remaining), that Caroline, still in her Tuesday Brownies uniform, joined me.
"Are you watching the football?" she asked, her pitch rising on 'foot' and falling on 'ball' in the British way.
"Yes, North Korea is playing Brazil."
"Ooh! I want Brazil to win."
"Why?"
"I like their flag."
Her allegiance thus sworn, she snuggled up against me on the couch, my arm round her shoulders.
Her questions were fairly basic at first.
"Who's winning?" (No one, it's nil-nil).
"Who's the man dressed in black?" (The referee).
"Why are those guys in red not going after the man with the ball?" (They're playing defense).
"Why does that sign say 'Coca-Cola'?" (It's an advert).
"What's an advert?"
And so forth. But then:
"Who pushed that Brazil guy down?"
"Um, I don't know."
"Is his name on his shirt?"
"Yes."
"Can you read it when they show him?"
"I don't know which player it was."
"It was the one in red who looks Chinese."
"Um, he's on the North Korean team. They're all wearing red, and they all look Chinese."
"Oh."
Fortunately, she didn't ask any complicated rules questions, so I was OK. But we celebrated Brazil's two goals, and we talked about football, and we shared a moment.
And then it was bedtime.
"I like watching the football with you, Caroline."
"I like watching the football with you as well."
Big grins all around.
Turns out she's in a football pool of sorts at school. She has Nigeria to win.
I can't wait to watch that one with her.
Broadly speaking, I've never liked sports. I don't enjoy playing them, I don't enjoy watching them, I don't enjoy talking about them. One of my earliest memories is of my grandfather watching the Giants on our 13" black and white TV in a tiny room under the roof on the third floor of their house. While the snowy grey blobs zigzagged around the screen, I made a fort of the couch cushions and fell asleep, lulled by the whitenoise of static and crowd. As an adult, most sports, televised or otherwise, still induce those same soporific tendencies, though I almost never build couch-cushion forts anymore.
This month, though, and in this year, is different. This month, every four years, I actually relish a major sporting event. This month sees the finals of the Fédération Internationale de Football Association World Cup being played in South Africa.
I enjoy this not because I'm a football fan, but rather because I am enamored with the concept of national teams competing for a single world-wide title, the qualification for which goes on literally for YEARS. I love the kind of nationalistic but (generally) good-natured fervor on display - the flags taped to people's monitors at work, the nation vs. nation banter, the national anthems slurred and vomited by intoxicated Antipodeans on my street at 2am. Well, maybe not that last one so much.
I've no head for sports. I can't remember team names (which, come to think of it, may be one reason I enjoy the World Cup so much - it's not hard to remember 'Australia' or 'USA'). I can't recall player names. I can't tell you who won the last one. I don't know all the rules (though football is mercifully uncomplicated). Fact is, I don't particularly care about any of the mechanics. I just enjoy watching a really well-played footie, and this month offers that in spades.
And so it was that tonight as I watched the North Korea-Brazil match (which I must admit I switched off after Brazil scored a second goal with about 10 minutes remaining), that Caroline, still in her Tuesday Brownies uniform, joined me.
"Are you watching the football?" she asked, her pitch rising on 'foot' and falling on 'ball' in the British way.
"Yes, North Korea is playing Brazil."
"Ooh! I want Brazil to win."
"Why?"
"I like their flag."
Her allegiance thus sworn, she snuggled up against me on the couch, my arm round her shoulders.
Her questions were fairly basic at first.
"Who's winning?" (No one, it's nil-nil).
"Who's the man dressed in black?" (The referee).
"Why are those guys in red not going after the man with the ball?" (They're playing defense).
"Why does that sign say 'Coca-Cola'?" (It's an advert).
"What's an advert?"
And so forth. But then:
"Who pushed that Brazil guy down?"
"Um, I don't know."
"Is his name on his shirt?"
"Yes."
"Can you read it when they show him?"
"I don't know which player it was."
"It was the one in red who looks Chinese."
"Um, he's on the North Korean team. They're all wearing red, and they all look Chinese."
"Oh."
Fortunately, she didn't ask any complicated rules questions, so I was OK. But we celebrated Brazil's two goals, and we talked about football, and we shared a moment.
And then it was bedtime.
"I like watching the football with you, Caroline."
"I like watching the football with you as well."
Big grins all around.
Turns out she's in a football pool of sorts at school. She has Nigeria to win.
I can't wait to watch that one with her.
Saturday, June 5, 2010
Garden Wall
Behind old brick, trellised and ivy-softened, the sound of my children, pointless and idle at play. Their thin voices diluted with watery laughter, they revel in a new insect or a clump of dirt.
They wrestle in the shallow pool, my children and the neighbor's daughter, sunblocked arms and legs slide greasily against each other, a three-headed suburban octopus turning slowly pink in a shallow grassy ocean.
My son, shirtless and dirty, creates a shallow muddy lake in the flower bed. The girl makes people from old card and tissue, props them in the sodden earth. They are soon dirt-spattered and wet. The children spray each other by turns, shrieking, cold water on warm skin.
A bee hovers near my ear, heavy-buzzing and languid in the heat. Golden drops of dappled sunshine cling dewily to the lawn. A leaf falls, a reminder of impermanence. The sun glides inexorably overhead. The young inevitably age. Another family, another spring. The endless river flows endlessly, but the wall remains.
They wrestle in the shallow pool, my children and the neighbor's daughter, sunblocked arms and legs slide greasily against each other, a three-headed suburban octopus turning slowly pink in a shallow grassy ocean.
My son, shirtless and dirty, creates a shallow muddy lake in the flower bed. The girl makes people from old card and tissue, props them in the sodden earth. They are soon dirt-spattered and wet. The children spray each other by turns, shrieking, cold water on warm skin.
A bee hovers near my ear, heavy-buzzing and languid in the heat. Golden drops of dappled sunshine cling dewily to the lawn. A leaf falls, a reminder of impermanence. The sun glides inexorably overhead. The young inevitably age. Another family, another spring. The endless river flows endlessly, but the wall remains.
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