Enter the Haggis

With the empty weeks stretching out ahead of me, I thought it would be a good idea to take a trip. As my friend Clive and I discussed where to go while Michele was away, one wonderful, hazy, almost illicit name floated before us: Amsterdam.

Unfortunately, we had this discussion in Michele's presence, before she left, so no sooner had the word escaped my lips than the idea was squashed like so much fox poo on the sidewalk. After Michele threatened to take my passport with her when she left, we settled on a more, ahem, tame approach - hiking in Scotland.

At first, this seemed a most pleasant idea. "Just a walk up the mountain", Clive told me, "with a little scramble over a small lip at the top. No more than 4 meters." No problem. I could handle this. After all, I'd had an orienteering class in college, no more than, what, 15 years ago? I was looking forward to the trip, and even bought a new pair of hiking shoes in an area called Southampton Street, supposedly THE place to buy outdoor gear in London.

As the date of our departure drew closer, I began wearing my new boots to and from work to, you know, break them in. This was when the trouble started. "That brand's rubber's too soft," one colleague told me. "The soles shouldn't flex like that," intoned another, ominously. Convinced that I'd die of exposure, or at least end up with a serious blister, I began to worry about my fitness for this trip. After all, I get out of breath stepping up onto the curb, what was I thinking I could climb a mountain.

I'd also decided that as long as I was doing one thing I wasn't really prepared for, I might as well do two, and volunteered to drive. You may recall that they drive on the wrong side of the road here. The Brits will hasten to tell you that it's the "right" side, but in fact, it's the left side, so there's really nothing "right" about it. This was actually not as bad as having to shift with my left hand, which took quite some getting used to, especially as I haven't driven a car with a manual transmission since about 1994. Predictably, I stalled, over-revved the engine and generally made a menace of myself for the 2 hours it took to get from Glasgow up to Glencoe, the site of my expected demise.

I learned a number of things about Clive that weekend. We had remarkably similar backgrounds, we both enjoy a good whiskey. He has no compunction about raiding the breakfast bar at the Holiday Inn Express to prepare a lunch. And he lies. Not in a malicious way, but in a "gee, that's not how I remember it," way. The "walk" was variously steep, rocky, long and wet. And the "4 meter scramble" at the top was, in fact, about 200 feet of gravel scree which somehow clung to the side of the mountain at a 40 degree angle. Clung, that is, until breathed upon, at which it went coursing in sheets down the mountainside to clonk some unfortunate goat below. It was there, clinging to blades of grass and bits of rock with my eyelids, that I was convinced that I would die.

Of course, I did not die, as evidenced by this post. I did, however, make it to the top, enjoyed a nice cheese sandwich, courtesy of the fine folks at Holiday Inn Express, and marvelled at both the stupendous view and at the fact that I was still alive to enjoy it.

The descent was a bit trickier. Where going up was largely a matter of finding my way forward, going down was a matter of scrambling down on my belly while trying not to bash my head on the rocks or lose my face by dredging it through the gravel for 100 yards. After about 30 feet, I was once again convinced that my life was drawing to an unfortunate and untimely conclusion. It was at this point that we discovered The Path.

Apparently, some unknown but most generous person had cut steps into the mountain to assist just such novice climbers as myself. These, naturally, made the rest of the descent much easier, and I have still not stopped giving Clive a hard time about sending us up through the scree. But secretly, I'm grateful. Anybody can climb up steps. But clawing your way up the side of a mountain, now that deserves a cheese sandwich. And a haggis. And some black pudding. Both really tasty despite their off-putting ingredients. My recommendation: have a cheese sandwich and see how you go from there.

Home Alone 2

Ah, summer.

Summer has arrived in all its glorious greyness, and with it, the annual westward migration of beloved family. Yes, I'm knocking around in London by myself for a few weeks, free to stay out late, sleep without interruption, leave the toilet seat up. The instant the door shut behind Michele and the kids, I switched to bachelor mode. The house now looks like a clothes bomb went off.

But I haven't just been spending the last few weeks dissipating. Oh, no. I've been extremely busy notching up visits to a wide variety of sites, both in and out of London.

I'd gone out with some friends on the Friday after the family left, so got a bit of a late start on the Saturday. Actually, it was about 2:00 before I could summon the strength to venture out of the house. For some reason, I thought it would be a good idea to take the boat out to Canary Wharf and take some photos. I'd get some nice shots of Parliament and the London Eye from the back of the boat as we headed downriver, and make up for all of those boat journeys I've taken to and from the office and said, 'damn, I wish I had the camera'.

Unfortunately, there were about a million tourists waiting for the boat, and I just didn't have the patience to stand in the queue. The tube is just as crowded and disgusting on Saturday as it is the rest of the week, the difference is, instead of being rammed with commuters who basically know what they're doing and keep to themselves, on Saturday, it's mobbed with tourists who talk a lot and sweat. Finally arrived at Canary Wharf, drenched and irritated, only to get a number of pictures of rain.

The journey back was better. I got a spot on the boat without much trouble, and stopped off at the Tate Modern. This is a museum of modern art housed in a defunct power station. There's something serene about the cavernous turbine hall that appeals to me. Without children, I spent a few hours nosing around the galleries. My favorite work was called "Ishi's Light". This is an egg shaped object, open at the front, top and bottom, and with a dark polished interior. This produces the effect of a column of light that seems to float as you move across the front of the object.

I had much more energy on Sunday, which was bright and hot, so I decided to venture a bit further afield, to the town of Winchester. Winchester is famous for its Norman cathedral, which, for reasons unknown, was built on a bog, with a foundation of beech logs. The Normans may have been excellent warriors, but sometimes you gotta wonder. Predictably, the logs rotted away, and in the early 1900's, the cathedral was in danger of collapse. A diver spent 5 years digging trenches under the walls and filling them with cement, and is memorialized by a statue in the crypt.

Despite a few bright spots, Winchester is a monstrously disappointing town. The high street, while absolutely lousy with 16th century buildings, lacks even a single independent retailer. The overall feel is of a deep and abiding seediness. I felt like I needed a shower.

In fact, I did need a shower, since it was about 30 degrees (that's 85 for the Centigrade-challenged) and humid as only a country where it rains 150 days a year can be. The cathedral looked lovely. It being Sunday, however, they were quite inconveniently conducting a service when I arrived, so I couldn't go in.

This was fortunate, though, else I never would have found a hidden gem around the back in the Deanery. There, in the midst of piles of used books on sale to benefit the choir school, was a real Roman mosaic floor. Just, well, on the floor. I didn't even realize I was standing on it until one of the workers pointed it out. This of course led to a discussion of the history, and opened the door for me to ask what was up the back staircase.

I've always been intrigued by the routes in museums that the public is not supposed to use. I check doors to see whether they're locked, crane my neck to see into roped off spaces, peer through cracks in the walls. So the stone staircase winding up the back of the Deanery really got my James Bond up. David (he of the mosaic floor) kindly indulged my curiosity, and led me up the stairs.

On the other side of a massive wooden door at the top was an enormous ballroom, probably 40 or 50 feet long, and maybe half as wide, with a 15 foot ceiling. As I stood gaping around at the space, which appeared to be used for little apart from storing old chairs and spare artwork of questionable interest, I spotted a large, obviously ancient mirror on the far wall, with the letters "CR" in gilt at the top. David saw me looking at the mirror and told me that it was made for King Charles II, who, in the late 17th century, was a frequent visitor to the area, and would have been entertained in that very room.

After a visit to the ruins of the bishops palace, I headed about a mile through some fields to visit St Cross Hospital. Despite the name, this is not a place where sick people go to be cured (though one could argue that very few of the NHS-run hospitals are), but rather an almshouse, and a very old one at that. It was founded in 1130 to accommodate 13 old poor men, and to feed 100 at the gates daily. By this tradition, you can still ask at the gate for "the dole", and the porter will give you a (very) small cup of beer and a tiny bit of bread. These were not enough to sustain a hearty guy like me, so I had lunch in a pub nearby, as you do.

On the way back, I did get into the cathedral to have a look around, though sadly, the crypt was closed, so I couldn't see the statue of the diver. I did, however, attend an Evensong service, which was sung by the Thames Philharmonic Choir, complete with candles, a big, rumbly pipe organ and a vicar. It was magical, if you're into ecclesiastical aesthetics, as I am.

So having written this, I have to conclude that, despite the depressing town center, the ugly concrete buildings along the railroad tracks and the omnipresent chavs, Winchester was a good day out after all.

So there's the first weekend. Plenty more to come...

Neighbour

Our neighbo(u)r died last week. Gladys was a sweet old lady, who'd lived in the house next door 'all me life'. She wasn't much for long conversations, but by degrees, I learned that her husband died a long time ago, she had a son named Paul, and she hated the weather here as much as anyone else. She showed me how to lift the fence panel to get into our back garden when I'd locked myself out of the house. She put a nice card through our mail slot at Christmas.

She also had a hacking cough and was nearly deaf. We'd hear her in the morning, her TV on full volume, coughing like my Aunt Thelma did when she fell into the mashed potatoes. We were convinced that Gladys was permanently on the edge, so to speak.

I called the ambulance for her one day when, shortly after we moved in, I heard a crash, a few "bloody hell's" and then silence; when she didn't answer the bell, I panicked. She was fine, of course, but by the time I'd called back to cancel the ambulance, the police had arrived and I had to explain to them why I'd filed a false report. They shrugged it off and promised to cancel the ambulance.

It was on this day that I learned the value of double checking. Coincidentally, it was also on this day that I learned that no one in England ever does what they say they're going to do, so I also had to explain the situation to the ambulance men when they turned up.

Gladys fell one morning on the way to church. We got the story from her son. She broke her elbow, and then had a stroke in the hospital. She died a few days later.

Her garden chairs are stacked neatly.

Goodbye Gladys. I wish we'd had you around for tea.

Dear Tooth Fairy...

My daughter has been carrying on a running correspondence with the Tooth Fairy. It started innocently enough - a note under the pillow to express her undying love and gratitude, but quickly progressed to more labor intensive missives, like:

Dear Tooth Fairy, I am leaving you a present, will you leave me one?

and

Dear Tooth Fairy, what is your real name? _________ How old are you? __________ What is your favorite color? __________

The above questionnaire was left on the night of a recent small party, so fortunately, our friends obliged with cleverly ambiguous answers:
1) TF
2) as old as time
3) the rainbow

Tonight, accompanying her first front tooth:
Dear Tooth Fiary, please will you poke me in the nose with your magic wand so I can see you? Leave your answer on this line ____________.

Uh, oh. An IRL meeting? Simply out of the question, but what to do...

Dear Caroline, as much as I would love to meet you, the rules are very clear - no one can ever see me or my magic will be lost. That's why I only come around after you've gone to sleep. I hope you understand.

Your Friend,
TF

Hopefully, this will not render her paralyzed with fear of waking up and accidentally seeing the Tooth Fairy. Christ, the stuff I worry about...

Personality theft

When I was a kid, I thought it would be sooo cool to be a twin. My twin and I could take turns going to classes, astonish our friends by walking out one door and back in through another, keep our parents in a perpetual state of confusion over who was who. Of course, there are some obvious problems with this fantasy, the most obvious being the fact that I don't actually have a twin.

I still wonder, though, whether twins could swap not only identities, but personalities as well. If one is vivacious and outgoing, and the other quiet and cerebral, could the quiet one become an extrovert simply by pretending to be the other? For that matter, would this work with anyone, not just twins?

A while ago, I read a book by Ruth Reichl, who was the New York Times food critic for a number of years. Rather than saunter into a restaurant and receive the grand tratement afforded someone in such an obviously influential position, she would dress up as a nobody (actually one of a wide array of nobodies) and see how the restaurant in question treated ordinary people.

The funny thing about this change of character was that her change in appearance produced an equivalent change in her personality. When she dressed as a grand dame, she became fussy and demanding. When she wore her slinky black dress, she became flirtatious, and when she wore a crazy clownish outfit, she became the life of the party and everybody wanted to be her friend.

I've always thought that personalities are immutable. Our attitudes may change - we may harden on some things and soften on others - but I believed that the core of who we are, introvert or extrovert, active or passive, doesn't change. I wonder now whether this is true. As a very young child, I was friendly and outgoing. There was a big sports camp behind my grandparents' house and when I was 3 or 4, I invited one of the camp counsellors in for tea. (35 years later, Bob still spends a few weeks every summer at a running camp in the Poconos, and still visits my grandparents).

But then something happened and I became, not an introvert as such, but certainly much less outgoing. This was not entirely without benefit - inviting strangers in for tea isn't always a sound approach - but I spent a lot of years feeling socially inept. This is probably not a unique experience, I think most teens go through that stage, but even today, I don't really feel entirely at ease going into situations where I have to meet new people.

The turning point came in the summer of my sophomore year in college, when I had a job as a social director at a small resort. My work consisted largely of shooting clay pigeons and skimming the bets on the horse races. It was a good summer. But as a social director, one has little choice but to be, well, sociable, and so I learned how. I faked it.

Completely by chance, I read an article this morning on how to be bold. The first bit of advice it provided to those who aren't was, basically, fake it. Interesting.

So even if I had a twin, I guess I couldn't swap classes with him, but maybe I could swap identities. Come to think of it, maybe I do have a twin after all.

Pride cometh before the fall

If you haven't read my 'where do they go' post (the next one), please do so before reading this one. Not that anything bad will happen if you don't - you won't have 10 years of bad luck, you won't lose your job or your house and gas prices are already on the upswing anyway. But really, go ahead. I'll wait...

OK, so having written that in a fit of overweaning pride at the start of my trip last week, I was taken down a peg or two when, on the last leg of my journey, I myself became...That Guy Who Didn't Show Up For The Flight.

After spending the better part of the afternoon and early evening waiting in the Halifax airport (I met some very interesting people during my 5 hour bender) for a much-delayed flight to Newark, and after arriving in Newark and taking the train to the parking lot instead of to the next terminal, I was, shall we say, more than fashionably late for my flight back to London.

This little karmic episode should probably give me pause next time I decide to wax curmudgeonly about someone else's behavior. But it won't, of course...

Where do they go?

We've all heard them - announcements at airports calling for 'passenger Smith travelling on flight 827 to kalamazoo, your flight is ready for departure. Please go to gate 27 immediately!'

Where did he go?

After packing carefully and rising early to make the trek to the airport, after enduring considerable inconvenience at the checkin desk and after being de-belted and de-shoed by the TSA, they just, what, forgot that they were travelling? Got absorbed in a magazine? Fell down drunk in a bar?

It just seems terribly odd that people simply disappear from the airport. Maybe passenger Smith was a spy and has killed someone silently in a bathroom stall, taken his passport, changed his appearance and slipped undetected on a flight to Beijing. Or maybe Smith is an international criminal who was apprehended, quietly so as to not cause a stir among the other travellers, as he waited, shifting uncomfortably on the hard plastic chairs. For him, the loving arms of the American penal system might just be welcome relief after the rigors of air travel.

Or maybe, just maybe, passenger smith is simply one of those unfathomably stupid people which exist everywhere, but seem to be especially plentiful in the airports of America. They all come from the same mould, these sloppy-dressing, Nintendo-playing, ringtone-flaunting, loud-farting, cellphone-talking representatives of the United States. With emissaries like these, it's little wonder that much of the world dislikes Americans. I would too if they were the only ones I'd met.

So long, passenger Smith, your flight has departed without you. And the world is slightly better off for your staying.