More about Life

On checking out of our plush hotel, we couldn't help notice a big advertising board extolling "A Great deal for a great room." And we thought, yes it was a great room... and it was expensive. We assume they meant "a great deal" as in a deal that was great, but advertisers should beware of phrases that have two meanings.

We popped over to Baker Street, famous for being the home of musician turned detective Gerry Rafferty and his sidekick, Doctor Egan, who both lived together in Shylock Homes, an apartment block owned by a former money-lender. I think that's right. Anyway, I do know his nemesis was a man named Arthur Mori.

We were here to meet up with one of Cath's cousins, her husband and their kids for a very pleasant lunch in a nice neck of London.

However, before long it was time to head back. And time became more pressing when at Victoria we not only had problems trying to get the ticket machine to sell us a ticket, but we had to run to the express service just in time to watch it leave. So we ran back and jumped on a slow service. Once we did get to our destination, we found that the signs from the station to the airport were just plain confusing. I believe we British think travelling is sinful and only bad sorts and foreigners do it, so we do anything to make it impossible for them to get anywhere. Eventually we found the line to check in for our flight, but we were only in it 20 seconds before we were called out as our plane was hoping to leave soon.

Flights to Amsterdam from Gatwick generally leave from The Island. The Island is a small outcrop of gates joined by a high bridge, tall enough to clear big planes. The whole trip along the tunnel is accompanied by bird song and new age music. I think it's supposed to be calming, but I have a problem with the whole concept that natural noises need to have a soundtrack put behind them. If it was supposed to be like that, Nature would produce its own muzak. But it doesn't. The long conveyer belts and this supposedly restful soundtrack, reminds me of some science fiction film where old people are shunted off along extensive corridors to some place of final rest. Usually to be turned into food.

Obviously, one more snag is due, to make the quota, and that came in the form of the state-of-the-art Schiphol baggage system getting all confused and not being able to deliver our luggage for quite a while. Another clear example of people waiting for these time-saving computers to sort themselves out. But eventually, after their mini strike, the computers spat our bags out and we dragged them home to feed our surprisingly indifferent cats.

Labels: Anthropology, Books, Music, NL, Transport, Travel, UK

Bam! Gom!

No, we didn't start the trip by fighting Batman; we started it on a train. The train happened to go past a couple of companies that amused me. These were "Bam!" and "Gom!" Or to give them their full names: "BAM Utiliteitsbouw Regio Noordwest" and "Gom Specialistische Reiniging." I believe if you take the other route to the airport, you pass "Shazamm Internet Solutions" and "Kapowww Kippenboerderij."

Having recently been to the US, I was very familiar with how it felt to be in the slow foreigners' line. This time, however, it was Catherine's turn to take this line whilst I took the quick one where some youngster pretends to not even look at your passport and wave you through.

Once through, however, I joined a combined line of confused foreigners and grumpy Brits to be sold train tickets by a very weary Italian. This was before we got our bags. Basically, there's a little kiosk that gives all the appearance of being convenient, but is then purposefully understaffed and decorated with confusing signs. The modern British railway system is no longer about getting U (designating you) from A to B; it's about getting ₤ from U to B (designating board members and shareholders). The more confused you are, the more money you throw at them.

Lunch was had with friends and family in a pub somewhere not too far from the airport. Somehow they were out of burgers and steak pies, which is pretty much everything in a pub like that.

After this, we were dropped off at the airport where we had to once again negotiate the confusing fare structure that privatisation has unnecessarily imposed on us poor train-travelling folk. There are three different tickets to get to London because there are three different carriers. (This is ignoring the class structure that doubles the number of tickets.) Train companies wish they were airlines and have real trouble accepting they are not.

Our hotel was grand and prestigious. It sat in a cul-de-sac just around the corner from New Scotland Yard. It was run by Italians which meant the staff were handsome and stylishly dressed. Plus they had those accents where you couldn't completely be sure they weren't asking you to go to bed with them. It's always safer in these circumstances to assume they're not.

New Scotland Yard no longer looks like what it does in all those old cop series. Especially because it's hard to find an angle from where you can clearly see that rotating sign thing with all the security barricades. It makes it look like the Sweeney was set in simpler times.

After checking in, we made our way to the headquarters of Clarion where an old flatmate was working keeping Noddy in check. For those of you who didn't know, Noddy is back. Again. Noddy first disappeared in the 1980s. Nobody quite knows where but when he came back Mr Golly and all the other Gollies had disappeared. Nobody talks about this sinister aspect of Noddy's history. In fact it seems to be heralded as a good thing.

I finally got to see The London Paper which has come and gone during my time away from London. It was a free competitor to Metro and The Evening Standard but somehow far more downmarket than either. Yes, than either. It's gone now, and from what I saw, won't be missed.

As we came back to the hotel, the girl behind the desk bid us goodnight.

I turned quickly to Catherine, "Do you think she means..."

"No," she said.

Labels: Anthropology, Books, Transport, Travel, TV, UK, War

Le Domaine de la Barde is a 3-star hotel in 5-star setting at 4-star prices. The breakfast was a little pricey, but respectable if little cold. It also has the decency to be available until 11. Most hotels think their guests are the sort of people who like to be up and out with the crowing of the cock. Decent hotels know that civilised people don't go in for eating breakfast at 8 am when they're on holiday. To accompany your food Brahms is piped in. All very civilised.

We walked around town, took in the tourist office and regarded the River Vézère. There is not a great deal to the village – it is, after all, only a village. It has 3000 people but a disproportionate number of hairdressers. To put it in perspective, we only saw 1 shoe shop, 1 clothes shop and 1 Irish pub on this wander yet 3 hairdressers.

High Tea (pain au chocolates, tea and orange juice) was consumed on the hotel terrace to the sounds of birds, running water and traffic. Most of the grounds are away from the traffic noises, but the terrace at that time, was not one of them. It was after all, a work day for those people who do that sort of thing.

Time Out Amsterdam called and asked if I wanted to interview a comedian the next day. Sounds glamorous, but it's the only time they ever called me. Probably because the first time they ever did call me, I gave the oldest excuse in the book: I'm in an old chateau in France.


Our room came with a basket of books in a couple of languages. One particularly excited me, La Grande Fenêtre. I'd only recently finished the original, The High Window, by a chap called Raymond Chandler. Of course in French, it's pronounced Raymon Sharndley. I never managed to finish the French version, as we'd have needed a week or two longer for that. But it felt good to do something to knock my French up a knot or two.

We had a good, well-priced dinner at the Hotel Le Cygne where the waiter even recognised me as the guy who asked for directions to a different hotel the day before. It was almost like a little jab to say, "I bet the people in your hotel don't remember who you are." I'm sure we tipped him well.

Labels: Books, Europe, Food, Language, Travel

So, as the fates of breakfast oft decree, the breakfast room was pretty full. We managed to find a table, but, once three teenage sisters arrived, there was no getting near that waffle machine.

We had a specific lunch place in mind that our small guide spoke highly of. As we walked towards it, we realised it was not as close as we had thought. There should be a warning, "things on guidebook maps may be further than they appear."

On the way we passed four random pillars. Someone had built four pillars in a line as if there had once stood an old amphitheatre. They sit in a tiny area of concrete surrounded by some trees and this seems to qualify it being called Plymouth Pillars Park. The pillars commemorate a church that was knocked down to make the nearby interstate highway. The church was built in 1891, which could have made it America's oldest free-standing building.

When we arrived at our chosen destination, we found the place had a completely different name and menu. There should be a warning, "things in guidebooks may be less actual than they appear."

We doubled back and found a PF Chang, one of a chain of stylised Chinese restaurants. The décor is typical, slightly upscale American restaurant and not at all Asian. Their gimmick (and most US restaurants have a gimmick) is that the waitress mixes a sauce for you at the table. Pointless in our case as our food already came with a sauce, but the waitress enjoyed herself.

Because we are dangerous rock and roll funsters, we spent the rest of the afternoon in the library. That's it, bitches, the library. We had some future-fortune related research to do. But that didn't mean we couldn't browse for fun.

Top 5 Reference books found in random search of Seattle library:
1. Handbook of Structured Concrete (Kong, Evans, Cohen, Roll – who would appear to cover all four corners of the Earth.)
2. Shopping Centre Directory
3. Directory of American Firms Operating in Foreign Countries
4. 2005 Japan Statistical Yearbook
5. The International Book of Wood

Top 6 magazines found in random search of Seattle library:
1. Western Horseman
2. Water and Sewerage Works
3. Tea and Coffee Trade Journal
4. Trailer Park Management
5. Square Dancing
6. Sugar

Fire engines in Seattle (and probably other US cities) are very, very loud. And if the very, very loud siren isn't enough, they have a horn that is even louder. The firemen all wear headphones because otherwise they'd be deaf. Even people in the street in danger of being deafened. But if any country is going to over-react in terms of safety and somehow add a whole other level of danger, it's going to be the US.

After a semi-nap at the hotel, we searched the town for healthier food options. In the end we had gumbo at the Steelhead Diner. ("Gumbo at the Steelhead Diner" was a hit for Joyful Horse Cakes in 1971.)

We rounded the evening off watching more improv; this time the same group as yesterday doing a Theatresports battle. It was enjoyable to watch skilful players with a lot of character (and characters) strip away much of the faff you get with theatresports and just make it fun. Even the judges were fun

Afterwards, we walked home through the crazy street people; past the alley rats; and home to the hotel to dream of the coming waffles.

Labels: Americas, Anthropology, Books, Food, Improv, US, Wildlife

Our new hotel was equipped with one of the wonders of modern breakfast technology – the waffle maker. This one was about 30 years old, but still makes a mean waffle. Or maybe the reason is that it is so old. We managed to pick a time where not so many people were down for breakfast and so there was plenty of room. There is a constant need for strategy in hotels with limited dining space to come down for breakfast at the right moment. The trouble is everyone else does the same and it's quite common for everyone in the hotel to assume a particular time will be the quiet time that day only to find the entire hotel trying to fit round a few small tables.

We did a little work at the hotel and then rewarded ourselves with some of Seattle's Best's coffee, not necessarily Seattle's best coffee.

Being "downtown" the crowd in the coffee house was less "authorly" and more "slice of life." On one table, a very large guy was telling his new Filipino bride how much he loved every little thing about her and how awkward the wedding had been. She seemed not so enthusiastic. And I was desperately searching for evidence to show this was a mail-order wedding or not. My slender gut says yes.

On another table a divorce defendant discussed the fineries of their case and some of the inconsistencies with the other side's case. It all sounded very confidential, so I listened all the more. It was hardly whispered so it couldn't really be called eavesdropping. In fact you'd have to try not to listen.

We checked out a place called Fuel that was advertised as dealing in "sports eats and beats." "Sports eats" sounded like healthy food, until we discovered the text had been "trussed" and should have read "sports, eats and beats." It was a noisy sports bar selling the sort of food enjoyed by sports fans, not the sort of food enjoyed by athletes.

This was definitely the hobo quarter (or down-and-out-town). Seattle seems to have its fair share of down-and-outs. So many in fact, that many must be down-and-out-of-towners. It's not clear why there should be so many or appear to be so many.

In a square near the tramp district, there was a market of several stalls. Almost not enough to call it a real market. They were spread out along a path so that market took up as much space as possible. The theme of the market was "things that aren't very good." The only food on sale were something like popcorn, but not exactly popcorn. Music was provided by a guy playing the violin over the Star Trek theme tune. He wasn't very good. Even with most of the music provided for him, so that he just had to play something at the same tempo and with notes that weren't too discordant with the original, he still wasn't very good.

We looked lost for a bit and a garbage man stopped on his beat and asked us where we wanted to go. We explained we were looking for healthy food, perhaps vegetarian. He radioed back to base and they looked up and recommended a place round the corner as probably "doing vegetables." It was the best they could suggest. But, nevertheless, it was a great and surprising service. We never found out how wide-spread this "garbage man tourist guide" service was.

What we were directed to was a pho place. Phos are a once-fad Vietnamese noodle soup. These were a bit bland but not as bland as the one I'd had a few days before. The bar opposite called Mitchelli's offered "Cock Tails." I'm sure they mean "cocktails" as the picture was of a cocktail glass with olive, not chicken feathers. I personally think it's some kind of gay code for a specific type of bar.

Dinner that night was at 94 Stewart, a cosy little place around Pike Place Market with a very friendly waiter called Andy, great food and good wine. I had a lamb burger and a beer from well-named Oregon brewery Hair of the Dog. Cath had muscles and a 2008 William Church Viognier.

The evenings entertainment was an improv show by Unexpected Productions, whose work I have admired before. They did a show called "The Improvised Man" in the style of Ray Bradbury stories, which was exceptionally well done, despite an audience of 11. Incidentally, I think I was 11 when I last read Ray Bradbury.

Labels: Anthropology, Books, Drink, Food, Improv, Travel, US

There is some controversy about Marriott hotels that I did not know about. Apparently the owners are Mormon. In theory you'd think they'd then not allow alcohol or porn. Mormons I know even look down on tea and coffee as stimulants. But no, you can get tea, coffee, alcohol AND porn in Marriott hotels. What would be the ultimate in hypocrisy would be if they then did not let you check in because you arrived with two wives. I've yet to try them out on this.

Obviously the controversy is that as 10% of the earnings of these top people goes to their church (by holy decree) and a % of this comes from porn, it means part of the splendour of the headquarters of Mormonism in Salt Lake City is paid for by alcohol and porn sales. But I assume it is okay if the porn has a Mormon flavour. I didn't look, but I assume the titles available are things like "The Book of Mammon", "The Story of Bring'em Young", "Seven Brides for One Brother", "Latter-Lay Saints" and "Salt Lake Titties."

The second and final day of Cath's conference. In posh hotels such as this, checking out is easy and can even be done over the phone. So Cath went off to the conference and left me with the luggage. Footballers' entourages include WAGS – wives and girlfriends; Internet Marketers' have BAHS – boyfriends and husbands. Although I found no others like me to form a club, so I had to go shoe-shopping on my own.

At home having to walk (or in fact cycle) over to the bank seems a chore and is met with apathy or even recalcitrance. But when you are on holiday, you will happily walk the few blocks to the bank. It's mainly to do with the fact the route is new to you.

Having done my research, I knew almost exactly where the Barnes and Noble was and how to get there from the bank. Even this wasn't enough to locate it first go. Normally these bookstores are visible from miles away - sometimes even from space - this one was more subtle and I really only stumbled upon it. The book store was mostly in the very large basement, see tomorrow for a history of that.

It took a while but eventually I arrived back at Pike Market and found a place to have breakfast. It was a French-style bakery. I ordered a pain au chocolat. Now the nice thing about pains aux chocolats is that they have this thin line of chocolate running through them which gives them a sweet kick. Obviously in America this isn't enough. This one had three thick strips of chocolate which totally took over the flavour of the thing. I didn't enjoy it. One of the school-kids on a trip to learn French (it being cheaper to take the kids to a bakery than to France) declared it as the greatest thing he's ever had. One day he'll go to France an have a real pain au chocolat and be disappointed. But by that time he'll be as fat as a house and the painier will just sneer at him.

I also ordered a coffee, but it took a while to get to me owing to the dishwasher suddenly flooding the place. I was on the outskirts of the water and quick enough to save my laptop bag from getting damp and threatening my new writing laptop, but the confusion consumed the whole of the staff for many minutes. I read and watched the good-natured mayhem.

Eventually the teacher of the kids came over and spoke to them in French. She had such a strong American accent that I could barely understand her. These poor kids are so going to get sneered at when they go to French. But I expect they are prepared for Canada.

I wandered along the piers and found myself outside of Ye Olde Curiosity Shop. It's THE place to buy shrunken heads, mummified bodies, stuffed Siamese-twin calves and random Native American memorabilia. They had totem poles for every occasion as well as jokes, t-shirts and dead creepy crawly paper weights. One favourite was a sign of a pirate saying "all ye who enter here, surrender the booty." Even the patrons had great gift ideas. The most Seattle gift I saw was a coffee holder that fits onto your pram or push chair. Just because you are walking your kids doesn't mean you don't want coffee. Sure coffee suspended above the feet of young children presents some health risks, but they should have thought of that when they asked to be born.

Labels: Anthropology, Books, Drink, Food, Language, Sex, Shopping, Transport, Travel, US

We woke up early and were treated to oatmeal. Yes treated. It was great. You know when you're getting old when your body starts craving healthy things. After that, we skipped out early for a long sojourn in Powell's bookshop The car park for Powell's is an adventure in itself. A steep, single-lane ramp for traffic arrives at the top to a sudden curve. Signs warn you to flash your lights and honk your horn before you get to the curve. Failure to do so could result in a nasty little crash right at the top of said steep curve. Dents and scratches along the wall testify to some badly-judged turns.

The area we passed through before had once been warehouses. But as with cities the world over, the former warehouse and dock districts – once the busiest areas, then later the most run-down and undesirable – have been revamped and turned into high-class dwellings and fancy restaurants. The unliveable becomes the most desirable.

We wandered for a while around the farmer's market: an area of crafts and healthy-eating stalls. And many had samples, and it's very easy to shamelessly pick bits from each stall, as long as you look like you might buy, and especially, as in our case, you do actually buy some things once in a while.

The area round the market was filled with churches. Now this isn't a revelation for a country that is pretty much filled with churches. But what was interesting was the variety. Not just in building design but in denomination. There were a few new churches oddly in the style of the older European churches. Some religions like bold and brash buildings, some prefer modest. The Korean Christian Church was a lot bigger than I would have thought such a church would need to be, and a lot more European in design than I would have expected. The 'Old Church' was of the old American wooden design. "Old" meaning dating from 1882. As Catherine pointed out, in Europe, this would be called the New Church.

Because it is important to be visible in a land of advertising, Americans often come up with some great names for shops and businesses, as well as coming up with some terrible puns. The doggy day-care centre called Virginia Woof tends towards the former.



As promised, Patrick brought us to the Rose Garden, a peaceful, well-arranged collection of rose bushes and other shrubbery and treery. In there we found the plaques with the names of each year's Rose Queen, picked as part of the Rose Festival that was actually occurring in the city as we were speaking. The blank space in the photo is for 2007. We were assuming the girl for 2007 will be added after she stops being queen next week, and has not been omitted due to scandal. We rode the free shuttle bus up to the Japanese garden, saw it had an entrance fee and as we were getting through the afternoon at a rate of knots anyway, we simply rode the free shuttle bus back down again.




After popping in briefly on Joyce's mother (Joyce is Cath's cousin somehow in case you're wondering), we headed on for Multnomah Falls. It's a very impressive shoot of water that falls out over a sheer cliff, bounces off rocks on the way down to crash onto the pool and then over another fall (or autumn as its called in England). It falls 620 feet and is the second-tallest year-round waterfall in the US, they say. Because of a breeze there was a fine spray of water coming off the waterfall. Not unpleasant at all. A path snakes its way up the hillside to the top of the waterfall and beyond and is rather popular with walkers. On the way up, there is another waterfall, much, much smaller. In any other location, we would have stopped and marvelled at the beauty of this wonderful natural phenomenon. But placed here, it was just, well, whatever.

Around Portland is a mountainous landscape. Nearby is Mount Hood, with its large white peak, if I remember correctly, the only mountain to be within a US city limits. Also nearby is Mount Saint Helens, which noticeably has no peak. Older readers might remember that this came off in 1980, when it unexpectedly erupted killing 57 varieties of people.

The Portland area is also full of Lewis and Clarke sites. Those of you who happened to read of our earlier trips to the US, will recall that at a couple of places there was talk of Messrs Lewis and Clarke, most notably Harpers Ferry. So no doubt you recall that these two plucky pioneers mapped out the fledgling United States by crossing it. Only recently have people bothered to point out that they didn't just do it alone, they had considerable help from real locals, most noticeably their guide: a young, heavily pregnant and later nursing girl.










We got half way up to the top of the waterfall before we had to head back. We had a date with 18 teen princesses. That's right. Originally Catherine and I had planned to go and see an impro show. But when we arrived we found that it coincided with the big parade that was part of the famous Portland Rose Festival. Voted the best festival in the world, no less. Not sure who by and for what reason, but we didn't argue with this. Added to the fact that one of the 18 high-school girls elected as the Rose Princesses was a cousin of Catherine's meant the event was unmissable.

We were invited (as select members of the family) to a reception in the Art Institute. Because of expected crowds in the centre of town, we parked some way away in a mall and got the Max (tram) to the area we wanted. After exploring the area of the Art Museum, we headed over to the Art Institute. There 18 girls of an impressionable age were assembled with friends and family. The girls were dressed in identical jeans, Princess T-shirts supplied by Ikea and tiaras. Because the photos of the princesses had been displayed on the front page of the local newspaper which we had perused, the girls were already familiar to us in a way that made me want to go and ask for their autographs. After general mingling, the girls lined up to perform their ditty. This was a dance routine followed by a line-up in which they introduced themselves, gave us some information about their educational plans and then advertised some aspect of the Rose Festival. It really gave you a feel for their personalities and helped you speculate about which one would be chosen and inaugurated as the Rose Queen next week. As Cath pointed out, being stuck with 18 teen princesses in a swimwear exhibit was another thing to cross off my to-do list.

After the reception, we rushed over to have probably the quickest Thai meal in history. Then it was time for the parade. We had to at least wait for the princess float which we already knew was 87th. The streets were lined several people thick, but as many were sitting, we could still see pretty well. I had never seen a live high-school marching band before that time. I hope never to see one again. I have had my fill. It seems every third item was a marching band. One of which seemed to be the longest marching band ever. It had front and rear cheerleaders and side water-feeders. It went on and on playing the music all marching bands play: Louie Louie and Louie Louie. Actually they played something else, but it all sounds the same played by a marching band.

A vast improvement on the marching band concept is syncopated drumming. This is a marching band of drummers who play many drums interweaved creating highly complex rhythms. It's loud and boisterous.

Where we were standing was the first bend of the parade. It was a narrow 90 degree turn on a route lined with people. Some of the huge trucks filled with waving people looked like they would barely get round the corner without crushing a few forelyers, but they always made it admirably.

Eventually entrant 87 arrived, a float adorned by 18 princesses. We waved and cheered, although our princess happened to be on the other side of the float. Which was fine as her mother was on the other side of the street.

Heading back, the Max was maxed out, packed to the gills with people. Reports of fights breaking out on earlier trams came to us, but ours was relatively calm with the worst danger a student who was in danger of puking.

Labels: Anthropology, Books, Fashion, Food, History, Travel, US, Wildlife

We were picked up from the airport by Patrick, husband of Cath's cousin Joyce, in a (what is now no doubt a classic) 1980s Buick. He drove us to their house in the hills where we had a time to nap for a couple of hours. It's one of the best things you can do to stave off jet lag. A short, controlled nap. The latest scientific suggestion to avoid jetlag is fasting. Apparently starving yourself for 12-18 hours before you go means that when you eat your first meal, your body resets itself. It's an intriguing idea, and has an air of plausibility, but I am yet to be convinced. Although giving up airline food won't be a great hardship, giving up food for all that time would be. I still favour the nap method, even though this is rarely 100% successful.

Once we were up, we went off with Patrick downtown. We arrived in a very student area and walked a few blocks to a very trendy area. We saw lots of people out in cafes and even one or two instances of posing. We also noticed many bowls of water left outside cafes to entice patrons with dogs. And dogs there certainly were plenty of.

We wondered around stopping briefly for an 'Italian soda' which was soda water mixed with the fruit concentrate I think is used in making ice cream. It was palatable and probably much less cancerous than coke or Sprite.

Portland is definitely Obama Town. With D-day round the corner, no one else seems to be in the race there. All of the posters, car stickers and signs were for Obama. People are openly reading his book in the street. (This was before Hilary Clinton gave up and even before the tide was overwhelmingly against her.)

Later that evening we popped into one of the big malls in the area and spent some time in Barnes and Noble, a chain of book cathedrals.

We ate a wonderfully hearty and healthy meal, conceived by a nutritionist and prepared by a wonderful cook (the same person incidentally). After that we headed to bed and slept like two sleep-starved logs.

This is a brochure that I found somewhere in Portland. It's pretty self-explanatory. It says, "If you're crazy, let us suck you into our cult." At least that's my interpretation. I like that they have trademarked SOUL TRAVEL and ECK. I doubt they'd manage to trademark ECK in Yorkshire where it is the second most popular word after BY.

Labels: Books, Drink, Food, Politics, Religion, Transport, Travel, US

Time was, the aim of war was to lay waste to as much of the enemy’s land as possible, to was as much of the countryside with the blood as you humanly could and to leave no construction unburnt. This was all well and good in the days before flying began, but the world is different now. Last year’s war zone is this year’s holiday destination.

And this happens quicker and quicker. It took many years for Vietnam and Korea to really appear on the holiday radar, but Croatia, Serbia, etc have appeared much quicker after their spots of bother.

Given this and that despite being this year’s enemy, your neighbour could be the next top holiday destination for your citizens, it’s important not to leave a lasting legacy in the form of land mines and unexploded bombs. It’s also important to leave infrastructure in place and to not destroy too many hotels.

Plus people’s attention spans are much shorter these days. No longer as a species could we stand for a 100-years’ war. We want a quick, spectacular surgical strike taking out a handful of strategic buildings, plus the odd hospital to keep the sceptics happy, all ending after a few short days with a truce-signing ceremony at which Ashlee Simpson or Justin Timberlake will sing.

This may sound facetious, but actually this is exactly what Sun Tzu talks about in his early Chinese classic, The Art of War. He said “Generally, in war the best policy is to take a state intact” adding, “thus, those skilled in war subdue the enemy’s army without battle.” Almost exactly what I said. In fact the only difference is that at the truce-signing ceremony he wanted Coco Lee or Fish Leong to sing.

Labels: Books, Europe, War

Cats

One thing that had been bothering us was the fact that every art shop, every bridge-side artist, every souvenir shop… all sell pictures, cups and sculptures of cats. Images of cats are every where in these shops, yet in the time we have been here, we have not seen a single one. How can the art establishment be so obsessed with an animal that is not there? There is a story there, we were sure. One clue was that many of them were in a particular style, with a crescent-shaped head. There was indeed a mystery afoot.

We climbed back up to the castle to check out one exhibit that sounded good. It was about alchemy, amongst other things. There was, however, no sign to it, but we found the building easily. The door was shut and unmarked, but was not locked. Inside, there was no mention of alchemy, the exhibit was announced as being about warfare. The box-office was closed, so we wandered by it and up the stairs to come to a glass door behind which several curator-type people were having a meeting. Probably about why the unsignposted exhibit was not doing well. Or to query the wisdom of turning the golden alchemy exhibit into a base-metal one about war.

On our way out of the castle, we noticed the history museum had closed too. Museums must be having a hard time. The toy museum seemed to be doing okay, though. We went back to the bridge via a different route than before and dropped in at the Kafka Museum Bookshop. The shop was bright and spacious, which seemed a little incongruous. Surely a dark, oppressive room would have been much more the thing. However the eagle-eyed, old woman in the corner eyeing everything you did was a nice touch. In went to buy a copy of The Castle, but there were at least three different translations into English alone and there seemed no choosing between them, nor reason to pay so much for such a book, so I left empty handed.

We stopped for coffee in the place next door and it turned out to be another in the Ebel chain. Here was the spot for a Café Metamorphosis or The Coffee Trial. The coffee was well earned as we hadn’t had any all day. After a huge bowl of latte the size of a soup, we crossed the Safe-Pocket Bridge and headed for the Jewish quarter.

It was Friday and getting dark so the functioning synagogues were busy with people celebrating the weekend. The main one had an armed bouncer on the door, and a few other heavy people hanging around the street. I recalled from the paper that there had been threats recently against Jewish targets from some terrorist faction.
Just down from the New-New Synagogue is the Old-New Synagogue. It’s a beautiful old building from the middle ages and looks more like a fort than a place of worship and has that haunted look.

Old-New Synagogue or Home of the Munsterbergs.



We scurried around for a bit to try to find stamps before we discovered that post offices here stay open late. We’re used to post offices considering themselves banks and opening for a few hours a day just so no one squats there.

Dinner was at our previous first choice, the Newtown Brewery, thanks to us reserving a place or, rather, getting the receptionist at our apartments to reserve. When we arrived the place was empty downstairs but reasonably busy on the indoor ‘terrace.’ So we wondered if booking had really been necessary, but when we left the place was packed again.

The food was typical Czech fare as in the other bars we had eaten. Plenty of meat; bread and potato dumplings with everything; some nod to other vegetables in the guise of sauerkraut or similar. All the menus we have seen so far have had a weight indicating the amount of food (or meat) you get next to each dish. This is the best menu idea I have had in a long time. Really avoids those annoying times when you order two dishes and find you have food in front of you for the whole bar.

The beer was good, too. They brew their own there, as the name suggests, and both the light and dark were tasty if a little weaker than others beers we’d had.

The downside to the place is it is on the tourist chart. Busses of Germans arrived while we were eating. On the plus side, they have a live accordionist playing while you eat. I think this is a plus. They seemed to think so. However he didn’t come over to our area and we only heard him, not see him.

Before we came here, we only knew one Czech guy. He is called Frantičak and now lives in Hong Kong. To me the name Frantičak is rare and exotic. In the Czech Republic, most of the men are called Frantičak. The accordionist in Novometský Pivovar was no exception.

Eventually, because we were tourists and these sorts of things send out tourist homing signals, we found ourselves back at the Racist Clock Square and decided to celebrate the start of Shabbat with a beer or two there on one of the several heated terraces provided for that purpose. They seem to be provided for tourists as no Czech-speakers seem to use them. The reason is clear when the bill comes. Having spent a few days getting used to Czech beer prices, it was a shock to suddenly find yourself paying airport prices.

In Prague, the real criminals are not in the metro which seems very safe, they are not on street corners, they don’t even appear to be on the Charles Bridge where they’re supposed to be. No, my friends, in Prague the criminals are running terrace bars on the Old Town Square.

Rip Off Square, Rascist Clock and Superspired Church.



We finished our drinks, soaking in the rich tapestry of accents around us, and then had a final night time wander around the area. We even cleaned up one mystery. In one art/tourist shop we saw a bunch of artworks of multicoloured cats many with crescent heads all by one artist, one Rosina Wachtmeister. She is very famous for these cute sorts of cats but seems to have no connection with Prague other than artists here are obsessed with her work. There seems to be no story of cats being carted off. Now the only mystery is what’s the story behind the Church of St Paul at the Laundry.

Labels: Art, Books, Drink, Europe, Food, Travel

The Newspaper today reported two things entirely separately without making any reference to their being linked.

1) Saturday was the Gay Parade along Amsterdam's Prinzengracht. This as avid readers will know is one of Amsterdam's most colourful spectacles - a huge carnival-like procession of brightly-decorated boats manned and wimminned by some of the most eager-to-dance crews to ever sail the seven canals. The headline concerned itself with the fact that there were about 100,000 less spectators than last year.

2) Sunday was the annual book market in Deventer, possibly the biggest one in Europe or even the world, but certainly in the Netherlands. This year there was a record number of visitors, 130,000 to be approximate.

To my mind, it seems that 100,000 people decided not to go and watch the amphibian fun and frolics of the Amsterdam gay community, but instead went to look at a lot of dusty old books. Is this an indication that the world is becoming less sexually-orientated

and more bookish? Should next year’s Gay Parade be called off and replaced by a Lesbian and Gay Book Faire? In ten years will sex be replaced by a “Golly good read”?

We’ll just have to wait and see. I’m reading what seems to be the world’s second longest book, which I guess would be tantamount to tantric sex. However, next year I will still go to the Gay Parade and not Holland’s biggest Book Market, but it sounds like I might be on my own. But then, I'll still have Ulysses to finish.

The Original Hollywood Ending of Gladiator OR "I'm Spartacus!" "Me too, that's awesome!"

The UN Piece-keeping Force

Labels: Books, Netherlands

I am finally reading Ulysses (by James Joyce). It’s a book that has been on my to-read pile for a number of years, along with quite a few others. This pile isn’t a real pile, it’s a virtual pile. If it was a real pile it would possibly be as tall as I am, but it’s not. It’s actually a scattering of books amongst my shelves and boxes. In some ways it is surprising I haven’t passed this book under my eyes before. It’s a classic work by an author whose other works I have enjoyed. On the other hand it is not surprising it’s been on the ‘pile’ longer than other books for several reasons:

1. It is 900 pages long!
To my thinking, books should be somewhere between 100 and 200 pages long. Any more and they had better be bloody good to be worth so many words. Whilst there are books in the third world (novelty publications section) that are positively starved of words!
2. I had hoped to complete both of Homer’s The Odyssey and The Iliad before I started on this one.
The Odyssey I enjoyed with its over-blown dramatisation something akin to modern journalism. But The Iliad, despite being translated by the same guy, and supposedly written by the same guy, just bogged me down and is currently on the virtual on-hold pile. The same pile that The Lord of the Rings has been on for 20 years. This is despite the fact I had enjoyed JRRT’s Portrait of the Artist as a Young Hobbit. Mind you, I have now seen the first Lord of the Rings film and consider myself to have served my time and can probably move this book (actually, these books) books to the ‘life’s too short’ pile. An easy task as I don’t actually own a copy. So in fact they are on the virtual ‘my flat’s too small’ pile.
3. Have you seen how long it is?
The last horrendously long book I attempted was Harry Potter and the Siege of Troy, or whatever the fourth book was called. But that was written for adolescents and parents of small children and so was a very easy read.

So far the book is going well, but have that problem with all long books where you don’t look like you’re making any progress for the first few hundred pages. Keep checking here and over the months I’ll update you on the progress of my own odyssey into the mind of Mr Joyce. If all goes well, I may get up the confidence to dive into War and Peace. And if that works out, I’ll rent the video of the porn version, Whore and Piece By Layo Toolstoy.

Please do let me know what you’re reading.

Labels: Books

Neglected anti-war classic that could have been called "Farewell To Arms, Legs and Face."

Who is or was Dalton Trumbo you may well ask? Well he was the writer behind some classic films including Spartacus and Papillon. He was also one of the many writers, directors and performers blacklisted by a paranoid regime in Hollywood during the 50s. He also wrote books.

Johnny Got His Gun was written shortly before the Second World War and is set during the First World War. Aka The Great War; Aka The War to End All Wars. But actually this isn’t really the setting, as the entire book is set inside one man's head. One man who wakes up confused and has to work out from data (or, more often, lack of data) that he has lost both arms, both legs, his eyes, ears, nose and mouth. The book mingles dream-like memories of his bodied life with the coming to terms of being trapped inside his own new body.

It is written as a stream of (barely) consciousness, with very little punctuation to interrupt the thoughts. In fact I didn't find a single comma in the whole 240 pages. It's a much easier read than the lack of punctuation implies. However, the subject is NOT easy digest.

The book brilliantly explores what happens to a mind isolated from the outside world except for a sense of touch, pain and of vibration. What happens? It has no choice but to think, to latch on to every piece of information it is lucky enough to get, and to be patient. What it can’t prevent is the slow drift towards a kind of frustrated mania obsessing about every idea it has. At points it is a great amplified description of what goes on in the mind of a writer, or other person who tends towards thinking rather than doing.

Johnny Got His Gun is a book against war, and even ends up being a pro-revolutionary polemic arguing for rising up against those who would send innocent young men and women off to be killed in the name of intangible ideas. But what other conclusion could the mind of a previously healthy twenty-year-old man come to, after finding that all that is left of him is his brain and his brain has almost no way to communicate with the outside world?

Towards the end of the book, Joe does find a way to communicate. But he has been trapped for so many years with only himself to talk to, that he sends out the same stream of consciousness that has been his monologue for years. His early patience has been replaced by a desperation. Even he can only conclude they think he has gone mad.

I loved this book. It was clever, insightful, inciteful, and gripping. A book against the terrors of war, without describing war very much. In fact most of the anecdotes about times at or near the battlefront were darkly amusing or even whimsical. The horror of war for Joe Bonham was not the actual war itself, but the terrible, isolated aftermath. And the fact that it should be allowed to happen at all.

At the end, you are feeling Joe’s desperation to be heard, but instead of the opening of a communication channel being his salvation, it is something other than that. We are left with the conclusion that to the outside world he seems mad and probably not worth continuing the communication with. Or even worth keeping alive.

This is an amazing book for its feat of taking you into a mind locked in that cruellest of cells – ones own practically dead body; tortured by that most evil of mental tortures – being allowed almost no sensory input and no movement; and having been put there by that most prolific dispenser of unjust punishment - War.

Rating: 5 dismembered limbs up.

Labels: Books, War