More about Life

Christmas is a time for family, buying stuff and remembering the world's most famous magical Jew. Many of us cram onto planes, spend hours queuing in shops and feel very lucky not to have to spend the holidays giving birth to babies, surrounded by animals because we'd forgotten that the Holiday Inn Beth Lehem is always booked up this time of year.

A few days before the famous day itself, we crept early out of our flat, leaving our feline family to fly to see my human one. My parents live near Brighton, the British Florida. The main difference is, of course, that the British sun retired a long time ago to the American Florida.

With a few days before Christmas, we used our time wisely: We shopped amidst the crowds and pockets of hopeful carol singers; pretty much the way early Christians did, although there was less tinsel in those days.

We did much of our shopping in the nearby town of Lewis. Lewis is a pretty, historic town populated by people who only read first editions of ancient books. This is based on the fact that there are two small shops selling new books, two small second hand bookstores and about a dozen antique bookstores. All of the rest of the shops are charity shops which is a well-recorded phenomenon in the UK.

The main shopping area was filled with seasonal busking, often done by kids who of the age when they really ought to be out hanging round bus shelters. Most notable being one young guy playing carols mournfully on a clarinet. I enjoyed it because, for me, it summed up the pathos of the season and was a nice break from the otherwise relentless good cheer.

We also used our time to grab some kultcha. Cath is a fan of Mark Rothko who was having a retrospective at the Tate Modern (formerly Battersea Power Station). For those of you know don't know, Rothko is famous for his huge works such as Black Square on Red Background; Red Square on Black Background and Black Square on Black Background.

The pieces are not only impressive in their size, but also in the work that went into them. It may seem like a simple shape painted on top of a painted canvas, but it took a surprising amount of planning and experimentation. Even the often rough edges of the shapes are very deliberately and specifically so. And they do have an impact when you see them in the flesh that a tiny little reproduction in a book or on a computer screen doesn't convey. It is however a very homageable style, and I have tried my own emulations. One of my efforts now hangs in a millionaire's villa in Southern France.

Christmas period itself was the usual mix of too much traditional British Christmas foods (minced pies, Christmas cake, sausages wrapped in bacon), traditional British Christmas television (James Bond, Morecombe and Wise. Wallace wrapped in Grommit) and the local village's annual Boxing Day pram race.

A couple of days after the festivities, it was time to return home. Our flight back was delayed a little. They tried to hide this for a while by not telling us, but sooner or later the cat was let out of the bag.

As usual the flights to Amsterdam are serviced by Sterile Island, a block of gates separated from the main terminus by a bridge into which is piped bird noises and new age music. As I have said before, standing on the conveyer belts in this bridge, with this calming audioscape coming at you and arriving at a half-empty, cold, remote, sterile place increasingly makes me think of a Soylent Green-style old folk reprocessing plant. It explains why 90% of the time, airline meals are "chicken." Old people taste of chicken. If you get "beef" or "lamb," you've got a Mediterranean labourer.

I wrote in my notes that we got upgraded to Club. This was so many flights ago and so short a flight, I don't recall it. And it wasn't as exciting as the time I got upgraded temporarily because I was allocated a seat where the stewardesses sleep. Actually that was more disappointing than exciting, and a different story.

For once the plane landed close to the terminal instead of in Utrecht, where it normally seems to land; there was no queue at immigration; so that meant the last possible delay to getting home was, yes of course, waiting for Schiphol's computer system to stop contemplating the meaning of life and deliver our luggage. Anyway, Merry Magical Jew Day!

Labels: Anthropology, Art, Christmas, Food, Music, Religion, Shopping, Transport, Travel, TV, UK

The Dutch don't tend to overdo many things, so one wonders why they have two Christmases.

Last weekend, a bearded bishop came to Amsterdam attended by a huge parade of grinning Dutchmen in black face-paint. This was the arrival of Sinterklaas, a manifestation of Saint Nicolas, the patron saint of pretty much anyone and anywhere.

Every year, Sinterklaas arrives on a steam boat from Spain with his Moorish servant (called Piet). Because Piet is never actually portrayed by anyone with any Moorish blood, he always looks like a Dutchman who has been playing in the coal cellar where he found a very cheap wig. In fact he alarmingly resembles a character from a very cheap and offensive sketch show from 1972.

Right now, "Sint" and "Piet" (he's singular in the stories but appears manifold at parades, etc) are in the country, and getting ready for the big day. December 5th, also known as Sinterklaas, is when kids wake up to find gifts in their shoes left by the dynamic duo. There's also a ritual of wrapped presents accompanied by a small poem somewhat dissing the recipient. The presents, the foot-related receptacle, the old man with long, white beard is all very reminiscent of "our own" Christmas. Which is no accident. This is one seed of what we know as Christmas. Sinterklaas went to the US and got fat on Coca Cola; the shoe became a stocking; and the blacked-up Dutchmen became reindeers and elves. And these got added to the fir tree, holly and mistletoe from the original pagan Winter Solstice festival, bundled in with a wild stab at the birth-date of one famous errant rabbi to create the glorious celebration of consumerism that we today call "Christmas." And over the last few years, the Dutch have been increasingly celebrating Christmas (in the presents-and-overeating fashion of the movies) as well as their own earlier, modest festival.

This is, of course, yet another example of the world's culture being thrown into the American melting pot and reserved back to the rest of the world and ultimately its original culture. Pizza is another great example. It's a highly interesting phenomenon that is almost certainly propagated by the medium of film.

So the question I guess we all want to ask is this: who would win in a fight, Sinterklaas or Santa Claus?
• Well, Santa Claus is old, but Sinterklaas appears much older and frailer.
• However, Sinterklaas is quite lean and Santa Claus has been pouring in the Coca Cola for quite some years and is, well, a bit tubby.
• Santa Claus has a well-trained team of reindeer with the kinds of hooves that could kick a man all the way into the New Year; Whereas Sinterklaas has a huge army of Piets, who have large bags of stone-like sweets to throw at children.

There is no obvious winner on paper, but in my head the battle would be fierce and Manga-like. It will probably end with both parties being mortally wounded, leaving the way for a sequel. The real battle between Christmas and Winter Solstice: Jesus vs Sol. A heavyweight bout between the Son of God and the God of Sun. The so-called Rumble in the Wrapping Paper. I for one am looking forward to this.

Your Sinterklaas Correspondent, Piet Moor.

PS Here is what a Manga Christmas would look like (from The Melancholy of Haruhi Suzumiya by Nagaru Tanigawa and Noizi Ito). Happy Sinterklaas.

Labels: Americas, Christmas, Drink, Food, History, Netherlands, Religion, Sport, US

Canada is the US's personal New Zealand. On the surface, Canada looks very like the US. Same roads, same street signs, same stores, same clothes. Only a slight preponderance for beards gives you a hint at the vast difference that lies beneath the surface.

First thing that caught our eyes as we drove along the highway was a mega mosque. This is the equally vast equivalent of the American mega church and confirmed our suspicions that Canada is in fact a Muslim country.

There are several subtle differences that we immediately noticed with the Canadian way of doing things. Their traffic lights do a strange flashing green light thing that seems to mean, "go, but I ain't taking responsibility." Also there seems to be a conscious effort to make blocks of flats and other tall buildings ugly.

After driving into the core of Vancouver and finding our hotel, we headed out for food. We had received a recommendation from one of Cath's colleagues. A place called "Sanafir" which is a Silk Road / fusion restaurant. Basically you are served a series of dishes based on points of the Silk Road which connects the Middle East / Mediterranean and Asia. It was great, enormously tasty food served by Bond Girls. I kid you not, all the women were supermodels in their own unique interpretation of the tight, black uniform. Any one of them could have met James Bond at the roulette table and ended up back in his hotel room, chastely under the sheets not realising this was their last night on Earth.

The street that the restaurant was on was one of the major going-out / shopping streets in the city, despite being in the process of being dug up. (If that's not too many "beings.") There were lines of young and enthusiastic "pimplies" lining up outside all sorts of pubs and clubs getting ready to shake their pimples to the music of their choice and maybe even, if their luck held out, meet another like-minded member of their sect and press pimples with them.

We passed a great human statue. Normally, I have a problem with human statues as the only real skill involved is being able to keep still. Personally, I feel if you have this skill, then buy a camera and produce great wildlife photography or buy a gun and become a sniper. Don't clutter up the streets. It almost only becomes acceptable when the outfit and makeup is intricate and, when there is movement, it is done well and in keeping with the theme. But in general, anyone with a few motors, some Mechano and a cloak could build a machine that does exactly the same thing; freeing the human version to go and work in a salt mine or something like that.

In Amsterdam, especially, the art-form has been lost. If you go to Dam Square, you'll see scores of "human statues" but instead of standing still in an intricate outfit with painted skin and stylised hair, you'll see middle-aged men in ill-fitting rented costumes, standing fidgeting on a box. However, sometimes they are so bad they become fantastic. (This is Rule 9 from Ed Wood.) My personal favourite is a man with middle-age spread, a Batman suit and a bored, dejected expression on his face. Only the truly ironic (or a rose-tinted child) would want their picture taken with this guy.

On one corner there was an enthusiastic troupe of Christian street thespians performing for a small group of mostly other Christian street thespians. I think they were re-enacting the parable of the non-Samaritans who passed by on the other side rather than help an ailing art form.

Labels: Americas, Anthropology, Art, Food, Impro, Movies, Religion, Travel, US, Wildlife

Today is definitely a slow news day. The headline of the Seattle Times was about a dead cow and sightings of wolves.

After our breakfast waffle and coffee (or rather mine, as Cath had something healthier with her tea), we packed up and headed out. We first made an unscheduled stop at the kilt shop. That's right, the kilt shop. We'd seen a couple of people around town in kilts the colour of khaki shorts. I believe the colour is called khaki. They looked practical and not too out of place. And now we'd found the shop. I was sorely tempted: I even got measured up and talked models with the assistant. But the fact that they are only really practical in warmer climes and would be seen as weird in most places in the world put me off. I would not wear them enough. I'm still torn, and reserve the right to buy one in the near future.

We did some research in Borders and bought a selection of magazines, including the essential Bitch. This was one of the few Borders in the country without a public restroom. This is due to the undesirables who often hang out on the street out back and on one occasion set fire to it. Having bought some stuff, we were allowed to be escorted to the bathroom.

Car rental companies always offer about 15 schemes all of which probably work out to cost the same amount, but the implication is if you pick the right one, you'll save money. The fact that Messrs Hertz, Avis and National are very well off implies otherwise.

Mr Hertz, feeling very generous in his vast mansion (so big he probably needs to rent a car to go from one wing to the other), we got a free upgrade to a "brand new Toyota Camry." Somewhat like being supersized for free. No, exactly like that. The car really was brand new. It had 104 miles on the clock. It felt so new, I wondered if it had been a stowaway on the Hyundai boat I saw the other day.

We drove back to our hotel to pick up our bags and use the toilets. I'm glad I did because I solved the mystery of the washroom sign. This mystery was caused by a sign on a door stating that the toilet was out of use, whereas last year the same door lead to the spare dining area which Cath was certain had no toilet facilities.

I also got to witness a slightly drunk and increasingly annoyed homeless guy being seen off the premises. He was insistent that he had been given a cheap room before and wanted one again. The hotel staff didn't deny it, but said the hotel was full. Which, judging by the breakfast room, was true. He started off calm, but eventually got frustrated and threw some business cards off the counter. He wasn't dangerous, crazy or particularly drunk, as far as I could tell; it was more like he was grasping at straws.

And then we were off. The US has so many small towns dotted around its vast and mostly empty country that naming them got hard after a while. There is a lot of repetition and many end up with quite odd names like (all from the Seattle area) Possession, Humptulips and Aberdeen.

We passed by a couple of Sacred Gambling Grounds (or "casinos" as the Slotmasheen Indians call them) and stopped off at a gas station / minimart in a genuine "redneck" community where I made the mistake of trying to find a healthy snack.

We slipped into the border patrol area and, where a sign declared that it was is open 24 hours. It's good to know as some countries aren't.

As the most foreign, I had to answer a few questions. But because this was a drive-through point, we didn't have to leave the car. In fact it was no different to finding a curious and chatty toll-booth operator, which is not uncommon in the US. She raised the barrier and we were in the fabled land of Canada.

Labels: Americas, Anthropology, Drink, Food, Religion, Transport, Travel, US, Wildlife

Church of the day: St. Peter's Vietnamese Catholic Church.

Not many people realise St. Peter (or San Pi Ta) was Vietnamese. In fact only a handful are even aware there were Vietnamese Jews in Israel in and around 0 AD/BC. What we do all know is that AD/BC was the rock band that Peter fronted. It's not mentioned much, but when Jesus said, "Peter, you are my rock," he actually screamed it out from the front row of the Jerusalem Amphitheatre (now the Cellcom Arena).

First port of call for today was a pleasant, well-run nursing home currently housing one of Catherine's relatives. It's usually hard not to be depressed around nursing homes, but this place does almost everything to make itself seem like a hotel. Except that most of the staff dress like nurses. Mind you, many people would pay very good money to stay in a hotel where the staff dress like nurses.

Lunch was ambushed at Spring Creek Barbeque. Here there were several options for getting your food. You could shuffle along the canteen-style line to pick out what you wanted; or you could stand at a desk and request it for take-away from the smiley lady. There was also an extra stand selling "cobblers." Cobblers are a kind of filled dumpling. If you're British, never has "carry-out" food been so "Carry On."

In-restaurant music was provided by a CD of Christian rock. For those of you who don't know Christian rock, this was a highly typical example. It was bland, country-tinged AOR (Adult-Orientated Rock) with choruses of the sort that go, "Jesus is alive!" with a portion of the gusto that other bands use when celebrating women who "shake." No matter what your views on religion, it's safe to assume Jesus deserves better than Christian rock. Most bands are very pale imitations indeed of the legendary AD/BC.

The middle of the day was devoted to golf, the gentleman of sports. The only sport that comes with its own special buggy (except, of course, buggy racing) and where you have the chance to see bobcats (except, perhaps, bobcat buggy chasing). I was very pleased with how it all turned out. My previous experience with golf had been limited to knocking balls about as a way to get out of more physical sports at school and a couple of practice rounds over the years. But I still remembered how to swing that stick and thwack that ball in roughly the right direction and for a reasonable percentage of the distance required. Not quite Tiger Woods, but perhaps Pussycat Bracken.

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If TV ads are to be taken as showing what Americans think they need, then the answer is: cars and medication. In fact the number of car ads is down since the auto industry rolled over the side of a cliff and burst into flames. Of the medications, very popular seem to be Viagra and "Cialis," which I only know about from my email box.

The best thing about the ads for medication (including Viagra, Cialis and the like) is that so much time goes towards (a) making sure you check with your doctor first; (b) warning you about possible side effects; and (c) making sure if anything unusual occurs, you go to your doctor. More time is spent warning you about the product than is spent trying to sell it.

America has come a long way and I never thought I'd hear the words "erectile dysfunction" in the middle of the day on a US TV station. Not that I really wanted to. The "erectile dysfunction" ads show a lot of men older than 30 sitting on sofas with women and talking. And thus by implication, not having sex. In fact, had the announcer not said the words "erectile dysfunction" you wouldn't have guessed he was hoping for sex, except for the fact he was a man alone with a woman. There is nothing suggestive of the situation except a mild sadness in the couple's eyes. In Italy, no doubt they have a cartoon penis to advertise these products who starts of flaccid and out of breath. In the US, this would cause heart attacks and riots on the street. My campaign for Viagra would be hosted by former cartoon dog, Droopy. He would be perfect for the role. There's almost certainly a cartoon where he drank growth serum.

Dinner was had at Chedders a chain of restaurants that are pleasantly decorated but frequented by noisy people. The food is the usual sweet, salty fare. Even the carrots were sweetened, which is a crime against humanity. Or at least against veganity, which I'm sure is nearly as bad. They had music in the background and, guess what, Chedders plays pop. (You have to be British and over 30 to appreciate that joke.)

In the evening we visited Cath's spirited Aunt Vora, who lives in one of those neighbourhoods with faux-wooden bungalows on each plot.

I was told not to walk on the grass because of things called chiggers. Chiggers are local-grown little critters that live in the grass but prefer skin. They cause itching and rashes and things like that. Nobody seemed to have a good word for them. There ought to be a joke about the sort of music they play, perhaps only suitable for Brits over 30, but I can't think of what it would be.

On the subject of music, I'll leave you with a tune that was following us around on the radio waves this trip. It's something like New Wave Electro English Beat Queen Gary Numan Pink Floyd. Ladies I give you Late of the Pier with Bathroom Gurgle: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MYuwGGqd0y4

PS Of course, right at the end should come the set-up for both the jokes in this entry: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=X4TmQxLjELI Glorious!

Labels: Food, Music, Religion, Science, Sport, Travel, TV, UK, US

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

According to the calendar the longest day is about a month away. Calendars, of course, never take into account personal travel arrangements. Friday 30 May lasted something like 30 hours. A large chunk of the day was spent squashed into seats on a flight we very nearly didn't get. A combination of packing delays, tardy metros and a little bit of Cath's suitcase handle breaking mid rush meant we were arriving at about the time the baggage check should have closed. Fortunately the train was bang on time, and some random hero helped Cath up the rolupulator with her bag. (I know that's my job, but I was rushing ahead trying to save another part of the day.) Skipping the queue and blagging our way into the business class drop-off area, we came through and even had enough time to pick up some gift goodies. The panic was over. And believe me, panic it had been for a while.

A direct flight from Amsterdam to Portland, Oregon is about 10 or so hours. To pass the time in the tiny seats, the airline provides one of those new, impressively-featured entertainment systems that never work first go. After "what we call a soft reboot" which took 20 minutes, the system was up and running. It was handy because while Cath took the sleeping option, I took the barely-successful nap and two-movie option. I watched Bullitt because San Francisco was to be one of our ports of call plus you can't really get too much gritty Steve McQueenness. Then later Juno because nothing else looked remotely good. The latter was edited for content for airlines. Which usually means all references to plane crashes, hijacking, food poisoning are removed; as well as bad language, sex and violence. There were quite a few over-dubbed ridiculously mild expletives and sentences cut in half to remove bad words. It was a pooping shame as in many cases the whole gosh dagnagnit rhythm and sometimes the jigging meaning was lost. Juno is actually a love story following the cycle of a pregnancy and seems to say love is more important than babies. Which isn't biologically true, but may as well be given there is a baby mountain. This is probably one of those movies that everyone get's confirmation of their beliefs from. Like visiting Jerusalem: No matter what your faith, it'll get reaffirmed their. Certainly mine did, and I'm a cynical atheist.

Labels: Movies, Netherlands, Religion, Transport, Travel, US

Directly following the Queen's (false) birthday this year was Hemelvaart (or Helatorstai (in Finish), Himmelfart (in Danish) or Ascension Day). It is the day when Jesus vaarted up to heaven after being crossed, buried and resurrected. Knowing hemel (pronounced heymal) mean heaven made me realise why the residents of Hemel Hempstead (in Hertfordshire, UK) are always so smug. They live in "Heavenly Hemp Town."

Hotels spend a lot of effort getting you to go there and then even more effort making sure you don't stay there too much. Breakfast is always set at a prohibitive time for people who are on holiday. And after that, gangs of young people roam the corridors with large trolleys making much noise and knocking on any doors not marked with "do not terrorise" signs. Early breakfasts are, of course, ideal for old people (who suspiciously sleep very little) and other early birds. Because of the segregation policy, it was easy to see the fact the regular guests were very much out numbered by the senior citizens. I scoped out potential exits in case things turned nasty, especially those with steps, but it was soon apparent that these were contented seniors not out for a fight but all chirping contentedly around a well-stocked buffet tree.

Ironically, even though it is celebrating the greatest journey ever told, there is actually very little in the way of transport on Ascension Day. Bike shops too are closed. If Jesus wanted to return to heaven in a modern Ascension Day, he'd have to hitch a lift, walk or ascend on a stairway of angels. Because there ain't no buses and he won't be able to rent a bike for love nor money. It was therefore time to take the valve between the teeth and the bell by the horns. We grabbed our new cycle repair kit, acquired a pump from the hotel and redesignated the inside of our bin as a bucket of water. In short, we fixed it ourselves. Refiets'd, we headed off into the relative wilds of the Dutch countryside.

We started off trying to follow presubscribed routes, but somewhere along the way we diverged from this. But it wasn't all that long before we were back on a different path and all paths pretty much lead to the national park. Or away from it. Our route ended up taking us along more roads than woodland paths, but this gave us the discovery that the favoured pets in this part of the country are horses.

We lunched on sandwiches prepared by ourselves sitting on tree stumps. Pretty much as primitive man would have prepared his sandwiches. Except perhaps his bread would not have been square and pre-sliced. And his ham would also not have been square and pre-sliced. Nor would he have found a perfectly flat (pre-sliced?) tree stump. He would probably also have been bothered by bears, wolves and demons, so on reflection, it wasn't quite the same at all.

If horses are the favoured pets, goats seemed to be the favourite livestock. We passed many of the little blighters. Right before the park itself there was a petting zoo. A few chickens, pigeons (!) and pheasant-like things dwelt in a large cage whilst a pen contained several sorts of goat. Some were small and cute, others large and no doubt handy in a fight. I bent down and befriended a young example and seemed to almost immediately hit it off.

Nature, like most things in the Netherlands, is highly managed; and nowhere are cycle paths better maintained than in the national park. But then, they get more cyclists there most other places. As we had our own bikes, we didn't need to avail ourselves of the free, white bikes, but this is a great scheme.

Once in the park, we cycled to the famous Kröller-Müller museum (named after a brand of yoghurt). We didn't have time to go in and round, but some pieces have been conveniently dumped outside. "Line of Rocks," "External Elevators," "Frenchman in the Vein of Alfred Hitchcock" and "A Bunch of Tubes Stuck Together" were the pieces I recall. We cycled on further and reached a snack outpost. We arrived just in time to grab fire-side seats before the hale came down. It threw itself down like, well, lumps of ice, bouncing off the thatched roof and soaking all manner of people. Very soon, the place was filled with damp groups jealously regarding our prime spot.

[From afar we both thought this was a vision of the Virgin Mary by the stable.]

The hale and thunder passed and we were soon back in the semi-wilds. We hadn't gone far when the storm came back round for more. We huddled in our waterproofs standing under the canopy of trees but not so close to the trunk that lightning would confuse us for something that might conduct better than wood. Fortunately it soon passed again. This was just before we arrived at the St. Hubertus Jachtslot (hunting lodge). This is a grand single-story building on the edge of a very large artificial pond. It looked like it could hold quite a few hunters.

The lake had a low mist rolling over it as we arrived and looked suitably Arthurian. I could picture half-naked ladies emerging from the water, sword held aloft. About which Freud would have quite a lot to say, I'm sure.

As we arrived, the downpour was just about ending. People were cowering in the doorways of the lodge and the mini snack bar next to it. Not very hunter-like, we thought. They looked like cowering peasants as we strode through in with our damp weather-armour.

On the wall of the courtyard is a relief depicting St.Hubertus facing what seems to be a goat. In fact it looked remarkably like the picture of me meeting a goat that we took earlier. Where's my hunting lodge? Where's my Sainthood?




Cycling back from the lodge, the sun came out highlighting the dramatic landscape and skyline of thick, black clouds. We were at this point in a large open area: Part sandy, part grassy it was like just the Serengeti. You could imagine lions chasing okapi with vultures circling above them. (Note: neither of us has been to the Serengeti.) In the middle of the plain was a statue of Anton Kröller stands on a plinth surveying his domain. He looks like he is about to lift off and soar into the sky for a better look at the world he bequeathed.

We left the park and cycled back through the woods and farms. When we arrived at the hotel we were aching and wet; feeling we'd done enough exercising to last a few weeks. At least, I did. But the best thing was, our puncture repair was still holding on strong.

For dinner, we had reserved a table at De Verassing because it was either that or what the Dutch think of as Chinese. We ate, chilled a little, reading, writing and drawing in the hotel's reading-writing-and-drawing room and then slept like two sore logs.

Labels: Anthropology, History, Language, Netherlands, Religion, Transport, Travel, Wildlife

Normally on this day I am reporting on the crazy Dutch customs surrounding Queen's Day (Koninginnedag) where in the morning people of all ages sell their old stuff and in the evening mostly other people get drunk, wear orange and clog up the public transport system. This year we did something different.

Catherine is currently contracting for a big teleinternet company. It is hard, demanding work on top of pleasing her other clients. She's needed a break for a while but it's taken some time to squeeze one in.

So instead of being swept along the grachten in a sea of orange, we waited at Amstel station with two laden bikes. It was early afternoon and the tide of people was still towards Amsterdam. On the other platforms, trains filled with noisy orange creatures arrived and dumped their load. Whist we waited with a handful of people for whom orange was optional and shouting not at all necessary. Many Amsterdammers leave before the madness (which actually starts the night before) and complain that the city is invaded by boeren (farmers). Although in my experience, farmers are quiet, hard working people not prone to shouting except to instruct a dog and rarely to be found wearing garish colours.

At Ede-Wageningen (pronounced Ada-Vargeninger with a little spittle on the 'g's) we got off and rode (separately) down possibly the slowest elevator in the country. We ran under the platforms and up four sets of ramps to get out connecting train. This took us to the supposedly beautiful Village of Lunteren on the edge of the Veluwe.

Revision Note: The Veluwe (pronounced Feyloowa, or nothing like that) is a big forested triangle in the centre of the country. At the heart of it is a national park.

From the station it was a pretty quick and easy cycle to our hotel. We checked in and were shown the facilities - the breakfast room, the lounge and terrace, the intra-red sauna (don't ask me, I don't know either).

The hotelier also told us that the hotel was full of elderly people who had nabbed all of the double beds, the randy buggers. It was not clear if these were long-term tenants or a touring party. It seemed to be the latter. One interesting fact is that there was a segregation policy and the seniors had one part of the breakfast room, the other guests another.

Having checked in and looked (in vain) for the trouser press (I didn't need one but they fascinate me), we were ready for the first bike ride not laden with luggage. Here was our first curve ball. In the time it took to check in, check out the sauna and check for a trouser press, Cath's rear tired had gone as flat as the crepe proverbialle. Sticking out was a huge shard of glass the size of a dagger*. It was a Blackbeard moment: quite disheartening.

(* - some exaggeration here.)

But we refused to be disencourated as they say in France. We both hopped onto my bike - me on the saddle, Cath 'sweethearting' on the luggage rack (or chickrack as it now was). Nearby was a bike shop, but this being queen's day, it was as closed as a Hassidic car showroom on Shabbat. We cycled through the town and sought more bike places. They were as common as trouser presses. Giving up on a cycle shop, we decided that if we found a tourist office (VVV), they would know where to go - even if it was a place to simply hire another bike. The map showed one a little up and to the left of the station. We searched around every street in that area and found houses, houses and more houses. No VVV, no cycle shop and my trousers could easily have been irreparably wrinkled.

The only shop open was a supermarket where, surprisingly, we found a tyre repair kit. We bought it and some almond / marzipan cakes called bruidsgebak (bride's bake) which reminded me of something I used to love as a kid. One of these had to be useful.

During our cycle we had also scoped out the town's supply of restaurants. They were none too inspiring. Two Chinese restaurants of the type where most people order Bami Pangang which is Holland's most favourite Chinese dish, even though it's Indonesian; There was an Italian where most people order pizza; and several snack bars outside of which were giant effigies of the great god Frites (also known to the Romans as Fries and the Ancient Britons as Chips). It didn't bode well. There was however one small place that looked promising. It was called De Verrassing (The Surprise) and advised reserving. It looked the sort of place that wouldn't foist chips on you at every juncture.

We freshened up and popped over there early. It was quiet enough that we could get a table without a reservation. It never quite filled up, but it got reasonably busy as the evening progressed.

The surprise of the place is that it looks like a fancy restaurant and the food is prepared and served in a fancy way, but nothing on the menu is fancy. It's very gewoon (ordinary). Steaks, onion soup, even lekkerbek (fried fish much loved by the common people). But it's all done very well and with a touch of class. And is tasty. The other interesting thing was the waiters were not snobbish like they often try to be in classy restaurants, they were jovial and, for Dutch waiters, helpful.

After eating far too much, we went off into the woods for a walk. There was a bit of time left before the night fell and it became infested with bandits and/or Hobbits.

Towards the end of the stroll, we found an enclosure containing various sorts of ducks and an aloof of black swans (as I imagine the collective term is). It was a good reminder of the cruelty of ducks. They were up to their usual tricks of picking on weaker or deformed colleagues and holding down females with their beaks to try and mount them. I guess it was mating season. I don't recall those particular Donald Duck cartoons: "Donald Does Daisy in the Dirt" or "Rapesody in Blue." After this, cats seem like cute, fluffy things.

During the meal, we counted people walking and cycling past wearing clogs. In Amsterdam, in seven years, I've seen one tramp wearing clogs, the traditional wooden shoes of the Netherlands. And in Leiden I've seen a couple of builders wearing them in my time. In Lunteren we saw five people in half a day. Some of them young, as well. Even the bar in the middle of the town was called de Klompjes (the clogs). This is clearly a more traditional part of the country and it gave us hopes of seeing girls in pig tails carrying churns of milk or maybe a boy with his finger in a dyke. Mind you, the latter you can see in Amsterdam, if you know the right place.

Labels: Anthropology, Food, Language, Netherlands, Religion, Transport, Travel, Wildlife

At 22:05 on 23 April, David Dabekaussen passed away after an intense battle with leukaemia. He was 27. David was a shining light in the Dutch improv community; a member of the awesome Fluffy Suicide Bunnies. He was talented, creative and energetic; an accomplished musician (with the band Mr Moody); and a truly great improviser. It's hard to imagine him not being around.

When I picture him, I see him stand nobly in the Crea bar, his girlfriend Binky skating around him. Or I picture him at the end of the 2006 Amsterdam Improv Theatre festival, being showered in roses after deservedly winning the accolade of Maestro after a hard-fought competition.

He was very photogenic, and more than that he always manages to look very different in every photo you see of him. But in nearly all, there is the tell-tale cheeky grin. It is a testament to his spirit that he never seemed to lose his sense of humour no matter how the fight with the disease went.

Naturally, this good humour inspired others, and his funeral last Tuesday was filled with much of it. Binky, now his wife of a few weeks, recalled some things that were typical David which made a whole room of hundreds of sad people burst into laughter. Karen, a fellow Fluffy Suicide Bunny, came later an delivered a speech to him filled with laughter and regret, showing characteristic Bunny humour. She recalled a recent argument about her giving up performing to spend more time studying, noting David's mock dismissive response and the saying "and now, at your funeral, I get the last word." Humour and sadness is a potent mix.

There were several other speeches and some moving music before it was time to follow the coffin down to the cemetery. It was not, of course, your ordinary coffin. Usually these things are highly polished dark wood looking more like granite than wood. David's was plane pine on which loved ones had written personal notes or pithy sayings. I realised this is exactly what a coffin should be. It should be personal and contain things that tie the dead to the living, and not be some impersonal slab of wood trying to resemble stone.

There being several hundred people, the road was soon clogged up as we left the church hall. The police soon arrived to first stop traffic and then redirect us. It was impressive and testament to a life that touched so many people. I find it hard to imagine some one meeting David and not enjoying the process. Even the weather was enchanted and the sun definitely walked with us.

At the grave, we crowded round as best we could. A poem written by a friend was read and we all filed past in ones and twos. We all dropped flowers into a hole barely big enough to contain them all and certainly not big enough to contain our loss. So even though it was the disease that won, it was still David who was once again being showered with flowers.

[Various tributes to David have been or are being staged. easylaughs is having a benefit on 16th of May to raise money for a leukaemia charity. Further reading: David's Blog.]

Labels: Anthropology, Impro, Music, Netherlands, Religion

One thing the US is not short of is TV Judges. There is a positive spree of these shows where small-claims cases are taken over by TV and broadcast, judged by a quick-witted and often bitchy judge. They tend to be somewhat Jerry Springeresque but without the violence. Typical scenario is Lynsette-Mae Hallibasta is suing her ex- boyfriend Joe Schmuck for the money she claims she leant him to buy a car and he spent on booze. He claims said money was a gift. It's often hard to care or not feel the urge to shake the woman and say, "did you really give your alcoholic boyfriend money and expect to see it again?"

As we were in that part of the world, it made sense to go out for some good, honest Cajun eatin'. One of the best providers of such cuisine is seafood restaurant Pappadeaux, a reportedly Greek-run chain. We over-stuffed ourselves on the huge portions of, in my case, Gumbo and Crawfish Etouffee, and even took a large amount of it home.

On the way there we passed a car with the number place "TRU GOD." Had it been a sports car, I would have assumed it referred to the driver's opinion of himself, but it was a much more modest vehicle and no doubt proclaimed the deep faith of the driver, albeit somewhat ostentatiously.

Cards have been an essential part of The Christmas experience since Quanthor the Generous gave the first Yule Tablet in 460 BC. Original cards were just blank stone tablets onto which pictures and messages were chiselled by the sender or hired craftsmen. The first true Christmas card was sent in 0 AD/BC (also a popular band of the time). It read, "Announcing the birth of our first born son, Jesus."

In time the cards became cardboard, and were pre-printed with Yule and later Christmas designs and messages. And then even the bit where you put who its to (father, sister, uncle, etc) was pre-printed. In America, ever keen to take things too far, they have cards for every possible relationship you could have. Not just cards for "Father and his new bride" but also for your priest, nuns and even hairstylist. I kid ye not.

There was even a separate section for cards from the pet. In fact the card I got for Catherine was from the "from your dog" section, because actually it had the message most like what I wanted to say unlike the mush that filled a lot of the other cards. It has no reflection whatsoever, I should stress, with my relationship with Catherine. Anyway, I must stop now, it's time for my walk.

Labels: Anthropology, Christmas, Food, History, Religion, Travel, TV, US

My family goes nuts at Christmas. There is a feeling that it the person doesn't get their own height in presents the day has been a failure. Cath's family is far more restrained.

Not only that, but Christmas in my parents house is spent with a light alcohol buzz culminating with a unified falling asleep during the evening's compulsory Bond movie. The day starts there of late with a glass of champagne around breakfast time, I guess to wet the baby Jesus' head. And that's just the start. Even the Christmas pudding has an impressive percentage proof.

The traditional turkey and entourage is not too much different on both sides of the pond. The Americans love their cranberry sauce and the vegetables may well include a squash. I only recently discovered that there was such a thing as a squash. For those of you who live in the ignorance I used to live in, it is somewhat related to the pumpkin, but they tend to have the shape of other vegetables such as turnips. It seems an odd name, until you realise it's a contraction of the original Rhode Island-area word, asquutasquash. The word means "uncooked" or "that which is eaten raw" which is interesting compared to pumpkin which originally meant "ripe." Tamale on the other hand means "heart attack." (Only kidding.)

Among the American Christmas dinner institutions which will never make it to the UK is the "salad." "Salad" in this context is not like anything you would ever picture when someone says the word "salad" to you. It's some nuts and candied fruit in a sweet, green blancmange-like jelly. It tastes like the deserts we used to have at school. Tasty in an artificial and nostalgic sort of way, but too sweet for me to have with my main course.

One other turkey-related tradition that exists on both sides of the pond is the pulling of the wishbone. My experience is that whoever finds it gets to pull it with someone and the one who gets the larger part will be blessed with luck until the next year's year's turkey is served. It's similar in the US, although you don't have to pull it immediately, and you are allowed to let it dry and get hard. Tricks such as soaking it in things to make it rubbery and unbreakable are also allowed.

After a great meal, the universal yuletide tradition is of vegeing in front of a roaring, open television. This year one channel was constantly showing an American Christmas classic, "A Christmas Story." It's a great look at Christmas and family from the point of view of scheming, somewhat nerdy kid who's only goal in life is to own an air rifle. I even managed this year to see a fair bit of "It's A Wonderful Life," a film I'd managed to miss despite the many Christmases I'd spend on this planet. It's a film which is ALL set up. The meat of the film is only 20 minutes after an hour of setting up. Syd Field must hate it.

Most TV ads seem to be for cars the size of small houses and medicines. The medicines may possibly help you, but the list of disclaimers and recorded possible side-effects mean that you would have to be suffering pretty bad to even think about mentioning it to your doctor as they always tell you to do. There is no disclaimer for potential emotional distress when your doctor laughs at you when you mention the drug.

One last common TV Christmas tradition is the heart-warming season-related news story. This years was about a man who was released a little early from prison (after 17 years) for having smoked dope whilst on parole for stealing 2 dollars. "You in Texas now, boy."

Labels: Anthropology, Christmas, Food, Religion, Travel, TV, US

America is often ahead of the rest of the world in the products they have on the market. It could also be seen that America is the testing ground for the rest of us. Or that American law bends easier to the requests of big companies. They also believe in variety. No product would dream of having just one tried and tested formula, they have to have dozens of variants. Popcorn comes in a variety of subtle differences, and it's often hard to discover what the difference is between Unsalted Movie-Formula and Low-Salt Salted Popcorn. Orange juice also isn't just orange juice. It can be low-acid pulp-free or low-cal extra-pulp or vitamin-enriched low-Atkins. The choice is yours. I just want orange juice. You know the stuff that comes out of oranges. I'm convinced there are also a hundred variants of vanilla.

It even happens to toothpaste. And they all have different oral gimmicks. One I liked is antigingivitus, which seems to prevent gingerness. Ethnic cleansing in a tube.

Every country has its traditional Christmas food. In Britain it's turkey; in the US, turkey; and in Mexico it's... tamales. Tamales are spicy meat caked and cooked in what is effectively lard. They're tasty and probably about as good for you as strychnine, but isn't that the way of the world? We picked them up from what is reported to be one of the best Tamale places in the area. It does nothing but make wholesale tamales. It's not in the best part of town, but it's very, very handy for greasy auto repair shops and a very successful bail bonds office.

Labels: Anthropology, Christmas, Drink, Food, Religion, Travel, US

I must admit I used to have a similar reaction to the young Damian (from The Omen) with regards to going to church. Loud choral music in my head as I approach causing fits of screaming. These days I enjoy the anthropological experience especially when it is clearly going to be a different church experience to the one I was brought up with.

To me, church means an ancient, unheated building designed to make you feel that God is much bigger than you and that you are no better than a scurrying vole in the cold dimness of life.

When I heard I was to be going to a church in America, two stereotypes presented themselves and filled me with anticipation. Mega-churches and Gospel churches. Ideally it would be a Mega Gospel Church.

The vision of my head which was a combination of the frenzied gospel scene from The Blues Brothers and the Superbowl (the world's biggest bowls spectacular). Of course, this was incorrect, and the vast majority of faithful Americans don't go to churches like these. In fact in the States, religions are like sandwiches. Everyone has their own favourite, each with its distinct choice of fillings and they go to the church that makes the one exactly how they like it. In Europe, the choice is usually simple. If you're Christian, you are either Catholic or one of the local protestant churches (of which there is only a limited denominations in any one area). In the States, every church seems to have its own brand, and you can be a Preternatural Pentecostal or a Presbyterian Episcopalian, or even a member of the Church of the Flying Spaghetti Monster (Feel his noodly appendage).

The church we went to is very informal and gives a feeling more like that of one big family than the traditional "we church, you masses" relationship. It was a lot about sharing and it was even acceptable to call out things to the under-pastors. (Calling out to the full preacher is not done, but apart from that people seem free to almost heckle those who speak before the headline preacher makes his appearance.) The service seemed to take lots of bits it liked from other churches which made it feel all the more human. There was even a karaoke screen on which the words of hymns appeared. The older hymns I knew, but there were quite a few 'modern' hymns (those written after 1900). These tend to be dull and repetitive. One was apparently arranged by Beck, and I was expecting something funky and offbeat. It however did not appear to be the same Beck as I was thinking of.

During the middle, one of the under-pastors came and told a story to all the children. It was a typically cute tale about some flower that blooms in Mexico at Christmas. After it the children were lead off to "Children's Church" which from the description sounded more like a playpen. I was too tall.

Preachers in the land and age of TV have to be more like entertainers than ever. And ours was quite compelling, putting his point across with skill, good examples and a firm observance of the laws of story telling. He perhaps overplayed the examples for my taste, but in land and age of TV, subtlety is not your best weapon.

Labels: Anthropology, Christmas, Music, Religion, Travel, US

The first port of call of the day was a supermarket. Although obviously in the UK it wouldn't be called a supermarket, rather a small town. With European supermarkets carrying more and more American-influenced or American-produced products, it's easy to think you've seen everything, but of course, like Jaffa Cakes and stroopwafels, America too holds back one or two goodies for themselves. Nestled amongst the fruit were little boxed of pre-sliced apples. Not new in itself as I've seen the same in Albert Heijn, but these came with a caramel dip. It reminded me that NOTHING comes in America without extra sugar. Even spare tires probably come with a free sachet of sugared honey dip. In the health-food section, was the usual array of nut bars. In the Netherlands, they throw in at least one variant with chocolate on for people who can't quite go all the way. In the States there is not a single "health bar" that is not smothered in chocolate or something that attempts to simulate it.

On the way back, we drove past many identical, yet somehow differently-branded burger bars. A popular one in the Dallas area is Waterburger (or Whataburger). It looks like the sort of place people go when they don't want to go somewhere so up-market as McDonalds.

One thing I got to witness at first hand was people getting annoyed at the expression, "Happy Holidays." The expression "Happy Holidays" is used so as not to offend people who do not in theory celebrate Christmas (Jews, Muslims, Hindus, Buddhists, etc, etc), some of whom happen to also have holidays at that sort of time. However, the attempt to appease those not celebrating Christmas has upset some who do celebrate it. For me, I don't see the problem because Christmas is no longer merely a Christian celebration; the date and paraphernalia have been taken over by the more powerful religion of consumerism just as Christianity took the date and the paraphernalia from the pagan festival of Yule. Everyone celebrates Christmas, or at least realises that ALL shops do. It's no longer about some Jewish kid born in a barn in September who went on to become Messiah. (Although he didn't do the one thing Messiahs are supposed to do and deliver Israel up to God, but hey.) Christmas or Xmas or Salesmas is now the time of year enjoyed globally by retailers. A time of TV movie premiers and extra long episodes; a time of compulsory shopping and irritating music; a time of unnecessary familiarity at work and for being told you are a bad person if you don't get swept up in the ridiculousness of some of the rituals.

So, I don't mind what people say and don't mind admitting I think too much fuss is made of a holiday mostly celebrated by shopping establishments. A holiday that a lot of people who do celebrate it don't do so for any religious reasons. It's now part of global culture and no longer a purely religious thing. As Christians adopted these things from pagans, so global society has borrowed things from Christianity and a Dutch homage to a Turkish bishop to create a celebration of buying stuff.

It'll be nice to have an expression that nobody is offended by, but that is impossible. So the next best thing, equality-wise, is to have an expression that pretty-much everybody objects to. So that's why I say, "Bah Humbug, one and all."

Labels: Anthropology, Christmas, Food, Religion, Travel, US

Christmas is supposedly about many things, but for me it is ultimately a celebration of family. After all, even Jesus spent that first Christmas with his family. Not that he had much choice being only just born. This year it was the turn of Cath's folks in Texas to put up with us. Over the next few days, we'll see how it all went.

Labels: Christmas, Religion, Travel, UK, US

Back out in the heat, we walked through the throngs and throngs of tourists that gorm around such tourist webs as this. We wandered down the main street away from the square to find somewhere off the tourist path to eat. We thought we found somewhere, but when we read the small-print of the menu, we realised we were definitely on the tourist path. A one euro cover charge and a 20% service charge. This in a country where tipping seems not very common and in a place that had 2% worth of service if I was being generous. We had some passable attempts at Italian food and coffee. I guess we were paying for the shady bushes around their terrace, which admittedly were pleasant.

We had a bit more of a look through the guidebook and its stoner's history of the area. Catherine commented on how often fascism plays a part in Italian history, and sometime later I wondered if there was any relation between fascism and fashion. Fashion is actually a form of fascism, or at least dictatorial pressure from a self-appointed few. They sound like they should have the same verbal root, but it seems they don't.

We did some more wandering after this, taking in the town and avoiding the sun. We stopped and bought a pocket dictionary and a book of local recipes, including cecina (see earlier entry), in the local language to help us with our new fascination with Italian that we hoped to continue. Even then we knew, fascinations with languages of travel destinations are like holiday romances. They seldom continue for long after the trip is over. However, I still say this one is different.

On our way back out to the station, we went past La Chiesa di Santa Maria della Spina (the church of Mary of the Spine). I guess the translation is more like thorn than spine. The story is the church was built to house a thorn brought back from the holy land. This thorn was supposedly one of those from the crown that Jesus wore on his last day. (Well, the last day not including the bit where he came back.) It was obvious that this happened in the Holy Land and not Italy, otherwise the Bible would recall some Mary or other coming up to Jesus and saying "Do you really think that's fashionable?" Perhaps even adding, "That so 5 BC."

The Thorn(y) issue caused an animated discussion (by our standards) about belief in those days and whether people really thought this was one of the real thorns or whether it was hedging their bets, building a church because you didn't want to be disrespectful if it really was one of Jesus' thorns. I personally believed that everyone up the line believed it was true, but do wonder if the stall keeper in the Jerusalem market might have had a wry smile on his face during the transaction.

Relics from the crucifixion was one of the big industries in Palestine in the early part of the first millennium. It's been estimated that if all the bits of wood sold as official parts from The Cross were put back together, you could build a crucifix that could deal with Godzilla or any of his disciples.

Anyway the church was shut so we have nothing more to go on. The guide book gave no indication if the thorn was still in the church. Thorns don't tent to last 2000 years. (Editor's note: The interweb is in some doubt as to whether the spine is still in the church, has been moved or was lost down the back of the altar after a particularly heavy sermon.)

We bought our tickets back and waited for the bus. The public transport is remarkably easy here, except that you have to buy your tickets for the bus before hand, usually from tobacco shops. But once you know that...

Labels: Anthropology, Drink, Food, History, Language, Religion, Travel

Just over from the park was our first post-brunch port of call. Il Chiesa di St. Caterina was supposed to have a nice interior plus being named after one of Lady Catherine's namesakes. However the building was having its façade worked on and we had to leave it be.

We walked a bit more, past some random ruins, not in the guide, of a former Roman baths. It was one of those things where if there hadn't been a plan and description with diagrams of what it used to look at, the uneducated in ruins such as ourselves would have just looked at it and said, "looks like a bit of a castle."

After a short bit we saw the crooked top of one of the world's most recognisable landmarks peering over the buildings. Within a couple of minutes we were staring at the full drunken glory of the Leaning Tower.

Pretty soon after the tower was completed in 1370, and it was already leaning, I'm certain a poor potter whose work was not good enough to be selected for one of the many churches, made a miniature potted copy of the tower. Nowadays there are factories and factories churning out scores of these every day. And its not just statues any more. Lamps in the shape of the tower are popular. That is popular with the stall holders. I never saw anyone actually buy one. Also common are T-shirts, leaning mugs and I wouldn't be surprised if I saw leaning platform shoes. Stalls selling such prized works of art form the gateway to the Piazza di Duomo and suggest the likelihood of there being a higher than normal concentration of tourists in the following neighbourhood.


It's quite impressive to see it up close, but it is one of the world's most used images so it somehow doesn't feel new. I was expecting it to be more disorientating. Unfortunately, the wonder of "How does it stay up?" has long since gone. There are explanations everywhere of the procedures that have been put in place to keep it standing but leaning enough to still bring the tourists. In many ways the tourist industry has done very well out of what was basically bad planning and flawed surveying. But what we are often much more interested in the freakish than the beautiful.

We didn't go in the tower, as it's quite expensive and we would have had to wait until the evening before a slot was free. Plus, I would have only gotten up a few flights in such a twisted building before vertigo kicked in. There is no way I could have appeared at the top and stood there looking down at the leaning world. We didn't even do the classic photo of us holding up the tower. We watched a few people doing it, all duplicating pictures taken since the dawn of photography. My idea was to take one with my having done a karate kick from the other side, but I'm sure this would be duplicating pictures taken since the dawn of kung fu movies.


We did go in the cathedral near the tower. This is because it was a lot cheaper and Cathedrals are always cool. Cool as in cold. Plus there were no high bits you had to go into.

The cathedral is a big affair thrust full of art and artefacts. To go in, men had to remove their hats, and ladies had to cover their shoulders. This is pretty typical in Italian cathedrals, as I recall. For the purposes of the latter, there were blue coats provided which looked like the sort of thing you have to wear in hospitals. The blue really didn't fit in well with the sombre twilight of the interior. The shoulders of young children were perfectly allowed to be visible as far as we could see. I expect there's a passage in La Bibbia that states this rule exactly. "And upon entering the house of God, all heads shall be laid bare and the shoulders of women of marriageable age shouldst be covered by sheets of the holiest blue."

Even when the theme is religion, there were a great deal of subjects for the pictures that lined the walls of the cathedral. There were ascensions to heaven; martyrdoms, sermons being given. Something Catherine pointed out is something that is common for a great many such pictures. Often when such and such a person is saying or doing something important, the picture has lots of other people in them. However, these people, for the most part, are paying no attention to the main action of the picture and are doing their own thing. It seems odd that something that was an important moment, perhaps one of the plot points in the Bible, instead of everyone looking and heightening the importance of the event, practically everyone else is looking away, and in some cases even looking bored. I'd have burned them all as heretics.

What we did not seem to have a photo of was a picture of a rather malevolent looking Jesus being carried by a particularly worried Mary. Maybe we took it and it didn't come out. Anything is possible with a painting like that.

Sculptures are also prevalent. One of the smaller pulpits was surprisingly modern and cubist, depicting Jesus and two other characters, one of them looking highly doubtful. Probably Simon. The main pulpit was a large cage sitting on a forest full of lions killing gazelle. The message here was clear. Listen to what the guy up there says, or be pounced on by the Lions of Satan. The Lions of Satan are Pisa's premier Heavy Metal band. Not to be confused with Leaning Tower, who are definitely Prog Rock.

Labels: Anthropology, Art, Fashion, History, Language, Religion, Travel