Category Archives: Travel

A little ditty you can sing to take your mind off being groped

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That is, if you mind being groped.

Personally, I was struck by how nonintrusive security was on my recent flights across the ocean and back. You’d think that on an international flight to and from a country that’s as involved (as target, and as combatant) in the War on Terror as the UK, you’d see security as tough as anywhere (with the possible exception of Israel).

The only sign I saw of really heightened security during the whole trip was when we went to see Downing Street, which is totally barred off and heavily guarded, with at least one submachine gun being wielded up close and personal so that the tourists can’t miss seeing it. But at least we could see something — I couldn’t quite make out the famous door of No. 10, although I could see the famous railings in front of it (which is how I could tell that was it, and not another black door that was at a slightly more advantageous angle for viewing — perhaps the chancellor of the exchequer’s abode; I don’t know).

But, after all the talk about invasive, intrusive new TSA procedures in recent months, what we experienced was not noticeably different from any other trip I’ve taken over the last decade or so. The only hassle I remember at all was the rigmarole of having to reclaim our bags in Atlanta after getting back, and then having to recheck them for the flight to Columbia. That was highly irritating at the end of a day (actually, the worst thing was that it WASN’T yet the end of the day) when we’d already been up for 18 hours, and had just stepped off a 9-hour flight. Without that drill, we might have made our connection in spite of our flight from Heathrow having been delayed. Delta quickly got us onto another one — although our bags didn’t follow us until the next day.

But all that stuff about futuristic x-ray machines and being groped by the TSA? We didn’t encounter any of that. I was ready for it, and all prepared to shrug it off (why people get so worked up about such things I still don’t understand), but then it just … didn’t happen.

Still I can enjoy a joke as well as the next guy. So when a friend who closely follows such issues showed me the above video, I just had to share it with y’all…

Near as I can tell, this video comes courtesy of buckhowdy.com.

The only obviously stepped-up security I saw the whole trip was at the end of Downing Street, where it runs into Whitehall.

Being watched in Airstrip One

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Last night I was watching an episode of “Law & Order: UK” on BBC America, and was impressed by the extent to which the writers just expect you to keep up with the idiom, and the small differences between American and British culture and assumptions. For instance, there’s a scene in which detectives are fretting over the fact that they can’t easily retrace a suspect’s movements: He doesn’t carry a mobile, and probably doesn’t have an Oyster card. Then, a moment later, there’s a reference to CCTV.

The folks who do the show’s website are less respectful of the audience’s intelligence. The “British Terms Glossary” wastes time with “bloke” and “coppers” and “flat” and “guv.” Let’s face it, folks — if you don’t know what those mean, stick to re-runs of “Hee-Haw” (“Hey, Grandpa: What’s for supper?“) or the like. They also define “mobile,” but we know what that is too, don’t we?

The Oyster card is more subtle (and, you would think, a far more likely candidate for the online glossary than “Tube”). It’s the card you buy, and top up (do we say “top up”? I forget — but they say it a lot over there) as needed, to use the magnificent London system of public transportation. You swipe it to get through a turnstile on you way into a Tube station, and — here’s the pertinent part — you do the same to get out at your destination. Which means there exists an electronic record of your movements through the city. In the previous scene we had learned that the suspect had a fear of crowds that kept him away from the Tube. So, no Oyster card.

Of course, most people know what Closed Circuit TeleVision is. But it took me a day or so to consciously realized the implications of those signs I saw everywhere: “CCTV in operation.” (I actually had to think a minute to separate it in my mind from CATV, the old term for cable TV back in the days when it was the Community Antenna for small towns and rural communities, before it went all urban.)

What they meant, of course, is that you are under surveillance a huge proportion of the time. Yes, I know businesses here have CCTV, and footage from such cameras is often important in crime investigations. But it’s just nowhere near as ubiquitous as in London, and it doesn’t loom nearly as large in public consciousness. Watch TV news there, and it seems that every other word is CCTV, whether you’re talking the images of the crossbow robbers holding up a post office, or the images of murder victim Joanna Yeates (THE big story while we were there) picking up a couple of items at Tesco, or a routine crime at an off-licence. (Now there’s a term I had to look up — turns out “off-licence” doesn’t mean the shop is extralegal, that it lacks a license; it means it HAS a license to sell alcohol for OFF-premise consumption, as opposed to a pub. Generally, it’s what we’d call a convenience store.)

Of course, such consciousness of being watched — that those bright yellow signs — are a large part of the deterrent effect in themselves.

All of which is fine by me. As I always say, knock yourself out, Big Brother. I was conscious that some of my more libertarian friends back here in the States might have found it all creepy, but at no time in my sojourn in Airstrip One — I mean, England — did I feel the least bit put-upon or oppressed.

To me, it was part and parcel of being in a place that is very much like home, with freedom-loving people who respect the dignity of the individual, but where the politics is not plagued by the legions of radical-individualist paranoids who resist any effort at putting any sort of rational infrastructure in place. I loved the novelty of being in a place with such a dream public transit system, and where waiters and bartenders don’t mind not getting tips (or at most, don’t expect more than 10 percent) — after all, what are they worried about? They have health benefits they cannot lose. And I was very happy to pay the taxes that helped pay for it all. Some friends advised me that I could get a VAT refund on leaving the country, but there was no way I wanted that. I was happy to pay my share.

(And yes, sometimes it all goes overboard, which is why the coalition government is cutting back — AND raising taxes, remember, which they’re able to do because their conservative party doesn’t make a religion of irrational tax hatred. But on the whole, it was wonderful to be in a place where it’s assumed that one should have the Tube, and the buses (that’s “coaches” to you) and trains and parks and fantastic free museums (contributions suggested, but quite low and entirely voluntary) and a population of people who don’t fear being ruined by an unplanned sickness.

And which doesn’t mind being on Candid Camera, if it means you might catch a crossbow robber now and then.

Prospective cover photo for my next album

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OK, so technically it would actually be my first album. And of course, I first have to have a band, and learn some songs, and other details. It’s a project that’s been in the works for about 40 years. But don’t make like I’m procrastinating or anything. As you well know, I’ve been working on band names, and a playlist, and other essentials. (As a former managing editor I knew who was famous for his malaprops used to say, there I go again, putting the horse before the cart.)

And now, my cover art. Never mind that cover art is a passé art form, because people don’t put covers on their MP3s. I don’t care. I love album covers. Art for art’s sake, and all that. Let the Philistines sneer. Or the modernists. Or whoever is inclined to sneer, let them.

Bottom line, today is another really busy day, and I have two or three little ADCO projects I have yet to start, and finish, by the end of the day. So just to say I posted something, here ya go.

The backstory: This VERY out-of-tune piano was in the hallway outside our room at the bed-and-breakfast where we stayed in Oxford (that’s the exterior below). No one but me touched the piano while we were there. I would have known; immediately on the other side of the wall it’s up against is the head of the bed I slept in.

What am I playing? Well, my right hand is playing the opening chords of “Let it Be.” My left hand is just posing. I never really even learned to play the piano with one hand, much less play with two at the same time.

Anyway, I’m the front man. I don’t need an actual talent.

As for my costume… there’s no costume; these are my real clothes. I liked wearing them for this because something about the ensemble made me think of the “Our House” video by Madness. (Watch the first 45 seconds to see what I mean.) And no, I didn’t get that hat to wear in England (although lots of guys there actually DO wear them, and by no means are they all tourists). I’ve been wearing that very hat for more than 30 years. Not every day, of course, but often on weekends.

And finally, the credit. My wife shot this picture, quite reluctantly (and hurriedly, lest another guest see her doing it), at my request. She’s very patient. And she’s always paying me compliments. For instance, when she caught me using my digital recorder to record the sounds of the coffee shop at Blackwell’s book store in Oxford, she said “You’re very different from traveling with Mary.” Mary being her friend that she backpacked around Europe with just before she met me and I started monopolizing her time.

I took it as a compliment, anyway.

I leave the country for a few days, and look what happens

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This morning, when I went for a Grande Verona at the 5 Points Starbucks, I had the pleasure of flashing one of my favorite souvenirs from our trip to England: My official London Starbucks card. (Yes, it’s touristy, but I don’t care. I tend to like almost anything with a Union Jack on it.)

The effect was everything I could have hoped for. The barista was impressed, noting that he’d never before seen one like it. I basked in my elevated status… a Thorstein Veblen moment!

I bought it at a Starbucks in The City, one of two or three of the chain’s stores to which I gave my custom in London. The visits were generally satisfactory, which I took time to communicate to Mr. Darcy — that is to say, Darcy Willson-Rymer, the managing director of Starbucks in the UK and Ireland. He’s one of my followers on Twitter, you know — a fact which I could have mentioned to the baristas in England if I’d wanted to impress them, but one doesn’t want to top it the nob too much. Besides, it was unnecessary; the service was generally up to the usual high Starbucks standard. (Darcy was kind enough to write back to me, saying “Welcome to the UK. I hope we look after you. let me know how you get on.” I got on fine, as it happened.)

There were differences — for instance, they always ask you whether you want to drink your coffee on-premises or take away, which took me aback at first. (Or was that at the Caffe Nero shops I went to when Starbucks wasn’t handy? No, I think it was at both.) Also, some of the stores were huge, with far more seating capacity than I’m used to. Which was nice.

But now that I return home, I find all is not well in Starbucks land.

They’re changing the logo. I didn’t like the sound of that when I first saw the headline of the release a colleague had shared. Now that I’ve seen the new logo, I like it less.

How does it strike you? I think it looks naked. The poor siren is suspended in space, unanchored. She looks insecure. And now that it’s monochromatic, now that the “siren” is green and there’s no black to offset it, the whole lacks contrast, definition and character. Also, removing the words suggests a surrender to a post-literate world — and while I may have this wrong, I would have said that Starbucks’ constituency would tend to be more literate than the general population.

Moreover, it’s an unnecessary break with tradition, which on principle I abhor. (I’m not much on show tunes, but to the extent that I have a favorite, it’s “Tradition” from “Fiddler on the Roof.” The rest of the play, in which Tevye is forced to accept successively more jarring breaks with tradition, I like less.) It’s insupportable, as the original Darcy would have said. And then, when I read the reasoning — that it’s intended “to move the Seattle, Washington-based company beyond coffee” — I was nothing short of appalled. Beyond coffee? That’s like the church moving “beyond God” (which you might say some churches have done, but let’s not get off on a theological digression).

You ask me, I say if you must change, go back to the original brown logo (except that it had “and Tea,” which also distracted from the point). But, well, they didn’t ask me…

Douglas Adams lives!

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Once at a cocktail party in Columbia, I met an editor from a British publication (The Times, I want to say) and I asked him: “Why is it that British newspapers are so much better written than American ones?” He said he rather thought it was because in the UK, they write with readers in mind, rather than for other journalists.

I think he was right. It sort of speaks to that thing that John Parish was on about, when he explained to me his disdain for journalism prizes back in 1978.

Anyway, I’m very much enjoying the great wealth of British newspapers while I’m here. My favorite bit today, from a magazine included in The Times:

IN THEORY

The big ideas, with a little twist

01 DARWINISM

In the distant past there were lumbering, old-fashioned beasts who survived for an unaccountably long time before departing the stage, like a dinosaurian Ann Widdecombe. Then they all died because they were stupid and a smart monkey came down from the trees in Africa, moved to Surrey, put on a frock coat and invented the British Empire, which was clearly the pinnacle of existence and pretty much the point of having life begin at all.

02 DETERMINISM

Watson and  Crick discovered CSI in a London pub, beating Rosalind Franklin, who had two X chromosomes and therefore was ineligible to be clever. A scientist patented his own DNA and sued his offspring for breach of copyright. Gay men had a gay gene that responded under ultraviolet light to musicals, women had one that caused them to swoon in the presence of unsuitable men with two-tone shoes, and the rich had a gene that meant their children were rich, although that was later attributed to tax avoidance. A whole new series of medical treatments was predicted by those with three copies of the optimism gene.

01 SEXISM

Sex was invented because cells got sick o talking to exact copies of themselves at parties, like accountant. It split the world into halves: women are from Venus and men are from some planet where bowel movements are considered a leisure activity. Sex is not essential (qv Widdecombe, above) but does give a chance for unsuitable men with two-tone shoes to wee in the shallow end of the gene pool. It’s energy-intensive, distracting, dangerous and so humiliating that evolution has  to give humans jolts of pleasure on the level of a three-rock crack hit to make them do it….

You get the idea. If Douglas Adams were still alive, he could sue for theft of style. In fact, that “got sick of talking to exact copies of themselves at parties, like accountants” is VERY like a gag of Adams’ to the effect of “Many respectable physicists said that they weren’t going to stand for that sort of thing, partly because it was a debasement of science, but mostly because they didn’t get invited to those sorts of parties” — or at least it reminded ME of it.

The terrible, awful, horrible day that the VAT went up

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So maybe you didn’t feel it where you are, but today was the day — and they’ve been building up to it for the whole week that we’ve been in the UK, with sales urging people to come out and buy before it happened — that the VAT went up from 17.5 percent to 20 percent.

Guess what — I didn’t feel it, either.

There are several things that it’s taken some time to get used to here in the UK:

  • People driving on the left. This is maddening when you’re riding in a bus. And I’ve almost been hit from behind by buses several times walking along a road too close to the curb, with the road on my right (you expect to see traffic oncoming, but it sneaks up behind you — and is really close, because the lanes are so narrow).
  • The fact that tips aren’t expected. We made friends with a barman from Sri Lanka in Greenwich (a really nice guy), and he explained that they don’t get tips. We left him one anyway. But it’s really weird to leave, say, 15 quid for a bill of 12 pounds 52 pence, and have the server chase you out of the place trying to give you change. It happens time and again.
  • The fact that you NEVER feel the tax, no matter how high it is. That’s because it’s built into the price of the things you buy. If something is listed as 99p, and you give the clerk a pound coin (and why is it we haven’t had a dollar coin, or two or three dollar coin, catch on in this country? they’re so convenient), you get back a penny.
  • The fact that I’m in a country where the conservative party is raising taxes (OK, technically it’s a coalition government), and the dominant party of the left (Labour) is griping about what a terrible burden taxes are on ordinary families.

But both The Times and The Guardian are going on about this big, monstrous, huge increase. To which I say, who crosses the street to get a 2.5 percent discount on anything? I mean, really? This increase would amount to 25 p on 10 pounds. Or say you spend a thousand pounds on something — which is a lot more than a thousand dollars, mind — what’s the increase in tax? Twenty-five pounds. Like you’re going to worry about that if you can afford a thousand. (Oh, and by the way — that 600 pounds a family The Times predicts is on families that make 70,000 pounds or more. The burden is much less on median incomes.)

All that aside, the most amazing thing, the thing hardest to get used to, is that I’m in a country where the government has decided to deal with the deficit by — now get this — cutting spending and raising taxes. Of course, back home, the recent huge compromise between President Obama and the Republicans was to raise spending and lower taxes. That’s how we deal with deficits in the U.S. of A.

Riding through London on the magnificent Tube — which as far as I’m concerned is one of the marvels of the world, a testament to the ingenuity of Man — and asking directions from the helpful bobbies (“just 200 metres more on your roight, mate”), reading the extremely clear directions on where the buses that come every few minutes go, or going to the fantastic museums and paying nothing (except a few pounds voluntary contribution now and then), I personally feel that the tax I’m paying is one of the great bargains of all time.

And I’m wondering how well I’ll adjust when I get back home to a place where folks don’t want the gummint doing anything, ever, if it’s going to cost a penny more…

No, folks, I’m not a convert to socialism. I worry about the burdens of the welfare state, and I know that increasing taxes too much can have a nasty cooling effect on growth. But I have enjoyed some amenities here that seem more than worth the taxes I’ve paid here. All I’m saying.

I read the leader today, oh boy…

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All right, so it wasn’t properly a leader, but a column. I just wanted to add some British idiom to my allusion…

Thought y’all might be interested in this item in The Guardian today (over breakfast at our B&B in Oxford, my wife was reading The Times and I had The Guardian — which I had run next door to the off-licence to get — but she never gave up The Times).

We never got around to visiting the Abbey Road crossing in London, even though it wasn’t far from where we were staying. I sort of lost interest after reading that the local council had moved the zebra crossing so that it wasn’t the real one. But I’ve been bemused at how they do go on about The Beatles here. I had sort of thought they had faded from memory here, rather the way one never saw much about Elvis in Memphis until after he died (I know, I lived there then).

That’s mostly because there have been two recent news items. The first was that the Abbey Road crossing was recently given Grade II historic status — even though it’s the wrong place. The second was that a Tory minister wants to protect Ringo Starr’s birthplace in Liverpool from demolition.

So today’s columnist wrote a piece headlined, “I am a Beatles obsessive. But let’s cut the Fabs-worship.” And quite right he is, even though I love the Beatles. As he wrote,

Such, anyway, is yet another episode in a story that has long since ballooned into absurdity: the transformation of the Beatles into a national religion – arguably bigger than Jesus, as John Lennon infamously put it. X Factor contestants must, by law, deliver warblesome readings of Let It Be and The Long and Winding Road; each time Sir Paul McCartney ventures out to hack out his versions of the hits, the public is encouraged to think something miraculous is afoot; Yoko Ono, bless her, keeps the posthumous Lennon machine grinding on.

In Liverpool, meanwhile, delusions of post-industrialism have reached their apogee in the idea that Beatledom can be a substitute for a lost mercantile past. It’s all there: John Lennon international airport, the Hard Day’s Night Hotel, the “Magical Mystery Tour” that wends around the city, even a Fabs-themed Starbucks — though judging by the forlorn atmosphere of too many of the surrounding streets, Beatles-driven regeneration really isn’t working. Funny, that.

Yes, isn’t it? He goes on to note that not ALL Beatles music is iconic:

Moreover, the idea of the Beatles as all-dominating titans had yet to take root: well away from their legacy, music developed on its own terms. These days, by contrast, they use up so much of the cultural air that we seem little able to breathe. There must be more to life than nodding-dog piano ballads of the Hey Jude variety, but there are times when they seem to define a good 50% of the mainstream. For all their inventive wonderment, one would imagine that I Am the Walrus, Happiness Is a Warm Gun and Helter Skelter left at least some of rock’s more creative possibilities unexplored, though listening to the bulk of even supposedly cutting-edge music, you’d never know.

Indeed. Then, he ends,

In 1970, John Lennon said this: “It’s just a rock group that split up, it’s nothing important – you can have all the records if you want to reminisce.” The words crumble next to his group’s myth, but they also speak an undeniable truth — which is why the 72% of local people who are reportedly OK with the Madryn Street demolition ought to have their wishes respected, and life should go on. And one other thing: Ringo was the drummer, remember.

I’m not sure what he meant by that last bit. As “Paul’s grandfather,” the clean old man, observed in “A Hard Day’s Night,” where would they be without his steady beat. But I thought the piece was food for thought.

Pint of best bitter, please — or stout, ale, or whatever you’ve got

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Sharp's Doom Bar at the Golden Lion.

When we were on the way into town from Heathrow the other day, my granddaughter mentioned that she had forgotten to pack her best glitter. I couldn’t resist that opening, and immediately said, “We’ll just go into a pub and order a pint of best glitter!” She and my wife both looked at me blankly. Sigh. It went over as well as one of Jack Aubrey’s puns. But I was just as proud of it as he ever was…

So I’ve ordered a pint of bitter, and occasionally stout or lager, at various places in London, Greenwich and Oxford now. Also had some Peroni and Beck in restaurants without taps, but that doesn’t count.

I’ve had Spitfire (twice) and Samuel Smith Sovereign Bitter and some Samuel Smith stout as well (Samuel Smith was all they served at the Swiss Cottage pub near us in London). My very first pub was The Golden Lion in central London, where I had Sharp’s Doom Bar. (I had to walk ’round and see the tap myself, because the barmaid had a heavy foreign accent. It was THE best bitter I’ve had so far.) Sort of a posh clientele — I suspect some of those chaps of working at Christie’s, right across the road.

The most recent place we visited was The Turf in Oxford. It’s only been a pub since the 13th century, and I like to give these new places a try. Didn’t actually have a pint there (I was still drinking a coffee from down the road) — but J had a mulled wine.

I will continue to investigate this aspect of this lovely country, and report back to you, my readers. Someone has to do it.

I intend to carry on in spite of the fact that the new tax rates are going into effect within hours. More about that later.

I found “Championship Vinyl” (and you can’t prove I didn’t)

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See where it says "shop to let"? And do you see any window-shoppers?

Well, I told you I would find the former site of “Championship Vinyl,” the record shop in High Fidelity, and I did. And no one (except maybe Nick Hornby) can tell me I’m wrong.

It satisfies the criteria:

  1. It’s in Holloway.
  2. It’s just off the Seven Sisters Road.
  3. It’s in a location that guarantees the “minimum of window-shoppers” — in other words, the only customers are those geeky young males who go out of their way to seek the place out.
  4. I was looking for a vacant space, on the theory that since the book was published 15 years ago, and since Rob was trending toward changing his life for the better toward the end, that he would have moved on from running the store, or moved it to a better location, or something by now. I mean, he and Laura would have some kids by now. Any road, this is a good theory for me to have to explain that it’s not actually there, since, you know, it never really existed.

I made up that last criterion, but the first three are in the book.

So, you ladies are wondering — just how patient is my wife, to go along to places like this? Well, she didn’t. This was the one thing I did

Unfortunately, the souvenir shop wasn't open. I had wanted one of those scarves...

on my own. Today was the day we were leaving London for Oxford, and she just wanted to get up and get ready. So I got up before she did, hopped the Jubilee line down to Green Park and got on the Picadilly way out to Islington, to Holloway Road, and hiked over to Seven Sisters.

Then, after “finding” Championship Vinyl (it was the first street off Seven Sisters with some actual commercial fronts off the main road) on Hornsey Road, I walked back east until I got to Arsenal Stadium, the scene of other Hornby tales. At Arsenal, at least, I wasn’t the only geek taking pictures of the stadium — but the others were English football fans. One guy was having his wife take his picture there while she tried to keep the kids in order.

After I found the Arsenal Tube station (this required asking directions four times, twice from people who did not speak English), I rode back to our stop, and left Swiss Cottage station with sadness. I really, really love the Underground. (There’s no other way I could have gone all the way to Islington in a city this crowded and done all that walking about and gotten back in less than two hours.)

When I got back, J had packed for both of us, and we took a taxi to Victoria Coach Station for the ride to Oxford. Come to think of it, she really is enormously patient with me…

Oh, and if you wonder why I would want to do this… well, you just have to read High Fidelity. The movie was great, but the novel was much better.

Or maybe THIS is it, a couple of doors down. I can see how experts could in good faith disagree...

The UFOs of Primrose Hill (Happy 2011!)

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Sorry about the poor quality; I only had my Blackberry. Still, you can see a bunch of our UFOs, rising away from Primrose Hill toward central London. And down on the horizon, among other things, you can see the Eye of London.

J and I had this brilliant idea. We would avoid the madness of Trafalgar Square on New Year’s Eve, but still experience it, quietly and privately, by walking up to Primrose Hill, which we had heard afforded a great view of London.

So, after a wonderful meal at a fine Indian restaurant near our hotel in Swiss Cottage, we set out walking. I had assured her I could find the park from having glanced at Google Maps, and I hoped I was right.

Along the way, we saw some young guys on the sidewalk outside a house where a party was going on, and they seemed to be trying to make an upside-down luminaria take off like a hot-air balloon using a cigarette lighter. They were laughing like mad, and the people inside the party were watching out the bay window with great interest, and we just assumed they were half-cut, or more. As we walked past I did say, “Well, the principle is sound…”

Then, as I we walked on and I started to wonder whether I had lost my way after all, we noticed down south, over the city, some reddish lights hovering in the sky. They looked very strange. The way they acted, they couldn’t be aircraft. My guess was that someone had fired parachute flares, but they were so high that seemed unlikely.

As I was about to despair of finding Primrose Hill Road, I saw a fairly busy road ahead of us… and lots of people walking along it. Since they were walking in the direction of a church, my wife came up with a Catholic answer — they were going to a midnight Mass. But that’s not where they were going. We found ourselves part of a pilgrimage of perhaps a couple of thousand, all of whom had had the same idea — climb Primrose Hill to watch the fireworks down around Trafalgar.

There were all sorts. Most seemed 20ish, and most had bottles. But there were older folks, and parents with small kids. Most were English, but I heard German and Spanish nearby.

Everyone had a blast, and it was fun to be among them. But the most remarkable thing was that, from here and there in the crowd, these big bags with little fiery things dangling from them kept drifting up. At one time, about 25 of these UFOs could be seen, drifting high toward the Thames. It was wonderful to watch (and so quiet, by comparison to fireworks).

Then came a ragged, spontaneous countdown, and bam! The fireworks went off over Trafalgar, to the delight of all.

It was wonderful. The weather was cool and damp, but not uncomfortably cold (just as it’s been since we’ve been here, which I love — I would have been so disappointed had it been sunny).

So that’s what we did for New Year’s. What did you do? Oh, wait — you haven’t done it yet. Well, whenever midnight does reach you, have a wonderful time, and be safe and careful.

And have a wonderful 2011. I plan to.

Then came the

Ruining my “typical” English breakfast with The Guardian

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What is THE very most obnoxiously touristy thing I could do on my first day in London? Yes, you guessed right -- here, my granddaughter and I harass one of the Horse Guards.

First, an apology for not blogging more. Had major trouble connecting to the wi-fi at the hotel again. After working on it for about an hour and harassing the Polish night clerk for half that time, back in my room I finally got on. My wife asked me what I did differently. I explained that I entered the username and password with my left hand that time. True, there were other things I did as well. But the only one I remember was entering the login info with my left hand. So… there could be trouble again tomorrow.

Now, to report on a bit of my day… the very first bit… I’ll write about how The Guardian did its best to spoil the typical “English breakfast” that I had this morning. OK, modified English breakfast. First, I was eating it at an Italian bistro near the hotel (but they advertised it as a typical English breakfast). Then, I asked them to leave out the eggs and the toast (because of my allergies), and to substitute chips. Other than that, quite typical — bacon (OK, it was like bacon in the Great White North, but that’s what they called it), sausage (or should I say “banger”?), fried tomato, mushrooms, and baked beans (with a bit of HP sauce on it). And a couple of espressos. (But don’t call it espresso. I made the mistake of saying “another espresso” to the waitress — I was going by the foam — and she corrected me saying it was “black coffee.” No, black coffee was what I had at Starbucks later in the day. Whatever.)

It really fortified me for walking about all day in typical English weather (something like 45-50 degrees, totally overcast, occasional mist — which I’m loving; I’d be so disappointed if it were sunny). And I enjoyed it thoroughly.

But it was very nearly ruined by reading The Guardian, which someone had left in the restaurant. Actually, as it turned out, it was a two-day-old Guardian. But I didn’t realize that until later.

I guess you could call this post my British version of my Virtual Front Page, which I haven’t done in awhile. So enjoy.

The biggest news today, by the way, has been England winning the Ashes in Melbourne. This, apparently, is huge, since they haven’t done it in 24 years. But just try understanding the coverage of it. For instance, try diagramming the two sentences in this paragraph:

England had arrived knowing that they required four more wickets, but notionally three for the crippled Ryan Harris was never going to bat: no tail-ender in a surgical boot has ever batted out more than five sessions to secure a draw and they were not about to find out. Eventual victory did not come easily however and Andrew Strauss and his men had to wait until 40 minutes before lunch before Matt Prior swooped on to an inside edge from Ben Hilfenhaus, a fourth wicket for Tim Bresnan, and the entire team, along with a corner of a very large foreign field that was England, were able to erupt in their collective euphoria.

I don’t think understanding the jargon would help; I’m pretty sure those sentences are nongrammatical. Maybe it’s the punctuation. Anyway, we move on.

In the Monday paper, I read about Elton John having purchased a child in California. But that didn’t make much of an impression. Then, I read truly shocking news: David Cameron has called off a free vote on lifting the ban on hunting with dogs. I especially enjoyed this quote from Cameron:

Cameron, a self-confessed “shire Tory”, has said he is a country man at heart and favours hunting, but he recognises it is a highly divisive issue and would play to negative stereotypes around his party.

Bloody do-gooders. Bloody leftist rag I’m reading about it on. I mean, what’s the use of having a Tory government (or a coalition government in which the Tories dominate), if you can’t restore riding to the hounds? I mean, is this England? I wonder if Cameron was so mealy-mouthed in The Times. Harrumph.

But seriously, folks, that’s not what upset me. What upset me was this story:

The government is to follow the lead of The X Factor television programme and allow the public to decide on legislation to be put before MPs.

In an attempt to reduce what is seen as a disconnection between the public and parliament, ministers will ensure that the most popular petition on the government website Direct.gov.uk will be drafted as a bill. It is also planning to guarantee that petitions which reach a fixed level of support – most likely 100,000 signatures – will be guaranteed a Commons debate.

Ministerial sources acknowledge that the proposals have the potential to cause headaches for the coalition because populist causes célèbres – such as a return of capital punishment or withdrawal from the European Union – could come top of the list.

The leader of the Commons, Sir George Young, has signalled he wants to press ahead with government by petition in the new year.

There would be no guarantee that the government would support the most popular proposals but, subject to discussions, there would be an agreement that the issues would be converted by parliamentary draftsmen into a bill…

My God, direct democracy? Worse, reality-TV-style direct democracy. In Britain? I got here too late.

And I thought American politicians were the kings of pandering. Obviously not. I suppose this is what they mean when they say travel is broadening.

As you see, I didn't let The Guardian upset me SO much that I didn't finish the breakfast. Oh, as for the 15 quid on the tray -- that's not just for me; that's for three breakfasts, plus tip. And yes, I know The Shop Tart shows you her meals BEFORE she eats them, but I'm not The Shop Tart, am I? I'm more avant-guarde...

OK, we’re here — more later

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Got to London, but…

  • The plug adapter I spent $20 bucks on at Radio Shack only has two holes on the American side, and I need three. I just bought it Sunday and threw it in the suitcase. I’m down to 14 percent battery power.
  • The Internet connection at the hotel is fitful. I finally connected after working with the guy at the front desk for about half an hour. They tell me that tomorrow, I’ll need a whole new password.
  • Oh, yes, the lift is out of order, and we’re on the third floor. So, a dilemma — after I carried half the EXTREMELY HEAVY suitcases up to the third floor and the bellhop carried the rest, should I tip him extra, or not at all, as I stand there huffing and puffing? I gave him three pounds, as it happens.

More when I have power…

Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Tourist

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Sitting in the Detroit airport, thinking about our eventual destination…

Maybe I’m not, as friends and family seem to think, Jethro. But I am an … idiosyncratic sort of tourist.

Sure, I want to see the usual things in and around London – the Tower, the Bridge, maybe Stonehenge when we get out of town. My granddaughter wants to see Mme. Tussaud’s. I will also reluctantly accompany her onto The Eye, even though the smallest carnival Ferris Wheels give me the fantods.

But I hope she and my wife will indulge me on a few somewhat more oblique digressions.

My notion of what to see Over There is heavily influenced by fiction. This means that I want to see places where people who never actually existed didn’t actually do the things that I read about. That means some of these sights aren’t much to look at, while some are entirely imaginary. But I want to see where they would be if they did exist. Hard to explain.

I’m not entirely alone in this. Some of the more esoteric (I thought) sights have been sought out by other fiction geeks ahead of me – which will save me time in “finding” them. Others are a bit more problematic.

Some examples:

  • The one that causes the most eyebrow-raising when I mention it (so I’ve stopped mentioning it) is Championship Vinyl. You know, the record shop in High Fidelity. Yes, I know it’s not real. But I want to find where it would be if it did exist. Fortunately, Nick Hornby supplies some good clues (“We’re in a quiet street in Holloway, carefully placed to attract the b are minimum of window-shoppers…” near Seven Sisters Road…). When I find the perfect location, I suspect it will be a vacant storefront or some such. Nevertheless, I’ll take a picture to prove I “found” it. And if I don’t find a likely location, I’ll console myself by heading over a few blocks to Arsenal Stadium (Fever Pitch).
  • I had thought no one else would ever think of this one, but I was wrong (link): I want to see the path in Hampstead Heath (just a few blocks from our hotel) where Gen. Vladimir was assassinated by Karla’s people at the start of Smiley’s People. Maybe I could even find the fork in the tree where George found the tattered packet of Gauloises with the crucial negative in it. If so, I’ll get a picture of that, too.
  • Of course, there’s always Smiley’s flat, and I know the actual address.
  • I’ll go see the new MI6 HQ, which le Carre called “the River House” in The Night Manager. But what I really want to see is The Circus. Fortunately, others have identified it as being this building. And it’s near some great book shops, so my wife might not mind this detour too much.
  • The Islington highway exit where Arthur Dent was dropped off when he returned to Earth at the start of So Long, and Thanks for All the Fish.
  • Tea at Fortnum’s. OK so this is a typical tourist thing. But here’s my reason for wanting to do it: When Percy Alleline confronts Peter Guillam in Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy, accusing him of consorting with “defector” Rikki Tarr, a long stream of things run through Guillam’s head in an instant (one of the best passages of that sort I’ve read outside Dostoevsky). But what he says is, “Sure, Chief. Rikki and I have tea at Fortnum’s every afternoon.” Like a couple of scalphunter tough guys would do that. His facetiousness saves him. Anyway, that’s what got me interested in having tea at Fortnum’s: I want to do something that two people who never existed didn’t even do in fiction. Also, I think my wife will enjoy it.
  • Finally, I’d really love to find some landmarks for the Aubrey/Maturin novels, but I know that after all this time it will be hard to find places that look just as they did in the early 19th century. For instance, can I find anything that looks like the Grapes, in the liberties of the Savoy? Or, is the old Admiralty building still in use, where Jack and other officers paced the First Lord’s waiting room, hoping for a ship? We’ll see…

So you see, I’ll be busy.

But you know what I want to do the most? Find and experience things I never even thought of, things I didn’t plan. The places and things I’ll just run across and be delighted by – those are the greatest rewards of travel, I find.

Don’t you?

See you — I’m off to England

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Or not. They just announced a “maintenance problem” on our aircraft. To be fixed in a “coupla minutes.” We’ll see. But it just gives me time to dash off this note.

So I think we’re ready. Some last observations before leaving:

  • One reason I didn’t post yesterday was that I had some last-minute shopping to do, such as for a carry-on bag that will also hold my laptop. And I have this question:  What happened to the day after Christmas, which is supposed to be one of the biggest shopping days of the year? I went to WalMart and out to Harbison, and did not run into crowds anywhere. WalMart had several registers given over to “returns,” but there was no one lined up at them. And the “crowd” in the store might have been a midyear weekday. And after they pushed so hard to get rid of the blue law. Harbison was practically deserted — I got around MUCH more easily than on a typical weekend. So what happened? Did that uptick in consumer spending just crash, or were they waiting until today? Surely it wasn’t that little bit of snow, none of which was on the roads…
  • Speaking of Boxing Day — here’s hoping the London Tube workers got their little strike out of their system yesterday. What worries me is that the Boxing Day holiday is actually on Tuesday this year. Here’s hoping some of the workers didn’t think that was the day, since that’s the day I arrive. If I have trouble getting around London because of labour unrest, I’m voting Tory next time. Strikes? That’s SO Old Labour. It’s like they never heard of Tony Blair or something…
  • By the way, I’m totally set for thoroughly embarrassing my wife on this trip. When she saw me last night proudly showing off my new travel vest with all the pockets stuffed, she laughed uncontrollably. Then she seized control of my bulging wallet and forced me to give up most of the cards that I “wouldn’t need,’ in her opinion. She did let me keep the one with the Our Father in Spanish on it. Good thing she’s Catholic….
  • Speaking of embarrassing my wife — in spite of Kathryn Fenner’s urging, I’ve decided NOT to put on phony British accents wherever I go. After all, I’d probably use the wrong one in the wrong place — go all posh in a working-class pub or something — and get into trouble. No, I have a better plan: I’ll pass myself off as Irish…
  • It’s totally amazing that we didn’t have any trouble checking in at CAE, the way those things were stuffed. But I did have a spot of passport trouble. It wouldn’t scan, so they had to handle in manually. Here’s hoping I don’t have that trouble everywhere. Maybe I should have brought one of the others from the safe deposit box. The Bourne one, maybe…

I will check in with y’all as soon as I’m settled at the hotel. Assuming the laptop works there.

I’m really counting on British pluck here…

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Here we are, five days from when I’m supposed to leave U.S. airspace, and I’m hearing a bunch of stuff I don’t want to hear:

Heathrow airport could remain in a state of partial paralysis beyond Christmas, its owner admitted yesterday, spelling misery for the tens of thousands of passengers who face the prospect of being stranded over the festive period.

BAA said two-thirds of flights into and out of Britain’s largest airport would be cancelled until at least Wednesday morning because it has the resources to keep only one of its two runways open.

Of course, that’s from those lefty alarmists at The Guardian, but even more sensible, conservative newspapers are saying distressing things. Even
The Times, if you’re willing to pay a quid to read it.

This morning, I was hearing that everything should be cleared up by Friday. Now we’re hearing the ominous “beyond Christmas,” which, after months of planning and years of anticipation, could potentially put a crimp in our plans.

My wife’s been reading cheery notices from the British rail system about all the salt they’ve bought, and how energetically they’re applying themselves to the problem.

And that’s what I’m counting on, you see. British pluck. Nothing like it. Go to it with a will, lads. I’ve all the faith in the world in you. Make this your finest hour, and clean up this mess. And don’t fear; I’m on the way…

Well, this sounds ominous…

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A month from now, I’ll be in England. So I did feel a bit of empathy for a moment when I read this e-mail this morning:

How are you doing? I came over to England(UK) for a short vacation.
unfortunately,I was mugged at the park of the hotel where i stayed,all
cash, cell phones and credit card were stolen from me but luckily for
me i still have my passports with me.I’ve been to the Embassy and the
Metropolitan Police here but they’re not helping issues at all and my
flight leaves tomorrow but i am having problems settling the hotel
bills and the hotel management won’t let me leave until I settle the
bills. Please I really need your financial assistance..Please, Let me
know if you can help me out?

I’m looking forward to hearing from you.

Thanks and Regards,

Charlie.

But as it happens, I’m familiar with this come-on. And no, I don’t know this Charlie guy. He must think me a proper flat…

Far more useful than a phrase book…

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Next month I’ll be traveling to England, so this video, which Kathryn brought to my attention, might come in handy. If I can only master these, I should be able to pass as a local wherever.

Excuse the language. Or as the young man says, ignore the words. Just listen to the accents.

I used to be good at accents when I was his age (although not so much now; I think our speech patterns get less elastic as time goes on). But I was never this good.

I would discuss this, but I don’t have time

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The Juan Williams mess led to a long and provocative thread about normal fears and irrational prejudices, and what we should feel free to express about certain situations in modern life without getting fired for it.

And at some point, I posted the following in that thread, and it was so long I decided to make it into a separate post, even though, once I post it, I really need to move on to other stuff… Anyway, what I said was”

You know, there’s a whole conversation I’d be interested to have here about the way a healthy human brain works that takes this out of the realm of political correctness-vs.-Angry White Males, which is about as deep as we usually go.

But in the last week of an election, when I’m having trouble blogging at all, much less keeping up with all the election-related things I need to be writing about… I don’t have time to set out all my thoughts on the subject.

But to sort of give a hint…

What I’m thinking is this: There are certain things that we decry today, in the name of being a pluralistic society under the rule of law, that are really just commonsense survival strategies, things programmed into us by eons of evolution.

For instance, we sneer at people for being uneasy in certain situations — say, among a group of young males of a different culture or subculture. And we are right to sneer, to a certain extent, because we are enlightened modern people.

But, if our ancestors weren’t uneasy and ready to fight or flee in such a situation, they wouldn’t have lived to reproduce, and we wouldn’t be here. Thousands of years ago, people who felt all warm and fuzzy and wanted to celebrate multiculturalism when in the company of a bunch of guys from the rival tribe got eaten for dinner, and as a result, those people are NOT our ancestors. We inherited our genes from the edgy, suspicious, cranky people — the racists and nativists of their day.

Take that to the next level, and we recognize that such tendencies are atavistic, and that it’s actually advantageous in our modern market economy governed by liberal democracies to be at ease with folks from the other “tribes.” In fact, the more you can work constructively with people who are different, the more successful you will be at trade, etc.

So quite rightly we sneer at those who haven’t made the socio-evolutionary adjustment. They are not going to get the best mates, etc., because chicks don’t dig a guy who’s always itching for a fight. So they’re on the way out, right?

However… the world hasn’t entirely changed as much as we think it has. There are still certain dangers, and the key is to have the right senses to know when you need to be all cool and open and relaxed, and when you need to be suspicious as hell, and ready to take evasive or combative action.

This requires an even higher state of sophistication. Someone who is always suspicious of people who are different is one kind of fool. Someone who is NEVER suspicious of people who are different (and I’m thinking more of people with radically different world views — not Democrats vs. Republicans, but REALLY different — more than I am people wearing funny robes) is another kind of fool.

The key, ultimately, is not to be any kind of fool. The key is to be a thoughtful, flexible survivor who gets along great with the Middle-eastern-looking guy in the airport queue or the Spanish-speakers in the cereals aisle at Walmart, but who is ready to spring into action to deal with the Middle-eastern-looking guy in seat 13A who’s doing something weird with the smoking sole of his shoe (or the Aryan guy doing the same, but my point is that you don’t give the Arab pass in such a situation just to prove how broad-minded you are), or the Spanish-speaking guy wielding an AK-47 over a drug deal…

This may seem common sense, but there are areas in which we will see conflicts between sound common sense and our notions of rigid fairness in a liberal democracy. For instance, I submit that an intelligent person who deals with the world as it is will engage in a certain amount of profiling. I mean, what is profiling, anyway, but a gestalten summation of what you’ve learned about the world in your life, applied to present and future situations? The ability to generalize, and act upon generalizations — without overdoing it — are key life skills.

There are certain traits that put you on guard and make you particularly vigilant under particular circumstances, or you are a fool. If you’re in an airport and you see a group of 20-something Mediterranean-looking males (and young males from ANY culture always bear more watching than anyone else — sorry, guys, but y’all have a long rap sheet) unaccompanied by women or children or old men, and they’re muttering and fidgeting with something in their bags… you’re not very bright if you don’t think, “This bears watching.”

Now of course, knowing this, if I’m a terrorist organization, I’m going to break up that pattern as much as I can. (I’ll have them travel separately, wear western clothes, coach them not to seem furtive, etc. I’ll recruit middle-aged women if I can, although they generally have far too much sense.) So if you’re watching this scene, and you are intelligent, you’re bound to think, “These guys look SO suspicious that they must be innocent, because terrorists aren’t that stupid…” Well, yeah, they can be. Let me submit the evidence of the guy who set his underpants on fire… So there’s such a thing as overthinking the situation. I mean, how bright is a guy who wants to blow himself up to make a point? People who do that ALSO don’t reproduce, so evolution militates against it…

Anyway, I’d go on and on about this, and examine all the implications, and endeavor to challenge the assumptions of people of all political persuasions… but I don’t have time this week.

Hang down your head, candidate

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A piece I read in the WSJ this morning reminded me of a picture I shot with my phone while at a stoplight in Birmingham Friday. The story was about candidates with unusual names, such as Young Boozer, Krystal Ball and Isaac Hayes:

It might come as no surprise in these tumultuous times that a Young Boozer is running for Alabama state treasurer.

Young Boozer introduces himself on the stump as, “Young Boozer and yes, that’s my real name.” He says each audience is made up of three parts. The first wonders, “Is that the guy’s real name?” The second says, “‘What’s his father’s name, Old Boozer?”‘ The rest already know him.

Mr. Boozer, 61 years old, is the third consecutive Young Boozer in his family. He coined the motto, “funny name, serious leadership,” after realizing on the campaign trail the political advantage the elder Young Boozers had passed along. Previously, the Boozers were associated mostly with sports. Mr. Boozer’s father, Young Boozer, Jr., was a football star at the University of Alabama, where he faced off in the Rose Bowl against a Stanford player named Tom Collins.

“I’ve always been a Boozer,” jokes the candidate. The family name is so unusual that “once you hear it, you never forget it,” he says. Still, “I didn’t think it was funny when I was growing up because my dad was so well known.”…

I’m sorry if you can’t make out the blurry image above, but it urges people to vote for Tom Dooley for Alabama state board of education. (So yes, in Alabama, voters have the opportunity to vote for both a famous name from an iconic folk song, and Young Boozer.)

This sparked a conversation between my wife and me — one of those kinds of conversations that are rare in this era of Google. I couldn’t consult the Blackberry while driving, and so we tried to remember… we both knew about the folk song, and to the great regret of the other occupants of the car, I was able to sing four lines of it, repeatedly, before I got stuck:

Hang down your head, Tom Doo-ley.

Hang down your head and cry.

Hang down your head, Tom Dooley.

Poor boy, you’re gonna die…

Beyond that, we didn’t know much. I was thinking the song was about a man condemned some notorious, long-forgotten murder. My wife said yes, but the defendant was a doctor. I said I didn’t know about that, but I did know… and launched into my four lines again.

Well, now that Wikipedia is at hand, I can report that:

  • The song was about the 1866 murder in North Carolina of a woman named Laura Foster.
  • Tom Dula was hanged for the murder in 1868, after two trials.
  • Dula was pronounced “Dooley” in Appalachian dialect, as a result of the same linguistic quirk that led to the current pronunciation and spelling of Grand Ole Opry.
  • Several versions of the song, first sung shortly after Dula’s execution, were recorded in the first half of the 20th century. By far the most famous was by The Kingston Trio in 1958, which was a huge crossover hit and is widely credited with launching the folk boom of the early 60s.
  • At the time that hit recording came out, a Dr. Tom Dooley (Thomas Anthony Dooley III) was famous as an international humanitarian. (Since he was an American Catholic, I’m guessing my wife heard a lot about him from the nuns at school.)
  • It’s not “gonna die,” but “bound to die.”

Oh, finally — turns out the Tom Dooley running for school board is also “Dr. Tom Dooley,” according to his Web site.

And that’s all I know about Tom Dooley.

Aren’t you glad you weren’t stuck in a car with me driving for 20 hours over the weekend? I won’t even get into the thoughts I had when I saw in Memphis a sign telling me that Ned Ray McWherter’s boy is running for governor…

Is Joe Neal moonlighting in Memphis?

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Went to the Rendezvous for Charlie Vergos’ famous dry-rub ribs Friday night, and was really surprised when I looked down at the menu.

Is it just me, or is that guy a dead ringer for our own Joe Neal, preacher and legislator?

I don’t think it’s just me. When I got back and took a look at his official picture on the legislative Web site (the same one that has Nikki as “Mrs. William Michael”), Joe looked even more like the guy on the menu than I had remembered.

I’m impressed. For an SC lawmaker to have such a connection, however coincidental, to the unparalleled Memphis barbecue tradition is worth celebrating…