We are now in Lanzarote, Canary Islands, having decided to spend three months here to read, write, reflect, relax and rejuvenate. On our journey, I’ve kept a little notebook with me and scribbled down interesting jots about what I’ve seen and heard. As they’re so scattered, I thought I’d just expand on them a bit here.
Canary Islands
-I know I’m not in Canada anymore when paying for a fill up at a Lanzarote gas station, frozen baby octopus are being sold beside ice cream bars.
-Last week, I wandered into an “English” grocery store, curious to see what was sold. I was bemused to hear a local Canarian man, speaking English with a strong Spanish accent, asking the German woman who worked in this English store if she sold Japanese wasabi. Ahh, truly an international moment.
-Ow’rite? This term is one I’ve only heard here in Lanzarote, although it’s spoken as a greeting by the many Brits. I initially thought it was more of a “Everything all right?” or “How are you?” type greeting and would typically launch into a “Yes, I’m fine thanks, and how are you?” response. When I repeatedly got puzzled looks, I realized that it was just their way of saying hello. Oh.
-As a Canadian exercising in a warm climate, I tend to wear shorts and a sleeveless shirt. Yes, 18 degrees C may be cool for Lanzarote but for me, it’s warm! I’m always bemused by other peoples’ attire and figure that the ones wearing long pants, socks, a fake fur lined coat, hat AND scarf, are locals and are finding the recent cold spell absolutely frigid!
Nice
-the bigger the belly, the smaller the bathing suit.
Scotland
-20’s plenty...a speed limit sign in a Glasgow neighbourhood
-Pedestrian Crossings – also known as zebra crossings. The most imposing one I saw was on a dual carriageway or divided highway. A 70 mph (not kmh... MPH) dual carriageway! A highway sign announced its presence, about 1 mile before. Ped x-ing ahead. Good heavens. The countryside must be raising a nation of sprinters!
London
-Tube (subway) announcements:
“Please keep your loins with you at all times”. David and I looked at each with eyebrows raised. We think she really said belongings.
“We are offering good service on the Northern Line.” Well, I’m relieved. I mean, isn’t that what’s supposed to happen? Mentioning this auditory oddity to a London friend, he laughed and said that the tube is notorious for having terrible service so whenever they can broadcast that all is well, they’ll do it!
Paris
Spoon Sizes – on the whole, Europe is not a continent of breakfast cereal eaters. The exceptions are the Swiss and their muesli. This means that when David and I sit down at the start of our day to tuck into a bowl of grains, we face a dilemma. Do we eat the cereal with the diminutive demitasse spoons that hold an oat flake and a small raisin? Or, do we wrestle with the enormous soup spoons, wedging them sideways into our mouths, clanging teeth against metal?
Door Keys – We have encountered some interesting and somewhat memory-challenging keys and combinations to our various accommodations. In Paris, our third floor walk up required a 4-digit combination to get through the enormous door from the street, a second 4-digit code to get through the another huge door into the central courtyard, up a very uneven and crooked oval staircase and then unlocking three different locks on the front door. In Taormina, Sicily, our front door was unlocked by a gigantic, heavy key that I had to lug around all day. Our London flat was on the 6th floor...and no elevator. By the time I got up the stairs, all 103 of them, I was so out of breath that I had to pause to remember which of the three keys went into which lock. However, the place that challenged me the most was Prague. Access to the building was easy, just one key. However, getting into the flat was another story. It too was just one key but required a magical, two handed touch that frequently eluded me. The door handle had to be held just so and at the same time as the key held perfectly poised in the lock. A quick turn of the key (was that clockwise or counter clockwise), then readjust the handle for the final two and a half turns. Of course, it never worked properly if I was in a hurry to have a pee!
Clothing Store Change Rooms – In Paris, they do know how to encourage sales. The change rooms I encountered were large, with multiple hooks and bars to hang the hangers on, adjustable three-way mirrors, not too hot, great lighting (nothing is worse than horrible, overhead fluorescent lighting that highlights all the wobbly bits), a properly closing door AND a call bell for assistance. How great is that!
Bologna
I attended a Rotary meeting in Bologna, Italy. My home club meetings usually involve lengthy and often passionate discussions about our fundraising efforts and charitable causes to support. The meeting in Bologna was also filled with heated discussions, although, because they were conducted in Italian, I wasn’t quite sure what charity they were talking about. When a Bolognese member leaned over to ask me in English if I was following the conversation, I admitted that I wasn’t but it certainly sounded important. He agreed that it was very important. The members were arguing about the type of pasta that was served as the first course. Many felt that the sauce and the pasta shape were not compatible and they were arguing that their president MUST speak to the chef.
Wednesday, January 7, 2009
Sunday, January 4, 2009
Blaht On!
Perhaps because of the last nine months of travel and an aptitude, Leslie and I are now incredibly sophiscated. This is our steadfast opinion. There has been no independent objective agency evaluate our claim mainly because nobody is interested, I suspect. If I was a lawyer representing us in our sophistication claim, I would present the following case.
Exhibit A, is the fact that we attended an avante garde organ recital in Paris. Albeit this alleged sophistication occurred rather quickly in one evening. The sophistication-inducing event was preceded by a day spent viewing modern art at the George Pompadou Centre (Madame Pompadou was his wife), which lends weighty credibility to our claim. Yes, I know it all sounds very pretentious but when you live in the fast lane like Leslie and me, it is merely another day, pfhht (as the French say). This sophistication has happened with absolutely no effort on our part. Therefore, I suspect that it is largely superficial and may be gone by sometime this afternoon.
Madame Warnock, as she is now referred to at least until the end of this blog, got the super idea to attend a virtuoso organ performance at Notre Dame Cathedral. A splendid way, she said, to top off our day, with some boppy little Christmas tunes, as she put it. Madame also said there would be singing, probably Gregorian chants. Madame Warnock’s advice and guidance are usually very reliable. So the stage was set for another adventure.
Admittedly, I was not interested in the concert to the level of watching a stage of the Tour de France on the telly but perhaps to the level of a British touring car race. You can see I had a way to go in the sophistication spectrum. I was definitely game though, this was gay Paris after all. Culture and sophistication are infectious. I figured it is almost the same as catching a cold, if you’re around enough people who have it you’ll catch it. I reckon it also requires about the same effort level.
It was a chilly rainy night, requiring a jacket and toque of all things, pfhht. We could see our breath rhythmically condensing, like a Scottish steam engine, as we hurried along. The area of Marais, which we stayed, was a short walk from Notre Dame.
The performance started easily enough with seven singers, beautiful a cappella, very atmospheric. The singers quietly retreated to a darker area as their voices faded. The cathedral’s vast interior had wonderful haunting acoustics.
The organist commanded a huge instrument which was above and behind the audience. He started with a giganote, voluminous and initially projectile, then it hung. It could only be described as a Blaht. This is going to be great, I thought to myself. Then it was followed by a seemingly random series of Blahts. They were lobbed out of the organ pipes and reverberated before hanging. It was like eavesdropping on an industrial process.
I can do this, I thought, as I sturdied myself, much in the same way when as when viewing modern art for the first time. I dug deep into my pre-existing sophistication stores but, as expected, I came up dry.
Madame and I have really enjoyed the art galleries of Europe, in particular a mix of modern and older works. The audio and personal guides provided by the galleries are incredibly informative, in particular placing a painting in a historical context. This often transforms a piece that, at first glance, looks ambiguous and awkward into a compelling work of art. This recital would soon fall into place in the same way. I thought patience would serve me well in catching some culture.
I was wrong. Not one of the sequences of notes resembled a melody. Now, I love some jazz that even Leslie finds painful. But this was not Miles Davis or Martin, Madeski and Woods. I tried taking Miles’s advice and tried to “listen” to the spaces where the notes weren’t, but while it makes a great sentence, this proved much too difficult. Jimi Hendrix on acid, having a bad trip was the first thing that sprung to mind, but this would be an insult to Jimi whose music I like.
Suddenly, I had a lot of time to kill, so I scanned the audience. A few people looked distraught, a few looked amused and the remainder, lost and bewildered. I had just signed up for the latter category. However, on closer examination there appeared to be a consistent thread of people who seemed mesmerized. They even appeared to know when a particular piece would end! How could that be? Egads, this music might be good!
I decided I needed to concentrate more. With my eyes closed, I tried to lose myself in the music, but the veins on my forehead bulged with effort and I started to get a headache. I could “get” this just like I thought I “got” the art of Francis Bacon in London.
A quick look told me that Leslie was locked in the same struggle. A smile was germinating in the corner of her mouth. There was a clear danger of it propagating into a full blown belly laugh. Madame, this was not a time to giggle. I said to myself, please no giggling. Jean Paul Sartre never giggled, I happen to know that as a fact. Please “JP”, give me strength. He would understand this music or, at the very least, understand the existential struggle we were locked in. Man, this was getting deep real fast.
I don’t like deep. I like easy. I once almost learned Italian very easily. When we arrived in Bologna with our friend Lisa from Calgary, we got a two bedroom hotel suite. Lisa’s room was downstairs and also had a TV. Lisa and I had been following the Giro d’Italia after seeing a stage of the bike race pass by our place in Taormina, Sicily. I was watching the Italian coverage upstairs and went down to talk to Lisa. As I entered her room, she excused herself briefly. The coverage resumed as she left and I understood every word. It was if it was in English! Obviously, I had reached a previously unknown critical mass or tipping point in Italian immersion and suddenly I was fluent, wow! Unfortunately, upon Lisa’s return she let me down, she said it was English. We had a great laugh and double checked the TV upstairs and there was no English coverage upstairs, alora!
I had plenty of time to ponder that memory at the concert and I thought, maybe this music would suddenly make sense. Every now and then we got a brief respite from the organist with the singers. Madame leaned over as yet another couple was making for the exit, she said that the first intermission was approaching. It may be her” first intermission” but I thought it was going to be my last.
Leslie was only kidding and the concert ended after the next Ode to a Blaht. The remaining audience, including us, leapt to their feet and immediately oriented our applause backwards toward the organ. After thirty seconds, a very conservative looking gentleman extricated himself from the bowels of the organ and peeked around one of the organ pipes, which caused another excited crescendo of applause from his “knowledgeable” fan base. With our newly found sophistication, we “got it.“
I rest my case.
Exhibit A, is the fact that we attended an avante garde organ recital in Paris. Albeit this alleged sophistication occurred rather quickly in one evening. The sophistication-inducing event was preceded by a day spent viewing modern art at the George Pompadou Centre (Madame Pompadou was his wife), which lends weighty credibility to our claim. Yes, I know it all sounds very pretentious but when you live in the fast lane like Leslie and me, it is merely another day, pfhht (as the French say). This sophistication has happened with absolutely no effort on our part. Therefore, I suspect that it is largely superficial and may be gone by sometime this afternoon.
Madame Warnock, as she is now referred to at least until the end of this blog, got the super idea to attend a virtuoso organ performance at Notre Dame Cathedral. A splendid way, she said, to top off our day, with some boppy little Christmas tunes, as she put it. Madame also said there would be singing, probably Gregorian chants. Madame Warnock’s advice and guidance are usually very reliable. So the stage was set for another adventure.
Admittedly, I was not interested in the concert to the level of watching a stage of the Tour de France on the telly but perhaps to the level of a British touring car race. You can see I had a way to go in the sophistication spectrum. I was definitely game though, this was gay Paris after all. Culture and sophistication are infectious. I figured it is almost the same as catching a cold, if you’re around enough people who have it you’ll catch it. I reckon it also requires about the same effort level.
It was a chilly rainy night, requiring a jacket and toque of all things, pfhht. We could see our breath rhythmically condensing, like a Scottish steam engine, as we hurried along. The area of Marais, which we stayed, was a short walk from Notre Dame.
The performance started easily enough with seven singers, beautiful a cappella, very atmospheric. The singers quietly retreated to a darker area as their voices faded. The cathedral’s vast interior had wonderful haunting acoustics.
The organist commanded a huge instrument which was above and behind the audience. He started with a giganote, voluminous and initially projectile, then it hung. It could only be described as a Blaht. This is going to be great, I thought to myself. Then it was followed by a seemingly random series of Blahts. They were lobbed out of the organ pipes and reverberated before hanging. It was like eavesdropping on an industrial process.
I can do this, I thought, as I sturdied myself, much in the same way when as when viewing modern art for the first time. I dug deep into my pre-existing sophistication stores but, as expected, I came up dry.
Madame and I have really enjoyed the art galleries of Europe, in particular a mix of modern and older works. The audio and personal guides provided by the galleries are incredibly informative, in particular placing a painting in a historical context. This often transforms a piece that, at first glance, looks ambiguous and awkward into a compelling work of art. This recital would soon fall into place in the same way. I thought patience would serve me well in catching some culture.
I was wrong. Not one of the sequences of notes resembled a melody. Now, I love some jazz that even Leslie finds painful. But this was not Miles Davis or Martin, Madeski and Woods. I tried taking Miles’s advice and tried to “listen” to the spaces where the notes weren’t, but while it makes a great sentence, this proved much too difficult. Jimi Hendrix on acid, having a bad trip was the first thing that sprung to mind, but this would be an insult to Jimi whose music I like.
Suddenly, I had a lot of time to kill, so I scanned the audience. A few people looked distraught, a few looked amused and the remainder, lost and bewildered. I had just signed up for the latter category. However, on closer examination there appeared to be a consistent thread of people who seemed mesmerized. They even appeared to know when a particular piece would end! How could that be? Egads, this music might be good!
I decided I needed to concentrate more. With my eyes closed, I tried to lose myself in the music, but the veins on my forehead bulged with effort and I started to get a headache. I could “get” this just like I thought I “got” the art of Francis Bacon in London.
A quick look told me that Leslie was locked in the same struggle. A smile was germinating in the corner of her mouth. There was a clear danger of it propagating into a full blown belly laugh. Madame, this was not a time to giggle. I said to myself, please no giggling. Jean Paul Sartre never giggled, I happen to know that as a fact. Please “JP”, give me strength. He would understand this music or, at the very least, understand the existential struggle we were locked in. Man, this was getting deep real fast.
I don’t like deep. I like easy. I once almost learned Italian very easily. When we arrived in Bologna with our friend Lisa from Calgary, we got a two bedroom hotel suite. Lisa’s room was downstairs and also had a TV. Lisa and I had been following the Giro d’Italia after seeing a stage of the bike race pass by our place in Taormina, Sicily. I was watching the Italian coverage upstairs and went down to talk to Lisa. As I entered her room, she excused herself briefly. The coverage resumed as she left and I understood every word. It was if it was in English! Obviously, I had reached a previously unknown critical mass or tipping point in Italian immersion and suddenly I was fluent, wow! Unfortunately, upon Lisa’s return she let me down, she said it was English. We had a great laugh and double checked the TV upstairs and there was no English coverage upstairs, alora!
I had plenty of time to ponder that memory at the concert and I thought, maybe this music would suddenly make sense. Every now and then we got a brief respite from the organist with the singers. Madame leaned over as yet another couple was making for the exit, she said that the first intermission was approaching. It may be her” first intermission” but I thought it was going to be my last.
Leslie was only kidding and the concert ended after the next Ode to a Blaht. The remaining audience, including us, leapt to their feet and immediately oriented our applause backwards toward the organ. After thirty seconds, a very conservative looking gentleman extricated himself from the bowels of the organ and peeked around one of the organ pipes, which caused another excited crescendo of applause from his “knowledgeable” fan base. With our newly found sophistication, we “got it.“
I rest my case.
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