The Record Store, 2012 edition

I'm old school when it comes to music. Sure, I listen to Spotify all day, I've got a giant mp3 library in addition to a bookcase full of CDs and vinyl, but compared to kids these days, I'm a dinosaur. I hate to download a single and have no concept of anything else the artist has ever done. I most appreciate a record -- a record of an event wherein a band played together and created a piece of art -- that I can listen to from start to finish, over and over, without groaning or hitting the skip button.

So at the end of every year, I look back and choose my favourite records, those albums that I listened to, end to end, obsessively. While some of my most loved tracks of the year came from Fun. and Japandroids, I couldn't get through the entire album in either case. And although I enjoyed the whole record put out in 2012 by Of Monsters and Men, and the fantastic return of Neil Young & Crazy Horse with Americana, they didn't grab me and hold on, so they were out as well.

Given that criteria, here are my records of 2012, based entirely on my taste and nothing more:

Admiral Fallow - Tree Bursts in Snow
I discovered this band on the suggestion of a Twitter friend who was shocked that I loved Frightened Rabbit, but had never heard of these guys. They're straightforward, solid, Scottish rock in the tradition of Travis and the Delgados, among so many others. And their 2011 offering Boots Met My Face might even be better than this record.


First Aid Kit - The Lion's Roar
Two Swedish sisters, idolising Simon & Garfunkel, and kicking much ass. That's all you need to know.


Frightened Rabbit - State Hospital ep
OK, it's only a five song ep, but it's still one of the best things to come out this year. Yes, they're among my very favourite bands, but they're also that good. In fact, based on the first single, their upcoming record Pedestrian Verse is certain to be on many Best of 2013 lists. 

K's Choice - Little Echoes
A band I've loved since the 90s is back together, and releasing their records in the US again. Here they've created an acoustic collection of covers and remakes of their own songs, which all turned out beautiful. Sarah Bettens can make anything haunting, trust me.


Radio Radio - Havre de Grâce
Brilliant rap/electronica/unclassified awesomeness from Montreal. It's not for everyone, but if you get it... Damn, it's good.


The Real McKenzies - Westwinds
Punk Vancouver-style, except with Scottish accents, bagpipes, and some traditional tunes thrown in. This band has been getting better with every record for many years, and this one rocks.


SonReal & Rich Kidd - The Closers
Americans have it all wrong when it comes to hip-hop. The best stuff continually comes out of Canada (mainly Toronto), and the collaboration of these two is a perfect example. They both produce great stuff on their own, but the combo is absolute dynamite.


Robbie Williams - Take the Crown
Yes, I'm a huge fan, and I'd probably put this on the list if it sucked. But it doesn't. This is the best record Rob has put out in years; he's at the top of his game. It's a bit hard to get in the States, but it's well worth the effort if you have any interest in the greatest Brit pop going.


So that's my list, which went from a top five in 2011 to eight in 2012... let's hope the 2013 class is even bigger. Happy New Year!

O2 Arena - Robbie Williams

The concert ended over two hours ago, but I'm still wide awake. I'm just buzzing.

I'd like to repeat OMG! OMG! ROBBIE WILLIAMS! OMG! SO AMAZING! I CAN'T BELIEVE I FINALLY GOT TO SEE HIM LIVE! but I won't, because I am a serious adult woman.

And a total Robbie fan girl.

Having been a huge appreciator of the man's music for nearly 15 years, I've seen all the live videos and heard every concert record. I knew Rob could put on a show. So when he announced a concert at the O2 on a night that I'd already be in London, I dutifully hit refresh on my browser at 1am (9am BST, you see) until I got the pleasure of spending hundreds of dollars on a seat at the show. Not that I sat down for even a second once it started.

The concert was 2 hours of brilliance. I expected a lot, knowing what a showman Robbie can be, but being there in person is an experience far better than anything that can be captured by recording equipment. I danced, I sang, I cheered, and when Mr. Williams told me to put my hands up, you can be damn sure that I did! The Arena is fairly large, and it was obvious that the people in the very top row were just as engaged as those near me in the lower seats, and the ones pressed against the barrier beneath the stage. We were all loving it. And that's what makes Robbie a star.

On the way out of the show, nearly every conversation I overheard was about how happy folks are that our Rob, having been through all he has, is doing so well personally and is now back on top professionally. I heard the word "proud" a lot, and even more often, "he really deserves it." That's something I love about the British. Sure, it may be a biased sample at the concert, but I couldn't imagine Americans being so supportive if one of their icons had been through rehab twice and nearly fallen into musical oblivion... no matter how much they claimed to be a fan.

Tonight was a concert like no other. I'd love to see Robbie again, but given his lack of popularity stateside, this may have been my only chance. Luckily I ordered the live recording of tonight's show, and since it was also televised, I'm guessing there will be a DVD at some point, so at least I'll have ways to relive this one night in the future.

Until then, I need to find a way to get some sleep. When's it gonna stop, DJ, cause you're keeping me up all night...
 

Brussels

A few years ago, a friend told me not to bother visiting Brussels, because he thought it was totally boring. More recently, my aunt (the only aunt I can relate to) went on at length about how beautiful she found it here, and how it has quickly become her favourite city in Europe. So when I discovered that all the trains from Luxembourg to London went through either Paris or Brussels, I decided to stop here for a night and make up my own mind.

I tend to side with the friend who found it boring.

Maybe it's the persistent drizzly rain today, or that I have no idea where to go or what to do here, but in a couple hours of wandering the city, I found nothing much to become enthusiastic about. Sure, there are some lovely buildings and such, but if you've seen one European city's Old Town, you've pretty much seen them all. And I've seen plenty.

One thing I can say for Brussels: the place is lousy with beer. Good beer, too. Strong beer. The seriousness with which Belgians brew their beer has not been overstated.

In fact, the Leffe blonde I'm drinking now has such a high alcohol content that I may not be able to have more than one or two... that is, not without falling down drunk or eating more than the simple bacon sandwich I ordered for dinner. Luckily I'm consuming it in my hotel (which is crawling with obnoxious pharmaceutical conference folks which I'm about to run screaming from anyway), so I don't have far to stumble into bed.

I have an afternoon train tomorrow, so I may give fair Bruxelles another chance in the morning. If the weather clears up, I may even change my opinion.

Until then... it's me and my beer... and my free hotel wifi.

Luxembourg

I’m about to end my time in Luxembourg, and I’m still not sure what I think. The only word I can come up with is cold.  The temperatures have been in the 30s and low 40s, with rain and fog to increase the chill, but that’s not all. I get the sense that the people here are not particularly friendly. Maybe it’s just because I don’t speak their language(s), or look like an outsider… but they don’t seem to be particularly chatty with each other either.

In my time here, I’ve only had one interaction with someone not part of a service staff. I popped into the Top Affair supermarché for a cheap snack, and ended up in line behind two young guys who were using some kind of lunch vouchers to buy such healthy items as cookies, chocolate milk, and mentos. They were clearly down on their luck, and kept asking the clerk for one thing after another, taking ages to complete the transaction. I heard a low voice coming from behind me. Assuming the woman next in line was just muttering to herself, I glanced back to find that she was actually attempting to commiserate with me, quietly and in Luxembourgish. Since I had no idea what she was saying,  but could see her disdain without any translation, I just gave her an understanding smile and shook my head at the boys ahead of us.

Despite Luxembourg having 3 official languages, none of which I really speak, I’ve been able to get by without asking for English. Per the Musée d’Histoire de la Ville de Luxembourg, Luxembourgish (Lëtzebuergesch) is the primary language people speak in their day to day lives, while the press is typically in German, and business/administrative affairs are handled in French. Since that includes things like shops, and  I understand enough French to say, buy a sandwich and a beer, I’ve muddled through.  

According to what I learned at the history museum, Luxembourgish is a fairly new language, adopted widely to help differentiate the citizens from neighbors and former occupiers France and Germany. The use of other languages continues only due to tradition, and Lëtzebuergesch is central to the national identity.

Maybe the history contributes to the closed off nature of the Luxembourgers. Or maybe their coldness shaped the history. They’ve managed to avoid being taken over by the superpowers around them, and maintained a distinct culture of their own in the process. Maybe keeping to themselves is part of that culture.

Not that I’m one to talk… Loner that I am…

Paris

It's my second trip here, and I've concluded that Paris is the Adele of cities. Everybody loves her, and I completely understand why; she's just not for me.

My first time here, I hated it. I spent one day strolling around, trying to do and see everything that a tourist isn't supposed to. Rather than enjoying myself, I just got desperately lost and rained on. Lots of people told me I needed to try Paris again, though, so I've returned for another couple of days.

I got in yesterday afternoon, and spent the rest of the day drinking wine. That part was pretty good. Uneventful, not the greatest time I've had in a city, but nice enough. So I decided that I'd spend today doing all the obligatory tourist activities... and then go back to drinking wine.

I saw some lovely things -- La Tour Eiffel, Sacré Cœur --but I really hate being a tourist. Even worse than the other tourists themselves are the assholes who prey on tourists. All day long I had to deal with high pressure sales and people wanting me to sign their petition (or whatever it was). I don't care how worthy your cause is or how cheap your tchotchkes are, if you try to force a pen/item into my hand, you're not getting my money or my name on your piece of paper, and I will be very rude to you.

By far the worst encounter was with a guy wanting to tie a string on my arm "for Africa." I politely declined, so he grabbed my jacket sleeve and attempted to do it anyway. I jerked away, and said no rather forcefully. He started to reach for my arm again, then thought better of it, perhaps because he realized he was a split second away from getting punched.

Having survived the worst tourist traps, I moved on to the Centre Pompidou. After waiting in a very long line (and shamelessly using their wifi to entertain myself in the meantime), it turned out the art gallery was closed, and I didn't have a ticket for what everyone else did. I was turned away. That meant an afternoon similar to my last one in Paris: wandering the streets along the Seine, snacking on a baguette, checking out the Louvre (also closed, Paris hates Tuesdays), and not really having that spectacular of a time.

In the end, I don't hate Paris anymore, but I don't love it either. It's just not my thing. I'll take a London or a New York over it anytime. Still, I'm glad I gave it another shot, because the wine? I really do love the wine.

A couple of musical liaisons

I've always been a bit of a loner. I tend to have a small group of close friends, but the people in my life never have the staying power or emotional connection that music does for me. Human beings come and go, but the music? That's forever.

So while the songs are like my friends, sometimes there's an artist or a band that I really love, with whom I cultivate a special relationship; almost like a long-distance crush. In those cases, finally getting to see them live is like finally getting the object of my affection into bed. It may be a crass comparison, but it's true. Like sex, sometimes the live show is just good enough, once in a while it's awful and destroys my interest, and occasionally, it puts me over the edge and I truly fall in love.

In the past week I was lucky enough to finally see two bands that I've adored from afar for quite some time.

Last night I saw First Aid Kit, a Swedish combo whose perpetually sold-out shows I had failed to get a ticket for twice previously. Needless to say, I was thrilled to finally get into their performance at the Neptune. And I enjoyed it. It was good, even had moments of greatness, like their cover of one of my all-time favourite Simon & Garfunkel tunes, but it didn't leave me wanting more. In the end, I was happy and satisfied, but... well...  let's just go back to being friends.

Frightened Rabbit was another story entirely. I loved every second of their show on Monday, and wished they could've gone on playing all night. I walked out of The Triple Door energized, and more in love with those Scottish boys than ever. I'm listening to their records even more often now, and I've already planned a trip out of my way to see them again in Glasgow this winter. I'm smitten. I can't get enough.

Sure, the analogy may seem a bit of a stretch, but I can name men in my dating life who parallel both of these situations, as well as the more disappointing live shows I've attended. And no matter the outcome, spending a night with your crush (musical or otherwise) is always worth it. You never know, it could be that oh-so-rare one who captures your heart forever.

Chik-Fil-A. Or Not.

As someone who's deeply involved in Seattle's gay community, I find it interesting that everyone's all up in arms about Chik-Fil-A right now. The LGBT world, at least the one I run in, has known about Dan Cathy's conservative christian, anti-gay values for years. As far as we know, though, the company doesn't ban gays from working the fryer, or sitting at the counter, so to speak, so we've continued to be okay with eating there.

Everyone in America has an opinion about marriage equality, including all the CEOs and owners of large corporations. Howard Schultz came out in support of gay marriage in Washington, so a boycott was organized by those who disagreed with him. Now that the Cathy family's opinions are front page news, everyone's fighting over the politics of eating at Chik-Fil-A.

Let me repeat: Everyone in America has an opinion about marriage equality. Every business you bless with your consumer dollars --whether it's the mom & pop dry cleaner down the street, or a major grocery chain, or Starbucks, or Chik-Fil-A -- the person in charge has an opinion about whether a lesbian should marry another lesbian. Do you care what they all think? Are all of your decisions based on that person's opinion? Or does it only matter if they say it to the press?

In the end, it will be obvious that those against marriage equality are on the wrong side of history. Right now, though, your decision whether or not to drink coffee or eat chicken does nothing to further the political fight to get all Americans the rights they deserve.

So maybe, before you call for that protest, or that boycott of a chicken franchise, you should ask yourself what you're really accomplishing. Are you just a needy person that requires a big group of people to stand with you and say No, you're wrong to someone who disagrees with you? Would your energy be better spent out talking to folks about the issue in a less polarizing way, or campaigning for change?

Chik-Fil-A has nothing to do with the real issue here. If you want to discuss the welfare of the chicken used in that sandwich, great, I'm in. That's a relevant subject. But this current conversation isn't furthering the fight for marriage equality at all, so let's stop having it and do something productive instead.

Drink Coffee. Eat chicken. Or don't. That's your decision. And when it comes to getting marriage equality in this country, what you had for lunch really doesn't matter.

Tallinn

It's shortly after 5pm on my last day in Europe, and all I want is a nap. I guess it's fitting that the sun has disappeared behind some rather dark clouds just at the time that I've run out of energy.

I'm currently in Tallinn, which is actually quite a lovely place. Estonia's history is fraught with occupations and revolutions to regain their independence, which may be one of the factors in the very multicultural nature of this city. You can clearly see the influence from all their neighbors, but it's still got its own particular charm, unlike anything I've seen in any other country.

The main thing I've noticed is how quiet the city is. There's a bit of traffic noise, and you hear the occasional music or conversation, but it's mostly just silent. I read that the Estonian philosophy is something like, if you don't have some brilliant, well thought-out thing to say, just keep quiet, and it seems most people here do just that.

I arrived yesterday without much of an agenda, and my stroll out of the hotel led me directly to the mall. I didn't intend to go there, I just followed the Food Store sign, hoping to get some provisions for my stay, and bam! Mall. It was exactly like every other mall I've ever seen, which is to say, horrible and full of teenagers.

Luckily today, after sleeping off a bit too much of the drink from last night, I pointed myself toward Old Town and found a cute -- albeit very touristy -- little section of the city protected by the castle-like city walls. I also wandered through a couple of parks, one of which was hosting the Flower Festival, and made it to a late lunch without passing out from sunstroke.

Did I mention it's been very sunny and hot my whole time here? Well, it has. I love it, but walking miles in it, with little to no shade, isn't doing me any favors.

After a quick air conditioning break, I did some more rambling around town, but mostly came across tall buildings and more shopping centers. I also got shouted at, in what I presume was Estonian, by an old lady on the street for no apparent reason... proving that crazy is universal.

At this point, I'm taking another break for a long drink (cranberry taste) and will see if I can muster any energy later. The dark skies (despite sundown still being hours away) and my need to go to the airport in roughly 12 hours, probably mean that I won't go far. Even if I don't, the long trip has been worth it, and I'll be sad to leave Estonia tomorrow.

On a Boat

Today, I think I had the longest 2.5 hour trip of my life.

Given that it's only a 2 1/2 hour ferry journey from Helsinki to Tallinn, I decided to boat across the sea, rather than catch a plane. I figured a ferry is a nice way to travel, quietly drifting along, gazing out the window at the water....

Totally not what I got today.

I boarded with the throngs of foot passengers, and managed to make my way up past the cabins (which seem overkill for less than a 3 hour tour... a 3 hour tour!), to the first deck of general seating, which could either be had in the dance club or the casino/bar. I preferred neither, nor did I want to sit outdoors for the whole trip, so I chose the deck with 2 small restaurants. Since most of the tables were reserved for diners, I took up residence at one of the unreserved spaces, and started reading the newspaper.

Not until the person dressed as a giant sailor cat -- evidently named Viki Viking -- appeared, did I notice that the seats around me were filling up with families with many small children. I frantically scanned the room for an open unreserved table elsewhere, but it was no use. I was stuck with them. For two and a half looooooong hours.

I spent the time with headphones on, music turned up, making use of the free wifi and/or reading, trying to pretend they weren't there. But even with all that, it was amazing that I made it off that boat without killing one of the little buggers.

While screaming children are equally annoying in any tongue, it's amazing how freeing it can be to spend time in countries where you don't speak the language. I've talked about this before, but it's worth mentioning again. At first your brain uses extra energy searching every word around you for one you recognize, but soon, it just gives up. And then you realize how much mental energy you waste on the bullshit of strangers in a given day. At least I do. So it's really quite calming for the mind to just completely tune it out.

Of course, the downside is that then I also fail to hear when people are speaking English, either directly to me, or on things like ferry announcements, and end up lost or confused.

Even so... it's worth it.

Helsinki

It took me less than 24 hours to run out of interest in Helsinki. I do love the beer here, though. I've had many a pint of a local dark lager called Karjala. Absolutely fantastic. It's going to be depressing when I get home and can't drink it anymore.

It's not that Helsinki isn't an interesting place, it's just that there's not a lot of tourist-type stuff to see. It might not be a bad place to live, but it's not one to photograph. While the city is old and surrounded by water, the best word to describe it is functional. It doesn't have the beautiful ornate buildings of much of Europe, and the harbor is full of ferries, sightseeing boats, and little fishing dinghies. Not many nice views. It must be the Baltic influence.

Similar to other small European cities, Helsinki is very walkable, and mostly puts your life in your own hands with its traffic control. Bike lanes aren't part of the road, but separate paths next to, or weaving across, the sidewalk. If you walk in the cycle path without paying attention, someone on a bike will hit you... or narrowly miss you, as in my case. There are crossing lights on major street corners, but there are also many intersections where pedestrians, cars, and trams all criss-cross each other without any signals whatsoever. As an American used to seeing a warning label on absolutely everything, I appreciate this; if you're dumb enough to step in front of a tram, your death or dismemberment is your own damn fault.

Anyway. Yesterday when I arrived, I spent a little while wandering the shopping area near my hotel, then grabbed dinner and sat in one of the city's many patio bars, soaking up the sun that lasted well past 10pm.

Due to all that beer and draining sunshine, I slept much later than planned this morning, and didn't head out until around noon. After visiting the market at the harbor, strolling through Esplanade Park, and doing a bit of downtown shopping, I was at a loss for what else to do. My guide book was no help, so I randomly turned the opposite direction from where I'd been so far, and found myself walking through a lovely park along a lake. With temperatures in the high 70s and no shade, though, I didn't spend long exploring beyond the park. After some more shopping and a small dinner, I've given up on the city. Too hot, not enough to do. Nothing left now but a couple of pints and a good night's sleep.

Tomorrow I'm off to Tallinn, Estonia, my last stop on this trip. I can't believe how fast it has gone by.

Stockholm

It's my last evening in Stockholm, in Sweden even, and I'm not sure what to do with it. Sitting in a bar overlooking the city seems a good start, though.

I arrived 2 days ago, sleep deprived, jet lagged, and utterly confused by everything. I never fully remember my first day on a new continent, and what I do recall tends to be surreal. As such, I didn't try to accomplish much; I did a bit of wandering, watched Spain win the Euro final with a couple of Norrlands Guld beers, and crashed for 12 hours.

I awoke feeling much better yesterday and headed off to visit Old Town (Gamla Stan), which is a short walk from my hotel. I made it to the right part of town, but managed to constantly turn the wrong direction and see things other than what I planned. I also unintentionally visited some other areas of town in the course of being lost. Still, it was beautiful, and I got a lot of great photos in and around the Opera House, City Hall, various churches, and random spots along all the water.

As a consultant at work told me, "Sweden has lots of beautiful old architecture, because -- ya know -- they didn't get bombed."

Maybe a bit irreverent, but true enough.

Today I set out again to see the Royal Palace, and this time I made it. Strangely enough, once I knew where I was, I no longer cared if I was in the "right" place. I ambled around the royal buildings, as well as the Cathedral of Stockholm and the Nobel Museum. The Swedish Navy band was performing, and in addition to the guards on duty, there were a large number of young, blond, fresh-faced servicemen marching around. They were adorable, but man, they made me feel old.

I always feel bad for the guards on duty at any royal residence. I'm sure it's supposed to be an honor, but how hard must it be to take your job seriously while posing for tourists' photos all day?

Other than Instagramming loads of old buildings, my time here has been spent shopping in the city, eating a lot of unspectacular food, and drinking beer. Seems tonight will be comprised of more of the same, then tomorrow I catch an afternoon flight to Helsinki.

As uneventful as my time in Stockholm has been, I still love Sweden, and will probably be back yet again. Something about it just feels comfortable. Yes, I'm the arrogant American, traveling the world, expecting everyone to speak English. But so far, they have. They either begin speaking English the moment they see me, or seem totally unsurprised that I'm American. In Sweden, unlike anywhere else, everyone seems totally shocked, and occasionally disappointed, to find that I'm not a local.

Shrug. I guess it's just a Viking thing.

The District

I've been to Washington, DC, four times now. And so far, the fourth time is the best. It might be the one that changes my attitude about this city.

My first visit was part of a dance trip at the end of the 80s, when we came to perform in several places, including the national Fourth of July parade. It was hot and humid, and I saw a purse-snatcher use a big butcher knife to slice a handbag strap and run with it, in broad daylight. It didn't leave me with the best impression. The next two trips were less eventful; they just led to a feeling that DC is boring, touristy, and awful to drive in, and left me confused on what to call the place.*

On this trip, it's still touristy and awful to drive in, but hanging with locals has ensured that DC is definitely not boring. They showed me more of the urban neighborhood view of the place, which I dug. I arrived yesterday afternoon, but didn't make it into the city until early evening, due to the aforementioned shit driving conditions. Aris did his damnedest to get Twitter folks out to welcome me, but it wasn't all that successful. The only one awesome enough to show was Ruben, who we met at Local 16, after I walked many blocks in a torrential downpour. Despite having an umbrella, I still hadn't quite dried out 2 beers later when we walked down the road for Ethiopian food at Dukem.

I had never eaten Ethiopian before, but I'm an instant fan. Apparently it's big here, and do you want to get some Ethiopian food is essentially code for ya wanna go eat a big pile of meat? Yes. Yes, sir, I do.

After a couple more drinks at the famous gay hangout Nellie's Sports Bar, poor Aris ran out of steam and went home. Bless his heart, he fought through a terrible cold to go out and entertain me. Luckily Ruben was all too happy to take over guiding my booze tour, with one last stop at Mad Hatter.

Mad Hatter is a total meat market for Bros and Woo Girls, very much the Jersey Shore of DC. The sociologist in me was fascinated; my inner party girl was loving it. Ruben's only advice was pretend you're 22 again. Done. We drank, we danced, we set out to accomplish the random DFMO (Dance Floor Make Out), but ended up just hanging with each other the whole night instead. I'm sure it would have been possible, the moment Ruben took 2 steps away to grab us drinks, a dude hit on me. Ruben had talked to a group of ridic bachelorette party girls earlier, and when he left to walk me back to my hotel, they all turned and glared at me. The whole experience was fantastic. Absolutely fantastic.

But all the fun means that now I'm sleep deprived  for my rainy DC Sunday, and I may not be able to really make the most of it. I always blow it out on the first night of trips like this and spend the rest suffering. Maybe someday I'll learn...

Nah.


*Aris eventually cleared this up for me, after getting very frustrated with my inability to call DC the right name on Twitter.

Columbia City Theater: The Barr Brothers

I fell in love with The Barr Brothers almost instantly. Their self-titled debut album has a little bit of everything on it, mixing more genres and influences than I could possibly pick out, with ease and beauty. They embody everything I adore about music, so when I heard they were playing in Seattle, I immediately bought a ticket.

Unfortunately the venue was everything I hate about Seattle. The theater itself was small, gorgeous and had great sound; the bar attached to it was pretty much Hipster Hell. But I endured.

I endured the door guy saying "As far as I know, it still starts at 8," with the bar empty at 7:45.
I endured coming back 20 minutes later and having him say, "Uh, I think doors are at 8:30 or 9 now."
I endured a $6 beer served by a bartender with a dredlocked rat tail.
And I endured a few BINGO games in which I could have won "Really cool stuff like a PBR coozie."

When I finally got in the door, the show started off with a local combo called The Thoughts. They weren't bad, and I think they were chosen to open because, like The Barr Brothers, they have a mellow rock vibe and a harpist. However, the crowd wasn't totally won over. In the quieter moments, everyone could clearly hear conversations going on across the room. (No, really, even the singer looked over as a guy went "So ANYWAY, like I was saying..." mid-song). And I haven't seen a crowd stand so awkwardly far from the dance floor since my last 8th grade mixer. I enjoyed the songs, but I felt bad for them.

Eventually The Thoughts left the stage (cordial applause), and The Barr Brothers came out to set up. Yes, they set up their own gear. I may have been the only one in the room who knew what they looked like and noticed it, though, since they're not exactly MTV stars, and they do kind of resemble roadies.

The Barr Brothers -- who called themselves The Barr Brothers and Friends last night, Brad & Andrew Barr, Sarah Page, and Andres Vial -- kicked off with Beggar in the Morning, their single, and a fitting opener, thanks to the following verse:


It seems I’ve come a long long way
To sit before you here today
They’re yours and yours the songs I play
To take with you or throw away

They went on to play a few songs from the record, and a few more. I'm not really willing or able to do any sort of review; I just dug it. Their joy made me happy, because the band made it clear that they are just a bunch of music nerds who love what they do.


At the same time, they sounded amazing, and despite some audience participation of adding to the guitar sounds made with thread (and a request for a fan to grab both brothers Barr some Jamesons, neat, with their drink tickets) didn't really put on a show at all. They just played their hearts out, from folk to blues to Black Sabbath-esque rock, with a bit of everything else in between. The encore was mostly a game of dueling harp and guitar, which was actually funny, but oh! so nerdy. Just hearing them do their thing was what made it great; it was all about the music, what we all had in common.

So as much as I geeked out and adored the gig, I'm not sure The Barr Brothers would ever really translate to be arena rock stars. I can't imagine them playing on a big television event. And I bet they're okay with that, because they don't seem like they'd feel comfortable there anyway. I just hope they are successful enough to keep doing their thing, and get some appreciation for how good they are.

Because they are really REALLY good. 

CBC Studio 40: George Stroumboulopoulos Tonight

I just finished watching last night's George Stroumboulopoulos Tonight. It was the second time I'd seen the show, though; the first time was live yesterday afternoon.

When I heard George was coming to film in Vancouver again -- he's usually in Toronto -- I immediately checked my calendar to see if I could take the day off work. Because my time was clear, I put in for the tickets right away, and got my confirmation within a couple of hours. And was thrilled! Because if I'm honest, I love TV more than anyone should, and George Tonight is probably my favourite* show on my favourite station, CBC. Steve also enjoys the show, so he was nice enough to accompany my nerdy ass on the trip.

In the middle of the taping, George mentioned we were running a couple of minutes long, so it was interesting to see what got cut when it aired. Also, during the first interview, we could hear George fine in the studio, but Jim Treliving was barely audible. That translated to Jim sounding fine on TV while Strombo seemed to be in a cave. That was fixed, though, and we had no sound issues for the rest of the program, in person or on the broadcast.

As excellent as George was, however, I went ABSOLUTELY geek-a-tronic about being at the CBC. I watch anywhere from 10-20 hours of CBC every week, just CBC, among all other television. I was gutted at the announcement of cuts to Canada's national broadcaster in the new budget, and went into shock when I read that they applied to put ads on Radio 2. I love the CBC in an irrational way, and that includes Radio-Canada's programming en francais... if only I could get it here.


Anyway. Having seen him live, I came away with 3 thoughts on our boyfriend George:

1. I really want to feed him cupcakes. They can be vegan cupcakes, fine, but he's way too thin right now. I forgot that everyone is actually skinnier than they appear on television, so it was a bit of a shock. 
2. He's even more alluring in person. He somehow manages to be better looking when not seen through a camera, and has exponentially more charisma. I didn't think it was possible!
3. I vote that he's taken over as the Hardest Working Man in Show Business. In addition to producing a fantastic hour of television, he worked the crowd during the breaks, and spent who knows how long talking to all the fans afterward. And the George Tonight show is only one of his many jobs!

Speaking of which, I went into the room to do the Meet & Greet with George, but after a couple minutes watching him say hello and pose for pictures, I realised I had no desire to do that. It's just not me.

Yes, I'm a big fan, and I'm really glad I went to the show. But to me, celebrities are still people, as full of shit as everyone. I don't like George because he's famous, I like him because I enjoy his work. By showing up, I supported that work and showed my appreciation for it. Standing in the line-up to take a photo next to him is just awkward. It's not something I'd ever do. At the same time, were I sitting next to the man at a bar, I'd chat with him like I do anyone, probably mentioning that I like what he does in the process, but that makes sense to me. Standing in a queue for a random handshake and a hello means nothing to me; I don't get it.

Weirdly, I didn't consciously realise that I thought this way until I was standing there looking at the Meet & Greet, but it's the same approach I have to Twitter. I talk to strangers (some celebrities) who I follow because I have something to say in the conversation, not because I want attention from the super famous. Although I do sometimes get starstruck if I like their work too much, and have a completely irrational fangirl reaction if they reply to me (eg the DM from Paul Feig).

Well.
I'm off track.
To sum up, the show was incredible, George is a phenomenon, and I love the CBC waaaaaaaaaaaaay too much.

And I still wanted to stay in Canada forever, but that's a whole other thing....


*The last 2 days got me super Canadian (think that HIMYM episode where Robin plays hockey in the living room), so I will use the proper Canuck spellings for the time being.

Rogers Arena - Montreal at Vancouver

AND THE HABS WON!! 4-1 BABY!!

Ahem.

Last night I went to see the battle between the Vancouver Canucks and my Montreal Canadiens at Rogers Arena in Vancouver. Since I haven't been back to town in 10 years, I hadn't seen a game here for even longer. The arena hasn't changed, even though I think it's gone through 2 names since I was last inside it.

I took the skytrain down early, picked up my ticket at will call, then headed down the road to find some quick dinner. As I sat down with my pizza slice, I took a look at my ticket to see which gate I needed when I got back. They had given me 3 tickets, 2 of which had someone else's name on them. The other seats were much better than mine, so I briefly considered using them. Then I thought how pissed I'd be if someone did that to me, so I took the extra tickets back to the box office and made my way to the 300 level. Damn golden rule.

There were lots of Habs fans in the crowd, as there always are; every time a chant went up, there was a such mix of both teams being yelled that it sounded like "Go Blargs Go!" I cheered my head off for my Habs (who cares if I'm alone?!), even through the first period when they were outshot by a margin of 3:1 and the game was tied 0-0.

It happened that I'd bought one of two seats being sold separately, so I was sat there next to a lone Canucks fan. At the first intermission, he came back from getting a beer refill and asked, "Are you still cheering for the Habs?" "Yep." "Then I can't talk to you."

And we talked for the rest of the game. He consoled me when the Canucks drew first blood in the 2nd, and I helped him keep track of Plekanec's assists (for his fantasy team) as the Habs got the next 4 goals. We laughed, we drank beer, my team actually won for a change, and it was a good time.

At the end of the game, he invited me out to a bar with him and his work colleagues who'd been seated in the company seats downstairs, but I wasn't feeling it. I'd had plenty to drink already, I'd been up since 6:30am, and I was tired. Plus I had no ulterior motives with the guy, he was just fun to hang out with and watch hockey. He took my number, saying he'd text where they ended up if I wanted to go meet them, but he didn't. And I wouldn't have gone anyway. I'll never see that guy again.

It's kind of too bad he wasn't my type, because we got on great and a hockey game would be the perfect place to meet the man for me. When am I going to end up at a game next to a single guy who's also alone, and who's friendly enough to chat, and who I get along with, ever again? Never. Proof that there's no fate or master plan in the world, just randomness that sometimes works out, and sometimes doesn't.

In the end, I had a great night. No need to use my zen garden after that game. But I did wonder how much the hotel would charge me for smoking in the zen garden. I mean, it's outdoors, right? Damn hippies.

A Return to the Lower Mainland

I don’t know what to say about being back in British Columbia. Partly I’m just tired because this is the first moment I’ve had to rest since 6:30 this morning, but maybe I’m also overwhelmed.

I moved away from Burnaby at the end of August, 2001. I came back to town a few months later to defend my thesis, then didn't return. I had no real desire to come up here, being as there wasn’t anything new to discover and very little that I truly missed. Sure, I missed Canada in general, but nothing specific to Vancouver or the Lower Mainland.

But then I came back.

I left early for a Saturday morning, ran into no real traffic, and had only one car in front of me at the border crossing. The agent seemed somewhat suspicious of me coming to a hockey game alone, and when I mentioned that I used to live here to try to calm his concerns (ie it’s like visiting your old neighborhood, you don’t need to bring friends with you), he asked me even more in-depth questions. But I ultimately got in, and was downtown near my hotel before 11am.

Since check-in didn’t start until 3, I stayed on the road. I drove down Hastings through Burnaby, past where I used to live. Downtown has changed a lot, and Burnaby was nearly unrecognizable, but the sad mess on Hastings was exactly as I left it a decade ago. I stopped for lunch at A&W and poked around some shops, then continued down Lougheed highway to Coquitlam, which looks exactly the same.

I finally settled in at SilverCity cinemas to see Goon. I’m completely and irrationally in love with this movie, and why wouldn’t I be? It combines so many of my favorite things: hockey, big laughs, constant cursing, a totally unsentimental love story, and Jay Baruchel. It’s not out in US theatres yet, but it’s available to rent on iTunes, so I watched it twice on the plane back from the UK, and came to see it on the big screen while in Canada. After 3 viewings I still absolutely adore it.

When the movie was over, I drove back across town in the rain to my boutique hotel, which I booked only because I got a good deal on it. Next time I’ll pay more not to be in a place like this. My room has a ‘zen garden.’ Whatever. I’m sure lots of people love this shit, but not me.

I'm now about to rush off out the door to find some food and catch the skytrain down to Rogers Arena, where will-call has a ticket for me to see some Canadiens at Canucks hockey. The odds aren't in my favor, but I'm still hoping to see my boys win in person for the first time in ages.

Go Habs Go!

The Winter of My Discontent

For my travels in Britain, I brought Bukowski's Notes of a Dirty Old Man, because it's a collection of newspaper columns which are short with lots of logical stopping points. Somewhere on a rail car in the middle of the country, I read this passage where Buk explains why he's not well known as a poet:

I began late and lived too long alone in small rooms drinking wine. they always figure that a hermit is insane, and they may be right.

I related a bit too much to those sentences, especially out on the road by myself, living in small hotel rooms, often ending the day in them with beer or wine and television. It was just a road version of what I do at home: go do useful and productive things during the day, eat an early dinner, then stay in watching TV (possibly with wine) all night. I always hibernate a bit during the winter, but this year it has been even more hermit-tastic than usual. I have no inclination to change it, either. I kind of dig this life. Hence the insanity comment.

I tend to tie my mood tightly to my location. Seattle isn't doing it for me, so I hide indoors away from it. Or I leave it. Even living the same lone life in Great Britain, I was much much happier. I was back in the US for 3 days before I found a reason to leave again. I'm up early this morning to make the drive up to Vancouver, spend the day around my old Lower Mainland haunts, and then see the Habs and Canucks play tonight.

And now that spring is starting to appear in Seattle, I feel the need to get out of the house, to find things to do that improve my mood in spite of location.

Failing that, I have a trip planned every month for the next several. Mileage, mileage, mileage.

I am going... I am going... any which way the wind may be blowing... (name that Pogues tune)

Touring London

I spent today being a tourist in London. In general it was great, but man, do I hate tourists.

I'm not much of a museum girl, but rain was expected this morning, so I decided to start my day indoors at the British Museum. Since I've studied the Church of England and various other aspects of Christian history in Europe, I figured it could at least entertain me for a while. It didn't disappoint. I wandered through some of the Roman and Egyptian collections, but what really geeked me out were the European rooms with their various religious artifacts.  I was a bit disappointed that the Europe 1400-1800 room was closed today, since I'm sure it would've had more of the same. I ended my time in the Age of Enlightenment room, which was a recreation of the King's Library and made me feel very warm and homey, as it smelled of old books. But after a minute I lost focus and kept thinking of Swingers -- It says breakfast any time... I'd like pancakes in the age of enlightenment -- so I had to leave.

After the Museum, I took the Tube up to Westminster, which was basically a giant crush of tourists. I took a walk around Parliament Square then headed across the Thames on Westminster Bridge, all the while unable to escape the immense crowd. I stopped for a lukewarm sausage roll, crossed back over the water, then turned the opposite way of the horde, which led me to take a lovely stroll through Whitehall Gardens. Having relaxed a bit, I took a walk back into the masses and up to see 10 Downing.

Of course, I couldn't actually see #10, because Downing Street is completely closed to the public. The road is blocked by 2 gates and a number of policemen, including one with a machine gun. So I joined the throngs in taking a photo, then moved on. Up the street I wandered into the cavalry parade ground. It wasn't all that spectacular, and just made me feel sorry for the poor guys in full regalia, and their horses, who have to stand there all day letting person after person take pictures of them.

At this point, the sun had come out and, because I had dressed for the morning chill, my body temperature was in the vicinity of one million degrees. I made a quick stop back at the hotel for a wardrobe change, then took advantage of the nice afternoon and walked down to Hyde Park. I strolled all the way through the park, past Kensington Palace (currently closed) and popped out the other side on Kensington High Street. It was quite a nice walk, albeit about 2 miles long, so after I'd finished my shopping, I opted for the Underground back to my hotel.

Now, having done all my touring, I'm not sure what the night holds for me. I know that dinner and wine are in order, but beyond that.... well... probably not much, as I have a long day of flying tomorrow, but we shall see.

London, Back Again

I'm tired today. And cranky. And feeling quite ill. Generally not a good travel day.

Typically when I'm out on a trip, I don't pay attention to the day of the week; it's all here today, there tomorrow, somewhere else the day after. But I was reminded that today's Friday because I shared a car on the train from Cardiff with a big group of guys heading to London for a stag weekend. How did I know that's what they were up to? Funny you should ask. Even with ear buds in and music cranked to 11, I could hear EVERY GODDAMN DRUNKEN WORD THEY SAID.

Ahem. Inhale. Exhale. OK.

After an annoying 2 hours, I arrived to a cold and dreary day in London, got into the hotel and had no desire to go out again. I eventually did leave because I was out of foodstuffs, but all the chocolates and meat-flavored crisps have finally caught up with me, and I've no interest in putting a thing into my stomach.

Oy, Friday night in the world's best city, and I don't feel like doing anything but lying in bed. Time to find a way to buck up...

Cardiff

After some train shenanigans, I've arrived for my one night in Cardiff. This is my only stop in Wales, and I'm sort of okay with that.

In five rail journeys, today's was the only one with a connection, so of course today's was the only one running behind. The pickup in York was 12 minutes late due to someone being hit by a train further up the line. That doesn't seem like much until you realize that I only had 11 minutes to make my connection in Bristol. Given that stations here often have long labyrinths between platforms -- and 12 is more than 11 -- I figured that wasn't enough time. To make it more fun, an old woman boarded at Leeds who had a reservation for the same seat that I did. After some discussion, she decided to take the open spot next to me and interrupt my reading the whole way to complain about the slow speed and lateness of the train. As we neared Bristol, however, she admitted that she'd been worrying about missing her connection for 2 weeks, so I forgave her whining. In the end, we made up some time and I caught train #2, just barely.

Cardiff is nice; the city centre is small and walkable, but not in the charming old-world way of York. It seems to have been built there recently as a distraction for tourists on their way to the castle.

The castle, yes, I saw it. It's rather large and impressive like Edinburgh, but they charge to go inside the walls, and paying for a ticket didn't impress me particularly. I stayed outside the walls and instead strolled around the adjoining arboretum in Bute Park. Afterwards, back in the city centre, I stopped briefly to listen to a pipe band perform (apparently there's some St David celebration going on?), and did a bit of shopping.

Unfortunately, my shopping wasn't especially successful. My one objective in Cardiff is to get a gift for Jonathan, because he's a big Dr Who fan, and evidently they film here. I went into a few touristy shops and saw plenty of crap covered in dragons and Welsh slogans, but that's about it. To complicate matters, I know fuck all about Dr Who. No, that's not true; I know tardis. I'm not entirely sure what a tardis is, or what Inspector Spacetime does with it, but I have definitely heard the word tardis thrown around.

I guess I'll try again tomorrow.

Speaking of which, I have about 18 more hours here in Cardiff, then it's back to finish my trip in London. Part of me can't wait to go spend time in one of my favorite places in the world, but at the same time, I'm sad knowing that it's the end of the journey.

For the moment, though, Guinness and Top Gear are cheering me up.

The City Formerly Known as Jorvik

When I was planning where I'd fill my time here in Great Britain, I discovered that I couldn't get a direct train from Glasgow to Cardiff. I figured that if I had to stop anyway, I might as well choose a place I wanted to see and stay the night. When I looked into some information on the stations I could get to, I quickly decided that York was the place to go. Old York as Neal called it, as opposed to New York, which apparently was once New Amsterdam. Why they changed it, I can't say. People probably liked it better that way.

Anyway.

All I knew about York coming in was that it started as a Viking town called Jorvik. Eventually it fell to the Brits, though, and the city's Viking history was lost until archaeologists literally dug it back up.

I arrived this afternoon, dropped my bags at the hotel, and immediately headed through the middle of town to the Jorvik Viking Centre, which turned out to be a bit disappointing. While it has a few choice artifacts and informational placards, even a couple of excavated skeletons, the main attraction is a 'ride' through an educational but slightly cheesy recreation of Jorvik. I wasn't thrilled with the experience, but happily spent a few pounds at the gift shop, the spoils including a Viking history book.

Having achieved my one goal for York, I started wandering the town, and quite liked it. It's one of those small old cities where the aged buildings remain, but all the first floors have been converted to fancy shops and eateries. I always enjoy myself in places like this, because I can wander and get lost without actually getting lost; the place is small enough that I always end up back in a central area and not have to remember my route. I saw the castle (which is very small and beaten up comparatively), took photos of a few beautiful churches and a grand cathedral, and did a bit of shopping.

Now that it's dark, all that's left is dinner and a bitter, then to bed early. My train ride tomorrow is over 4.5 hours, and I'll need to hop into action as soon as I arrive if I want time to do anything on my one night in Cardiff. It will be a tiring day, just one of many in a row.

Linguistics Class

I've thought about it, and I'm pretty sure I figured out why Americans feel that Glaswegians hate them.

As I mentioned before, I seem to be better at deciphering accents than most of my American counterparts. I can tell a South African from an Australian from a Kiwi. Give me a Canadian, and I can give you a region that they likely came from. Any movie or television with a heavily accented speaker? No matter! My subtitles remain off.

But out here, in the real world, with fast-talkers and background noises, all my conversations were like this...

Glaswegian: Achnetashehootenachenetenoosebenashachenachen...?

My brain: Oh no, they're waiting for a reply. I could ask them to repeat, but I certainly won't understand the second time either. Based on the context I think I can make an estimation of what they said...

Me: Oh, that's okay, I don't want any apple juice [or something equally random]

Glaswegian: [Says nothing, walks away, often after giving me a look like I must be special needs]

My brain: This is EXACTLY why they hate Americans!

So, ultimately, what I've discovered is that all the stereotypes about Glasgow probably aren't true, but every negative assumption of Americans is, in many cases, correct. I've traveled the world, I've lived in two different countries, I don't look at a Kiwi and say, "Oh, are you English?" But still, I couldn't cope in Glasgow. Every lack of communication was totally my fault.

So maybe Glaswegians can be hard drinkers and hard hitters, but at the same time, Americans can be a bit arrogant and stupid.

So there you have it. For whatever it's worth.

Glasgow

The official score is in, and Glasgow has won. I've been beaten.

First off, the weather here is just like Seattle. I hate Seattle weather. It's cold, wet and windy. Also like Seattle, despite a light rain all afternoon, I saw less than 10 umbrellas in all the loads of people walking.  Secondly, I can't understand a damn word anyone says. Compared to most Americans, I'm pretty good with accents, but the Glaswegians are too much for me. Whenever I'm asked a question, my reply is mostly based on a guess at what they might've said. I could be having a completely different conversation from the person speaking to me, and have no idea.

I started my day by sleeping in for the first time this trip, trying to get my cold in a manageable state before going out exploring the city. Knowing that I only had today, I made a plan to visit a few places, all within walking distance, per the map.

After about 4 hours on the town, my feet are blistered, my back is sore, I'm rather damp, my nose is clogged, and I'd be happy to go right back to bed. My first stop was meant to be Glasgow Green, a large park on the water, which is also home to People's Palace, a museum honoring the residents of this city. It looked as if it would be a straight shot down the road my hotel's on, but after walking nearly 3/4 of an hour, I hadn't seen anything except a Morrison's superstore and some rather sketchy areas of town. I gave up and came back to my room to reorient myself briefly, where I discovered that I'd carried on straight when I should've veered off. Frustrated, I revised my plan and went on to stop two: Glasgow Cathedral.

After a long walk uphill through the campuses of City College of Glasgow and Strathclyde University, I made it to the Cathedral. I looked around, took a few photos, and then went back down the hill to my third tourist attraction: George Square. After foregoing the ferris wheel in the square, I stopped for lunch, then decided to try again for Glasgow Green.

This time, I noticed a sign pointing the way, so I followed it. It ended up taking me to a dead end that was more like a car park than a public park. Still not content to give up, I turned back and took the street my map had indicated instead. After another several minutes, I still didn't seem any nearer Glasgow Green, but I did come across a rather large pack of hookers and junkies, and nearly got hit by a black cab while crossing against the light.

Since I had no idea which way to go, and it was nearing closing time for the park and museum, I gave up. I accepted defeat and went to Marks & Spencer instead, whose food hall features delicious scones and cheap wine. I stand by my choice.

Tomorrow it's time for a 2.5 hour train ride and an evening in York. I hope to fare better there, mostly because it's a former Viking outpost.

Hotels

I pretty much loathe the nickel-and-dime mentality of so many hotels. Really, £10 for 24 hours of wi-fi? Even the so-called free access in the lobby is controlled by an ever-changing code that the front desk hands out. So now that I’ve checked out, I can’t use it while I wait for the time to catch my train.

Today I’m off to Glasgow, roughly an hour journey by rail. Edinburgh is always nice, despite the craziness of the rugby crowd. The people are very sweet and hospitable, even to the most blatantly clueless tourists. Glasgow, though, I’m not sure ‘nice’ is what I’ll find. From what I hear, Glaswegians are a rowdy bunch. They drink hard and fight hard; even their accents are hard. I’ve also been told they’re wonderful and friendly people, but also that they hate Americans, and would rather draw blood than ask for clarification. So we’ll see which stereotype proves closer to the truth.

Until I can get on my way there, though, I’ll be sitting in the lobby, not having internet access, staring at the wall and listening to the conversations of the dozen or so French people here doing the same.

Sounds like a blast, doesn’t it?

**Update from Glasgow**

No information yet on Glaswegians, but I’m much happier with my hotel, which is by far my favorite chain in Europe; every time I stay here it more than meets my expectations. Free internet AND a copy of the Guardian at my door in the morning? Yes, please! Now that I’m in my happy place, I may just never go out…

Except that I’m hungry, so… Ok, FINE, I’ll wander off and see Glasgow. If I must.

Murrayfield: France v Scotland

I have a real knack for backing losing teams, I’ll tell ya.

This afternoon, I joined the throngs at Murrayfield to see Scotland play a Six Nations rugby match against France. Stymied by the crowd, I was a bit late getting to my seat, so I missed the French anthem, but arrived just as the Scottish refrain was starting. The band on the field played the first half of it, then stopped and just let the crowd sing the rest. The whole stadium full of voices carrying the tune was quite moving. My small, black heart grew three sizes this day.

Then the game started, and I cheered for the home team. For the first 25 minutes, Scotland controlled the game, scoring and converting a quick try. Before long, they were up 10-0. But then they started making errors, which France capitalized on. Mistakes have been Scotland’s undoing in recent matches, and this was no exception. They managed to put forth a tremendous effort, but in the end, they lost 23-17.

I had a fantastic time. The energy in the stadium was amazing, and the overhead announcer made no attempt to appear unbiased. He’d call out Scotland’s score with joy in his voice, and France’s a bit darkly, and with the last minute of play announcement added a comment about Scotland putting up one last push. I dare say that being in the midst of a home crowd was even more electric than the World Cup, despite the lower stakes of a Six Nations game. Although, like the World Cup, there was a streaker who made it all the way across the field wearing nothing but a France flag as a cape.

For the first time in my attending sporting contests alone, no one wanted to chat. Everybody was completely absorbed in the play. Maybe that contributed to me having 4 large Carlings (plus chips w/ gravy) during the 2 hours I was sat there.

To be fair, it wasn’t my fault. Beer and rugby goes together like… erm… beer and Scotland. Or Scotland and rugby. I really had no choice.

At the end of day -- the end of the losing game -- the trip was well worth it. I loved every second of the match, and could easily come back every year.

And I want to bring my brother next time. Because he’s the only other person I know who would get it.

Good game, Scotland. Let’s get ‘em next time….

Edinburgh

Edinburgh is chaos today. I suppose that's to be expected, considering the big Six Nations match happening this afternoon, but just WOW.

The primary reason (read: excuse) for this trip was to see Scotland rugby play at home, so here I am with ticket in hand, getting ready for the faceoff between them and France. Since I already saw pretty much all Edinburgh had to offer on my last trip, I didn't allow myself a great deal of time here; yesterday afternoon and this morning were my only chances to wander.

I slept later than planned today due to the acceptance that I've come down with a cold, then set out to The Royal Mile. It's a giant tourist fiasco up by the castle, but I figured that would be the best spot to pick up additional items I could use in support of the team today. I ultimately got a small flag to wave and a blue poncho (in case it does rain as predicted), but only after fighting my way through the sea of French supporters. Backers of team France are out in droves, singing, donning flags, and even playing the anthem on a french horn from a car window. The game will be lively, if nothing else.

As for me, I have a sinus headache, and this trip has done my back in. Since feet are my only mode of transport, and I love wandering cities, I tend to walk for a couple of hours at a time without stopping, then I sit down and can't get back up. The increased fragility of the area around my spine is my least favorite part of getting older. Needless to say, I am not amused.

I've just stopped back in the hotel (where I appear to be the only guest who doesn't speak French), to eat a quick lunch and get into my gear for the game. My only hope is that a handful of ibuprofen and the excitement of rugby will make me feel better.

C'MON SCOTLAND!!!

London Stopover

I’m so sleep deprived that I can barely function, but damnit, I need to beat this jet lag!

I got home from work Wednesday to find my water heater rapidly dumping all its contents onto the floor of my apartment. So instead of getting ready to leave on my trip, I went into problem-solving mode and started work on getting that fixed before I left the country. But I was only partially successful. And I still had a million things on my travel prep list, so I was up until about 1am and then slept really poorly until 7.

When it came time for me to head to the airport Thursday, the wet (ruined) carpet had been ripped out, and there were 2 fans and a dehumidifier doing an extremely noisy job of drying out the floor and walls. The new water heater won’t arrive until sometime during my absence.

All of the commotion (and especially all the racket) had the cats in a panic, and at their advanced ages, combining that with my absence for 10 days could have some really bad effects on their health. I had a strong urge to postpone leaving until I had a chance to clear things up, which probably wouldn’t be until after the weekend, and I’d still need to be back at the same time. I’d have only a few days in Britain and I’d miss the rugby match that inspired the whole trip, so it would make more sense to just cancel.

If I cancelled and everything was fine in a couple days, I would always regret it. But if I left and something bad happened to any of my kitties, I’d never forgive myself. I agonized over it; I imagined the worst of every possible outcome; I went emotionally off the rails.

And ultimately I decided to take the risk and get on the plane, partly because I trust that Steve will do everything he can to make sure I come home to the best possible situation, and partly because I can’t edit my life to avoid bad things ever happening. That’s doing it wrong.

So I made it to London, via Keflavik, but I was too stressed to get any sleep on the flight (even with a combo of wine and Benadryl). Through the haze of sleep dep I managed to catch the Heathrow Express, get on the Tube going the correct direction, find my hotel, visit Sainsbury’s for a bacon sandwich and some scones, and watch Countdown. As I write this now, it’s not even 4:30pm and I’m wiped out. I’m so hopeless I’m not sure I can even manage to stay awake a few more hours, sleep a decent amount, and get up in time to catch my train to Edinburgh in the morning. They don’t seem like lofty goals.

If I don’t do anything tonight, it’s fine, I come back to London at the end of my trip and will have time to enjoy it when my brain works.

So, London, I’m happy to be in you, but tonight I need to sleep. I’ll make it up to you next weekend. Promise!

A Preferred Blur

I thought I saw my high school boyfriend on the flight back from Puerto Vallarta. I noticed a guy sitting near me in the airport who looked like him, plus 20 years (which is about right, as he and I started dating in late 1991). He even answered to the same first name, when I heard his travel companion calling out to him. I got a closer look in the line-up to board the plane, and ended up 90% certain that it was just a random guy who looked quite a bit like the paramour of my teen years.

But just for the sake of argument, let's suppose that it was him.

We used to be the fun-loving couple pictured at right. So how did he become a paunchy, balding nerd wearing prescription sunglasses indoors and telling pointless stories about how he doesn't know how to use out of office notifications in Outlook? (Yeah, I eavesdropped. Sue me).

And how did I become this bitter middle-aged loner, who can't be happy unless she's compulsively traveling the world?

Interestingly enough, on the same plane ride with Not-My-Ex-Boyfriend, I started reading A Preferred Blur by Henry Rollins, and remembered that there's at least one more human in the world with a similar dysfunction.

The central theme to A Preferred Blur, as with all Rollins' travel journals, is that he can't stand being at home. Or being with other people. He only feels good about life while alone and on the road. I can relate. He and I also have in common that we'll get a notion to go someplace, and then have to follow it through, becoming nearly obsessed with learning more about the location, and of course, going there. Upon arrival, the focus then becomes "getting through it," soaking up as much as possible, writing it all down, then getting on to the next thing. Being at home is really just down time between excursions.

So back to my original question: How did I become this woman? Rollins is very open about how his screwed-up youth and battles with depression have made him the way he is. I can't say that. Sure, I wasn't raised by Ozzie and Harriet*, but I made peace with anything fucked up about my childhood long before I ever got on a plane by myself.

Maybe it's innate, or a combination of nature and nurture. Maybe I don't really care. Maybe I can't articulate it as well as Henry, but the truth is that I'm happy in my own preferred blur. 

Next stop: London....


*Although I did watch a lot of Ozzie & Harriet while growing up. And to be fair, maybe their parenting shouldn't be put on a pedestal. They did, after all, force their young sons to grow up on television. Kind of messed up, no?

Not Seattle

The following was written last night around 8pm...

I fucking hate Seattle.

No, I really do. I only live there because I'm lazy. It takes very little effort to carry on living my life there, while it requires a great deal of effort to get a new job and move far away, particularly when I have cats to bring along. So I continue on in the city I can't stand, take as many trips away as possible, and complain a lot. It comes naturally to me, having grown up with a Catholic martyr of a mother who constantly demonstrated the technique.

Right now, I'm in Puerto Vallarta, but Seattle's horribleness is still conspiring to ruin my night. If this hotel didn't have wi-fi in the lobby, I could've remained blissfully unaware of the snowpocalypse back home, but alas, I'm addicted to the innernettes and read all about the winter wonderland awaiting me on my return.

Don't get me wrong, I like snow. I actually love winter. I think it's totally natural to escape to a sunny Mexican resort in January and come home to a few inches of snow on the ground.

However, despite having at least one major snow event per year, Seattle has no idea how to deal with the situation. Which is why I'm already annoyed thinking of the major hassle I'll be walking into when I leave here tomorrow.

There's a good chance that my plane will be greatly delayed while Seatac airport scrambles to keep the runways clear. Once my flight lands, it's possible that I won't be able to get my car out of airport parking, or very far on the roads back to the city. Even if I-5 is clear, it's unlikely that my little Saturn will be able to navigate up Capitol Hill to get home, given that the streets will probably be covered in a treacherous layer of ice and compacted snow, from the poor plowing technique the city has become known for. Then if I make it through all of that, I have to find a parking space on sloped side streets that have never seen a plow or grain of de-icer.

If it's as bad as the web makes it look, I could even be stuck paying last-minute rates for a hotel by the airport, or -- worst case scenario -- stuck in SeaTac with nowhere to sleep at all. And there's not a damn thing I can do to make the situation better. I'm just flying straight into Hell, with no other options.

Since there's nothing I can do about it, I'm trying to deal with the annoyance, and not waste my last night here in Heaven. How? I'm drinking. And listening to the ocean. And searching for my inner optimist, desperately trying find it in me to hope for the best.

It had better work. I really, really need it to work.



Today's update...

For the most part, I managed to forget about the situation and have a relatively mundane evening. Then I woke up around 4am and spent an hour or so stressing about the situation. I've read that studies show optimists are comforted by telling themselves that everything will turn out fine. Pessimists feel better after they've come up with every possible negative outcome and make a plan to deal with each. Pessimists make good project managers. You can guess which one I am based on the above.

I finally told myself that imagining all the hassles wasn't going to change the weather, but it would ensure that I end up trying to drive in snow while very sleep deprived. So I went back to sleep.

This morning has gone by way too fast, and my flight doesn't leave for another 4 hours... which means that if I'm on time I'll be arriving in the dark and cold of the evening. And I just want to get home. The thought of how difficult that will be makes me nauseated. But I don't think I have any other choice.

Ugh. See you all in Seattle... if I ever get there.

The Resort

Well, forcing myself not to plan worked, to a certain extent. I feel much more relaxed now than I did this morning.

I ended up spending 5 or 6 hours today lounging around the resort. I read by the pool… and on the beach… and on my balcony. I ate a couple plates of delicious Mexican food, and drank several beers. And I spent less than an hour online.

I also passed some time watching the Golden Globes red carpet and waiting to get hungry for dinner. Even though I always eat at buffets in these resorts, dinner can be particularly awkward because they actually sit you at a table and pour drinks for you. Most people hate eating by themselves… OK, most people hate doing anything by themselves, but meals are the worst. I don't mind it -- solo is my most comfortable state -- but the hosts always seem confused to be seating me alone, and all the other diners look at me with confusion, or occasionally pity. I don't mind, I spend the whole time judging them for the immense piles of food they're shoving in their gobs.

On the way back from dinner, I met some nice older folks from Saskatchewan. As the 4 of them boarded the elevator ahead of me, I said something witty like, "Is there room for one more? Oh great, and you already pressed the button for my floor!" One of them replied with, "Are you from Canada?"

Shit, my accent really is coming back.

Anyway. Now that I'm fed, I'll grab some ice and spend the rest of the evening enjoying the contents of my liquor dispenser and the 2 or 3 English-language programs that appear on my television.

Sure, the resort has several bars, a disco, and a stage show that I could visit tonight. But I'm here to relax, not roll my eyes at a poor musical production or watch drunken tourists do the electric slide.

It may sound terrible to everyone else out there, but to me, it's a perfect vacation. It may take me a minute to settle in, but I'm sure when I leave, it will be much too soon.

A State of Relaxation, Damnit

Day 2 in Puerto Vallarta, and so far I've been annoyed by 3 things:

1 - The ice machine. There isn't one on my floor. So getting ice for my in-room bar involves trips up and down the elevator.

2 - The time change. I slept in until 11 today, which my body thought was a fairly early 9am. But I still missed breakfast and about 3 hours of precious sunlight.

3 - Continental breakfast. Because breakfast ends at 10:30, they keep a continental breakfast going until noon. I've had it in the other Riu resorts, and it's a pretty good spread. Not here. I always bring my own coffee, but there was no hot water to put in it, and the only food was a smattering of sliced melon and some sandwich makings with thoroughly stale bread. Luckily I brought a few granola bars for this very situation.

The hardest thing for me is actually relaxing, though. I keep mentally planning out my day to make sure I get everything in… grab a shady beach chair for reading, visit the one area of the hotel with wi-fi, hit the gift shop, make sure I get some decent lunch before they close it and I'm stuck in the lunch-dinner gap starving…

And I have to stop myself, because it doesn't matter. So what if I don't get to the gift shop until 7pm? Do I need to worry about lunch timing? I'll get hungry, and I'll eat. And if I don't get enough time on wi-fi, I'll catch up on it later. Then my brain goes, nope, make sure to bring a watch, because we're on a schedule here!

Sigh. I'm not good at relaxing. Time to go try to get better at it.

Puerto Vallarta

It's my third annual trip to Mexico in January, this time in Puerto Vallarta. I  am following the same formula I used for my last two visits to Los Cabos and Playa del Carmen: I picked a random tourist location with cheap flights, booked a room at one of the Riu all-inclusive resorts, and will now spend my time eating buffet food, drinking low-quality booze, and sitting around not doing much else. I read a little more than 300 pages on the trip down, and plan to at least double that before I get home.

Even though I've taken almost this exact trip before, I got a unanimously negative response from my family at the Christmas gathering. I had several conversations that went exactly like this:

Family Member: "What trips do you have coming up? I hope you're not going to Mexico."
Me: "Actually, I'll be in Puerto Vallarta in a couple of weeks."
Family Member: "BY YOURSELF?!"
Me: "Yep, I pretty much always travel on my own, you know that."
Family Member: "Oh no, you can't go there. It's too dangerous. They keep shooting tourists on the buses."
Me, sighing: "I will fly in, take a pre-booked shuttle to an all-inclusive resort, where I'll stay until I shuttle back to airport for home. I'm not going to get shot on a bus."
Family Member, skeptically: "Well you better be REALLY careful."

At least my dad had the decency to trade the you're going to get shot line for "Just promise me you'll stay in the compound."

So here I am, staying in the compound. After a long flight, a gauntlet of salesmen on the way out of the airport, and a shocking transition to warm humid air, that is. My room is on one of the top floors, and if I look out my window I have a lovely view.

I always spend a decent amount of time on my balcony on these trips, reading or just sitting with a beer. So when I checked in and saw my prime parking lot vista, I thought, shit, should've paid the extra $100 for an ocean view. Then I walked out on the balcony and took a look to my right. Oh, there it is.

Because I arrived around 6pm local time, having been up since 4:30am Seattle time, I probably won't do much tonight. I plan to explore the resort a bit, get some food, and start the relaxation process. And make good use of the in-room liquor dispenser of course. I mean, hell, that's what it's there for!