In the olden days, it was thought that if you walked, it was because you could not afford to ride, and that if you ran, something was chasing you, and notwithstanding the current popularity of hiking and jogging, many of the same biases endure.
Spanish motor scooter riders in particular look down on cyclists, seeming to regard pedal power as suitable for only the youngest children. American cyclists' disdain for pedestrians can only be explained by an assumed conviction that all bipedal obstacles are simply drivers walking to their cars.
Little do they know.
12 July 2009
18 June 2009
Norwegian Wood
fri 12 december 2003
bergen, norway
three weeks between a rock and a hard fish
the thermometer outside the kitchen window here is, as one would expect, graduated in centigrade... it's range is plus fifty to minus fifty, which, with reference to a conversion utility on my pda works out for the rest of us as +122 to -58 Fahrenheit
seeing a television for the first time here yesterday evening (aside from airing the extended 'two towers' dvd t'other night) - doing a spot of laundry at the apartment of a friend of a friend, who proves to be a keen 'handball' player, watches the world semi-final - norway v slovenia - in as closely matched a meeting as i've witnessed in any sport
the game - new to me - resembles a cross between basketball and football (soccer)... i am tempted to say 'and ice hockey', only there's no ice (though the squad size and penalty scheme are similar) - imagine roller basketball without skates, with a half-size soccer ball between squads of six (plus the keeper) who aren't permitted to cross a line which evidently runs seven metres from the goal - it is exclusively a girls (women's) sport, and is not miles from one i first saw played last month between the equivalent of USA 1st or 2nd graders at an english 'public' (private) school which a friend of mine attended long ago, and in which both his young daughters are currently enrolled, one of which represented her school on the court - their adaptation uses a (lowered) basketball style net and is more populous, the activity managed by players' positions being restricted to two of three zones...
but i diverge
following norway's triumph over slovenia - their invaluable keeper (who hails from bergen) denying an equaliser at the final whistle - we are treated to a televised weather report... lowest temperature predictably expected on the northernmost isle (well inside the arctic circus, and registering -22 C (an unusually warm december, i am solemnly informed), with great winds expected in the night (we've had a few such in the course of my stay)
additionally, someone very thoughtfully ordered snow for the night before my last day here, which began slushily late in the evening and gave up sometime around midnight - an inch or so lingers white on rooftops and the hills around while the ercury hovers at zero and my breakfast tea and toast go cold...
gud jule
bergen, norway
three weeks between a rock and a hard fish
the thermometer outside the kitchen window here is, as one would expect, graduated in centigrade... it's range is plus fifty to minus fifty, which, with reference to a conversion utility on my pda works out for the rest of us as +122 to -58 Fahrenheit
seeing a television for the first time here yesterday evening (aside from airing the extended 'two towers' dvd t'other night) - doing a spot of laundry at the apartment of a friend of a friend, who proves to be a keen 'handball' player, watches the world semi-final - norway v slovenia - in as closely matched a meeting as i've witnessed in any sport
the game - new to me - resembles a cross between basketball and football (soccer)... i am tempted to say 'and ice hockey', only there's no ice (though the squad size and penalty scheme are similar) - imagine roller basketball without skates, with a half-size soccer ball between squads of six (plus the keeper) who aren't permitted to cross a line which evidently runs seven metres from the goal - it is exclusively a girls (women's) sport, and is not miles from one i first saw played last month between the equivalent of USA 1st or 2nd graders at an english 'public' (private) school which a friend of mine attended long ago, and in which both his young daughters are currently enrolled, one of which represented her school on the court - their adaptation uses a (lowered) basketball style net and is more populous, the activity managed by players' positions being restricted to two of three zones...
but i diverge
following norway's triumph over slovenia - their invaluable keeper (who hails from bergen) denying an equaliser at the final whistle - we are treated to a televised weather report... lowest temperature predictably expected on the northernmost isle (well inside the arctic circus, and registering -22 C (an unusually warm december, i am solemnly informed), with great winds expected in the night (we've had a few such in the course of my stay)
additionally, someone very thoughtfully ordered snow for the night before my last day here, which began slushily late in the evening and gave up sometime around midnight - an inch or so lingers white on rooftops and the hills around while the ercury hovers at zero and my breakfast tea and toast go cold...
gud jule
The Irish
The Irish*, given half a chance, are more than likely to tell you a goodly portion of their life story, warts and all. And, if you can get a word in edgeways, you may well find yourself reciprocating.
They cheerfully relate to one another all the silly things they have done and daft situations in which they find themselves as a result. This without the slightest hint of self-conciousness, reproach or deprecation. In this regard I find them particularly admirable, and resolve to emulate their typically easy going and good humoured nature.
It astounds me to consider - having lived in London - that here I am surrounded by four million souls. In the entire republic. Or so they keep saying. Possibly they've not tallied the Polish and Rumanian contingents.
* Republic of Ireland
[Posted with hblogger 2.0 http://www.normsoft.com/hblogger/]
They cheerfully relate to one another all the silly things they have done and daft situations in which they find themselves as a result. This without the slightest hint of self-conciousness, reproach or deprecation. In this regard I find them particularly admirable, and resolve to emulate their typically easy going and good humoured nature.
It astounds me to consider - having lived in London - that here I am surrounded by four million souls. In the entire republic. Or so they keep saying. Possibly they've not tallied the Polish and Rumanian contingents.
* Republic of Ireland
[Posted with hblogger 2.0 http://www.normsoft.com/hblogger/]
Mistaken Identity
The strangest things do happen to me. Walking through the centre of a small unfamiliar city in Ireland (Sligo, as it happens), a fellow in his twenties approaches me unexpectedly in the street wearing a broad grin, enthusiastically grasps my hand exclaiming loudly, 'Man, you rock!' His girl friend seemed mildly embarassed. All I could manage was, 'Thanks.' I'm sure he mistook me for someone, but whom?
Having long since moved beyond the circles in which I am likely to be recognised for whom I am by anyone whose identity I am unlikely to recall (terrible with names - never forget a face), I've also long since grown accustomed to one of three things happening regardless of where I am in the world.
One, I am asked for directions. Probably I appear either as though I belong (or don't belong) anywhere, or that I know where I am going. I generally fail on the latter point, but usually have a map and an idea of where I am on it.
Two, I am asked if I wish to either buy or sell drugs, though these are becoming less common occurrences. Possibly I am getting older. Probably I look as though I am or once was either a drug user or dealer.
Three, I am asked if I mind having my photograph taken. Usually by students doing an elective course of study, but very recently by a lovely eighty year old Canadian coach tourist (from Vancouver), for whom I scratched out an address - something I often forget to do. At the time I was doing my best to blend into the shrubbery at the entrance to an Irish megalithic site - as their guide tried to explain the clooties in the hawthorn at the gap in the hedge - tucked in the shadows leaning on my staff. She spotted me, and - taking me for Irish - thanked me for the marvellous weather they had enjoyed for twelve days. I don't know where they were the following day, but where I was, it rained.
In recent years a fourth phenomenon has begun to supplant the second - I am mistaken for a famous person. This has nothing to do with my evil twin (who I will deal with under separate cover), and goes beyond the casual 'You look like Willie Nelson' or 'You could be Axel Rose' comparisons - this is someone suddenly going all glassy eyed and tongue tied contemplating my wizened visage. Do celebrities really have to endure this on a daily basis? Small wonder they don't venture out in public. Invariably I gently hasten to assure them that they are mistaken, without determining who it is they think they are seeing. This is kinder - I feel - for them, but shortchanges me.
Who am I?
[Posted with hblogger 2.0 http://www.normsoft.com/hblogger/]
Having long since moved beyond the circles in which I am likely to be recognised for whom I am by anyone whose identity I am unlikely to recall (terrible with names - never forget a face), I've also long since grown accustomed to one of three things happening regardless of where I am in the world.
One, I am asked for directions. Probably I appear either as though I belong (or don't belong) anywhere, or that I know where I am going. I generally fail on the latter point, but usually have a map and an idea of where I am on it.
Two, I am asked if I wish to either buy or sell drugs, though these are becoming less common occurrences. Possibly I am getting older. Probably I look as though I am or once was either a drug user or dealer.
Three, I am asked if I mind having my photograph taken. Usually by students doing an elective course of study, but very recently by a lovely eighty year old Canadian coach tourist (from Vancouver), for whom I scratched out an address - something I often forget to do. At the time I was doing my best to blend into the shrubbery at the entrance to an Irish megalithic site - as their guide tried to explain the clooties in the hawthorn at the gap in the hedge - tucked in the shadows leaning on my staff. She spotted me, and - taking me for Irish - thanked me for the marvellous weather they had enjoyed for twelve days. I don't know where they were the following day, but where I was, it rained.
In recent years a fourth phenomenon has begun to supplant the second - I am mistaken for a famous person. This has nothing to do with my evil twin (who I will deal with under separate cover), and goes beyond the casual 'You look like Willie Nelson' or 'You could be Axel Rose' comparisons - this is someone suddenly going all glassy eyed and tongue tied contemplating my wizened visage. Do celebrities really have to endure this on a daily basis? Small wonder they don't venture out in public. Invariably I gently hasten to assure them that they are mistaken, without determining who it is they think they are seeing. This is kinder - I feel - for them, but shortchanges me.
Who am I?
[Posted with hblogger 2.0 http://www.normsoft.com/hblogger/]
22 March 2009
Complimentary, dear Watson
One of the greatest compliments I ever received was from a German aquaintance in Spain, in 1979...
'You are the most in-American American I ever met!'
'You are the most in-American American I ever met!'
19 March 2009
Reefer Madness
Far back in the deep recesses of the giant refrigerator of space, like some overlooked remnant of an absent-minded chef's cosmic cookout, there floats a mouldy little ball resembling nothing so much as a science fair project run amok; the planet Earth...
18 February 2005
Cadaqués - Day 7
Friday, 18th February 2005
Shelter from the Storm
Turned the futon. Spent the afternoon sanding and staining woodwork in the van, now parked tight against the hillside out of the worst of the wind. Good to see progress.
Group playing again in l'Hostal tomorrow, half past midnight.
Scratch out a few postcards over a couple beers in the Casino.
17 February 2005
Cadaqués - Day 6
Thursday, 17th February 2005
A Ghost Town
"No hay" is the reply in the tourist information office. There is no library. Bit of a shock in this day and age for what now appears such a prosperous village. Must have other priorities.
Passed much of the afternoon first inside, then outside the Maritim, reading the paper (El Mundo Catalán), with tea and beer respectively, then snack and some shuffling of software downloads back at the van. Later, as shadows of the mountain overtake, down to the Casino for a leisurely beer over the supplement.
Town is dead tonight - one of those when the first hour in bed is spent warming the futon enough to relax.
16 February 2005
Cadaqués - Day 5
Wednesday, 16th February 2005
Tramuntana
Look at the trees on the hill, waving in the breeze.... Oh, sorry, those are telegraph poles.
The north wind which they call Tramuntana is known to blow up to 150 km/h (90 mph) - or so. It is from personal experience and no exaggeration that I say it is capable of lifting rocks and bottles into the air and hurling them as so many dry leaves. I don't know yet if this is that wind - I know it from late November 1978 - but it is characteristically strong and has blown now three days solid. Tramuntana is said always to come for odd numbers of days. It puts partners at odds, friends off speaking terms and drives ordinarily level headed men mad. Nor does foreknowledge of this phenomena immunise anyone from its effect. I have witnessed all of this.
David introduces himself to me in the Casino, saying "You are a friend of Katja?", and when I explain that I lived here long ago, asks "Do you remember John and Dennis?" The infamous twins. Well, yes and no....
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