Mycology

_{Photo courtesy my French teacher. I believe she took the photo in order to stick it to all of us who didn't go out picking with her this Sunday. Gotta love the French.}

My younger sister and her fiancé are coming in to town tonight; we have many long bike rides and a trip to Rome planned with them, so posting will be light (not that anyone seems to care).

In any case, right now I need to get the apartment looking welcomingly slovenly (up from sty-like) for them, and then Amynah and I are going to enjoy a dinner of fresh mushrooms, (pictured here), as picked by my French teacher this very weekend. I will thus spare you the harrowing tale of how we spent this weekend helping people move to Lipsheim and the 77-km bike ride we took on the previous weekend because, frankly, I'm sure you people are sick of reading about my suffering.

Also, I leave you with thd video below, because it's hard not to smile after watching it. Further proof that l care about you, dear readers, even though you never call. Are you sleeping enough? Are you eating well? I worry....

How best to comemmorate a mime?

How else, but a moment of silence?

When first I moved to Strasbourg, I comforted myself that my near-total lack of language competence would matter little, as I was convinced that the locals would all be as fluent as their native son, Marcel Marceau (née Marcel Mangel) in the inaudible arts. It proved not to be, as I learned to my sorrow on my first foray into town search of a telephone booth.

I've moved beyond that now, but nonetheless, in honour of the entertainer's death this weekend at age 84, I'm putting a blank CD on the stereo and cranking the volume.

Trying to Finnish me off

_{Abbey of Mulbach, where we started Sunday's hike. Had I known what I was in for, I might have popped in for word or two}


I arbitrarily decided that this weekend was going to be my birthday weekend, and what a weekend it was. I don’t mean to brag, but it was one of those weekends that I vaguely fantasized about in those long, snow-fever months prior to moving here.

Saturday, Amynah and I walked to Kehl, Germany, about an hour away, in order to meet up with my French teacher and her husband. She’s Alsatian, he’s British. We were surprised to walk in to have a party in full swing, as they had also invited some Irish friends of theirs who work for the Council of Europe one of whom had, in turn, brought her Mum and sister. We sat around and drank a German rosé (very good, believe or not) and filling our gullets with a selection of homemade tartes (Amynah’s contribution was a tomato and olive concoction the recipe for which, if you like a good tarte, you should really get from her).

Afterwards we all wandered over to the Jardin de deux rives where the Strasbourg orchestra was holding a free concert. We sat off to the side of the stage, which threw off the acoustics, but it was enjoyable nonetheless, and not just because I found the conductor’s pronunciation of “Leonard Bernstein” hilarious (Vanessa Wagner of those Wagners, was the featured pianist. She was excellent).

Anyway, after the concert we returned to my teacher’s where the whisky soon made an appearance (I mentioned all the other guests were Irish, right?). We didn’t make it home until about 1 AM.

This was a bad move, as we had a date with destiny the next morning, destiny, in this case taking the form of that force of nature known as Sami the Finn.

Sami the Finn had suggested a hike in the Vosges, specifically the Grand Ballon, the highest peak in that not inconsiderable pack of hills. He had chosen a route that would start us pretty much at the bottom and, over the course of 22 km, take us one vertical kilometer and back (the peak is 1440 m, we started at about 350m).

_{At 700 m. Halfway there!}

My camera ran out of batteries after I took about three pictures, so I never got a shot of the top. This is probably a good thing, as I was therefore unable to capture us at hour six, scavenging through the underbrush, desperate for nourishment, hands and faces stained a purplish hue as we shoved blackberries and blueberries into our slavering mouths.

Oh, the humanity.


_{We spotted these at roughly the same time my hunger had reached the point I caught myself saying to Sami "Yes, I know the red mushrooms are toxic. But how toxic, exactly?"}

There are worse things than fresh air and gorging oneself on wild berries I suppose (like gorging oneself on fresh cheese and sausage in the restaurant 50 metres away from the site of our feeding frenzy, which also served those same berries in pie-form). Nonetheless, I am not ashamed to admit I wept like a baby this morning when I had to negotiate the four flights of stairs in my building after discovering my legs had been replaced overnight with those of an arthritic octogenarian.

Heidelberg, Basel, Springfield

_{Heidelberg, about which this post is not, really.}

It's been a while since I've written about travelling around our neck of the woods. We were in Basel again this weekend, to see the Tinguely Museum, which showcases the Rube Goldberg like devices of artist Jean Tinguely. They were awesome, and as soon as I have a workshop, time, and some facilty with electronic motors I fully intend to make some mechanized art of my own, though I'd probably stop short of making a skull-bedecked automobile of death.

After having been properly cultured (and purchasing an honest-to-goodness Tinguely of our own, coutesy of his "drawing machine" and the aesthetic advice of two Swiss toddlers), we went to see the Simpson's Movie.

This, I am unashamed to admit, was the chief purpose of the visit for me, as it didn't play here in English and Basel is only 90 minutes away by train. Yes, I travelled to a completely different country in order to see a movie that was based on a television programme I barely watched. It was pretty good, but the funniest line came from the British kids sitting behind us who, at the end of the movie, asked "Who is Tom Hanks?" Also amusing: the movie, predictably enough for Switzerland, started right on time, and had a ten-minute intermission for a chocolate gathering break. Very civilized.

As to the title of the post: went to Heidelberg, Germany a couple of weeks ago. It's a nice university town. Our friend Dominique* took us and showed us around, as she'd studied there years before. It's nestled in a river valley, and guarded by an enormous castle which contains, for some reason I cannot determine, Germany's national pharmacy museum. It also had the largest wine-barrel in Germany which, as you can imagine, is a very large wine barrel indeed. Bigger even than a breadbox.


_{Heidelberg, with castle in the hills, taken from the "Philospher's Walk." At least, I think it was the Philosopher's Walk, therefore it was.}


*_{The very generous and cultured Dominique is French Belgian, with all that this implies. We were at a dinner with her recently where she started to bash the Dutch national cuisine, saying"Those people will just eat anything!" with such vehement disdain as to cause me to re-evaluate my own tendency to consider this very quality as one of my more attractive traits as a dinner guest.}

Tram attack

Met with my friend Caner last night - we meet weekly for a language exchange. Ususally we just walk around the island for two hours chatting (mainly in French, so lord knows what he gets out of it) before he gets on the tram to go home.

Last night, as we were approaching Homme de fer ("Iron Man" - the main tram station on the island) Caner slowed down, looking ahead with great concetration. A couple of 20-somethings in track suits were shoving each other around on the station platform. Lacking any sense of what they were saying (the slang of wannabe-gangster French youth is utterly beyond my ken) I didn't think anything of it - it looked exactly like the kind of confrontation where Jerk A pushes Jerk B, Jerk B pushes back, and then Jerk A goes in for the kill just slowly enough to allow his friends to hold him back, insults are exchanged and the party breaks up.

Not this time. This time, Jerk A punched Jerk B in the face, hard enough that he went down hard and didn't get back up quickly enough to prevent Jerk A from kicking Jerk B at least twice while he was down, once in the side of his head. Jerk A and his friends then walked away, completely unmolested.

Caner and I were too far away to do anything - it was all over by the time I realized what was going on. No one on the platform intervened, save for a couple of the guys friends who eventually helped him up. Caner and I arrived at the station in time to hear him refuse to deal with the "flics" (police) or even an ambulance (which it really looked like he needed).

Anyway, I was quite upset by the whole thing. There's nothing like seeing a prone man get kicked in the face in full view of 50-odd immobile people to shake your faith in human decency.

Malgre nous

There's an interesting article in today's Globe and Mail about some Alsatian veterens fighting for recognition from the French government for their forced service in the German army during WWII.

In any case, I link to it because it's easier than explaining what I did this weekend.


Ok, to be more clear, I wrote it. Go read it and tell me how wonderful I am.

Edit: The web version of the Globe has a "readers comments" section. I would recommend you not read them - there's nothing like internet message boards to make you despair for the future of humanity.

Yeah, Napoleonic disco zombies. So?

I’ve had one or two requests to explain the Napoleonic disco zombies I mentioned a couple of posts ago.

Now, I never in my life figured that my immense descriptive talents would be called on to further expand upon Napoleonic disco zombies – I mean, I thought this was as pithy and succinct a word-picture as one could draw. Not enough, apparently.

As I hinted at, there had been some sort of official public entertainment happening nightly outside our apartment every night last week. All of them seemed to be percussion based, (except for the hair-metal mushrooms, who eschewed instruments for pre-recorded tunes, the better to facilitate their mycological moshing) so we stopped paying attention to the ruckus fairly early on.

The Napoleonic disco zombies caught our attention, as they were doing their thing outside our apartment as we were on our way to catch a movie (which one? “Planet Terror” – also about zombies. Cue the Twilight Zone music).

Anyway, they were exactly what my carefully crafted name for them implies: a bunch of zombies, dressed up as Napoleonic soldiers, had Napoleon’s soldiers fought in shiny, sequined colours drawn from a neon rainbow.

How these Napoleonic disco zombies came to be is another question. My theory is that they are vaguely like locusts: they awake only once every thirty years, taking on the clothes and manner of whomever had the misfortune of encountering them last. Their prey at the time of their last feeding (in 1977) were an unwitting gang of historical-reenactors, celebrating the successful conclusion of their remembrance of the 172nd anniversary of the Battle of Austerlitz. Disco-fuelled mayhem ensued.

Thirty years from now, I fully expect some bewildered blogger to be attempting to describe the emo zombies outside his window. And thus the circle of life continues.

And Saturday's entertainment...

Giant mushroms, dancing to Aerosmith's "Walk this way."

It's like I'm back in high school.

Seen out the window this week...

Tonight: Accordion playing stiltwalkers and their piano-playing accomplices.

Tuesday: A troupe of Napoleonic disco-zombies playing drums.

It is beginning to dawn on me that perhaps there is some kind of festival happening hereabouts.

Must go. I hear didgeridoos.

Hava Nagila

Since Amynah and I rarely, if ever, pick up the local paper and the web-news I have for Strasbourg is somewhat less than up-to-date, we are often bewildered as to what and why things are happening outside our window.

Case in point, last night as the sun went down, throbbing tribal drums began to echo in the distance. As the sound drew closer, I looked out my window to see a blast of fire on the street below. Fire-breathing jugglers do not, in themselves, rank high in the grand scheme of bewildering events chez nous, though I will admit I am confused as to who the guy pulling the cart was – the Gimp from Pulp Fiction? A local ne'er do well sentenced to public humiliation?


_{Crappy photo, but Gimp-man is in upper right. Public executions are illegal now, right?}

An historical curiosity, in keeping with the Medieval feel of last night's show: due to the flame-broiled festival happening outside, the 10:05 PM bell on the cathedral did not ring. That bell, the last of the day, rings for about ten minutes, a long, slow, deep mournful tolling. I’ve been told that in the Middle Ages, it was the bell to tell the Jewish residents of Strasbourg that it was time for their curfew, and is supposedly rung these days only to memorialize their suffering.

I’m less certain it is actually so innocuous. For last night was the very first time the bell didn’t ring since we’ve been here. And what happened? A klezmer band set up outside our apartment and partied until almost midnight. Coincidence, or celebration?

Attica! Attica! Attica!

One of Strasbourg’s many attractions is the bewildering number of theatres they have here. There are four on the island alone and a megaplex twenty minutes away. The joy of this is that there is almost always something playing, either a new release or something older in one of the two repertory cinemas (two! Montreal, with ten times the population only had two that I was aware of).

Anyway, the other night Amynah and I went out to see Dog Day Afternoon, a classic from 1975 with Al Pacino. It was based on a true story of a New York bank robbery that went wrong, turning into a hostage situation.

What struck me, (and I’m sure I’m not the only person to make this observation) was the near total lack of music. Were this movie made today, every scene would have music cues telling the audience when to be tense, when to be uplifted, when to be amused.

Here, the suspense was kept up only by the actors and the audience’s understanding of the inevitable: you know they can’t get away with it, you know they know they can’t get away with it. The actors are sweaty, stumbling over their words, never say anything tough or witty sounding or Hollywood. Jangling, overloud telephones, long shots of chattering helicopters, blaring sirens and megaphones – those are the only sound cues, and it works.

* Amynah’s observation as we left the theatre: “People don’t really rob banks anymore, do they? Where are the Bonnie and Clydes today? It shows a lack of entrepreneurial spirit in the criminal class.”

The Flaming Knees

_{She-who-does-not-want-to-be-on-my-blog on the Rhine, on a previous bike trip}

Were I to be murdered today and my body stripped of all identification, the police would be able to learn the following things from my corpse: given the sunburn on the back of my hands and on top of my knees, I was probably biking. Moreover, I was biking mostly in a northerly and easterly direction, given the burns on the backs of my legs (indicating directionality, much like moss on a tree trunk). Also, that I was wearing aviator-style sunglasses, my shorts went precisely to "here," my socks precisely to "there" and I evidently dropped a blob of sunscreen on the centre of my right knee, leaving that joint with an appearance not unlike a pink-frosted doughnut with a creamy centre.

All of this is the result of a 60-odd kilometer bike ride Amynah and I took with Sami the Finn. It was only supposed to be 45 km, according to the guidebook* I purchased, but we took a fifteen kilometer detour in order to have fresh baked “tarte aux quetches” (it’s like a plum) cooked by one of Amynah’s lab-mates, who was looking after her parents house in a tiny little farm village in the middle of nowhere. It was pretty good, but not 15 km of good.

Given that I had taken a 30 km bike ride the day before into Germany (past a facility that had been, at various times, a sanatorium for epileptics, to a hospital for epileptics, a death camp for epileptics and now a research centre for epilepsy). In any case, Given that it has been raining for about a month straight, we’d not been biking much for the last while, so a 90 km weekend in the blazing sun was not, perhaps, the best advised decision I’ve ever made.

Sami the Finn is up for another, more ambitious ride this coming weekend. Amynah and I might be washing each others hair.

* Even eliminating my poor French as a factor, this has to be one of the worst guidebooks I’ve ever seen. The “map” consisted of a hand-drawn loop with town names scattered on it: no landmarks, distances or sense of scale. The accompanying “directions” consisted of gems such as “cross the village and take the small road that leads to the woods.” Cross the village in which direction? Small road compared to what? How do we know it leads to the forest unless we go to the end? Does this street have a name? (“Petit rue de fôret” would be too much to ask for, I guess).

I never have to leave my apartment for anything

_{I love the smell of ephedrine in the morning!}

Cathedral light shows, oom-pah band concerts, every no-talent busker in the Rhine region - they all eventually pass by my door. Including the "Tour d'Alsace" which kicked off from in front of the Cathedral this afternoon. I've no idea where they were going, but they sure were in a hurry.

Deja vu

_{Where Donna Summer goes to pray}

Amynah and I have now been here for a year, meaning that we’re now experiencing things for the second time. For instance, each year the city sponsors a light show on the Cathedral, synchronized with classical music. It lasts about fifteen minutes and happens three times a night, every night, for the whole summer. Last year’s was all-Mozart, in honour of the 300th (I am not going to check that for accuracy) anniversary of his visit to this city.* Last year, before we had a lot of books or friends, it stood in as our t.v., playing plotless re-runs at top volume every night. This year it’s a mix of twangy modern stuff and bits of Beethoven’s Ninth.

They also have a nightly light show on the river – last year there were laser fountains and vomiting gargoyles. I regret not taking pictures, because this year there are strobe lights and bad French poetry. When my cousin Stephen was visiting we wandered the length of the island, looking for something even marginally entertaining, only to be accosted by a city volunteer who asked us what we thought. Being Canadian, I told her I thought it was great, and that we don’t have things like this in North America, when really I should have told her that I’ve had more entertainment with a flashlight and shadow puppets.


_{Before the crowds. View from our window}

This weekend was the Braderie, which I understand is a French tradition. Effectively, it is a giant yard sale for retailers desperate to get rid of their summer stock, not to mention itinerant merchants hawking cheap sunglasses and skanky lingerie.** It makes the St Laurent street sale in Montreal look like a kid's lemonade stand. In any case, good deals are possible, if you can get to them. The entire island turned into a giant outdoor mall, and people from all over Alsace and the nearby bits of Germany packed into the streets, wandering like stunned cattle while being hectored by mega-phone wielding mop salesmen.

I ended up getting myself some new shoes, which I purchased and continue to love despite the fact they pinch my toes and will make to me walk like C3PO.


_{Your feet want to be my feet, admit it}

* He stayed in a building down our street known today as La Mauresse or, in English “The Black Lady” named after one of the owner's more exotic servants in the 1500s. Strasbourg wasn't exactly the most cosmopolitan place back then: "Hey, you guys remember that black lady who used to work in the house where that Austrian fiddle player stayed? She sure was black, weren't she? Let's name the place after her!"

** Nothing against skanky lingerie, but who the heck buys from a sidewalk vendor in front of hundreds of bargain-hunting French grannies?

Hot Potter? Harry Fuzz?

_{wwwbritfilms.tv}

So, this is pretty overdue, but I saw Hot Fuzzin Berlin. Why was I in a movie whilst in Berlin, you might ask, when the delights of Ku-Damm and Checkpoint Charlie beckoned? Well, because while Strasbourg certainly has its charms, the chance to enjoy the delights of a city that not only recognizes that time has progressed since 1689, but embraces the fact (out of politeness, we won't dwell on their motivation for that) meant that Amynah and I spent much of our time in malls, train stations and on the subway, simply to remind ourselves of the joys of urban living. It's amazing how beautiful neon is, shining on rain slicked roads, especially when those roads are entirely devoid of cobbles.

Right: Hot Fuzz. I'd been looking forward to it for months. I loved Shaun of the Dead, and I harbour a not-so-secret love of big dumb action movies. Hot Fuzz managed to both flatter my "I'm too smart for Die Hard" pretensions, while still pandering to my "God, I loved Die Hard" inner self.

Even the first half, which was pretty slow, managed to be consistently funny in that not all that subtle British way - even better that every minute of it paid off once stuff started blowing up.
Oddly, Amynah's favourite moment was when the Farmer's Mom got kicked in the face, which I thought was a little broad. My favourite was when, in the midst of the grocery store battle, blonde Supercop (I forget his name) found it necessary to recount how, the night before, he had told the big Jaws-from-Moonraker-like-villain "play time's over" before bashing him on the head with a flowerpot. Totally the sort of exchange I could imagine me and any of my guy friends having, were we in the middle of gun fight in a grocery store. Anyway, seeing Hot Fuzz managed to utterly overcome any of my residual nasty feelings I had for the city that resulted from the weather and my travel ineptitude. Easily the best movie I’ve seen all year, and quite possibly in my entire life.

Also on movies, I saw Harry Potter last week. I will admit I have not nor have any intention to read the books, though I pretend to no virtue as a result. In any case a recurring gripe*, about the movies that I suspect must be shared by the books, given how integral it appears to the plots. To wit: Why is it that Rowling and her script doctors haven't come up with a better way to create tension other than "I have something to tell you, but I can't tell you now" even though THERE"S NO F**ING REASON WHY NOT!!! Minor case in point from the last movie: big hairy guy (Hagrid?) drags the kids into the woods, telling them "I've something to show you, but it's a big secret" thus setting up the introduction to his brother, who of course picks up Hermione before an explanation or introduction could be effected. Why not just say "Here kids, I have to introduce you to my Brobdignagian special needs half brother. He lives in the woods. Follow me!"
If it only happened the once it would be annoying, but basically the ENTIRE PLOT of the last movie was driven by this cheap gimmick. I know it’s only children’s lit, but for the love of Buddha, even Snow White managed to keep up tension better than that.

* <sub>I debated about posting this for a while, and only did so at the request of my friend Julie, for whom this note was originally composed. I beg the mercy of the Potter fans that have apparently commandeered the Internet to discuss the book. I do not want my final vision in life to be a horde of pointy hated uber-fans waving “wands” in my face and yelling “Indignantus spittleus!” until I am drowned.

** If anyone calls me a muggle, I swear to God I will not be responsible for what I do.</sub>

Eastern boys and Western girls

_{Marx and Engels contemplate the New World Order}

Sorry all for sporadic updating, but with all the visitors we’ve had over the last month (still not quite done yet!) it’s been tough finding the time or energy to keep up on this thing.

The other reason is because there’s only so much “life sure is different here” or “I just visited bleah bleah and it was grand” that I’m sure people want to read.

Because I am aware my lifestyle of café’s, fine wines and marathon dinners can inspire a certain amount of schadenfreunde, I am going to talk about Berlin, where Amynah and I visited last week.

The occasion was a scientific conference where Amynah was giving a talk (it went well). Since she showed up a couple of days before me, and was sharing a room with another woman from her lab, I was booked into another hotel closer to the centre of the city. We would then stay together in the same hotel on the last night (that’s three hotels total: mine, hers and ours).

However, your faithful correspondent, being a fateful combination of cocky and disorganized forgot what hotel he was booked into. Amynah, having prepared for this eventuality, had written down detailed instructions as to how to get there from the airport, but I managed to lose them.


_{Bombed out church, with pool noodles}

In ignorance of my ignorance, I made no preparations for my trip until 11 AM on the morning I was supposed to leave. I was shocked to learn the instructions were gone and more shocked to learn that my flight was leaving an hour earlier than I believed AND that the one train I likely to get me to the airport on time was leaving in an hour.

Panicked, I grabbed a black-and-white print out of Berlin’s colour coded subway map (think about that one for a second, if you will) threw my crap into a bag, scribbled down the address from the one hotel reservation confirmation I had in my email and dashed out the door. I got to the train station just as my train pulled out.

I bought a ticket for the next train which, according to the incomprehensible train schedule which seemed to indicate that in addition to leaving an hour later, my train seemed to pull into Basel at roughly the same time my flight would be boarding if it reached Basel at all (the parenthesis is a terrifying thing in a train schedule). I hedged my bets and bought a ticket.

I then hopped a tram back to my apartment (I had no tickets to do so, but I was desperate) in order to grab a bite to eat, try to locate Amynah’s directions, and do some perfunctory cleaning for Amynah’s Aunts and sisters who were due back from Rome before our return. I failed at two out of the three – Amynah’s Aunts scrubbed the whole place before our return and the directrions have not materialized to this day.

I then dashed back to the tram stop, intent on buying tickets so I could ride it legally. I pulled out my new Euro-sized wallet (purchased in Spain) only to discover my bank card was missing. Cursing, I hopped the next tram (keeping a weather eye out for le contrôle) and went back to the train station. Back in the ticket kiosk, I ask an attendant if my card had turned up. He disappeared in the back office for a minute… two minutes,.. three minutes…. My train was leaving in five. He came out said, no, but he’d check with another colleague and disappeared again before I could object. Another three minutes elapsed before he came out and began to instruct me on how to lodge a missing goods form. (See footnote)

“Non merci” I squawked, dashing to my platform.

You guys know how in the olden movies, you always see people running across the platform as the whistle blows and the train pulls out of the station? Yeah, well, it was like that, only not at all romantic.(See footnote two)

The scene at the Basel train station was the same. I had Swiss francs left over from a previous trip, but not enough coins for the shuttle bus. I therefore had to run into a Swiss bank and get change for a twenty (apropos of nothing, Switzerland has the ugliest money I’ve ever seen) and dash back out as the bus left the station. I arrived at the airport just as the Easyjet folks were closing down check in.


_{Berlin S-Bahn and U-Bahn system. And yes, the U2 line does go through Zoo Station. Image from www.morpha.de}

By contrast, Berlin transportation was remarkably simple. A bus took me to the commuter train, which took me to my hotel. Amynah was supposed to meet me there, but wasn’t, so I checked in and waited in my room. After a while, I got worried that she hadn’t turned up and went downstairs, only to have the phone handed to me by the desk clerk telling me my wife was on the other end.

“Why are you there?” she asked.

“Where are you?” I asked back.

“I’m at the hotel you’re supposed to be in,” she said.

Now, just to be clear, I thought that this was HER hotel, the presence of a third hotel never having registered in my tiny little brain. So when Amynah insisted I meet her at some subway station I’d never heard of, I just though she was being needlessly difficult and cut her off before she was finished giving me directions and said “Yeah yeah, I’ll meet you there.”

By midnight, an hour later, Amynah is fuming in the rain at the Guntzlestrasse U-bahn station while I am fuming in the rain at the Berlinerstrasse U-bahn, three blocks away.

Finally, my rage (directed entirely at myself, the Idiot King) gave way to concern about Amynah and I hopped on the U-Bahn to go out to the boonies where she was staying. I get to that station, and disembark only to see that there was only one more train going back, leaving in five minutes.

Rather than be utterly stranded, I boarded it – there was only one guy in my car – and looked out the window where the last outbound train had pulled into the station. I saw Amynah step off the train just as mine began to pull out of the station. I was thus inspired to treat my cowering fellow passenger to an impromptu lesson of the more powerful English swear words.

Things did get better from there - Berlin has some good bagels, and Amynah and I took great delight in the big-city pleasures afforded by Potzdammerplatz (movies! neon! concrete and glass! modernity!) I took very few photos, which are here for your edification.

Footnote:: The loss of my bank card, which is also a credit card, meant that Amynah spent the better part of one of our few days in Berlin desperately trying to reach my French bank in order to cancel it. It also meant I had no money, short of what Amynah gave me. I picked up my new one today, and attempted to stuff into the oversized card holder in my oversized Spanish wallet I recently purchased to hold my oversized French driver's license. Lo and behold, there was my bank card, slipped out of view, excatly where I'd left it. Idiot.

Footnote two: Adding to the 50's movie feel of this incident, as the train set off, a trio of police entered the car and demanded to see everyone's idenitification cards, terrorizing a family of Chinese tourists who weren't expecting this sort of treatment outside their own homeland. On the other hand, absolutely no one checked my passport as I entered Switzeland. So there you go - it's easier to travel between countries than it is within them, apparently.

A propos of something

Congratulations Maeve and Dave!*


* NB, for those of you lacking context, this photo does not depict Maeve and Dave but rather Thomas and Julian, their brand new sons. Having not met the gentlemen, I cannot tell you which is which.

A propos of nothing

...but every time I read Heather Mallick's online column for CBC, I am left with a mental image of her sitting at her desk with a highball in her right hand and another in her left, from which she takes alternating sips to draw strength for her writing process, which consists of closing her eyes and repeatedly bashing her computer keyboard with her forehead. My alternate theory was that her column is composed by a large team of dispomanic monkeys, but I doubt monkeys could so consistently manage slip in gratuitous U.S. bashing week after week (this column, she managed to "zing" Dick Cheney in a column about office casual fashions. I suspect she exists only to make Rebecca Eckler and her ilk look coherant).

Year one: A retrospective, in song

As today marks the day Amynah and I cleared customs and were sent into our new lives with a “bon courage” from the police officer in Charles de Gaulle Airport, I’ve been thinking a lot about home and where it actually is (I don't where a chapeau, so it isn't where I lay my hat). After a year here, the looming spire of Strasbourg’s cathedral now feels comfortable to me, even if it is not comforting like the potholes of Montreal or the salt air of Halifax are.

I have a lot of thoughts on life here, and how we’re adapting to it, but as today is the first day Amynah and I have had alone together in a couple of weeks, we’re spending it bumming. Maybe I’ll dazzle you with my self-regarding philosophizing some other time. Today, you will have to be satisfied with my very short list of songs is on the theme of my various hometowns.

I’ll work back in time and start with Strasbourg by the Rakes, a song I discovered while trying to learn about this mysterious town through Wikipedia. That worthy web-site describes it as “art punk,” take that as you will. It’s a little droning, but amusing and entirely un-evocative of the city: like many, the band seems to believe it’s in Germany. The song is about Cold War espionage. It makes me smile, once I learned to overlook the geographical errors.

Montreal, -40 Malajube: Now, I’m sure that some people I’d have picked Blue Rodeo’s Montreal, seeing as how that is what Amynah and I danced to at our wedding. Well, much as I like that tune, it actually isn’t on my iTunes. What I do have is this tune, which has a number of advantages over Blue Rodeo’s version in that it is more energetic, less goopily sentimental, French, and about something specifically Montreal, namely the freaking temperature’s of death. Plus, it was given to me by an actual Montrealer (thanks Tara!). It’s one of those songs that would be insanely catchy, if I could only force my way through the impenetrable Quebecois accent.

Suzanne, Leonard Cohen: It’s a bit obvious, but it captures what I, as a wannabe beatnik teenager wanted to believe Montreal actually was: meaningless hook-ups made memorable by poetry: “The sun pours down like honey, on our lady of the harbour.”

Fisherman’s Wharf, Stan Rogers: Barrett’s Privateers is a little more obvious, since it actually mentions the city in the refrain (“Now I’m a broken man on a Halifax pier, the last of Barrett’s Privateers”) but it is about a guy with an anachronistic longing for Sherbrooke, a city that had yet to be founded in the year the song was set (Stan was an Ontario boy, we’ll forgive him). Fisherman’s Wharf is one of those nostagia encrusted “time’s are changin’ and I don’t like it” kind of folk songs that Maritimers have perfected, but Stan does a good job sketching out the city, even if he and I disagree on which way it’s heading.

Hello City, Barenaked Ladies: Off their first album, the Barenaked Ladies evidently really, really, didn’t like playing Halifax (“I wish this seaside beerhall would sink into the bay,”) but they did it so catchily it’s hard to hold it against them. Plus, loth as I am to admit it, they do capture one of Halifax's less attractive undersides quite well.

City of Lakes, Matt Mays: My sister is a big Matt Mays fan, so I figured I’d give him a try and so “acquired” this country-rock tune. Now, back when I was in a band, my friend Tim and I tried to write a song about Dartmouth, where we both grew up. We only got as far as the ferry terminal, and then (lyrically speaking) immediately crossed the harbour to Halifax. That pretty much says it all about Dartmouth, so I applaud Mays’ attempt. On the other hand, this song bores me to tears (maybe evocative of Dartmouth after all?) and the lyrics make me wince, as he’s trying WAY too hard to sound like a world-weary troubadour.

So, in return, dear readers: what songs do you like about your hometowns? What songs make you think of your hometowns? And, given that I’m completely flummoxed on songs about Ottawa, where I was born, does anyone have any suggestions?

Home again...

We’re back from Spain, finally, with the suntans to prove it. I can’t (or at least won’t) give a complete run down of the trip, other than to say that driving a mini-van full of my in-laws on Spanish city street no wider than an arms-span in width in 35-degree heat was not nearly so bad as I suspected it would be (or at least it wasn’t until my run-in with a metal pomegranate in Granada).

The trip had initially been conceived and planned by Amynah’s Mom who, with her extensive knowledge of Islamic history and art, was supposed to show us around the wonders of Nazarid Andalusia. Sadly, just before her flight was supposed to leave, she had to be rushed to the hospital for (minor) surgery, which forced her to cancel her entire trip. She’s still recovering, and we’re all very worried about her, so please send good thoughts her way.

Amynah, her Dad, and her two Aunts did make it, on Amynah’s Mom’s insistance. We started in Seville, then drove to the port city of Algaciris, caught a day-ferry to Tangiers in Morroco, then hit Gibraltar, on to the mountain city of Ronda, then Granada, Cordoba and finally Seville once more.

There’s an awful lot to write about – watching bullfights, appalled, with my father-in-law in our hotel, explaining Catholic iconography to my relatives (all of whom are convinced that we Papists are idol-worshippers now), trying to convince Amynah’s conspiracy-minded Aunt that Spain’s nuns were trying to convert her… good times. It is possible that I’ll write more in detail later, but for the time being it’s all one big blur of Arabic calligraphy and fetishized Catholic death art.

I’m putting a selection of photos here. More may come, but I make no promises.