Panos

Panos from the years:



These are all put together using Autostitch.

(And yeah, that's right, my first post in months, and I don't write anything.)

Quarterly Roundup: The Return

As my few remaining readers (as in, Joie and Daorcey) have pointed out, it's been a while. So here's more words to read, tho I warn ya, it's essentially a repeat of last round... as in, places I've been. What else is there, really?

So when we left off, I was about to head off to Spain for Christmas there with my parents. It's the first time since I moved out to London-land that I haven't gone home for Christmas, so it was good they came out. Otherwise, I probably would have drunken myself near-death out of sheer depression. So yay for that.

We stayed near a town called Estepona on the Costa del Sol. It's all very lovely, but it is dead over the holidays. Our resort was beautiful, and the only other person we saw there was the security guard. On top of that, we had hella shitty weather -- note the name. Costa del Sol. It's supposed to be sunny 330 days of the year. It rained pretty well every day we were there. It's not supposed to do that.

That said, we still got out and saw a lot of stuff and it was wonderful to spend so much time with them, even if it did bring out the grumpy teenager-like side of me. Seville was beautiful, tho we didn't visit the barbers. Rhonda and the pueblo blancos were super cool. The bullfight we saw, not so much. My mom and I actually walked out after the second fight -- my mom felt sick, and I wanted to punch someone. Cheering wankers on for torturing animals to death, not really my kind of thing, you'll not be surprised to learn.


We also took a day trip to Gibraltar, where the highway runs across the airport landing strip, and I nearly got bitten by a monkey. I would say that Gibraltar is like Britain, but warmer; however, it rained.

I also managed to talk my parents into a trip to Morroco. Neither seemed too keen on it, but then we were standing on the Rock (aka Gibraltar) looking out toward Africa, and that seemed to convince my dad. I loved Tangier, and would go back anytime. It's dirty and colourful and lots of fun. We did touristy stuff like ride a camel -- harder than it looks -- and my mom got hassled by a rug salesman. He actually followed her around the market. And I had as much mint tea as I could... I love that stuff.

Back in London, in February, it snowed. I mean, proper snowed. This doesn't happen often here; a light dusting is enough to shut the airports down, and we got several inches. Even better, it was the wet stuff -- perfect for snowballs and snowmen.



I worked from home that day, but managed to sneak out of the house for an hour to go for a walk. So much fun! There were snowmen built everywhere, like they were invading. And in a few places there's be three big snowballs feet high lined up -- people had clearly tried to make massive ones, not realising it's rather hard to stack them when they're that big...

At the end of the month, I had a work trip to Cannes, so stayed up for the weekend to tour around. On a friend's advice, I checked out a chateau a few miles out of Cannes called La Napoule. It sits right on the sea, and was rebuilt by an American artist and his wife. They filled the garden with crazy-ass statues and carved faces and animals into the walls. Everywhere I looked, there was something random to surprise me -- a weird statue, a face above a window, and above the main door, they carved the fairytale phrase "once upon a time...". Very sweet and beautiful.



From there, I wandered down to Nice, which had a cool carnival going on, and was a good base to visit Monaco and Monte Carlo. On the way to that tax haven, I stopped off at a village called Eze, which is set up on top of a cliff overlooking the Med. Again, perfect views. I want a house overlooking the sea...



In March, I managed to travel for FUN not work -- crazy times, I know. Kris is living out in Berlin for a few months this summer, so went to see him. Berlin was pretty cool, and it's always good to have a tour guide. And, a free place to stay. Did all the usual touristy stuff -- saw the Brandenburg Gate, bits of the wall, Checkpoint Charlie -- but also wandered into the Turkish district, where we had some damn fine Shwarmas and mint tea... noticing a trend here?

Berlin's weirdly cheap for a capital city. Kris and Tina have a two bedroom apartment for less than I pay to live in a five-person houseshare, and the beer and food and transport is all well cheaper than London. Time to learn German, then?

And that's it for travel... for ten days at least. (Noticing another trend here?) I'm back home in Calgary for a week -- need to visit my preggers sisters. (Yes, plural, they've synchronised.)

In May, I've got DarNat visiting, and we're heading out to Stockholm -- mostly because it was cheap -- for a weekend, and who knows what else we'll get up to. I predict pubs and beer will feature rather frequently...

Pictures are all up on Facebook and a few random London ones are on Flickr.

Quarterly Roundup

This week, I'm going to have to spend a large portion of my Time At Work doing end-of-year roundups -- effectively rehashed stories reminding people what happened over the past 12 months. On one hand, they're a useful review and I don't mind writing them, on the other hand, they're hit-whoring spacefiller (not unlike this blog???).

Anyway, I've been nagged in the comments (Hi Joie!) that I haven't posted in a while, and that is indeed true -- not since the beginning of August, it would seem. As Joie asks, surely something's happened since then??

The past few weeks, not really, as I've been struck down by the cold/flu/-itis to end them all, and have barely left my room this weekend -- or the past few weekends. But I'm starting to feel better, a bit, and as such am OHMYGOD so bored.

Bored enough to blog, it would seem. Bored enough to blog a roundup.

So. Right. August. Went up to Edinburgh in August, for the World's Largest Fringe Festival (tm) -- and damn, it is big. Saw a ton of good comedy, a couple decent plays, and a totally mental and hilariously crap puppet show. And, drank a lot. Didn't see as much of the city as I would have liked, but it looks beautiful, albeit through drunken and bleary eyes. Need to go back when a billion and a half other people aren't there, so I can see the rest of it, and more of Scotland.

A couple weeks after that, flew to Calgary on a hilariously shit airline called Globespan, which never arrives on time. Strangely, Mary -- who came to Scotland with us -- was on the same flight as me, one seat away from me. Weird. The flight was delayed several hours, so we hung out watching the Olympics at a pub in Gatwick Airport, which is exactly as fun as it sounds. Horribly, the delay was not communicated to Calgary, so our families were standing around wondering WTF was going on. (On the upside, unlike Zoom, Globespan remained in business over the next few weeks, so I was able to get back to London... albeit several hours late.)

From Calgary, my family drove to somewhere in Montana, and caught a plane to Vegas for my little sister's wedding, which was a fantastic day, despite me delivering a speech. (DarNat, you know how good I'm not at that...)

Then, back to London. From where I went back to Vegas for work. My life is retarded, and entirely environmentally unfriendly.

When I got back from Vegas (the second time) it was off to a town called Truro, in a southwestern bit of the UK called Cornwall. I've always wanted to go to Cornwall, but Truro is a dump. There is nothing to do there except drink, and they even make that difficult. The hotel we stayed in was like an old folks' home -- the breakfasts included prunes, if you wanted. Still, given the company and the drinking, I had a fantastic time. I didn't, however, have any prunes.

Then, I stayed in the country for a month. It was weird. The Saints and Chargers played at Wembley Stadium in London, so went to see my first NFL came ever... in London.

After that, went to New York for work -- the day after Obama's Historic and Hope-Bringing (tm) election. I'm already planning a trip back -- to New York, not Obama, but if he wants to hang out, that's cool with me.

A couple weeks after that, took a quick weekend break to Shannon, Ireland, with my friend Shannon. She's the master of cheap flights, and found some seriously almost-free ones to the west coast of Ireland, which is one of the prettiest places in the world. Everything is green and cliffy. And have the best pub nights ever. You make friends with everyone in the bar because, why not? They're drinking, you're drinking, you have lots in common...

And that's it for travel... until tenish days from now, when I'm off to Spain to spend Christmas with my parents there. It's my first time not going home for Christmas since I foolishly moved out here, but at least I'm still spending it with family. If I was entirely alone, I'd be entirely drunk -- though how that's different from most Kobie Christmases, I'm not entirely sure...

Now this pretty well reads like a list of places I've travelled to over the past nearly-half year. Between all this, I did lots of stuff, alright. Namely, drinking at parties, drinking at pubs, drinking at people's houses, drinking at shows, and drinking for the sake of drinking, with the odd movie thrown in when I run out of drinking money. My lifestyle, it is retarded.

New year, new leaf, maybe?

Malta

I went to Malta at the end of September for some work thingamabob. I had to look it up on a map first (thanks, Google!). I knew it was Mediterranian, but exactly where I did not know. Anyway, it's apparently smack in the middle of the Med, south of Sicily.

Because of this, it's hella warm and sunny -- which probably explains why it's so crowded. It's about 7km long, but home to 400,000 people, making it one of the most densely populated places in the EU.

And, because of its handy location -- south of Italy, north of Africa -- it's got a cool mix of Southern Europe and Arabic culture, which shows in the language and the architecture.







Right. So the conference thingamabob was held at a posh hotel on a bay on the north side of the island. For some reason, when I checked in, they decided to give me the ambassador suite: two bathrooms, massive bedroom, sitting area, dining room, two seperate balconies -- and a rooftop patio overlooking the sea. I honestly considered barricading myself in that room and never, ever leaving.

And yes, I did use both bathrooms. I alternated.

Aside from listening to people ramble about ethernets, the group also travelled to the medieaval city of Mdina for dinner one night. Built on top of a hill, this fortress-town is actually still lived in -- but you've got to be descended from royalty to live there... and have a lot of money.

I had the glory of staying in my lovely room for just two nights. On the Friday, however, as the conference was over, I had to leave (or pay more money than I was willing in order to stay).

Me and a few other journos -- one of whom, like me, hadn't bothered to book a room for the weekend -- cabbed it to the capital city of Valetta. I figured that as this place is a pretty big tourist destination, finding a hotel/hostel would be easy. I was wrong. Accomodations in Valetta are few and booked months ahead of time.

After calling all the hotels and guest houses listed by the tourist office, I found one room in a hostel, handily around the corner from the hotel of the journos with better planning skills.

This place was a step down from the resort, however (anything would have been, mind you, but this was of the mind-your-step-b/c-it's-a-big-one variety). It had two twin beds, a shoddy dresser and a toilet in the hall -- but its window opened up into the historical old town. Looking out the window, down the steep street, with laundry hung out of buildings, and cats lounging on the stairs, it was hard to be too concerned about the quality of the bed.



Valetta is the "old town". All the buildings look ancient. We wandered down one side and up another -- it's a whole kilometer in length -- marveling at the steep hills and looking out over the harbour. Then we did what journos and PRs do when they get together -- we drank. Beer.

At one point, walking down the street, we came across a religious procession -- people in pope-like garb, leading a group of guys carrying a huge statue. Chanting and singing. On a Friday night. Down the main street. This place is rather religious.

The next day, my roomie John and I took one of the hilariously old-school Maltese buses south across the island. We stopped off, unintentionally, and saw some ancient ruins. Much older than Egypt's pyramids, our tour guide from the Mdina night had lamented that they weren't as popular. She suggested this was because Egypt is a bigger country. I suggest it's because these ruins are a pile of rocks, and the pyramids are marvels of engineering.

From there, we walked along the road to the sea, which was our actual destination. We were looking to take a boat trip to the Blue Grotto, a seaside cave with ridiculously blue water. Hopping onto our seven-seater motorboat, we bumped along on top of the water, past the little town, along the cliffs -- where Italian teenagers sunbathed, and seriously hardcore fisherman climbed down in order to set out their poles.

The water along the cliffs was a dark inky blue. It looked middle-of-the-ocean deep, despite being just feet from the shore. But once inside the caves, the water turned crystal clear, a blue like you'd see on a stone on a cheap ring. Along the edge of the water, the stone was purple and pink.

All that, while exceptionally pretty, had nothing on the water further down. There's a strange algae in the water, which makes it really insanely blue, and when the light hits in the right way, it's electric looking. Really wicked awesome. (Video here and here.)

After that, we bused it back through the little winding streets that cover Malta, and hooked up with the other two for drinks, dinner and more drinks.

The next day, John took off to catch his early flight, and Matt wrote stories (downsides of freelance), so Hillary and I wandered Valetta. We attempted to shop, but most of the stores were closed Sunday, as this country is very Catholic. We did attempt to wander a market, but it was so crowded -- with people and utter shit -- that we left to wander the town some more.

It was freaking hot out, and our energy waned as the day went on and we trekked up stupidly steep streets. We eventually found the palace, wandered in, and then were kicked out, because it was closed. It was a lazy, aimless day in the sun -- perfect way to spend holiday time, as far as I'm concerned.

I headed back to London that night, catching a RyanAir (it's like a bus, that flies!) flight that arrived at Luton at midnight. The queues for passport control were weirdly long, and then I missed my train, so had to take the coach back into Oxford Street, where it was (of course) raining...

More Malta pics are here.

Amsterdam with Tony and friends

Right. So I’m hella behind on my blogging. I owe posts (yes, I feel like I owe you, I care about my readers, all six of you) on the rest of Orkney, Amsterdam, Malta and whatever else I have sitting on my camera/in my brain. So here’s what I remember about Amsterdam, in just over a thousand words…

After staying up all night drinking shit vodka (it shouldn’t freeze!) with Kris, and on just two hours of sleep, I hopped an EasyJet to Amsterdam-Schipol to meet up with Tony, Meru and Kristian (who I’d travelled to Ireland with two years ago). It’s a good thing it’s a nice airport, as I ended up there for a while. My flight was late taking off, so I texted Kristian to say I might be a bit late, but would call as soon as I landed, so they’d know when to come meet me.

Ha. That worked. I waited at an airport bar, drinking Heineken, randomly receiving calls from Kristian that they were late or had missed the bus (with Tony yelling in the background to let him speak.) But you know what? I wasn’t bothered. It was the first time I felt really relaxed in a while. I had no where to go and nothing to do until they showed up, an occurrence which was out of my hands. So I sat, people watching and reading, sipping my pint, feeling pretty good despite my general exhaustion.

Tony finally showed up, and I’m always happy to see him, so that just added to the general feeling of GTs – and we weren’t even in Amsterdam yet.

Once we tracked down Meru (wandering in departures, inexplicably) and called Kristian (jogging around the airport, inexplicably), we caught the train into town, had some shitty KFC before finding some shitty tourist bar out of the rain where we had an overpriced shitty drink. It was awesome.

We wandered about through town, trying to find a coffee shop or pub that was still open. At some point, one of us asked a guy standing in the street for directions. Bart, as he turned out to be called, turned out to be a homeless guy, who gives tours of the red light district for hostel cash. He found our coffeeshop (it was closed), gave us directions to a beer pub (closed, but we returned later), and eventually found an open place – but not before taking us on a tour of the red light district. He took us down one hidden alley, just a few feet wide, with red lights and windows lining the sides. While women catcalled from open doors, British men (overwhelmingly) leered and cut deals, their sweaty skin and bald heads shining red in the light. Exiting that alley, we turned along an old church down a less busy strip, where Bart and I had this exchange:

Bart: The women on this street cost less.
Me: How come?
Bart: Because they’re fat. Do you want to see where the transvestites are?
Me: No… I think I’ll pass.

After running the gauntlet of prostitutes, Bart took us to a pub. After giving him all our change and a couple of five euro notes, he joined us for a pint (offering to buy his own, now he had enough cash, which I thought was rather sweet.) Anyway, if you ever go to Amsterdam, go to the zoo, as it came highly recommended by Bart.

The next day, after moving our gear from tents to a cabin, I rented a wobbly one-speed bike and we all rode into town for pancakes. They do weird things to pancakes in Amsterdam. Mine involved apples and bacon, and damn was it good. Afterwards, we did some beer shopping and aimless cycling – they have proper cycle lanes in this city, and I love it. There’re bikes everywhere. If I were mayor of London, my goal would be to make it like this. Forget cars. Forget trams. Get everyone on bikes.

I don’t really remember what else we did, but it probably involved drinking beer and cycling home and getting lost and possibly hot-boxing the cabin, but probably not.

On the last day, leaving Kristian behind in the cabin (possibly to hot-box it, possibly not), we took the bus and the metro into Amsterdam, stopping to sort out some travel-related stuff for the guys, before heading to the museum district, where we toured the Van Gogh museum. Pretty cool stuff, and I fell madly in love with one painting (as I tend to do). Tony ditched (as he tends to do in museums and Guiness tours) and we all arranged to meet up at the pub later that night. I finished with the museum, did a little shopping and headed to the flower market, which was pretty boring. It used to be a row of barges hawking flowers and bulbs, now it’s just some floating tat shops. From there, I walked back into the centre, shopping and photo-ing sex shops along the way, getting to the pub much too early. Which was fine by me, I gotta say.

So this pub. Tony noticed it the first day, the Old Nickel, because it had a sign up outside advertising 60 (or so) different beer. These are the things that catch Tony’s eye. The first night, it was closed – or so we thought. If you know the right people and what to say, it stays open past 4am… And now we know. The next day, we used it as a meeting place, and had a few pints from their rather impressive selection before moving on.

The last night, however, we parked ourselves at the bar, and Tony and the Bartender became best-friends-forever. Sensing a kindred spirit (maybe), the bartender started pulling out bottles of specialty beers, handing us books about the subject and showing us where it was made on maps. This man knows his stuff. After going thru a few bottles of beer – including a Laphroigh-like smokey beer – we cracked open a big bottle of Chimay, which tastes differently depending on the size of the bottle. The 20 euro one is pretty awesome, let me tell you.

We had dinner there, and Tony and I maybe or maybe not went to a sex show, which maybe or maybe not was hilarious and maybe or maybe not involved bananas. Maybe. Maybe not. Mmmm… potassium.

As I had a flight the next morning, Meru and I hopped a bus (sadly, not the right one) and trekked back – me, incredibly grumpy and tired – to the cabin, somewhat expecting Kristian on his bike to beat us there. Yeah, he didn’t. But he did have the key. I didn’t get much sleep, but enough to hop a flight back to London-Luton… and straight to work. Yeah, I was productive that day…

For a trillion more photos, go here.

Orkney Map

Can't be bothered to read my rambly posts? I don't blame you. But this is cool:


View Larger Map

Click the blue tags for pictures and details.

Stromness and the West Mainland

Note of warning: As Kris well knows by now, I'm having some difficulty wordsmithing this trip. So this be a bit rambly, yo!

Right. So after arriving in Kirkwall at 11pm, we hopped a bus and went to our hostel, which was in an old army building behind where Emily's dad used to work, before he moved and they tore down his office. I don't think the two events are connected, however.

The next morning, we hopped another bus across the Mainland. Now, Orcadians have a funny way about them. For example, the Mainland to them is not Scotland, but the biggest of their 70 islands, as tho Scotland has nothing to do with them.

Anyway, after wandering aimlessly for a bit, we managed to find our hostel in the town of Stromness. It's very cute -- nearly the entire town is within a block or two of the shore, and it's all grey buildings with stepped roofs. Despite such endearing quaintness, we rented bikes and headed out of town.


First stop was a 5,000 year old tomb called Maes Howe. Time and nature have done their work, and it now looks like a rather perfect small hill, but it once looked more like a small pyramid. The only way to see the interior is on guided tour, so we did just that. No photos allowed inside, sadly, but I'll just use words to paint you a picture (ha ha ha ha.) Or go here for pics.

The front passageway is a short (in height), long (in length) tunnel. You have to duck and shuffle along to get through, and if you raise your head at the wrong time, the stone ceiling doesn't not hurt. I followed a disabled girl in, and she was clearly not quite sure about the whole thing. She was crouched, shuffling along like all of us, but going quite slowly, and I don't blame her, as her mom was at the other end calling out: "Keep going, just come toward the light!" I wonder if that's what dying is like, and I certainly hope not.

The interior houses three burial chambers, all empty. But from the inside, you can see how massive the flat stones are that they used to build it. And, you can see Viking graffiti. Apparently some Vikings found the tomb and broke in through the ceiling way back when, and left behind runes, carved into the white stone with their axes, bragging about treasure and making saucy jokes about local women. They also carved some rather intricate animals, including a dragon and walrus, into one wall. Another wall features a cross -- the tour guide suggested crusade connections.

Like the Chichen Itza pyramid, this one's got solstice significance. Looking out the front passageway, there's a perfect view of the two hills of Hoy, an island to the south. On the solstice, the sun cuts between the hills, past a standing stone, and up the passageway, illumniating the interior of the tomb. Pretty cool.

From the outside of the tomb, you can see the two sets of standing stones. Because of all the super old shit in such a tight concentration, this whole area is a UNESCO world heritage site.

Anyway, we next stopped at the Stones of Stenness, which are older than Maes Howe. There's only four left standing; the rest have dissappeared, probably into local buildings. The cool thing about Orkney (well, one of the many cool things) is that these sites are so low key. Maes Howe had an entrance fee and small interpretive centre, but the standing stones have none. If you want access, you just push open the gate and get as close to the damn things as you want -- very different to the tourist setup down south at Stonehenge.

From the SoS, it's a short cycle on a single lane road between two lovely lochs to the Ring of Brodgar, which makes me think of Tolkien. This ring of stones is more complete, but slightly younger. It's a couple dozen massive rock slabs surrounding a field of purple heather. Very pretty. And again, you can get as close as you want -- hell, lick the damn things if you want. They've been there for millenia, it won't hurt the stones. Might hurt your tongue.



After that, we pedalled over some hills (Over the hills and far away -- I miss Sharpe, Natalie) past a ton of sheep and cows -- with Emily giving me strange looks as I baaa-ed and mooo-ed at them.

A few miles down, we found Skaill Bay, home to a big manor house and an ancient stone village called Skara Brae. It was discovered by the Laird of the manor after a storm washed the top soil off of it. What's cool about it is the furniture was also made out of stone, and much of it remains. So you can walk around where they've excavated it it, and see how their houses would have looked 5,000 years ago. Now, to me, the green grassy bits, white sandy floors and numbered sites made it look like a minigolf course.

We took a walk through the manor as well, but it was a house. Yeah, awesome. Seen enough of those with Mary. We also hung out on the beach, which is perfect white sand with scattered stones. Whether inspired by the standing stone rings further back or the stone houses they'd just seen, people had stacked the stones up in strange shapes all across the beach.

From Skara Brae, we headed north, out of Norse territory and onto a more personal hunt: the town of Twatt. Why? Do you really need to ask? We cycled along a bird observatory -- lots of those in Orkney -- and came to the right spot on my ordnance survey map, but there were no signs designating the town name. Disapointed over the lack of funny picture opportunities, Emily pointed out a church... could it be? Could it be the church of Twatt? Indeed, it was. And we laughed very, very hard.

Then, we turned back for Stromness. And the wind picked up. Gale force, right into our faces. Stop pedaling, and you start rolling backwards. I was having difficulty, and I cycle daily. Emily, in her black dress and gold tights ("there's no reason not to look fabulous") was making an admirable effort, but it did really suck. (Tho, clothed like that, on a bike in a strong wind, she did put me in mind of that scene from Wizard of Oz...)

By the time we got back to Stromness, we were both exhausted and not exactly in good moods. Ditching the bikes, we headed back to the hostel to change, before making our way to the Stromness Hotel, home that night to a local beer fesitval. After several pain-numbing pints of Scapa Special and whatnot, we wandered out into the Stromness night, and on the way back to the hostel, I got into an argument with a cat. Look, he had it coming. No reason to mouth off like that... Bad attitude on that one. Seriously.

More pictures are here.

Ferrying

So, as you may or may not be aware, Orkney is a collection of islands -- and archipeligo, if you will -- off the northern coast of Scotland. Because of it's water-logged geography, we had two options to travel there, flying or ferrying. We chose the latter because we're cheap. The least expensive route took us from Aberdeen to Kirkwall, the largest city in Orkney with some 7,000 inhabitants, via ferry in about 6 hours. There are other, shorter ferry routes, but they required us to get further north in Scotland, to Inverness or Thurso or John o Groats -- which cost more.


View Larger Map

Right. We had sleeper seats for both trips, but weren't very tired at 5pm when the boat set off. Instead, we started the trip at the back of the boat, watching Aberdeen pass and eventually disappear as we got further into the North Sea.

It quickly got dark and windy -- which didn't stop us from going top deck to see if we could get blown overboard (sadly, didn't happen).

That all left us with about 5 and a half hours to kill. Right. So we wandered the ferry, checking out the facilities. It had two bars, a fancy restaurant and a cafeteria, as well as rooms of video games and VLTs. There was a shop (or course) and a movie theatre showing three films, as well as little sitting areas with televisions.

Guess where we started? After a quick trip through the shop, it was off to the bar. Because when you feel slightly seasick, the best thing to do is drink beer. After a few bottles of Orkney's finest brew, we had dinner... and at this point, with four or so hours to go, I started to get antsy.

We sat in one of the bars drinking and reading for a bit. I was trudging through the Orkneyinga Saga, a tale of the Earls of Orkney written about 1200. Apropriate reading, but hard to focus on when one's excited and bored at the same time. Eventually, the ferry starts rumbling in a way that suggests we're about to arrive (leading to my stomach rumbling in excitement -- or maybe that was the food?) and we pass Kirkwall, the small city's lights twinkling and reflecting in the water, and finally park at the pier, where we're the only passengers to catch the bus into town -- save one dude, who talked about his post-divorce child custody case with the driver the whole trip... Either way, we were walking up the street to our hostel by 1130pm, rather needing to get some sleep.

. . .

The trip back departed Kirkwall at 11pm. We got on a bit early, so Emily could claim a seat near a socket to recharge her phone. Me, I found my sleeper seat, got as comfy as possible... and woke up at 6:30am the next day as we neared Aberdeen. Not a bad way to travel, I've gotta say...

More pictures of Aberdeen and the ferry are here.

Aberdeen

Our Orkney trip started with a night in Aberdeen. The ferry didn't leave until 5pm on the Thursday, but we flew up from London on the Wednesday in order to hang out with Emily's cousin Ian.

We arrived 9ish, and stood outside the airport trying to decide whether to take a cab or the bus. We wandered over to the cab stand, and this lady taxi driver says something. What it was, I have no idea. Gibberish, for all I knew. I look at Emily, wondering if this was some hardcore Scottish accent which she'd understand, but she's as dumbfounded as me. The lady grabs at my bag, and I understand she's trying to take our luggage. So taxi it was, then.

So we drive into Aberdeen in some comfort, passing a sign for the original Banff, listening to Barry White's "Let's Get it On." How's that for a sexy start?



Anyway... Aberdeen's town centre looks a bit like a bigger Banff to me. There are no skyscrapers but a lot of gothic-y looking buildings in stone with touristy storefronts (and the best-ever Primark... ever.) Little sidestreets amble off further out of town or down to the harbour (where we'd be ambling off the next day, to catch our ferry to Kirkwall in Orkney.)

The most notable aspect of Aberdeen architecture is the colour. Every building is grey sandstone. Matched with the concrete streets and cloudy skies, Aberdeen looks like a city with all the colour drained out of it, like the victim of a vampire. Now that's a strange simile to just throw in there, you may or may not be thinking. But it makes perfect sense, given the two pubs we visited.

After ditching out gear at Ian's, we headed to Union Street to hit up a pub of his choosing called Frankenstein's. This rather inexplicably themed monster pub has all sorts of movie and book related paraphernalia, as well as quotes painted on the walls and monster-themed food (we didn't eat there, but the menu was hilarious.) Why this monument to Mary Shelley's monster? Apparently, the author lived in Scotland for a couple years, before writing the book... but that's about as strong a link as I could discern. Very strange. But either way: mmm... beer.

The next day, Ian headed off to go camping somewhere, while Emily and I wandered Aberdeen before our ferry's 5pm departure. While wandering, we passed a rather lovely church -- or what I thought was a church. Upon further inspection, I noticed a sign reading "Slain's Castle." Weird. A castle that looks like a church, in the middle of a city... but no. This was not a church (not any longer, at least) and not a castle, so much as another monster pub. This one was edifying Dracula -- in a former church! -- and had all sorts of random haunted castle paraphenilia. And, cheap sandwiches. And, beer.



Is Aberdeen obsessed with monsters? Or did we by some strange coincidence stumble into the only two in the city? I have no idea.

Anyway, we also did some shopping (at the aforementioned Primark, as I'd not brought much of a sweater) and stopped in at a pharmacy. My tonsils had swelled up the night before, and were red and sore, so I thought I'd get some sort of drug. I went in and found some extra strength lozenges, but thought there might be something stronger behind the pharmacist's desk. So I asked the pharmacist if I'd be better off with the lozenges (which I place on her desk) or with one of the stronger sprays on the shelf behind her. Her response: "Why don't you just buy those?" Indeed. How helpful. So I did.

This is the sort of "customer service" one gets in Scotland. They're not really rude, they just get on with things and don't suck up. As long as you don't expect a smile or a "have a nice day" or, y'know, help, you'll be fine.

Anyway. Emily and I (sucking on a lozenge, which actually quite did the trick) did a short walking tour of the city. Because Em is Scottish and was born in Aberdeenshire (not the city itself) I kept expecting her to know something about the city. Therefore, we had a lot of exchanges which went like this:

Me: Ooh, what's that?

Em: I don't know.

After our non-guided walking tour, we found our way back to Ian's, and after taking about half an hour to figure out how to unlock his door, reclaimed our stuff and headed back to the harbour to catch our ferry. We were a bit early, so had a pint in a dockside pub, before heading to the ferry...

Alte Meister angels

Dresden's Alte Meister museum is like a mini-Louvre – although it would seem small only by comparison to something as ridiculously huge as that.

Located in Dresden’s own palace, amusingly called the Zwinger -- complete with fountain-filled courtyard, a la the Louvre – the museum has a solid collection, featuring Reubens, Rembrandts and of course, it’s most famous courtesy Raphael, the Sixtine Madonna:



I’ve previously thought it a bit of a shame that a detail, a tiny piece of such a large work, could be so popular that the rest of the painting is overlooked – there are tons of tourist tat featuring the engels in the gift shop, but just a poster and a card of the entire image.

But after walking through room after poorly air conditioned room of relgious altars and Dutch landscapes, it’s easy to see why the masses find Raphael’s “saucy” – as they call them here – angels so appealing. Their cuteness is simply refreshing.

And so I sat there, on an oval leather bench, as tour groups and seniors streamed in and out of the room, looking at these two little angels and wondering what they were thinking. They’re at the feet of Mary and Jesus (I forget who the other two figures are, and don’t care) in heaven. The parapet they rest on and the curtains to the side are meant to show the divide between our world and heaven, according to a handy sign.

So you’ve got these angels, right? And they’re in heaven, at the foot of Jesus. And yet they look like they’re daydreaming, looking out over our world. If all your existence has been in heaven, is it still heaven for you? Or do angels daydream and wonder what our lives are like? Would they envy us? And how much would that suck?

So yeah. Their image may have been commercialized (along with the Louvre’s Mona Lisa) into a tourist draw and a gift shop top-seller, but I don’t doubt that hundreds of years ago, when it hung in some church, that those figures won the admiration and the thoughts of people then, too. Some things are popular for a good reason.

Aside from artists beginning with the letter R, there’s also a full room of Canelletos, two large scenes to each long wall, with smaller ones next to each door on the shorter walls. Now a room of perfectly painted Venetian canals is no poor entertainment, but I admit I was even more amused by the plaque under the paintings. If I read it correctly, this museum is contending that Canelleto’s name was Antonio Canal – so really, he was Mr Canal. Did he get that name after painting the canals so much, or did he paint the canals so much because of his name? I’m sure I could solve this little mystery by wiki-ing it, but sometimes a bit of vagueness is preferable...

Dresden

As I got back from Dresden today, lugging my bags down the road to my house, a pirate ship was sailing down the Thames. Cool. I mean, Arrgh! Avast!

Anyway, I went to Dresden for some decidedly non-pirate-related work stuff, namely the launch of a high performance computing (HPC) server thingy, and then the start of the International Supercomputing Conference.

As the crazy-ass PR people flew me in too early, I actually got to see a bit of Dresden. Superficially at least -- as I didn't see all that much -- it's a lot like Prague, which isn't really surprising, given they're rather close together.

I didn't know much about Dresden -- and I still don't, to be honest -- other than the bombings in WWII. And all I knew about that was that the British flattened the place, killing 35,000 people. Now obviously the Germans weren't exactly innocents in that war (something about a holocaust, picking a fight which killed a generation of young men, that sort of thing) but turning a city to rubble from the air is such a horrible thought that it's really rather captivating, especially given how proud the British are of surviving the Blitz. I'm not really sure what my point is -- I guess I just find the damage done to the other side rather intriguing after hearing about it from the victors so often. Then again, maybe it's just my Eastern European ancestry speaking up...

Anyway, much of the city has been rebuilt, altho weirdly only in the past few years. I guess the Soviets weren't really up for it?

The Frauenkirche, which I amused myself by calling the Frankenchurch, was almost completely wiped out in the bombings. Rather than reconstruct it postwar, the Soviets left the rubble either a) as a monument to war or b) because they were cheap. So the pile of rocks, bits of statuary and whatnot sat there. No one took anything. Some people started organizing and numbering it, apparently (according to wikipedia). It stayed that way until 1992, when they finally started to put it all back together (not my photo, obviously):




Anyway, I knew none of this when I walked past it. It looks pretty cool from the outside, and I happened past at 6pm, when the bells were ringing. People were streaming into the church, so I thought hey, what's going on and went inside. I'm a follower I guess, but not of the sort that were walking up the stairs. I realised upon entering that a service was starting and wanted to take a better look at the interior, so I plunked myself down into a pew and enjoyed the show.


It's a protestant church, and very different from the gothic cathedrals and anglican spires I've seen so much of. To start -- and maybe this is a function of when it was really built -- but the interior is marble... but it all looks fake. Like someone painted the pillars to look like marble. The decorative bit behind the altar is green and pink and shiny gold while the second and third floors of pews curve in soft colours. Basically, its all fluffy and soft -- is it supposed to make people think of heaven? I don't know. But it's pretty, in a slightly tacky way.


The organ was amazing though and the service started with some music. I've never heard an organ that large played before. The range and depth of the sound is amazing -- easy to see why it's so common in churches. The rest of the service was, obviously, in German -- which probably helped, actually.

I also spent a bit of time wandering the Zwinger Palace, which is home to their Old Masters Art Gallery (more on that in a separate post), and walking through the old town. I won't go into it; just check out the photos.



Of course, the thing with these cities is to try and see more than just the old parts, so I did wander to the north side of the river to look around a bit and walked around my hotel's neighbourhood (much further north).


Dresden, like much of the Eastern part of Germany, has high unemployment. It's obvious this isn't a healthy city from the boarded up, graffitied buildings. The places along the street between my hotel and the tram were half abandoned.

I was walking down the street at one point, and one building had boarded windows, the next was a clean, nice-looking, functioning office, and then the one after that had smashed in windows and spray-painted walls. I saw a rather well-dressed girl walk up to the building after that and open the door with a key -- it was her apartment. Can you imagine that in Calgary, with it's real estate boom? Apartments next to derelict buildings?

Cinder block: for when boards just won't do...

Aside from the perfectly efficient trams, many people seemed to use bicycles to get around. Despite the unemployment rates, a lot of bikes were not locked up and the ones that were had just flimsy cord locks, often not locked to anything but looped through the wheels. Can you imagine that in London, with it's theft rates? Leaving a bike just lying around?

Anyway, I woke up at 6am in a different country. I'm tired. I'm going to bed. Sorry if this post rambled. More pics are here.

Paris avec la DarNat

So here's what we actually did in Paris, in more detail than is strictly necessary... But really, this blog is more for me than it is for you.

DarNat were travelling with Daorcey's parents (Colin and Jannose) who were chaperoning a school trip around war sites in France and Belgium. As they had three days in Paris at the end of the tour, I figured I may as well hop the Eurostar and go for a visit.

As noted previously, we met at the Eiffel Tower, where we ditched the 20 teenagers (leaving them with their teachers and the tour guide) and headed to the Arc de Triomphe where we watched the mayhem that is the massive traffic circle (video).

We then trudged/metroed back to Bastille, where Daorcey got us lost looking for their hotel before heading to a supremely shit dinner (green beans!). Such a shame to have a bad dining experience in Paris... So we got a bottle of wine, and headed back to DarNat's hotel, where Daorcey and I got drunk and talked about media while Nat fell asleep -- but not before the return of Private Obvious. I returned to my hostel and crawled into bed in my darkened room, trying not to disturb my dutch roommates unnecessarily...



The next day, we again ditched the tour group, opting to walk to the Louvre along the river rather than go on a bus tour with the teenagers. The Louvre (video) is as it always is: frustratingly crowded and not worth the fuss. Amazing collection, horribly presented. Such a shame. But we did get to see Napoleon coronating himself this time... (which really deserves a post of it's own) and we did get to see the flying spaghetti monster (video).


We then rejoined the kids for an hour in Montmartre (video1, video2). If you've been there recently, you'll know all about the annoying dudes with the bracelet scam. If you haven't, and you plan to go, don't let anyone make you a bracelet. Anyway, some dude tried to get me to go along with his scam, and this exchange occurred:

Me, loudly: No, no, no.
Him, abrasively: You should go to Iraq and get your throat slit.

Excellent. After that, we were off to dinner at a crazy Greek restaurant in the Latin Quarter, where the waiters tried to get their hands all over the cuter girl teenagers, and where natalie confused one kid by telling him: "Love between two men is the purest form of love there is." This was prompted by a decorative plate illustrated by two men engaged in uh, love. Then we took the boat tour (video).

The next/last day, we were off to Versailles. Annoyingly, the employees of the palace had decided -- being French -- not to work for the first hour. Some sort of work to rule campaign. By the time they stopped striking, the lineups were massive -- but they were less lineups and more scrums. Scrums of European teenagers with mullets and skinny jeans. As you can imagine, it didn't take long for me to lose my temper.





We eventually got into the building, speedwalked through some very fancy rooms (video) to the other Coronation of Napoleon painting and then ditched out to the gardens... After opting to not go back to Paris with the group, we rented bikes and cycled around Marie Antoinette's crazy town, got yelled at by French police (apparently, being English isn't an excuse) and then trained it back to Paris, where we walked around the Latin Quarter -- andI finally got to look around Shakespeare and Co, the most amazing bookstore ever; none of the books on the top floor are for sale, but you can hang out and read them -- before going for dinner near Republique.

And then we tried to go to bed, while the teenagers tried to get drunk. We both eventually succeeded.


More pics live here and videos live here.

Paris by Night

One night, we took a trip up and down the Seine on a boat -- a bateaux mouche, it's called. Apparently.

Like many cities, the nicest buildings and prettiest sites in Paris are along the river. The dramatic night time lighting didn't hurt either. So here're a few crappy clips mashed together for your viewing pleasure...



And yes, I am having fun with video tonight, altho I think it's time for bed now... This video lives here.

Screechy Paris

The catchphrase -- if you can call it that -- of this trip to Paris seemed to be, well, screeching.

These videos are probably only funny to myself and DarNat, but hey, that's good enough for me.












To me, that's damn funny. Go here for video one, video two or video three.

Sunny Paris

The first draft of this post was originally written in my deteriorating (and soon to be replaced) moleskin notebook as I lounged in the grass beneath the square trees on the south side of the eiffel tower, waiting for DarNat to arrive.


This is what happens when you leave me waiting...


They're late, but despite my impatience to see them, it's impossible to be anything but serene in such a setting (tho it would be the French that could manage it). It's a perfect sunny afternoon, with a gentle breeze keeping the heat comfortable. The hordes of tourists are far enough away that their din is a pleasant sea-like murmur. It is a perfect spring day in Paris -- and that is a wonderful thing indeed.

It's so lovely -- the weather and the city -- that despite a day of delays and frustrations, I've stayed happy and calm -- and this is me we're talking about here.

The Eurostar was, as is the norm with British public transport, delayed due to a broken train. It was fine when it rolled in, but they somehow managed to break it as it sat in the station. But the half-hour delay was as close as it gets to punctuality for this service, so I wasn't too bothered.

After finally arriving at Gare de Nord -- my direct service for some reason had stops in Ashford and Lille -- I buy a carnet of tickets and catch the metro to Bastille to find my pre-booked hostel. They tell me they have no reservation in my name and no beds for the night. I start to feel the anger rising, but it subsides when I think: hell, I'm in Paris in the spring -- c'est la vie, right?

Knowing how the French can be, I've come prepared with a back up list of other hostels in the area. The first is closed. The second is not yet open. The last is full. But it's sunny, and it's Paris, and I'm still happy.

At the last hostel, the receptionist tells me she knows a hostel near Republique which definitely has beds for the night. So I hope back on the metro, but despite her detailed directions can not find the place. I pop into an expensive internet cafe -- three euros for a half hour -- and get a new list of hostels to try. List in hand (in the moleskin, in fact) I head back to Bastille via the metro.

I've spent, at this point, the first three hours of my time in Paris hunting for hostels. Despite this, I'm not frustrated, angry or upset. I keep feeling like I'm about to head that way but then the sunshine and the city change my mind.

Eventually, I find a bed in a hostel near Gare de Lyon. I've twenty minutes before I'm due to meet DarNat at the south east side of the south leg of the tower at 3pm (feels like a spy novel, but then we'd be at Pont Neuf, wouldn't we?) so I cross the Seine and hop on the RER train, arriving right on time.


Looking around the gardens, waiting for DarNat...


I find my spot on the grass under the looming tower, scrawl this entry into my notebook and then lounge in the sunshine, reading a book on civilisation -- feeling very French and very, very happy.

A while later, I hear the sound of someone running up behind me, and Nat nearly tackles me, as she tends to do. And if there's anything better than warm sunny Paris, it's warm sunny Paris with DarNat... and a group of teenagers from Stony Plain? Yeah, we'll see how long the happy feelings continue with a bus full of high schoolers...

Go here for video one and video two, because yes, the digicam is still busted. Time for a new one, I'm afraid...

Prague

So last week, I spent three days in Prague -- not instead of work, but as work. Yeah, sucks, eh? Unlike with Amsterdam, I actually got to see quite a bit of the city, which is very pretty.


Not unlike most European cities, it has an old town, lots o'churches and a castle. It also features cheap beer (no wonder Bailey liked it) and a crazy-ass bridge with massive religious statues (the view seen in the panoramic above -- thanks autostich! -- is that bridge on the left and the castle/church on the right).

The first day I wandered along the river, crossed the Charles Bridge and then climbed up to the castle, which is more a bunch of palace-type buildings set around a massive gothic cathedral -- like Notre Dame wrapped in Versailles.


The next day, I was trapped in the hotel listening to the wonders of virtual networks -- which I've got to say actually is a business model which rather makes a lot of sense, but I won't bore you with the details. We then had the usual dinner and drinks, which is exactly how you'd imagine it: tasty and drunk. I won't bore you with the details on that, either.

The third day, after peeling myself out of bed and my contacts off my eyes -- gotta stop falling asleep with them in, cause it really doesn't feel great -- I set off in the general direction of the Old Town Square, got lost (as I tend to do), went shopping (as I tend to do), and then found the Old Town Square:



I then realized I'd lost my bank card and frantically used another journalist's mobile to sort that out -- I'm sure he thinks I'm an idiot, as I couldn't figure out how to use his phone, and I'm a technology journalist, so yeah. Not impressive on my part.

No more work travel planned for the moment, so next up is Paris with DarNat... again. Daorcey better let me eat this time or I'm going to send his office photos of Captain Obvious...

More pictures here and some random video of a clock tower going off here. Oh -- and the Czechs drink Kubik juice. Nasty.

Amsterdam

I flew out early Thursday morning from snowed-in Heathrow for a press conference thingy in Amsterdam. Our flight was delayed -- amazing what a few inches of the white stuff does to people here -- but at least we eventually took off.

Because I was inside listening to executives yammer on and on about how awesome their company is, I didn't get to see too much of the city.



From what I did see, it's pretty freakin' awesome. I didn't realize how many canals there actually are -- every other street is water. Houseboats sit along the canals, which are lined with little cobbled streets and lovely three storey houses.

And there's bikes everywhere. The roads are ridiculously tiny and seem to close at random, so I can see why people choose to cycle. But it's the way they do it that's amazing. In London, I cycle to work on a mountain bike, armoured with helmet and rain gear. My bike has mudguards and front and rear lights. I bring a change of clothes to work, as I pedal as hard as I can.

In Amsterdam, cyclists aren't rushing -- they just kind of drift along, acting more like pedestrians than vehicles. Their bikes are funky, but clearly not built for speed. Women in dresses and men in suits roll along, without helmets or reflectors.

It's a nice reflection of how relaxed the city is, but these people would die cycling like that in London.




Anyway, after the press stuff, we were taken on a boat tour through some of the canals and then dumped off for dinner (and a hell of a lot of drinks) before wandering to some bar. I did not manage to find the red light district (or the illicit pleasures contained there) so I think I need to plan a trip back...

There's a post worth writing about my thoughts on junkets and PR expense accounts and the ethics of this, but let me defend myself generally with two points:

1. I write IT stuff, which is inherently commericalized and not exactly (generally) conentious;
2. Even if I wrote something negative -- or nothing at all, which I've done -- about the companies involved, no one seems to care.

So I haven't yet felt particularily influenced by PR pressures, but I'm sure it's more subtle and insidious than I'm expecting. Either way, I fully intend to enjoy my (fully paid for) travels and get some experience writing without feeling too guilty about the evil PR angle -- or the environmental one at that. Is this a sign of degrading ethics? Possibly. If I start going all cheerleader for Sky or Microsoft or, hell, even Apple this time next year, somebody smack me, alright?

Anyway, an aside on the camera issue: it seems to work fine if I zoom in hella close, but is still wonky otherwise. Why? Who knows. Time for a new one, I guess.

A few more photos live here.

Evian, uh, France

My last day in Geneva, we couldn't decide what to do. I wanted to go to CERN, but you need to book a month ahead (which I will totally do next time). So we were walking back and forth, checking the in'ernet, and eventually picked some Genevan suburb.

At this point, Val called. Kris explained to her where we were going, and her response was: "No, no no -- there's nothing there. We'll go to Evian. I'll drive. Meet me in five minutes." (A prime example of the "shiny things" way of life which Kris is spreading across Europe...)

Val and Kris... In France

So. We went to Evian.

It's about an hour and a half from Geneva, also along Lac Leman. While driving along the road, we passed something that looked like a border crossing, but disused. Huh. Weird.

A few moments later, we drove past a school with Liberté, Egalité, et Fraternité written across the front. Weird, eh, to have the slogan for the French revolution on a Swiss school? Crazy.

We keep driving. Eventually, we arrive in Evian. There are French flags in the air, yet we still think we're in Switzerland.

I go to take money out of the bank, and it totally inexplicably gives me euros. I walk back to Kris and Val, and this conversation occurs:

Me: That bank machine gave me euros.
Kris: Did you ask for euros?
Me: No... are we in France?

Only then -- after all the evidence -- do we realize: we're in France. Evian -- with the very patriotic red, white and blue label -- is French bottled water. (Whoever heard of Swiss water?)

Ad-tastic

In our defense, Geneva is a French-speaking city. And it's not like anyone checked our passports or anything (thankfully). So we hung out, eating ice cream and drinking bottle water -- as I had euros to spend, and hey, when in Rome... -- for twenty minutes before heading back so I could catch my flight back to London.

Am I a jetsetter or what? Switzerland, France, England -- all in one day...

Les images d'Evian sont ici.

Geneva, Geneva

Right. I've been writing this in little bits, because Blogger has sucked lately, and because I've been lazy. So it might be a wee bit on the rambly nonsensical side...

Anyways.... Okay, so I went to Geneva eons ago -- uh, last weekend -- to visit Kris. After arriving on Friday -- and waiting in line at passport control behind three Brits who were debating whether the UK is or is not part of the EU -- Kris and I took the bus (expensive, but efficient) to the dorm room he's staying in while interning/fellowshipping at the UN. The view from his 12th floor flat is ridiculous; you can see the mountains and the lake:

Geneva is set in a mountain valley along part of a very large lake, the sea-like Lac Leman. It's most famous landmark is a massive fountain, the jet d'eau. But because it was freakishly windy (or something) the fountain wasn't on the first day. Nor the second. In fact, the entire time I was there, it was on for about an hour:


After wandering along the waterfront, admiring the many flags and private banks and watch companies, we headed to a restaurant/bar and ordered some "traditional" Swiss meal involving potatoes. Weirdly, during dinner, a friend of Kris' walked by. So we joined her table, and were swiftly joined by a half-dozen other friends.

One fun thing about Geneva is that it's not really Swiss. It's not really "international", either. It's more "NGO". Every conversation started with the question: "Where are you from?" -- because no one is from Geneva, or even Switzerland, here. They are from Ghana or Colombia or Canada or where ever else. (I spoke to one Swiss person the entire weekend; he was a waiter.)

The next question is invariably: "What are you doing here?" The answer to which usually involves an acronym with the letters "UN", or -- in small cases -- the Red Cross or some other NGO.

Another fun thing about Geneva is their answer to beer pitchers:

Yes folks, that holds 3L of sweet, precious beer. The mind boggles.

The next day we walked around the city, did some grocery shopping, checked out the Old Town and sat in a park.

European cities -- based on my limited knowledge -- seem to all have Old Towns, and they are all usually about the same: tiny, narrow cobbled streets -- lined with antique shops and galleries and cafes -- leading up a hill to a massive cathedral. While they are lovely, it's a bit repetitive. I mean, really, Europe is old. I get it. This must be why Paris' La Defense and even London's Canary Wharf are so well-loved. They're different.


But one thing I'll never tire of is the urban parks that Europe -- again with the "in my limited experience" bit -- does so incredibly well. The park we hung out in was fabulous. We walked in past old men playing chess with massive toy-like sets -- the pawns were a foot high! -- while people looked on, fascinated to watch.

After buying ice cream and drinks, we sprawled in the grass near an old mansion -- currently used for after parties and similar -- in sight of the carved stone of the Reformation Wall, while kids played football and some random guy practiced his numchuck skills. Europeans know (knew?) how to create useful, beautiful public space.

After parking around, Kris made dinner. Was it stuffed peppers? You know it was. There was also a ridiculously lame joke involving me being gifted a rooster decoration from Kris' Colombian friend, Andreas. If you know what Latin American guys are like, and if you know a synonym for "rooster," you can probably figure out the basis of the joke.

The next day, we hit up the very well-done Red Cross Museum, which managed to be interactive in the way most modern museums try to be, but fail. But, as is true of its many endevours, the Red Cross does not often fail.

Then, using his security pass, Kris got me into the UN. Did I have a shit eating grin on my face upon seeing the main hall? You bet I did:

So awesome. Like when South got us into Parliament after hours, except this time, we had to dodge security guards.

That night, we went to go see Mission: Impossible: 3 -- the silliest punctuated movie, ever -- because the baddie is an arms dealer, and Kris is with UNIDIR, who track such things. So Kris, myself, a fellow intern, and their boss -- the hilarious Valerie -- went to go see the film. Did it suck? Yes. Of course it did. Was it cool seeing it with people who actually knew arms dealers? Hell yes.

(And, to steal Will's film review shorthand: Lessons learned from M:i:3... True love cures headaches.)

The next -- and final day -- in Geneva, we went to Evian. Which deserves a post of its own... later.

Pictures are here.

Die Deutschland Fotos!

And, finally, weeks later, here are the pics from Germany. We flew into Cologne, and went straight to Bielefeld, the town my mom was born in and hasn't been back to in 27 years -- the only other time she's visit since leaving as a seven-year-old.

We saw where she lived, where her dad drank, and the town's tourist attraction. Then, Cologne, which has a cathedral. And then a drive down the Rhine. Well, next to it. Cause it's a river.

Here are the pics. Mine are up and commented here, but something went wrong with Mom's and Michelle's during uploading, so they'll be added later.

Warning, Frogs?

Castle on the Hill

The pub Papa used to drink in!

My Mom's old house!

My scary father!

Garbage/art in front of Cologne Cathedral

My dad's car advertisement...

The Cologne Beer museum... with Moosehead?