Just wrapped up and delivered two interesting submissions to the Commonwealth Jobs Fund: one for Hospitality Group Training (HGT) and one for Group Training Australia (GTA).
HGT want to develop an eco-friendly commercial training kitchen focusing on green skills, energy-efficient technologies and sustainable commercial kitchen practices. Thanks to Wendy and her team of Janet, Mark, Paul and Jodi for the opportunity to help with this fascinating project.
GTA wants to get more Out-of-Trade Apprentices back into their trades. Every year, many apprentices are retrenched because of circumstances beyond their control. A large percentage of them are lost to their trade. GTA wants pro-actively to seek them out and help re-engage them with other employers who are looking for part-qualified apprentices. Another great service for young people. Thanks to Mal and Jan for this one.
Friday, December 11, 2009
Sunday, July 12, 2009
The Shell Game
Stockholm 12 July 2009
We’re walking along Vasterlenggarten, the quaint, narrow, cobbled street that runs through Gamla Stan, the heart of Stockholm’s Old Town.
It’s Sunday, there are three cruise ships in port today and the Old Town is packed with tourists who have eight hours to “do” Stockholm. By lunch time, most seem to have found their way here.
Vasterlenggarten runs in a long, gentle curve from one side of Gamla Stan island to the other. There are many side- and cross-streets. It’s an interesting, lively warren.
It’s lined with countless, souvenir shops, cafes, restaurants, snack bars, coffee shops, art galleries, jewellery and ceramics shops, fashion boutiques and tourists traps of various sorts.
Half way along, there is a small, excited crowd clustered round something on the ground. I go a bit closer to see what it’s all about.
It’s the Shell Game!
This is the last thing I expect to see in prosperous, law-abiding Stockholm. That’s because the Shell Game is one of the world’s greatest short-cons.
You see, a short-con is a fraud – a confidence trick that can be completed in a few minutes and is designed to cheat the victim out of his or her money – in the Shell Game it’s usually his.
And this team is good! It’s a four-man crew plus muscle. They have set up their pitch on the corner of one of the central cross streets, giving themselves four separate getaway routes.
Today, the Shell Man – or Operator – is using three upturned matchbox trays and a small wooden ball about the size of pea. Maybe it’s a small sponge ball – I don’t want to get too close. He is working on a thin mat not much bigger than a man’s handkerchief placed on the sidewalk.
The game is simple. The Shell Man shows the three empty trays, turns them over and carefully places the pea under one of them. He shuffles them around, not too quickly, then asks the mug to bet on which one has the pea. He offers even money – that is, if you put down $10 next to the “shell” that you think hides the pea and you guess correctly, you pick up your $10 and win another $10 from him. If you are wrong, he takes your money.
Gentle reader, please engrave this message into your soul and wallet: you cannot win the Shell Game.
The Operator can make the pea appear or disappear at will. He can take it out of one shell and put it under another whenever he wants. He can do it right under your nose and you will never see him do it.
Today, the Mark – the intended victim – is a 60-something year old American tourist.
The Shill is urging him on. He’s easy to spot. Tall, late-40s, neatly cropped hair, leather sports jackets and an expensive, well-travelled leather satchel over his shoulder. He speaks with a slight American accent. He looks like just any other anonymous tourist enjoying a bit of local colour.
His job is to demonstrate to the Mark how easy it is to pick which matchbox hides the pea and encourage him to place ever larger bets.
Now I have a dilemma – I am looking at a nice, unassuming American who has come to Europe to experience some of its history and culture and is about to be cheated out of a couple of hundred dollars if he’s lucky – more if he’s unlucky or a slow learner. Do I warn him?
I check out the rest of the team. One lookout is about 25 metres away at the entrance to an alleyway. The second is about the same distance in the other direction, on the corner diagonally opposite the game. Between them they have every exit and approach covered.
They are both in their late 30s, wiry looking, smoking nervously and twitching like greyhounds waiting to be let off the leash.
Of the six people clustered around the Operator, one is the Mark, one is the Shill, and two, maybe three, are muscle. I’m not sure about the sixth – he could be just another mug tourist. But then again, probably not.
As a group they hem the Mark in, making it difficult for him to back away until he’s made – and lost – a sizeable bet or three. They isolate him from friends and passers-by and make it impossible for anyone else to enter the magic circle. The Mark is on his own, and under pressure.
The muscle are also the team’s protectors and enforcers. They will not hesitate to take you up an alley and kick the shit out of you if you threaten their safety or profits.
So, I’m afraid the Mark will have to stay on his own until the team decide they’ve screwed as much as they can out of him.
While I watch, the Shill wins five dollars and the Mark wins five. The Shill then makes a clumsy “mistake” and loses his five. His mistake reveals a clue about how to pick the correct tray and the Mark wins another five. Now the Shill is excitedly whispering in the Mark’s ear. No doubt he’s pointing out that the pea is under the tray with the little crease that the Operator hasn’t noticed and this is the Mark’s chance to put on a big bet and make a killing!
It’s like watching the umpteenth re-run of an old movie. Sure enough, out comes a hundred dollar bill and down it goes.
Suddenly, the first lookout gives a single, shrill whistle. A cop car has appeared at the far end of his cross-street.
Instantly the muscle elbow the Mark away and close ranks between him and the game. In a single movement, the Operator scoops up the mat, shells and pea, grabs the $100 bill and dumps the whole lot into the satchel that the Shill holds open.
The lookouts have already vanished down side alleys. The muscle melts into the crowd. The Shill casually walks away up the other cross street, peering into shop windows like any other tourist while the Operator strolls away along Vasterlenggarten. He’s the only one that the Mark might be able to finger, but if he gets picked up, he’s clean.
This time the Mark has been lucky. He has got away only $90 down. It was a cheap lesson. If it wasn’t for the cop car, he might not have been allowed to extricate himself until his wallet was enpty. At least it will give him something different to talk about when he gets back to Tampa.
And the Shell Game will be back on that corner again in half an hour or so, and the Shill will be encouraging the next Mark to bet his shirt on the tray with the little crease that the Operator hasn’t noticed.
Wednesday, June 10, 2009
The Iceman Cometh
What is it with Americans and ice? Do they eat the stuff? Do they put it in the bath tub to lower the water temperature?
Our New York hotel room is three doors away from the corner. Around the corner there is another door before you get to the ice machine for our floor.
It’s a nice ice machine and seems to work well.
The problem is that each room has an ice bucket. A large ice bucket.
The ice bucket is made of a hard plastic and has double walls for insulation. That means it acts like a drum.
So when you go to the nice ice machine, put your bucket under the spout and press the button, a small avalanche of ice cubes rattles down the chute and crashes into your bucket with a noise like thunder that is ampified by the double-skin drum into the sound of a building collapsing.
This would not be too bad if it wasn’t for the American obsession with ice.
After a hard day’s work being a tourist, you are just drifting off to sleep knowing that you have to get up early to do it all again tomorrow, when you are startled awake by the sound of a building collapsing next door.
“What the…?” Oh, it’s somebody at the ice machine.
You settle, then ten minutes later the thunder crashes and the building collapses again.
And it goes on. There seems to be a procession of people going to the ice machine, filling up bucket after bucket with ice. Some nights it goes on until 1.30 in the morning.
You can ignore the car horns and police sirens, they are mere whispers in the distance compared to this. It’s obvious that some people go back several times, because there are far more crashes from the machine than there are rooms on this floor. What are they doing with it all?
Even Reuben noticed. Usually a sound sleeper, he decided to check in to our hotel one night rather than have to drag himself back first thing next morning. He had done a late interview round the corner at the Ed Sullivan Theatre with one of Letterman’s guests, and had an early morning appointment next day over the road at Carnegie Hall. The stand-by room rate was about the same as a taxi home and back again.
By one of the coincidences that follow Reuben around, he got the room next to ours. There is a connecting door between the two rooms. Although it was locked, we could hear Reuben muttering to himself every time the ice rattled and crashed into someone’s bucket.
Everytime it happened he got more and more cranky. By 1.30 am he was hopping mad. That’s when I thought, “Oh-oh! Reuben is upset”.
He doesn’t get upset often, but when he does you can bet he won’t take it lying down. But Reuben’s mind doesn’t work like most other people’s.
Around 3 am I had just gone to the bathroom when I heard Reuben’s door open and his unmistakeable footsteps go past our room. He was going to the ice machine.
I don’t know what he used for an ice bucket, but it must have been huge – maybe one of the large rubbish bins from the foyer. Whatever it was, it sounded like the mother of all ice buckets because the crashing seemed to go on forever. No one could have slept through it.
When it stopped at last, Reuben lurched up and down the corridor, rattling the can and calling out in his best Quasimodo voice , “Anybody want any f#*%ing ice?”
Our New York hotel room is three doors away from the corner. Around the corner there is another door before you get to the ice machine for our floor.
It’s a nice ice machine and seems to work well.
The problem is that each room has an ice bucket. A large ice bucket.
The ice bucket is made of a hard plastic and has double walls for insulation. That means it acts like a drum.
So when you go to the nice ice machine, put your bucket under the spout and press the button, a small avalanche of ice cubes rattles down the chute and crashes into your bucket with a noise like thunder that is ampified by the double-skin drum into the sound of a building collapsing.
This would not be too bad if it wasn’t for the American obsession with ice.
After a hard day’s work being a tourist, you are just drifting off to sleep knowing that you have to get up early to do it all again tomorrow, when you are startled awake by the sound of a building collapsing next door.
“What the…?” Oh, it’s somebody at the ice machine.
You settle, then ten minutes later the thunder crashes and the building collapses again.
And it goes on. There seems to be a procession of people going to the ice machine, filling up bucket after bucket with ice. Some nights it goes on until 1.30 in the morning.
You can ignore the car horns and police sirens, they are mere whispers in the distance compared to this. It’s obvious that some people go back several times, because there are far more crashes from the machine than there are rooms on this floor. What are they doing with it all?
Even Reuben noticed. Usually a sound sleeper, he decided to check in to our hotel one night rather than have to drag himself back first thing next morning. He had done a late interview round the corner at the Ed Sullivan Theatre with one of Letterman’s guests, and had an early morning appointment next day over the road at Carnegie Hall. The stand-by room rate was about the same as a taxi home and back again.
By one of the coincidences that follow Reuben around, he got the room next to ours. There is a connecting door between the two rooms. Although it was locked, we could hear Reuben muttering to himself every time the ice rattled and crashed into someone’s bucket.
Everytime it happened he got more and more cranky. By 1.30 am he was hopping mad. That’s when I thought, “Oh-oh! Reuben is upset”.
He doesn’t get upset often, but when he does you can bet he won’t take it lying down. But Reuben’s mind doesn’t work like most other people’s.
Around 3 am I had just gone to the bathroom when I heard Reuben’s door open and his unmistakeable footsteps go past our room. He was going to the ice machine.
I don’t know what he used for an ice bucket, but it must have been huge – maybe one of the large rubbish bins from the foyer. Whatever it was, it sounded like the mother of all ice buckets because the crashing seemed to go on forever. No one could have slept through it.
When it stopped at last, Reuben lurched up and down the corridor, rattling the can and calling out in his best Quasimodo voice , “Anybody want any f#*%ing ice?”
Tuesday, June 09, 2009
New York Impressions
Manhattan feels sometimes like a large village, not at all the big, scary city that everyone talks about.
Most of the time, people don’t actually look up at the buildings. After a while, your eyes rarely go above the level of the street signs as you navigate around, so you quickly forget about all that tall stuff overhead.
Everywhere you look reminds you of a movie or a song:
Most of the time, people don’t actually look up at the buildings. After a while, your eyes rarely go above the level of the street signs as you navigate around, so you quickly forget about all that tall stuff overhead.
Everywhere you look reminds you of a movie or a song:
- The rumble of the subway trains, the lullaby of Broadway;
- Tiffany’s;
- Steam coming out of roadway vents in numerous movies;
- 59th Street Bridge (…feelin’ groovy);
- They say the neon lights are bright (On Broadway);
- The soup kitchen from Seinfeld (at 259A West 55th Street);
- Radio City Music Hall;
- Tavern on the Green in Central Park (in both “Wall Street” and where a snarling hell-hound chased Rick Moranis in Ghostbusters);
- 55 Central Park West “Spook Central” where the Ghostbusters battled the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man;
- Rockefeller Center (30 Rock);
- Underneath the IRT Bridge at 125th St in Harlem,scene of many car chases.
Monday, June 08, 2009
Walking in New York
“Don’t try to walk more than 10 blocks”, our daughter advised us from New York a fortnight earlier.
Much of New York is surprisingly walkable. You probably wouldn’t want to walk from Central Park to Battery Park (about 90 blocks), but the theatre district and midtown areas are manageable if the weather is kind.
On our first full day, we explored solely on foot. First we walked down Broadway (12 blocks ) then east along 42nd Street (4 blocks) to find the departure point for our Washington trip the following day. It was on the corner of Park Avenue and 42nd, opposite Grand Central Station, where the rail tracks go above Park Ave on an ornate, cast iron viaduct.
After a quick look round Grand Central Concourse – remarkably familiar from many movies and TV shows – we walked one block south to 41st then two blocks west along “Library Way” to the New York Public Library on Fifth Ave. It wasn’t open yet, so we walked another two blocks down Fifth Ave to Lord and Taylors department store to look for jeans for Ann and brunch. We found the food but not the jeans.
By now we had walked 21 blocks.
We headed back up 5th Ave (1 block) and west on 40th alongside the Library (still not open) and Bryant Park to 6 Ave (2 blocks).
It is six blocks more down to 6th Ave (Avenue of the Americas) to Herald Square where Broadway crosses 6th Ave and 34th St.
We are now standing at Macy’s Herald Square entrance. We have walked 30 blocks.
In Macy’s we buy stuff. As you do.
But they don’t stock the brand of jeans that Ann wants. “They have them in Lord and Taylors”, the assistant tells us.
So we walk back a different way: one block east along 34th Street to where the Empire State Building towers over the junction with 5th Avenue . The lines for the trip to the top are long. Oh well, another time.
Then five blocks up Fifth Ave gets us to back to L & T where this time we find where they have hidden those darn jeans. Then it’s one more block to the NY Public Library.
We have a brief look round and wished we had a couple of days to see it properly.
Then it’s a repeat of the two blocks east to 6th Ave and Bryant Park where we have juice and water and sit for a while and enjoy the outdoor reading library, the chess games at tables under the trees, gentle buskers and many people from the nearby buildings having lunch in this little oasis.
We have now walked 39 blocks.
After our brief rest, it’s now one more block over to Broadway and then a pleasant stroll a mere 14 blocks north via Times Square back to our hotel to put our feet up and savour the coffees that we picked up on the way.
Our walking total for the day so far is 53 blocks.
In the evening we walk another three blocks east and two north towards the Trump Tower and Tiffany’s checking out restaurants before we find somewhere to eat on the return journey past Carnegie Hall.
Those 10 evening blocks take our walking total for the day to 63 blocks.
In spite of that, we don’t get to sleep very easily. There is a huge storm with lightning hitting the tops of nearby buildings and massive crashes of thunder. In amongst the racket, there seems to be a competition for the loudest car horn and the most police sirens per minute.
Much of New York is surprisingly walkable. You probably wouldn’t want to walk from Central Park to Battery Park (about 90 blocks), but the theatre district and midtown areas are manageable if the weather is kind.
On our first full day, we explored solely on foot. First we walked down Broadway (12 blocks ) then east along 42nd Street (4 blocks) to find the departure point for our Washington trip the following day. It was on the corner of Park Avenue and 42nd, opposite Grand Central Station, where the rail tracks go above Park Ave on an ornate, cast iron viaduct.
After a quick look round Grand Central Concourse – remarkably familiar from many movies and TV shows – we walked one block south to 41st then two blocks west along “Library Way” to the New York Public Library on Fifth Ave. It wasn’t open yet, so we walked another two blocks down Fifth Ave to Lord and Taylors department store to look for jeans for Ann and brunch. We found the food but not the jeans.
By now we had walked 21 blocks.
We headed back up 5th Ave (1 block) and west on 40th alongside the Library (still not open) and Bryant Park to 6 Ave (2 blocks).
It is six blocks more down to 6th Ave (Avenue of the Americas) to Herald Square where Broadway crosses 6th Ave and 34th St.
We are now standing at Macy’s Herald Square entrance. We have walked 30 blocks.
In Macy’s we buy stuff. As you do.
But they don’t stock the brand of jeans that Ann wants. “They have them in Lord and Taylors”, the assistant tells us.
So we walk back a different way: one block east along 34th Street to where the Empire State Building towers over the junction with 5th Avenue . The lines for the trip to the top are long. Oh well, another time.
Then five blocks up Fifth Ave gets us to back to L & T where this time we find where they have hidden those darn jeans. Then it’s one more block to the NY Public Library.
We have a brief look round and wished we had a couple of days to see it properly.
Then it’s a repeat of the two blocks east to 6th Ave and Bryant Park where we have juice and water and sit for a while and enjoy the outdoor reading library, the chess games at tables under the trees, gentle buskers and many people from the nearby buildings having lunch in this little oasis.
We have now walked 39 blocks.
After our brief rest, it’s now one more block over to Broadway and then a pleasant stroll a mere 14 blocks north via Times Square back to our hotel to put our feet up and savour the coffees that we picked up on the way.
Our walking total for the day so far is 53 blocks.
In the evening we walk another three blocks east and two north towards the Trump Tower and Tiffany’s checking out restaurants before we find somewhere to eat on the return journey past Carnegie Hall.
Those 10 evening blocks take our walking total for the day to 63 blocks.
In spite of that, we don’t get to sleep very easily. There is a huge storm with lightning hitting the tops of nearby buildings and massive crashes of thunder. In amongst the racket, there seems to be a competition for the loudest car horn and the most police sirens per minute.
Sunday, June 07, 2009
Times Square
During coffee, my mobile rings. It’s Reuben. “Ian, are you anywhere near Times Square?”
I tell him we’re about five minutes walk away. “Great. Could you take a look around and give me 100 words on the scene down there by 1 am, please?”
I ask him to explain. “Oh, sorry. I’m covering the Tony Awards tonight and I need a few lines about the Times Square angle. You’ll see when you get there. Oh, and there’s something else…”.
“Yes, what?”
“Welcome to New York”.
We finish our coffee and head down to Times Square.
It’s not really a square, it’s two triangles formed where Broadway crosses over Seventh Avenue.
If you picture Seventh Avenue running from 12 o’clock to 6 o’clock, Broadway runs across it from 11 o’clock to 5 o’clock. The crossroads form a tall, narrow “X” bounded by 42nd Street at the bottom and 47th Street at the top. The two narrow triangles are between the upper and lower arms of the “X”.
Technically, only the bottom triangle is Times Square; the top triangle is Duffy Square. But everyone calls the whole complex “Times Square”.
Times Square is packed. Seventh Avenue and the cross streets are closed to vehicles. A narrow traffic lane is marked with orange cones and cars creep through.
Everywhere else is crowded with people, not just on the sidewalks but also on the large areas of closed-off roadway. They sit on deckchairs, camping chairs, plastic chairs and folding stools. There are thousands of them, packing into the car-free spaces, sitting facing the huge outdoor plasma screens which dominate the neon advertising on the sides of the surrounding buildings.
I ask a cheerful cop what’s the story. He explains that New York is trialling closing off various parts of Times Square to traffic to see which configuration works best for pedestrians and traffic flow. But he too is surprised by the huge turn-out this Sunday night.
Everyone is watching the screens which are showing the Tony Awards presentations live from Radio City Music Hall only one block over and three blocks north.
The crowd is in a great mood. They have snacks and drinks. People are cheerful and talking excitedly to each other, friends and strangers alike. They cheer and clap enthusiastically at each announcement.
As we watch, “Billy Elliott” picks up yet another Award. That makes it ten for the night. Our chance of picking up tickets for the show as we’d hoped at the discount booth in Times Square has just dropped to zero.
I tell him we’re about five minutes walk away. “Great. Could you take a look around and give me 100 words on the scene down there by 1 am, please?”
I ask him to explain. “Oh, sorry. I’m covering the Tony Awards tonight and I need a few lines about the Times Square angle. You’ll see when you get there. Oh, and there’s something else…”.
“Yes, what?”
“Welcome to New York”.
 |
| Times Square |
It’s not really a square, it’s two triangles formed where Broadway crosses over Seventh Avenue.
If you picture Seventh Avenue running from 12 o’clock to 6 o’clock, Broadway runs across it from 11 o’clock to 5 o’clock. The crossroads form a tall, narrow “X” bounded by 42nd Street at the bottom and 47th Street at the top. The two narrow triangles are between the upper and lower arms of the “X”.
Technically, only the bottom triangle is Times Square; the top triangle is Duffy Square. But everyone calls the whole complex “Times Square”.
Times Square is packed. Seventh Avenue and the cross streets are closed to vehicles. A narrow traffic lane is marked with orange cones and cars creep through.
Everywhere else is crowded with people, not just on the sidewalks but also on the large areas of closed-off roadway. They sit on deckchairs, camping chairs, plastic chairs and folding stools. There are thousands of them, packing into the car-free spaces, sitting facing the huge outdoor plasma screens which dominate the neon advertising on the sides of the surrounding buildings.
I ask a cheerful cop what’s the story. He explains that New York is trialling closing off various parts of Times Square to traffic to see which configuration works best for pedestrians and traffic flow. But he too is surprised by the huge turn-out this Sunday night.
Everyone is watching the screens which are showing the Tony Awards presentations live from Radio City Music Hall only one block over and three blocks north.
The crowd is in a great mood. They have snacks and drinks. People are cheerful and talking excitedly to each other, friends and strangers alike. They cheer and clap enthusiastically at each announcement.
As we watch, “Billy Elliott” picks up yet another Award. That makes it ten for the night. Our chance of picking up tickets for the show as we’d hoped at the discount booth in Times Square has just dropped to zero.
Coming to New York
The SuperShuttle whisks us off to Manhattan. We go through three separate tolls booths on the 30 minute journey.
As the New York midtown skyline comes into view before we plunge into the tunnel under the river, the sight is exciting in one way, but slightly disappointing in another. It’s getting dark – not dark enough for the lights to really make an impact – and a bit misty so the view is not very clear. But it’s not as tall as I imagined. Maybe it’s the distance and the poor light.
Ann and I are the second drop-off from the crowded mini-bus. I hear my voice say to the driver, “Corner of Broadway and 54th, please”, and I like saying it very much.
The Ameritania Hotel is right on the corner of Broadway and the cross street, about 5 blocks north of Times Square. The hotel is looking a bit tired, but the staff are cheerful and the rooms are clean.
Inside my suitcase is a polite letter from the Dept of Homeland Security saying that my case was one of those chosen at random to be opened. Not a problem, I fitted it with TSA approved locks so that security people could open it for inspection without having to bust anything.
The “random” aspect makes me smile. On the top layer of my case is all my electronic gear. Each in its dedicated pouch, I pack chargers, leads and accessories for my digital camera, two mobile phones, netbook computer and GPS. It must have looked like an electronics lab on the x-ray.
I put the pouches on top of everything else so that inspectors won’t have to rummage through the whole case to check anything that might interest them. Either it works, or they are darn skilful at their job, because if it wasn’t for the notice, you couldn’t tell that it had been examined.
We are getting hungry, so down in the lobby we ask the guy behind the desk where he recommends for a not-too-expensive dinner. He brightens up that we are asking his advice. He asks what kind of food we like and is even more interested when we suggest Italian.
Angelo’s is the place. We step out of the entrance on 54th Street, go round the corner onto Broadway and Angelo’s is a couple of doors down, next door to the old Ed Sullivan Theatre where the Late Show with David Letterman Show is recorded.
Angelo’s is an old-style, traditional Italian restaurant. We take a table on the ground floor in the window facing onto Broadway. As you do.
So our first evening in New York sees us eating spaghetti and meatballs in an Italian restaurant on Broadway.
It’s a gas.
As the New York midtown skyline comes into view before we plunge into the tunnel under the river, the sight is exciting in one way, but slightly disappointing in another. It’s getting dark – not dark enough for the lights to really make an impact – and a bit misty so the view is not very clear. But it’s not as tall as I imagined. Maybe it’s the distance and the poor light.
Ann and I are the second drop-off from the crowded mini-bus. I hear my voice say to the driver, “Corner of Broadway and 54th, please”, and I like saying it very much.
 |
| Ameritania Hotel, Broadway |
Inside my suitcase is a polite letter from the Dept of Homeland Security saying that my case was one of those chosen at random to be opened. Not a problem, I fitted it with TSA approved locks so that security people could open it for inspection without having to bust anything.
The “random” aspect makes me smile. On the top layer of my case is all my electronic gear. Each in its dedicated pouch, I pack chargers, leads and accessories for my digital camera, two mobile phones, netbook computer and GPS. It must have looked like an electronics lab on the x-ray.
I put the pouches on top of everything else so that inspectors won’t have to rummage through the whole case to check anything that might interest them. Either it works, or they are darn skilful at their job, because if it wasn’t for the notice, you couldn’t tell that it had been examined.
We are getting hungry, so down in the lobby we ask the guy behind the desk where he recommends for a not-too-expensive dinner. He brightens up that we are asking his advice. He asks what kind of food we like and is even more interested when we suggest Italian.
Angelo’s is the place. We step out of the entrance on 54th Street, go round the corner onto Broadway and Angelo’s is a couple of doors down, next door to the old Ed Sullivan Theatre where the Late Show with David Letterman Show is recorded.
Angelo’s is an old-style, traditional Italian restaurant. We take a table on the ground floor in the window facing onto Broadway. As you do.
So our first evening in New York sees us eating spaghetti and meatballs in an Italian restaurant on Broadway.
It’s a gas.
Coming to America
Calgary on Sunday is quiet. Although still cold, the sun is now shining crisply as the taxi drops us off at the airport.
Self-service check-in takes quite a while – there are a lot of screens to plough through.
We make our way to the USA embarkation area where there is another lot of paperwork. I thought we had done all this on-line a couple of months ago. Ah well.
Our checked bags go off for x-ray and we go through the security screening for passengers and carry-on bags. Most of the officers are Canadian. They are cheerful but thorough.
The American immigration officer is polite but firm as we register our fingerprints and stare into the web cam. Is it a photo or a retina scan? I never find out.
It all takes a fair amount of time, and everything is done very carefully and deliberately. What we don’t realise at the time is that we don’t have to go through all the entry formalities again when we land in the USA. That was it.
We grab a sandwich and cup of tea from one of the snack bars in the departure hall while waiting for the boarding call.
Part of the security arrangements is that the incoming flight leaves the USA and arrives in Canada as a domestic flight. When the passengers have disembarked and left the arrivals area, the various doors and wall panels are re-configured so that boarding gate becomes part of the international departure area and the aircraft departs as an international flight to the USA.
Our plane is neat Embrauer 190 and we have a smooth flight to Newark in New Jersey. We go straight through Arrivals with no further formalities.
We are in America.
Self-service check-in takes quite a while – there are a lot of screens to plough through.
We make our way to the USA embarkation area where there is another lot of paperwork. I thought we had done all this on-line a couple of months ago. Ah well.
Our checked bags go off for x-ray and we go through the security screening for passengers and carry-on bags. Most of the officers are Canadian. They are cheerful but thorough.
The American immigration officer is polite but firm as we register our fingerprints and stare into the web cam. Is it a photo or a retina scan? I never find out.
It all takes a fair amount of time, and everything is done very carefully and deliberately. What we don’t realise at the time is that we don’t have to go through all the entry formalities again when we land in the USA. That was it.
We grab a sandwich and cup of tea from one of the snack bars in the departure hall while waiting for the boarding call.
Part of the security arrangements is that the incoming flight leaves the USA and arrives in Canada as a domestic flight. When the passengers have disembarked and left the arrivals area, the various doors and wall panels are re-configured so that boarding gate becomes part of the international departure area and the aircraft departs as an international flight to the USA.
Our plane is neat Embrauer 190 and we have a smooth flight to Newark in New Jersey. We go straight through Arrivals with no further formalities.
We are in America.
Saturday, June 06, 2009
Calgary
We are keen to see this new city, so we venture outside into downtown Calgary in search of breakfast. It’s now minus 1 deg C and there is a sprinkling of snow that soon turns to light sleet. And this is summer!
It’s mid-morning on a Saturday and we are in the commercial retail centre. But where is everyone? The streets are deserted and the few shops we can see appear to be shut. Even in the pedestrian mall there are very few people; a couple of other tourists looking bewildered like us and a few odd-looking souls wandering aimlessly. It’s slightly edgy.
At last we come upon the Good Earth Café on a corner of what you’d expect to be a busy junction. But the traffic is as scarce as people on this cold Saturday morning.
At least this place is warm inside, the coffee is good and the toasted piadinas are very welcome.
Now a bit warmer and more determined, we head back through the CBD, cutting through more or less diagonally. Ah hah! We find the legendary Hudson Bay Trading Company’s modern store and go inside.
There are not many people in here either. However, Ian is distracted by a Levi jeans sale on the first floor (or rather the second floor as they call it locally, the one above street level). It will turn out to be a lucky distraction. But for now, Ian buys himself a pair of new Levi’s that actually fit first try without having to alter anything.
Now we look for a way out and notice an opening over on one side. It is an enclosed pedestrian bridge over the street below. It leads to the next building. We go across.
Remember the old finger game with the rhyme, “There’s the church and there’s the steeple; Open the doors and there’s the people”?
That’s what it’s like as we go through into the next building. The whole retail part of town is inside out. The walkway leads into a shopping arcade, which leads into a food court which in turn is connected by enclosed walkways to other indoor arcades and malls.
Instead of facing onto the street, the shops are turned inward and shoppers stroll among them, protected from the cold weather outside. Suddenly it all makes sense. It is a maze of interconnected arcades and enclosed walkways between buildings. You can wander all round town and don’t have to go outside at all.
It’s a bit like being a mole.
It’s mid-morning on a Saturday and we are in the commercial retail centre. But where is everyone? The streets are deserted and the few shops we can see appear to be shut. Even in the pedestrian mall there are very few people; a couple of other tourists looking bewildered like us and a few odd-looking souls wandering aimlessly. It’s slightly edgy.
At last we come upon the Good Earth Café on a corner of what you’d expect to be a busy junction. But the traffic is as scarce as people on this cold Saturday morning.
At least this place is warm inside, the coffee is good and the toasted piadinas are very welcome.
Now a bit warmer and more determined, we head back through the CBD, cutting through more or less diagonally. Ah hah! We find the legendary Hudson Bay Trading Company’s modern store and go inside.
There are not many people in here either. However, Ian is distracted by a Levi jeans sale on the first floor (or rather the second floor as they call it locally, the one above street level). It will turn out to be a lucky distraction. But for now, Ian buys himself a pair of new Levi’s that actually fit first try without having to alter anything.
Now we look for a way out and notice an opening over on one side. It is an enclosed pedestrian bridge over the street below. It leads to the next building. We go across.
Remember the old finger game with the rhyme, “There’s the church and there’s the steeple; Open the doors and there’s the people”?
That’s what it’s like as we go through into the next building. The whole retail part of town is inside out. The walkway leads into a shopping arcade, which leads into a food court which in turn is connected by enclosed walkways to other indoor arcades and malls.
Instead of facing onto the street, the shops are turned inward and shoppers stroll among them, protected from the cold weather outside. Suddenly it all makes sense. It is a maze of interconnected arcades and enclosed walkways between buildings. You can wander all round town and don’t have to go outside at all.
It’s a bit like being a mole.
Friday, June 05, 2009
Kamloops to Calgary
The taxi picked us up at 6.15 am as promised and whisked us to the station where the Rocky Mountaineer was waiting for us in the pale morning sunlight.
I like the traditional way of climbing up the steps into the railcar from track level instead of just stepping across from platform level. It feels more like a definite transition from ordinary life into a special experience.
During breakfast we zipped through Kamloops’ scattered outer residential and industrial areas, following the line of the North Thompson River.
As we headed further into the mountains, the air began to get noticeably cooler on the open-sided observation deck at the end of the railcar. The scenery became more rugged and the ice and snow was more prominent on the approaching peaks.
The small settlements along the shores of Shuswap Lake were very quiet. Near Salmon Arm all was calm and mysterious in the morning mist.
At Stoney Creek Bridge we edged along the trestle over the creek 100 metres below. The snow sheds in Kicking Horse Pass emphasised just how dangerous this place is in winter. Built against the wall of the mountain like sturdy lean-to garages over long sections of track, their purpose is to shed the snow and rock falls that are common in order to protect the traffic and help keep the track clear.
The Spiral Tunnels are a mind-boggling feat of engineering on this altogether remarkable journey.
They were built in 1909 to replace the crazy 4.5% gradient of the previous “temporary” Canadian Pacific line over Mount Stephen. The old route needed four extra locomotives get trains up that slope, and several emergency run-off spurs for those on the way down.
Now the tunnels form a figure-of-eight inside the mountain.
Following the Kicking Horse River after leaving the town of Field, the track goes under the highway, crosses the river and almost immediately enters the Lower Spiral Tunnel. Inside the mountain, the tunnel makes a long, slow, rising turn to the left.
After making a three quarter circle, the engine emerges from the first tunnel and crosses over the track by which it entered, now many feet below. Looking out of the right-hand window, you can see the approach track that you have just been on, plunging into the mountainside below you.
Still climbing, the train now enters the Upper Spiral Tunnel. This time it makes a climbing circle to the right. When it emerges, it crosses the approach track that is now below it on the left. Thus the train has made a figure-of-eight course inside the mountain.
When there is a very long passenger or goods train, people hope to see the engine emerge from one of the tunnels while its back-end is still sticking out of the entrance far below, while the length of the train is threaded back on itself inside the mountain.
As the track unwinds behind us, Janos brings us food which we eat at our seats. It’s presented like up-market airline food. Every now and then he speaks over the unobtrusive PA to explain the sights that are coming up with a bit of the background and history about the places we see. He is a good tour guide.
Part of our passenger kit is a tabloid size newspaper with descriptions of our route and its highlights. On the map of our route, each significant feature is marked with a number representing its distance in miles from each major reference point along the route. These are keyed to more detailed descriptions and stories in the newspaper and match the mileposts alongside the track. That means you always know where you are, what is coming up and what you are looking at when you get to it.
The train slows to a crawl past especially significant locations to give everyone time to have a good look. That is when passengers dart out to the observation deck at the back of the car to take photos and do the cooperative shuffle to allow everyone to get that special shot.
In this way we travel past ever more majestic mountains covered in ice and snow and bearing the dirty scars of occasional avalanches as we cross the Continental Divide.
It doesn’t seem long before we are travelling through the Banff National Park and later pulling into the town of Banff itself.
Many passengers “detrain” here. Seventeen are left in our car to complete the journey into Calgary. On the way, Janos serves our last meal on board, a selection of appetisers or “appys” as both our old and new Canadian friends put it.
It’s still quite light at 9.20 pm as we pull into Calgary and it’s 1 deg. C outside. We nearly freeze simply crossing the road from the station to our hotel opposite. But the hotel is warm and our bags arrive as we are checking in.
After a light supper in the lobby bar we are ready for bed and sleep like logs as the temperature outside drops throughout the night.
I like the traditional way of climbing up the steps into the railcar from track level instead of just stepping across from platform level. It feels more like a definite transition from ordinary life into a special experience.
During breakfast we zipped through Kamloops’ scattered outer residential and industrial areas, following the line of the North Thompson River.
As we headed further into the mountains, the air began to get noticeably cooler on the open-sided observation deck at the end of the railcar. The scenery became more rugged and the ice and snow was more prominent on the approaching peaks.
The small settlements along the shores of Shuswap Lake were very quiet. Near Salmon Arm all was calm and mysterious in the morning mist.
 |
| Kicking Horse Pass |
The Spiral Tunnels are a mind-boggling feat of engineering on this altogether remarkable journey.
They were built in 1909 to replace the crazy 4.5% gradient of the previous “temporary” Canadian Pacific line over Mount Stephen. The old route needed four extra locomotives get trains up that slope, and several emergency run-off spurs for those on the way down.
Now the tunnels form a figure-of-eight inside the mountain.
Following the Kicking Horse River after leaving the town of Field, the track goes under the highway, crosses the river and almost immediately enters the Lower Spiral Tunnel. Inside the mountain, the tunnel makes a long, slow, rising turn to the left.
After making a three quarter circle, the engine emerges from the first tunnel and crosses over the track by which it entered, now many feet below. Looking out of the right-hand window, you can see the approach track that you have just been on, plunging into the mountainside below you.
Still climbing, the train now enters the Upper Spiral Tunnel. This time it makes a climbing circle to the right. When it emerges, it crosses the approach track that is now below it on the left. Thus the train has made a figure-of-eight course inside the mountain.
When there is a very long passenger or goods train, people hope to see the engine emerge from one of the tunnels while its back-end is still sticking out of the entrance far below, while the length of the train is threaded back on itself inside the mountain.
As the track unwinds behind us, Janos brings us food which we eat at our seats. It’s presented like up-market airline food. Every now and then he speaks over the unobtrusive PA to explain the sights that are coming up with a bit of the background and history about the places we see. He is a good tour guide.
Part of our passenger kit is a tabloid size newspaper with descriptions of our route and its highlights. On the map of our route, each significant feature is marked with a number representing its distance in miles from each major reference point along the route. These are keyed to more detailed descriptions and stories in the newspaper and match the mileposts alongside the track. That means you always know where you are, what is coming up and what you are looking at when you get to it.
The train slows to a crawl past especially significant locations to give everyone time to have a good look. That is when passengers dart out to the observation deck at the back of the car to take photos and do the cooperative shuffle to allow everyone to get that special shot.
In this way we travel past ever more majestic mountains covered in ice and snow and bearing the dirty scars of occasional avalanches as we cross the Continental Divide.
It doesn’t seem long before we are travelling through the Banff National Park and later pulling into the town of Banff itself.
Many passengers “detrain” here. Seventeen are left in our car to complete the journey into Calgary. On the way, Janos serves our last meal on board, a selection of appetisers or “appys” as both our old and new Canadian friends put it.
It’s still quite light at 9.20 pm as we pull into Calgary and it’s 1 deg. C outside. We nearly freeze simply crossing the road from the station to our hotel opposite. But the hotel is warm and our bags arrive as we are checking in.
After a light supper in the lobby bar we are ready for bed and sleep like logs as the temperature outside drops throughout the night.
Osprey
Ospreys hunt, nest and breed along the Fraser and Thompson Rivers.
Sometimes called the Sea Hawk, these large, majestic birds return to their same nests every year, renovating and enlarging them, to lay their eggs and rear their young.
The nest is a large, untidy heap of sticks, small branches and bits of driftwood, built up high to give the birds a good vantage point and protect the chicks from raiders.
That used to mean Ospreys built their nest high up in the forks of trees or on rocky outcrops and the like. Many still do.
But as human settlements grew up in the Fraser and Thompson Valleys, the birds began to build their nests in new locations: chimneys, utility poles, bridge trestles and the gantries that carry signals over roads and rail tracks.
And that is a fine and serene thing. It’s nice to have these birds with their 6 feet wingspan living in the community.
But sometimes the nests become a problem. Each year they get a bit bigger and lumps of wood fall off, causing problems as they drop onto cars, power lines and people’s heads.
The birds and their nests are protected, so the folks who live in the towns under the nests have come up with an interesting solution.
First they build large, stable platforms as near as possible to the wobbly nests but in a safe location.
The next challenge is to get the Ospreys to move into their new home. That’s not easy, because they return to the same nest every year. Some of the nests have been there for seventy years.
So, in the winter when the birds have migrated to warmer climes, the local people buy some life-size, plastic pink flamingos – the kind you might stick in people’s front lawns on their birthday or anniversary.
They take off the legs and sit the plastic creature in the old Osprey nest.
On their return, the Ospreys see that a large intruder has commandeered their nest so their instinct is to start a new one close to their favourite spot.
That’s when they see the nice new platform and that’s where they build their new nest.
Now, as you travel along in the Rocky Mountaineer, you see plenty of Ospreys drifting along the valleys or sitting on their nests. And occasionally, if you’re lucky, you’ll spot a large, pink plastic flamingo sitting on its nest.
Sometimes called the Sea Hawk, these large, majestic birds return to their same nests every year, renovating and enlarging them, to lay their eggs and rear their young.
The nest is a large, untidy heap of sticks, small branches and bits of driftwood, built up high to give the birds a good vantage point and protect the chicks from raiders.
That used to mean Ospreys built their nest high up in the forks of trees or on rocky outcrops and the like. Many still do.
But as human settlements grew up in the Fraser and Thompson Valleys, the birds began to build their nests in new locations: chimneys, utility poles, bridge trestles and the gantries that carry signals over roads and rail tracks.
And that is a fine and serene thing. It’s nice to have these birds with their 6 feet wingspan living in the community.
But sometimes the nests become a problem. Each year they get a bit bigger and lumps of wood fall off, causing problems as they drop onto cars, power lines and people’s heads.
The birds and their nests are protected, so the folks who live in the towns under the nests have come up with an interesting solution.
First they build large, stable platforms as near as possible to the wobbly nests but in a safe location.
The next challenge is to get the Ospreys to move into their new home. That’s not easy, because they return to the same nest every year. Some of the nests have been there for seventy years.
So, in the winter when the birds have migrated to warmer climes, the local people buy some life-size, plastic pink flamingos – the kind you might stick in people’s front lawns on their birthday or anniversary.
They take off the legs and sit the plastic creature in the old Osprey nest.
On their return, the Ospreys see that a large intruder has commandeered their nest so their instinct is to start a new one close to their favourite spot.
That’s when they see the nice new platform and that’s where they build their new nest.
Now, as you travel along in the Rocky Mountaineer, you see plenty of Ospreys drifting along the valleys or sitting on their nests. And occasionally, if you’re lucky, you’ll spot a large, pink plastic flamingo sitting on its nest.
Fellow Travellers
The people in our railcar are becoming more relaxed and chatty as the time we spend together lengthens.
Over breakfast on Day 2, I take a look around at the people nearest to us.
Across the aisle are mom and daughter from Florida. Mom is a retired Avon rep; daughter is a former travel agent, now a cop. Tomorrow is her birthday; she’ll be forty-three. She is fit and tiny, looking and sounding just like Jodie Foster. Mom is happy to tell me their whole life history.
In front of them is a lone Brit. Retired and in his 60s he is fit, wiry and talkative. He flirts with Mom and daughter, especially daughter who flirts back in a tough, ironic way. He’s not getting it.
He has a mixed London accent. He’s from Lewisham where I went to college, but now lives in Kidderminster in the midlands near where I grew up. We still don’t have much to talk about, but he seems to have done a heck of a lot of travelling since retiring. He must have a great pension.
In front of us is a honeymoon couple from Manchester, switching between starry-eyed hand-holding, eager window-gazing and the observation deck relay.
Every one is very polite on the observation deck. There is really only room for two people each side with a bit of a squeeze. But people are great – as the next special bit of scenery slides into view, they take a look, snap a couple of shots, then squeeze out of the way to let someone else have a go before it falls away behind us.
In the carriage on the second day, people are also now relaxed enough shout out “Bear!” and point so that everyone else gets a chance to see it.
In front of the honeymooners is a couple from Calgary. They’ve been down in Vancouver and this is their treat for the return journey. It’s their first time.
And next to them spread over several seats is a German family, mom and dad, grand-dad and three teenagers. They are all polite and laugh a lot. A nice family. They like it that Janos speaks a little German. Janos is from Brazil. His father was German.
Good looking in a dark, brooding way, Janos is doing a bit of modelling in his spare time and trying to break into film. Meanwhile he works five months a year on the Rocky Mountaineer.
Over breakfast on Day 2, I take a look around at the people nearest to us.
Across the aisle are mom and daughter from Florida. Mom is a retired Avon rep; daughter is a former travel agent, now a cop. Tomorrow is her birthday; she’ll be forty-three. She is fit and tiny, looking and sounding just like Jodie Foster. Mom is happy to tell me their whole life history.
In front of them is a lone Brit. Retired and in his 60s he is fit, wiry and talkative. He flirts with Mom and daughter, especially daughter who flirts back in a tough, ironic way. He’s not getting it.
He has a mixed London accent. He’s from Lewisham where I went to college, but now lives in Kidderminster in the midlands near where I grew up. We still don’t have much to talk about, but he seems to have done a heck of a lot of travelling since retiring. He must have a great pension.
In front of us is a honeymoon couple from Manchester, switching between starry-eyed hand-holding, eager window-gazing and the observation deck relay.
Every one is very polite on the observation deck. There is really only room for two people each side with a bit of a squeeze. But people are great – as the next special bit of scenery slides into view, they take a look, snap a couple of shots, then squeeze out of the way to let someone else have a go before it falls away behind us.
In the carriage on the second day, people are also now relaxed enough shout out “Bear!” and point so that everyone else gets a chance to see it.
In front of the honeymooners is a couple from Calgary. They’ve been down in Vancouver and this is their treat for the return journey. It’s their first time.
And next to them spread over several seats is a German family, mom and dad, grand-dad and three teenagers. They are all polite and laugh a lot. A nice family. They like it that Janos speaks a little German. Janos is from Brazil. His father was German.
Good looking in a dark, brooding way, Janos is doing a bit of modelling in his spare time and trying to break into film. Meanwhile he works five months a year on the Rocky Mountaineer.
Thursday, June 04, 2009
Into The Mountains
At Cisco Crossing, the Canadian Pacific and Canadian National tracks swap sides of the Fraser River. Until now, each track followed its own side of the river. Here, in a series of remarkable trestle bridges, the tracks swap sides and our train swapped tracks.
Late in the afternoon, we followed the Thompson River into Kamloops where it was hot and sunny, around 33 deg C.
The Sandeman Inn motel was a 15 minute shuttle bus ride from the station. We decided to skip the musical show laid on for the tourists and instead walked downtown to the restaurant strip and chose a Greek place for dinner.
It’s an interesting town with a small population that explodes two days a week as both eastbound and westbound trains meet and disgorge their passengers for the night.
All aboard!
When you hear the “All aboard” cry and the old train whistle echoes mournfully around the Rocky Mountaineer departure hall, you can’t help the hairs standing up on the back of your neck.
OK, so it’s a bit corny, but hey, this is the start of one of the great train journeys of the world.
Crisp, early morning sunshine threw long shadows over the concourse as Bob and Pat dropped us off at the Rocky Mountaineer’s Vancouver terminal.
“The service starts here”, Bob said as cheerful young guys whipped our cases away. We knew we wouldn’t see them again until the following night, so had packed overnight, carry-on bags for the two-day journey.
After a cheerful and efficient check-in, there was time for a quick coffee with Bob and Pat in the concourse as we thanked them for their hospitality and for showing us around their fabulous part of our world.
Then that train whistle blew, like a line from an old song, and it was time to climb on board.
Janos was our car steward, looking after the 40 or so people in our 60 seat carriage.
We backed up for nearly a kilometre through an urban industrial landscape in order to switch tracks. The depot-based Rocky staff lined the track waving Canadian flags as we left the marshalling yards. Corny, but everyone was grinning from ear to ear as we picked up speed out through the Vancouver suburbs alongside the Fraser River.
OK, so it’s a bit corny, but hey, this is the start of one of the great train journeys of the world.
Crisp, early morning sunshine threw long shadows over the concourse as Bob and Pat dropped us off at the Rocky Mountaineer’s Vancouver terminal.
“The service starts here”, Bob said as cheerful young guys whipped our cases away. We knew we wouldn’t see them again until the following night, so had packed overnight, carry-on bags for the two-day journey.
After a cheerful and efficient check-in, there was time for a quick coffee with Bob and Pat in the concourse as we thanked them for their hospitality and for showing us around their fabulous part of our world.
Then that train whistle blew, like a line from an old song, and it was time to climb on board. Janos was our car steward, looking after the 40 or so people in our 60 seat carriage.
We backed up for nearly a kilometre through an urban industrial landscape in order to switch tracks. The depot-based Rocky staff lined the track waving Canadian flags as we left the marshalling yards. Corny, but everyone was grinning from ear to ear as we picked up speed out through the Vancouver suburbs alongside the Fraser River.
Wednesday, June 03, 2009
It’s the simple things – more Vancouver highlights
- Lonsdale Quay markets in downtown Vancouver.
- Watching the floats planes take off and land by Canada Place.
- Drinks with friends on the condo deck overlooking the harbour in the gentle evening light.
- The dry smell of pine surrounding the cabin in Whistler.
- Seabus ride across Vancouver Harbour.
- Bike riding in Stanley Park.
- Granville Island – let’s hope the developers don’t ruin it.
- Walking on the seawall at dusk.
- Being shown around by good friends who love their city.
Monday, June 01, 2009
Vancouver Island
Butchart Gardens was a highlight, and the remarkable murals in the little town of Chemainus were fascinating. Chemainus was once a thriving logging town, but that industry went downhill and the town was struggling. In a stroke of civic genius, the people of Chemainus began to record the town’s history and characters in a series of large murals throughout the town.
It is now starting to get a new lease of life as visitors and tourist buses stop by the town to let people have a look at this fascinating public art.
Here is a shout-out to Bob and Betty with whom we shared a tasty, old-fashioned pub meal at the Prairie Inn in Saanichton; and another to Gordon and Jean in Chemainus for the fabulous afternoon tea complete with home-baked scones and for showing us around their charming town
The ferry ride back to Horseshoe Bay on the mainland on our second evening provided a marvellous and mystical sunset over the islands in the Straight of Georgia.
Saturday, May 30, 2009
Whistler
We continue to have fabulous summer weather. On Whistler Mountain, people were mountain bike riding on the bottom half of the mountain in the heat and dust, and still skiing on the top half – in T-shirts.
The gondola ride to the top station is pretty spectacular. I get the feeling that I’m going to be using that word a few times.
Wednesday, May 27, 2009
Welcome to Vancouver
On our first night, as we sat down for dinner in our friends’ condo overlooking the harbour in West Vancouver, the fire alarm went off. It wasn’t until later that we realised dust from renovations on the ground floor had set off the smoke alarm.
So that was how we met the neighbours, on the stairs of the emergency fire escape, as the fire engines and ladder unit came screaming to a halt beneath the window. And everyone was so polite. On the landing every one was properly introduced before we started going down the emergency stairs.
Saturday, May 16, 2009
The Story of Ian's Wedding Ring
From childhood I heard the story that Grandad’s wedding ring was made out of two rings.
I don’t know how correct that is. I like to think that the metal was from two previous wedding rings and at the time that I wear it, it has been through six weddings
The first wedding was between Josiah Tay and Matilda Beckley in 1883
Josiah Tay was a Birmingham wholesale butcher. Matilda was the sister of Granny Beckley. The Beckleys lived in Tipton in the Black Country.
Granny Beckley had two daughters: Ruth (whom I knew as “Grandma”) and Hannah, whom we called Aunt Nance.
When Ruth Beckley was a young teenager, she had what appears to be some kind of minor nervous breakdown. It seems she saw a man have a convulsive fit. It is not known whether he died, or if he did, whether she saw that.
To help her get over it, she was sent to live for a while with her Aunt Matilda and Josiah Tay in Birmingham. There she became Matilda’s companion housekeeper.
Eventually, Matilda became ill and Ruth nursed her until Matilda died.
After Matilda’s death, Josiah married Ruth Beckley in 1913. At the time he was 50 and she was 18.
I like to think that was the second wedding that the ring went through. Most likely, Josiah’s first ring went to his family and his marriage to Ruth saw a new ring start it’s 96 year journey.
However, in those days there was a question mark over the legality of their marriage. In 1913 the law didn’t allow marriage between an uncle and niece. Josiah and Ruth were not related through blood, only by his first marriage to Matilda, so it was a bit of a grey area in their case.
A few years later the law was changed to remove that ban, so in 1920 Ruth insisted that she and Josiah go through another marriage ceremony to make absolutely sure their marriage was legal. That was the third wedding.
During their married life, they had one child together, a boy, Howard, who died aged 13 months.
Ruth helped Josiah run the business. She was very intelligent and as it turned out a good business women, even though she had little formal education.
Josiah died in July 1933, leaving Ruth Tay a quite well-off widow aged 38.
Meanwhile John Henry Deffley (my Grandad) had married Annie Pratti in about 1917. That was wedding number 4 in this version of the story of Ian’s wedding ring.
John Henry was the eldest of 17 children born to Jack and Annie Deffley. Annie Pratti was the daughter of Harry and Nelly Pratti. Harry was Italian.
John and Annie Deffley had three children: Annie Beatrice (my mom, born 1919), Elsie Lily (Aunt Else, b. 1921) and John (b. 1922?, d. 1924?).
John’s first wife Annie died in 1924 when Annie Beatrice was 5 and Elsie was 3.
Elsie spent most of the next 12 years in hospital. When she was 2, Elsie had an accident that badly injured her hip. The injury became infected and turned tubercular, requiring extensive periods in hospital.
John was a widower for 10 years until he met Ruth Tay, Josiah’s widow, and they married in 1934 when Annie Beatrice was 15 and Elsie was 13. The story goes that Ruth Tay took Josiah’s wedding ring that possibly had been through three weddings, and John Henry’s ring that had been through his first wedding, and had them re-made into a new wedding ring for John, the fifth wedding in the series.
There is a picture of John and Ruth in their wedding clothes in a garden setting. That wasn’t their actual wedding day. I don’t know if any photos exist of their actual wedding, or if any were taken. That picture was taken a few days later when they got dressed up and posed for a “wedding” photo.
John and Ruth did not have any children of their own. In 1945 they adopted a little girl whom they named Ruth. I grew up knowing that Ruth was adopted and that made her my Aunt and it made her my mom’s and Elsie’s sister. All through that time, her actual parentage was unknown.
It wasn’t until after Annie Beatrice’s death in 1991 that it was confirmed that Ruth was Annie’s daughter. So she was in fact my half-sister. How this came about and how it was discovered is a separate tale and is really Ruth’s story.
Grandad’s ring was lost for two or three months in the River Avon at Twyning in about 1936 or 37.
Grandad was a keen fisherman and kept a caravan on “The Sling” at Twyning. At the start of the course fishing season the river was in flood. Grandad was at his pitch, throwing groundbait into the river. Because it was cold and wet, and his hands were slippery with the groundbait, one time when he threw a handful in, his ring slipped off and went in with it.
Try as he could, he couldn’t find it in the brown, murky water and the mud beneath. It seemed that it was lost forever.
The season passed, and Grandad went fishing most weekends, but there was never any sign of the ring.
One day towards the end of the season, Twyning’s village goose “Auntie” escaped from its compound near the Fleet Inn and went waddling off up the river bank. Bert the Ferryman chased it. The ferry in those days was a large punt that ran along a steel cable stretched across the river at the end of the lane that leads down to The Fleet.
Somewhere there is a photo from the 1930s or 40s of Grandma (Ruth) standing in the punt holding Bert’s punt pole. I can just remember Bert who was still the ferryman in about 1950.
So Bert chased after Auntie the goose and caught her half a mile or so up-river from the Fleet. Just as he grabbed her and turned to go back, he noticed something glinting at the edge of the water which by now had receded to its normal level. Sure enough, half buried in the mud was Granddad’s ring. It was glinting and flashing in the sun as the waters lapped over it.
Next time Bert met Grandad just before the season ended, he said goodbye and held out his hand to shake Granddad’s hand. When Granddad took his hand away, his ring was sitting there in his palm. That is the ring that I now wear, that I inherited after Grandad’s death. My marriage to Ann in 1972 was the sixth wedding in the story of that ring.
I don’t know how correct that is. I like to think that the metal was from two previous wedding rings and at the time that I wear it, it has been through six weddings
The first wedding was between Josiah Tay and Matilda Beckley in 1883
Josiah Tay was a Birmingham wholesale butcher. Matilda was the sister of Granny Beckley. The Beckleys lived in Tipton in the Black Country.
Granny Beckley had two daughters: Ruth (whom I knew as “Grandma”) and Hannah, whom we called Aunt Nance.
When Ruth Beckley was a young teenager, she had what appears to be some kind of minor nervous breakdown. It seems she saw a man have a convulsive fit. It is not known whether he died, or if he did, whether she saw that.
To help her get over it, she was sent to live for a while with her Aunt Matilda and Josiah Tay in Birmingham. There she became Matilda’s companion housekeeper.
Eventually, Matilda became ill and Ruth nursed her until Matilda died.
After Matilda’s death, Josiah married Ruth Beckley in 1913. At the time he was 50 and she was 18.
I like to think that was the second wedding that the ring went through. Most likely, Josiah’s first ring went to his family and his marriage to Ruth saw a new ring start it’s 96 year journey.
However, in those days there was a question mark over the legality of their marriage. In 1913 the law didn’t allow marriage between an uncle and niece. Josiah and Ruth were not related through blood, only by his first marriage to Matilda, so it was a bit of a grey area in their case.
A few years later the law was changed to remove that ban, so in 1920 Ruth insisted that she and Josiah go through another marriage ceremony to make absolutely sure their marriage was legal. That was the third wedding.
During their married life, they had one child together, a boy, Howard, who died aged 13 months.
Ruth helped Josiah run the business. She was very intelligent and as it turned out a good business women, even though she had little formal education.
Josiah died in July 1933, leaving Ruth Tay a quite well-off widow aged 38.
Meanwhile John Henry Deffley (my Grandad) had married Annie Pratti in about 1917. That was wedding number 4 in this version of the story of Ian’s wedding ring.
John Henry was the eldest of 17 children born to Jack and Annie Deffley. Annie Pratti was the daughter of Harry and Nelly Pratti. Harry was Italian.
John and Annie Deffley had three children: Annie Beatrice (my mom, born 1919), Elsie Lily (Aunt Else, b. 1921) and John (b. 1922?, d. 1924?).
John’s first wife Annie died in 1924 when Annie Beatrice was 5 and Elsie was 3.
Elsie spent most of the next 12 years in hospital. When she was 2, Elsie had an accident that badly injured her hip. The injury became infected and turned tubercular, requiring extensive periods in hospital.
John was a widower for 10 years until he met Ruth Tay, Josiah’s widow, and they married in 1934 when Annie Beatrice was 15 and Elsie was 13. The story goes that Ruth Tay took Josiah’s wedding ring that possibly had been through three weddings, and John Henry’s ring that had been through his first wedding, and had them re-made into a new wedding ring for John, the fifth wedding in the series.
There is a picture of John and Ruth in their wedding clothes in a garden setting. That wasn’t their actual wedding day. I don’t know if any photos exist of their actual wedding, or if any were taken. That picture was taken a few days later when they got dressed up and posed for a “wedding” photo.
John and Ruth did not have any children of their own. In 1945 they adopted a little girl whom they named Ruth. I grew up knowing that Ruth was adopted and that made her my Aunt and it made her my mom’s and Elsie’s sister. All through that time, her actual parentage was unknown.
It wasn’t until after Annie Beatrice’s death in 1991 that it was confirmed that Ruth was Annie’s daughter. So she was in fact my half-sister. How this came about and how it was discovered is a separate tale and is really Ruth’s story.
Grandad’s ring was lost for two or three months in the River Avon at Twyning in about 1936 or 37.
Grandad was a keen fisherman and kept a caravan on “The Sling” at Twyning. At the start of the course fishing season the river was in flood. Grandad was at his pitch, throwing groundbait into the river. Because it was cold and wet, and his hands were slippery with the groundbait, one time when he threw a handful in, his ring slipped off and went in with it.
Try as he could, he couldn’t find it in the brown, murky water and the mud beneath. It seemed that it was lost forever.
The season passed, and Grandad went fishing most weekends, but there was never any sign of the ring.
One day towards the end of the season, Twyning’s village goose “Auntie” escaped from its compound near the Fleet Inn and went waddling off up the river bank. Bert the Ferryman chased it. The ferry in those days was a large punt that ran along a steel cable stretched across the river at the end of the lane that leads down to The Fleet.
Somewhere there is a photo from the 1930s or 40s of Grandma (Ruth) standing in the punt holding Bert’s punt pole. I can just remember Bert who was still the ferryman in about 1950.
So Bert chased after Auntie the goose and caught her half a mile or so up-river from the Fleet. Just as he grabbed her and turned to go back, he noticed something glinting at the edge of the water which by now had receded to its normal level. Sure enough, half buried in the mud was Granddad’s ring. It was glinting and flashing in the sun as the waters lapped over it.
Next time Bert met Grandad just before the season ended, he said goodbye and held out his hand to shake Granddad’s hand. When Granddad took his hand away, his ring was sitting there in his palm. That is the ring that I now wear, that I inherited after Grandad’s death. My marriage to Ann in 1972 was the sixth wedding in the story of that ring.
Sunday, May 10, 2009
Shakespeare on Open Source vs Windows
A marketplace. Enter Maximus, a merchant, and Linus, an artisan.
Maximus I beseech you now, moderate your choler.
This bodes some strange eruption to our state.
Wherefore do you rage? Who is the object of your spleen?
Linus A dull and muddy-mettled rascal,
Every one fault seeming monstrous
Till his fellow fault came to match it.
And this man is now become a god.
What a falling off was there!
Maximus. I have heard you speak of this wretch and his secrets
And of the engendered virtue of that wherein you strive withal. Pray tell me anon, what manner of thing is this yawning fount,
That you do protest so much, and that most eloquently.
Linus An ill-favoured thing sir, but mine own.
The public outpouring of combined fancy
That is the main motive of our preparations,
The chief head of this post-haste and romage in the land.
Maximus In Nature’s infinite book of secrecy
A little I can read. This gaping well, unlocked,
Set in a notebook, learned and conned by rote,
It is not, nor it cannot come to good.
Linus It is a custom more honoured in the breach than the observance.
My friends were poor but honest.
Sweep on, you fat and greasy citizens!
Base is the slave that pays.
Max Peace, good yeoman.
The web of our life is a mingled yarn, good and ill together.
Our remedies oft in ourselves do lie.
Tho’ satisfaction in revenge, there is no return on spite.
Linus Never come such division between our souls.
Striving to better, oft we mar what’s well.
Max A peace is of the nature of a conquest
For then both parties nobly are subdued
And neither party loser.
Linus So have I heard, and do in part believe it.
Exeunt, severally.
Monday, April 06, 2009
Never Argue with a Mug
One of the useful things my Dad taught me (see my post for 20 Aug 2005) was learnt from Roy Rene, the Australian comic genius born Henry van der Sluys in Adelaide.
During the war, Dad was walking with Roy down Castlereagh Street in Sydney where Roy was appearing in variety at the New Tivoli.
A bloke came up to Roy and made the usual ‘greatest fan’ type comments. Then he said, “I’ll never forget your show at the Alhambra before the war. That ‘F’ joke! Funniest thing I’d ever heard”.
Roy said, “Glad you enjoyed it. Hope you can make it to the new show.”
As the bloke walked off, chuckling to himself, Dad asked Roy, “What is the ‘F’ joke?” Roy said, “Oh, it’s a lame old gag that’s been around for years”.
“How does it go?”
“Well, the original version is about an infants’ class learning the alphabet. The teacher writes the alphabet on the blackboard and gets the kids to name the letters as she points to them. She points to the A and says ‘Johnny, what is this?’ ‘It’s A, Miss.’ She points to the B. ‘What is this?’ ‘B, Miss.’ ‘And this?’ ‘C, Miss’, and so on until they come the letter F.
‘Now, Johnny, what is this letter?’ ‘It’s K, Miss.’
‘That’s not right, Johnny, let’s try again.’ So they go through it from the start: A, B, C, D, E, K. No matter which way the teacher tries, forwards, backwards or at random, when she points to the F, Johnny always says K.
At last in frustration the teacher throws down the pointer and says loudly, ‘It’s all going wrong; every time I get to F, you see K.’
Roy stopped.
“Is that it?” Dad said. Roy nodded. “I don’t get it”.
“Say the last bit slowly out loud,” Roy said.
“….eff, you, see, kay. What? Oh, I get it. It’s a bit weak. isn’t?”
“Yes,” Roy said. “That’s one reason I’ve never used it.”
“But that bloke said it was the funniest thing he ever heard”.
“Maybe,” Roy said, “but it wasn’t me who told it.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“Because I’ve never played the Alhambra and anyway, I’d never have used that joke in my act.”
“Why not?”
“You wouldn’t have got away with it back then. Spelling out the ‘F’ word in a public theatre? They’d have closed you down and done you for obscenity!”
“But that bloke was absolutely certain it was you.”
“Son”, said Roy, “never argue with a mug.”
During the war, Dad was walking with Roy down Castlereagh Street in Sydney where Roy was appearing in variety at the New Tivoli.
A bloke came up to Roy and made the usual ‘greatest fan’ type comments. Then he said, “I’ll never forget your show at the Alhambra before the war. That ‘F’ joke! Funniest thing I’d ever heard”.
Roy said, “Glad you enjoyed it. Hope you can make it to the new show.”
As the bloke walked off, chuckling to himself, Dad asked Roy, “What is the ‘F’ joke?” Roy said, “Oh, it’s a lame old gag that’s been around for years”.
“How does it go?”
“Well, the original version is about an infants’ class learning the alphabet. The teacher writes the alphabet on the blackboard and gets the kids to name the letters as she points to them. She points to the A and says ‘Johnny, what is this?’ ‘It’s A, Miss.’ She points to the B. ‘What is this?’ ‘B, Miss.’ ‘And this?’ ‘C, Miss’, and so on until they come the letter F.
‘Now, Johnny, what is this letter?’ ‘It’s K, Miss.’
‘That’s not right, Johnny, let’s try again.’ So they go through it from the start: A, B, C, D, E, K. No matter which way the teacher tries, forwards, backwards or at random, when she points to the F, Johnny always says K.
At last in frustration the teacher throws down the pointer and says loudly, ‘It’s all going wrong; every time I get to F, you see K.’
Roy stopped.
“Is that it?” Dad said. Roy nodded. “I don’t get it”.
“Say the last bit slowly out loud,” Roy said.
“….eff, you, see, kay. What? Oh, I get it. It’s a bit weak. isn’t?”
“Yes,” Roy said. “That’s one reason I’ve never used it.”
“But that bloke said it was the funniest thing he ever heard”.
“Maybe,” Roy said, “but it wasn’t me who told it.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“Because I’ve never played the Alhambra and anyway, I’d never have used that joke in my act.”
“Why not?”
“You wouldn’t have got away with it back then. Spelling out the ‘F’ word in a public theatre? They’d have closed you down and done you for obscenity!”
“But that bloke was absolutely certain it was you.”
“Son”, said Roy, “never argue with a mug.”
Friday, March 27, 2009
MTA-GTS Submission
My thanks go to:
- GTS General Manager Paul and his team at Royal Park;
- Executive Director John and his team at Greenhill Road for their support during development of the submission;
- Tracy and her executive support colleagues at Greenhill Road for their help;
- Susan for help with risk management and project scheduling
- Alan at DFEEST for his invaluable advice during the Application development.
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
Grandstanding
Pulled up at the traffic lights this morning behind a truck taking equipment away from the Clipsal 500 motor race that took place over the weekend. On the car radio someone was complaining about the $700,000 it costs to take down the grandstand and re-erect it in the Parklands each year.
Some people just don’t seem to be able to connect the dots. Here we are in a major global financial mess with jobs at risk and most developed countries providing various economic stimulus packages to try to get money back into their economies and save jobs.
Couldn’t help thinking about all the people that the $700K keeps in work – like the truck driver, the forklift operators, the riggers, electricians, carpenters, laborers and so on. Not a bad use of the money. Most of it will be spent locally and provide income for the second level goods and service providers – the retailers and so on – who are also struggling. I’m fairly comfortable that the tiny portion of my taxes that goes towards this project helps keep other people in work
As a bonus, it also gives us back our Parklands for most of the year.
Some people just don’t seem to be able to connect the dots. Here we are in a major global financial mess with jobs at risk and most developed countries providing various economic stimulus packages to try to get money back into their economies and save jobs.
Couldn’t help thinking about all the people that the $700K keeps in work – like the truck driver, the forklift operators, the riggers, electricians, carpenters, laborers and so on. Not a bad use of the money. Most of it will be spent locally and provide income for the second level goods and service providers – the retailers and so on – who are also struggling. I’m fairly comfortable that the tiny portion of my taxes that goes towards this project helps keep other people in work
As a bonus, it also gives us back our Parklands for most of the year.
Monday, March 23, 2009
Strange Gig
Just resurfacing after a fascinating week: redeveloped my website ianshort.com with WordPress; reviewed and edited a submission to the SA Govt in response to their RFP for managing and operating their emergency radio network; completed an Application for the Motor Trade Association Group Training Scheme for funding to construct new training facilities at their Royal Park Skills Training Centre; all nicely finished off with a visit to the dentist and a strange gig at Aberfoyle Park.
The strange gig was at three schools’ combined fair on Sunday. Great campus, but we were in an odd spot – a sort of courtyard halfway between the oval where the main action was and a stage where students were performing for parents.
Most people used it as a thoroughfare between the two places. But the main problem was that nobody had given the running schedule to the teachers organising the kids’ shows. So just as our band was due to start rocking the place, the kids were about to do their thing for an hour.
It just didn’t seem a good idea to drown out the cute junior xylophone group. So we negotiated a delayed start, stopped every now and then to let another school group strut its stuff for ten minutes and cut six songs out of our second set to help keep to the schedule.
Parents and kids loved their shows – and quite right too, after all, that’s what it is all about. But it didn’t make for a well-structured, dynamic set for us, our audience or the next band. Nor was it much fun. In fact, if we hadn’t been there at all it wouldn’t really have made much difference to the success of the day.
Still, our Warriors show finished only an hour later than scheduled and with the help of the last band (White Noise, who did a great job in difficult circumstances) we got everything packed up and into the Warriors’ trailer just before it started to drizzle.
It is interesting how quickly you travel down Flagstaff Hill when you’ve got half a ton of band equipment behind your car helping you along.
The strange gig was at three schools’ combined fair on Sunday. Great campus, but we were in an odd spot – a sort of courtyard halfway between the oval where the main action was and a stage where students were performing for parents.
Most people used it as a thoroughfare between the two places. But the main problem was that nobody had given the running schedule to the teachers organising the kids’ shows. So just as our band was due to start rocking the place, the kids were about to do their thing for an hour.
It just didn’t seem a good idea to drown out the cute junior xylophone group. So we negotiated a delayed start, stopped every now and then to let another school group strut its stuff for ten minutes and cut six songs out of our second set to help keep to the schedule.
Parents and kids loved their shows – and quite right too, after all, that’s what it is all about. But it didn’t make for a well-structured, dynamic set for us, our audience or the next band. Nor was it much fun. In fact, if we hadn’t been there at all it wouldn’t really have made much difference to the success of the day.
Still, our Warriors show finished only an hour later than scheduled and with the help of the last band (White Noise, who did a great job in difficult circumstances) we got everything packed up and into the Warriors’ trailer just before it started to drizzle.
It is interesting how quickly you travel down Flagstaff Hill when you’ve got half a ton of band equipment behind your car helping you along.
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