It’s that time of year in Edinburgh when the weather improves (really, it does), the university students head home, and the tourists who’ve been visiting in a steady stream all year arrive in a torrent. Some locals grumble about this. Princes Street is heaving. You can’t make your way down the Royal Mile or the Bridges. Coaches clog streets designed for horses and carts. There’s hardly a Scottish accent to be heard. To be fair, the latter is par for the course in cosmopolitan Edinburgh. This is no brogue I’m sporting.
I say, bring it on. I love tourists. Really, I do. Perhaps it’s because of my status as foreigner in this country; tourists help me blend a bit better. Perhaps it’s that I find socks and sandals endearing. Probably, it’s my distaste for hypocrisy that does it. I love tourists because I love being a tourist. I can’t have that one both ways.
A few years back, I went on holiday with my best pal who is a five-foot-ten blonde. She snorted with disdain at the all-inclusive resort wristbands we had to wear, loathing the fact that they made us look like tourists. I hated to break it to her that in Mexico, she and I, her ginger friend, weren’t ever going to look like anything else. Since most of Scotland’s visitors come from the rest of the UK, maybe you think that makes them harder to spot, but tourists stand out no matter how they may try to blend.
This time of year, I enjoy spotting the tell tale tourist signs - guidebooks, maps, cameras, and confused or amazed impressions. It makes me feel proud to live in a city so many people want to see. They save, plan, and wait for this opportunity. I have to look at the castle anew when I see someone photographing it, a loved one in the foreground. I want to climb up Arthur’s Seat again when I spy the figures atop the famous rise. I want to join the queue at the National Gallery and see the latest exhibit or just look at some old favourites again. I want to hear bagpipes and eat tablet. It’s inspiring to see so many people inspired by my city.
Undoubtedly, my favourite thing about tourists is the opportunity they bring for random conversations. Certain boundaries and constraints are removed when you become a guest in another locale. Getting lost, especially when you don’t speak the language, motivates you to get to know the locals. I must have a non-threatening aura, perhaps due to my small stature, because I often get asked for directions. My language skills are poor, but my pointing is top notch. Sometimes the accent disappoints people, but this is Edinburgh after all.
Let’s face it; people will either be locals or tourists. Once you travel outside a certain radius from your house, you become the latter. And that’s a good thing. Life is about new experiences, expanding your comfort zone, spending your money. When I travel abroad, I take my money with me. When tourists come to Edinburgh, they bring their money with them. From a purely economical standpoint, tourists are a plus. Scotland brings in about four billion pounds in tourism revenue each year. If that won’t make you hug a tourist, nothing will.
Sunday, 27 May 2007
Sunday, 20 May 2007
Parents' Night - Gripe
So I've just survived another parent night at my sons' high school. Just. Please do not misunderstand, for I am very keen to attend parents' night and to see my sons' teachers. I'm very keen. Oh yeah. I want to spend five hurried minutes discussing an entire year's worth of progress or lack thereof in each subject (there are 12) with each teacher my son sees. I want to be stressed for two hours on a Thursday evening, while I try to see all said teachers and ask all the questions I have. It would have helped if I'd brought the list. The report came in handy, but that is another gripe.
Actually, kudos to the teachers because they seem to know my sons (this week it was the younger one who is in his first year at high school) even though they teach hundreds of young people, sometimes more than one subject. They also seem to know exactly how he is doing and to be able to offer suggestions for his improvement. He needs it. Most of the teachers were willing to discuss things further over email because, let's face it, five minutes just isn't enough.
No, my gripe is not with the teachers. It's with the other parents. To be fair, each one of them is probably as stressed about the whole night as I am. But the fierce competition that arises for vacated seats in front of teachers is unparalleled anywhere in the animal kingdom. This year, I had a big gap between appointments and tried to slide in ahead of schedule where I could. Big mistake. I was attempting to get finished early since it was also the poor young son's birthday. How's that for a present? A report card and parents' night? When I was nearly physically run over for a seat, I decided to stick to the appointment times.
When I was a high school student, my parents had to meet each teacher in the classroom, alone, in private. Nowadays, that isn't deemed safe for parents or teachers, so we have to convene in the assembly hall and library. Teachers sit at small tables, sign posted with their names and subjects, and parents sit in rows of seats facing the teachers. This means that while you have your meeting, others can potentially hear what is being said, but worse, they stare at the back of your head, boring holes while they mentally oust you so they can make their own time slot. I try not to let that bother me, but I also try to keep to the five minutes. There's a small, spiteful part of me that wants to take the entire five minutes even on the rare occasion that only three are needed. However, unless someone's been really nippy in the queue, I don't let the small part take over.
Every year I tell myself to just relax, go in, sit down, wait for the teacher to call me, take my five minutes, and move on to the next appointment. Every year, within two minutes, I blow it. There's just this whole edgy vibe that I succumb to despite my good intentions. It's a little like boarding an EasyJet plane. Once one person moves toward the gate, everyone goes, including me, shoving my way to the front lest I be shoved.
What happens after my zen state promises get broken is that I, too, look at other people's appointment sheets to see who's got the earlier slot. I, too, edge closer to the backs of the parent chairs so that I can jump in as soon as the parents in them get up. I begin to stare at the backs of heads. I, too, ask if the people who've beat me to the jump actually have the time before mine. I, too, become someone I can't stand. It's ugly. It's parents' night.
This year, once I decided to let go of the competitive spirit, I did manage to relax and actually have pleasant conversations with other parents' night weary mothers and one father. It was kind of fun. It was also nice that some of their kids knew my son and said nice things about him at home. I couldn't say the same. My son's comments about school hover around the "I don't know," or the "I don't remember," region. That's why parents' night is important. Someone's got to tell me what he gets up to and how he is doing. Luckily for me and for him, he does have good teachers who can do just that, even in the short space of five minutes.
Actually, kudos to the teachers because they seem to know my sons (this week it was the younger one who is in his first year at high school) even though they teach hundreds of young people, sometimes more than one subject. They also seem to know exactly how he is doing and to be able to offer suggestions for his improvement. He needs it. Most of the teachers were willing to discuss things further over email because, let's face it, five minutes just isn't enough.
No, my gripe is not with the teachers. It's with the other parents. To be fair, each one of them is probably as stressed about the whole night as I am. But the fierce competition that arises for vacated seats in front of teachers is unparalleled anywhere in the animal kingdom. This year, I had a big gap between appointments and tried to slide in ahead of schedule where I could. Big mistake. I was attempting to get finished early since it was also the poor young son's birthday. How's that for a present? A report card and parents' night? When I was nearly physically run over for a seat, I decided to stick to the appointment times.
When I was a high school student, my parents had to meet each teacher in the classroom, alone, in private. Nowadays, that isn't deemed safe for parents or teachers, so we have to convene in the assembly hall and library. Teachers sit at small tables, sign posted with their names and subjects, and parents sit in rows of seats facing the teachers. This means that while you have your meeting, others can potentially hear what is being said, but worse, they stare at the back of your head, boring holes while they mentally oust you so they can make their own time slot. I try not to let that bother me, but I also try to keep to the five minutes. There's a small, spiteful part of me that wants to take the entire five minutes even on the rare occasion that only three are needed. However, unless someone's been really nippy in the queue, I don't let the small part take over.
Every year I tell myself to just relax, go in, sit down, wait for the teacher to call me, take my five minutes, and move on to the next appointment. Every year, within two minutes, I blow it. There's just this whole edgy vibe that I succumb to despite my good intentions. It's a little like boarding an EasyJet plane. Once one person moves toward the gate, everyone goes, including me, shoving my way to the front lest I be shoved.
What happens after my zen state promises get broken is that I, too, look at other people's appointment sheets to see who's got the earlier slot. I, too, edge closer to the backs of the parent chairs so that I can jump in as soon as the parents in them get up. I begin to stare at the backs of heads. I, too, ask if the people who've beat me to the jump actually have the time before mine. I, too, become someone I can't stand. It's ugly. It's parents' night.
This year, once I decided to let go of the competitive spirit, I did manage to relax and actually have pleasant conversations with other parents' night weary mothers and one father. It was kind of fun. It was also nice that some of their kids knew my son and said nice things about him at home. I couldn't say the same. My son's comments about school hover around the "I don't know," or the "I don't remember," region. That's why parents' night is important. Someone's got to tell me what he gets up to and how he is doing. Luckily for me and for him, he does have good teachers who can do just that, even in the short space of five minutes.
Sunday, 6 May 2007
Sunday Papers - Gold Star
I love reading the Sunday papers. I really do. For me it’s like respectable escapist fiction. No one would scoff seeing me read the Sunday Times, but I get to indulge my imagination as I read about jobs I can never apply for, homes I’ll never be able to afford, trips I couldn’t possibly take, cars I won’t buy, and clothes that I will never squeeze into.
Take for example a job posting for “Games Testers.” Now I don’t even like video games, but the only requirement is to be over 18, which I am, so technically, I qualify. Maybe my application would read something like, “As someone who hates video games because the men on the screen don’t do what I tell them no matter how much I yell, I can determine the frustration level of any game for new gamers within seconds. You will not find a more efficient tester anywhere in the current market.” Who knows, it could be fun, or it could be more stressful than my current job. Spending all day with young, male game nerds who probably shun soap like I shun stilettos may be more than my nerves and sense of smell could handle. All right, I’ll give that one a miss.
Perhaps the fashion sections offer the most mind-boggling information of any section in the Sunday paper. Last week a model was wearing £34000 worth of clothes. Now, this really gives me pause to wonder, who the hell is meant to be buying this paper (not the Times)? If any single outfit I own costs £340… well no single outfit does, including shoes and accessories. The Herald’s cheapest outfit is £134, but it looks a little like the model forgot to put on trousers. Sixties mod apparently took minimalism to the extreme. While I enjoy this element of the Lifestyle section, it doesn’t help me with my shoe dilemma. Again, it offers a bit of escapism. If I only had the money, they body, the high-heel tolerance, I too could look half dressed, but thin and young.
When I’ve finished with the recruitment pages, I spend ages scanning the property section. Why, I don’t really know. I can’t afford to move and like where I live, if not some aspects of my particular communal stair. I do like speculating how much a place will actually go for in this odd Scottish offers over system. Besides, I can plan my lottery winnings allocation. For example if I won two million on Wednesday, I could buy that six-bedroom townhouse in Bruntsfield and have change to furnish it and perhaps take a few years off work. Let’s say 30. That’s a few.
One of my favourite sections is Travel, or even better Escape. That is after all why I bought the Sunday papers, to experience a bit of a reality break. This week’s Herald magazine was really useful in fact, with a cheap – gasp – and interesting holiday to France featured. Who knows, we may go. I’ll probably not be heading to Japan’s Shimoda, featured in the Observer, but it has now become one of my “maybe someday’ destinations. Now, I've got even more opportunities to give my mind a treat during the daily, long commute.
There are a few columnists I enjoy reading, and I appreciate the restaurant reviews. Going out for dinner is something I do actually do once in a while. The food sections always have great wine buys, but other Sunday paper readers can deplete the shelves if I'm not quick off the mark. Some of the recipes look fantastic, but I'm not into that whole recipe card thing, and keeping endless pages lying about the kitchen causes some aggravation. Usually, I give it the old college try though before throwing the section out a few weeks later. Basically, the food section is a bit too useful to be much fun. I'm not going to fantasize about making risotto primavera.
One of the best things about Sunday papers is that I never finish them on Sunday. Actually, they end up lasting most of the week. By Saturday, I end up having a flick through Sports, once Reviews, Autos, Business, and the newsy bits are exhausted. It’s an interesting catalogue of priorities actually. Perhaps my section preference shows the areas of life I am looking for the most change in – job, home, wardrobe. Suffice it to say, I am glad it’s Sunday and I can get stuck into my week’s reading. Maybe this week, I’ll shake things up and read the Sports section first, that is if Graeme will swap me for Travel.
Take for example a job posting for “Games Testers.” Now I don’t even like video games, but the only requirement is to be over 18, which I am, so technically, I qualify. Maybe my application would read something like, “As someone who hates video games because the men on the screen don’t do what I tell them no matter how much I yell, I can determine the frustration level of any game for new gamers within seconds. You will not find a more efficient tester anywhere in the current market.” Who knows, it could be fun, or it could be more stressful than my current job. Spending all day with young, male game nerds who probably shun soap like I shun stilettos may be more than my nerves and sense of smell could handle. All right, I’ll give that one a miss.
Perhaps the fashion sections offer the most mind-boggling information of any section in the Sunday paper. Last week a model was wearing £34000 worth of clothes. Now, this really gives me pause to wonder, who the hell is meant to be buying this paper (not the Times)? If any single outfit I own costs £340… well no single outfit does, including shoes and accessories. The Herald’s cheapest outfit is £134, but it looks a little like the model forgot to put on trousers. Sixties mod apparently took minimalism to the extreme. While I enjoy this element of the Lifestyle section, it doesn’t help me with my shoe dilemma. Again, it offers a bit of escapism. If I only had the money, they body, the high-heel tolerance, I too could look half dressed, but thin and young.
When I’ve finished with the recruitment pages, I spend ages scanning the property section. Why, I don’t really know. I can’t afford to move and like where I live, if not some aspects of my particular communal stair. I do like speculating how much a place will actually go for in this odd Scottish offers over system. Besides, I can plan my lottery winnings allocation. For example if I won two million on Wednesday, I could buy that six-bedroom townhouse in Bruntsfield and have change to furnish it and perhaps take a few years off work. Let’s say 30. That’s a few.
One of my favourite sections is Travel, or even better Escape. That is after all why I bought the Sunday papers, to experience a bit of a reality break. This week’s Herald magazine was really useful in fact, with a cheap – gasp – and interesting holiday to France featured. Who knows, we may go. I’ll probably not be heading to Japan’s Shimoda, featured in the Observer, but it has now become one of my “maybe someday’ destinations. Now, I've got even more opportunities to give my mind a treat during the daily, long commute.
There are a few columnists I enjoy reading, and I appreciate the restaurant reviews. Going out for dinner is something I do actually do once in a while. The food sections always have great wine buys, but other Sunday paper readers can deplete the shelves if I'm not quick off the mark. Some of the recipes look fantastic, but I'm not into that whole recipe card thing, and keeping endless pages lying about the kitchen causes some aggravation. Usually, I give it the old college try though before throwing the section out a few weeks later. Basically, the food section is a bit too useful to be much fun. I'm not going to fantasize about making risotto primavera.
One of the best things about Sunday papers is that I never finish them on Sunday. Actually, they end up lasting most of the week. By Saturday, I end up having a flick through Sports, once Reviews, Autos, Business, and the newsy bits are exhausted. It’s an interesting catalogue of priorities actually. Perhaps my section preference shows the areas of life I am looking for the most change in – job, home, wardrobe. Suffice it to say, I am glad it’s Sunday and I can get stuck into my week’s reading. Maybe this week, I’ll shake things up and read the Sports section first, that is if Graeme will swap me for Travel.
Thursday, 26 April 2007
Sensible Shoes - Gripe
I am a pragmatist at heart, as much as I hate to admit it because it sounds boring as hell, and I fancy myself as the adventurous sort. However, when it comes to certain decisions, I tend to go with the option that ticks the greatest number of “sensible” boxes. Having a low pain tolerance and even lower frustration level, I generally go with comfy shoes if I will be on my feet for long periods of time. So that means that every day, I wear Clarks.
Yep, you read it right: Clarks. What is good about a pair of Clarks shoes, you may ask? A number of dull, mundane things, really. They are durable - my current, every day pair have been in use for six years, and they have at least twice that left in them. They accommodate orthotics nicely. I’ve got problem feet due to miles and miles of running in my more foolish days. Clarks have rubber soles which means that the pavement is far more forgiving, and I can touch electric fencing without feeling anything more than a gentle tingle. And in case you are wondering, yes I have tested this, but wouldn’t advise anyone to try it at home or in a field far from medical help.
What is bad about a pair of Clarks? Well, they are just so sensible and durable that the pragmatist in me can’t throw them out, even if they are five years out of fashion. All right, they probably never were in fashion. Usually I can’t see what they look like on my feet, except for the ariel view. Not too bad, black, decent, if basic, shape. However, a few weeks ago, I had a haircut, and since I walked to the salon, I wore my Clarks. For the first time in all these years, I saw what they look like from the front. Utterly embarrassed, I am on a mission to find some new comfy shoes.
Sadly, I’ve yet to find a pair of shoes that meet the needs of both fashion and function. A big dilemma is avoiding that whole, “I dress like my teenaged children” syndrome, which is only acceptable if you are Amish, which clearly, I am not. So the other night, I ignored my inner pragmatist and wore a very impractical, very high heeled, pair of suede boots to a gig at the Liquid Rooms.
There actually was a method to my madness. Usually at these things, I stand in the crowd on my tip-toes, craning my neck in all directions to see whatever glimpses of the performers I can. See, I’m five feet tall. Just the five feet. Sometimes when I have to give my height, I add an inch, just to make it sound interesting. But the fact is, there is no other inch. Travis were playing an exclusive gig and they are big, so I really wanted to be able to see them. By my calculations, I’d have to be on my feet for two hours, so I felt I could tolerate the boots. I never was any good at math.
We stood in the queue at 6:45, having walked to the venue. The doors opened at 7:30 – late, and the gig ended at 10:30. So how long is that? Four hours with walking time? I won’t retell the comedy of errors that led to us walking home, but let’s just say it ended with me, boots in hand, half crawling to the only available taxi in the city centre, picking bits of gravel out of my socks, and Graeme heavily tipping the driver for his troubles over a £3 fare.
The irony is that the Clarks would have sufficed. We had arrived at the venue early enough that I got to stand in the front, with no one in front of me but the band. This surreal experience is for another entry, but let me just say I am still not over it. I didn't even feel the agony of my feet until they left the stage. However, as soon as we hit the exit, I knew the boots were a bad idea and I desperately needed to get me some new comfy shoes.
So what do I want in a new pair of shoes? Not much really. I want a bit of height, a bit of colour, a bit of fashion, and a bit of room for my inserts. And I don’t want to pay fifty quid. Needless to say, the boots are shelved for now, and the Clarks motivate me to find a way of destroying the indestructible. However, I will wear them on my next shopping trip. I’d rather face the wrath of the fashion police than my chiropodist. At this point, I’m taking suggestions. If I come up with the magic solution, I’ll let you know. Please, don’t hold your breath.
Yep, you read it right: Clarks. What is good about a pair of Clarks shoes, you may ask? A number of dull, mundane things, really. They are durable - my current, every day pair have been in use for six years, and they have at least twice that left in them. They accommodate orthotics nicely. I’ve got problem feet due to miles and miles of running in my more foolish days. Clarks have rubber soles which means that the pavement is far more forgiving, and I can touch electric fencing without feeling anything more than a gentle tingle. And in case you are wondering, yes I have tested this, but wouldn’t advise anyone to try it at home or in a field far from medical help.
What is bad about a pair of Clarks? Well, they are just so sensible and durable that the pragmatist in me can’t throw them out, even if they are five years out of fashion. All right, they probably never were in fashion. Usually I can’t see what they look like on my feet, except for the ariel view. Not too bad, black, decent, if basic, shape. However, a few weeks ago, I had a haircut, and since I walked to the salon, I wore my Clarks. For the first time in all these years, I saw what they look like from the front. Utterly embarrassed, I am on a mission to find some new comfy shoes.
Sadly, I’ve yet to find a pair of shoes that meet the needs of both fashion and function. A big dilemma is avoiding that whole, “I dress like my teenaged children” syndrome, which is only acceptable if you are Amish, which clearly, I am not. So the other night, I ignored my inner pragmatist and wore a very impractical, very high heeled, pair of suede boots to a gig at the Liquid Rooms.
There actually was a method to my madness. Usually at these things, I stand in the crowd on my tip-toes, craning my neck in all directions to see whatever glimpses of the performers I can. See, I’m five feet tall. Just the five feet. Sometimes when I have to give my height, I add an inch, just to make it sound interesting. But the fact is, there is no other inch. Travis were playing an exclusive gig and they are big, so I really wanted to be able to see them. By my calculations, I’d have to be on my feet for two hours, so I felt I could tolerate the boots. I never was any good at math.
We stood in the queue at 6:45, having walked to the venue. The doors opened at 7:30 – late, and the gig ended at 10:30. So how long is that? Four hours with walking time? I won’t retell the comedy of errors that led to us walking home, but let’s just say it ended with me, boots in hand, half crawling to the only available taxi in the city centre, picking bits of gravel out of my socks, and Graeme heavily tipping the driver for his troubles over a £3 fare.
The irony is that the Clarks would have sufficed. We had arrived at the venue early enough that I got to stand in the front, with no one in front of me but the band. This surreal experience is for another entry, but let me just say I am still not over it. I didn't even feel the agony of my feet until they left the stage. However, as soon as we hit the exit, I knew the boots were a bad idea and I desperately needed to get me some new comfy shoes.
So what do I want in a new pair of shoes? Not much really. I want a bit of height, a bit of colour, a bit of fashion, and a bit of room for my inserts. And I don’t want to pay fifty quid. Needless to say, the boots are shelved for now, and the Clarks motivate me to find a way of destroying the indestructible. However, I will wear them on my next shopping trip. I’d rather face the wrath of the fashion police than my chiropodist. At this point, I’m taking suggestions. If I come up with the magic solution, I’ll let you know. Please, don’t hold your breath.
Friday, 20 April 2007
Radio Contests - Gold Star Update
Most of you will be aware of my compulsive contest habit, so I'll not rehash. (See the original Radio Competitions post if you are new here.) I'm not ashamed to admit that I spend a fair bit of my daily waking hours listening to the radio and entering every competition I can. Now, when I come into work, people ask me if I've won anything today. Why they aren't entering themselves, I'll never know. They are still convinced they won't win, maybe convinced I'll always win instead. This week, however, proving it's not a fix, someone else has been winning.
I've had to hand the victory torch over to Graeme. First, he won us tickets to see Travis (great Scottish band) play at a small Edinburgh venue. Money can't buy this prize; tickets can only be won through xfm, which is my favourite station as luck would have it. Second, he won tickets and camping passes to Rock Ness, a music festival held on the shores of beautiful Loch Ness. We could have bought tickets (£100 each), but probably wouldn't have spent that much on a weekend of music. For those of you who have been sleep reading, we won those on xfm.
The second win was really a team effort. We both tried to get on the air to win, but Graeme made it. I had figured out the answer to the question: what is the name of the person who blagged his way onto the guest list. That was a tough one. Did you know that Eddie "the Eagle" Edwards had a law degree and is now a sports agent? Even more obscurely, he put out two singles, one in a foreign language. The fact that he had formerly been a plasterer helped me nail it. Go figure. The point here is that sometimes a team effort is the best way to win.
All right, so I've said this before, but it's worth saying again. Get entering competitions, any free competitions you can. You want to be a winner, don't you? Well, you've got to play. Find somebody to play along and double your chances. Besides, shared victory really is sweet. Get in there and let me know when you win. I'll share with you, if not the prize, then in the glory basking at least.
I've had to hand the victory torch over to Graeme. First, he won us tickets to see Travis (great Scottish band) play at a small Edinburgh venue. Money can't buy this prize; tickets can only be won through xfm, which is my favourite station as luck would have it. Second, he won tickets and camping passes to Rock Ness, a music festival held on the shores of beautiful Loch Ness. We could have bought tickets (£100 each), but probably wouldn't have spent that much on a weekend of music. For those of you who have been sleep reading, we won those on xfm.
The second win was really a team effort. We both tried to get on the air to win, but Graeme made it. I had figured out the answer to the question: what is the name of the person who blagged his way onto the guest list. That was a tough one. Did you know that Eddie "the Eagle" Edwards had a law degree and is now a sports agent? Even more obscurely, he put out two singles, one in a foreign language. The fact that he had formerly been a plasterer helped me nail it. Go figure. The point here is that sometimes a team effort is the best way to win.
All right, so I've said this before, but it's worth saying again. Get entering competitions, any free competitions you can. You want to be a winner, don't you? Well, you've got to play. Find somebody to play along and double your chances. Besides, shared victory really is sweet. Get in there and let me know when you win. I'll share with you, if not the prize, then in the glory basking at least.
Monday, 16 April 2007
Gondolas - Gripe
This past weekend, I was away in Austria, having won a trip for two the Snowbombing music festival in Mayrhofen. The real bonus for me came when we were told that ski hire and lift passes were included in the prize. As we got our gear and picked up our lift cards, my excitement was too much to contain. It had been seven years since I’d been down any slope and my first time ever skiing in Europe. The fact that the guy at the rental shop told me, “Here, it’s not better than Canada,” didn’t dissuade me or dampen my enthusiasm. Nope, the gondola took care of that.
Now, I’d been on gondolas before and never batted one eyelash at the thought of climbing into a box suspended on a cable by rollers meant to wheel me up a mountainside. Maybe that had something to do with youthful naivety, or perhaps the snow always threw off my depth perception. If everything’s white, it’s harder to tell how far down it really is. Maybe the fact that this particular gondola went up a very steep incline and traversed a valley made it seem particularly death defying.
It could have been that the seats were tiny perches that made me feel like I was falling already. Perhaps the lack of anything to hold onto made me feel even more fatally suspended. I really don’t think it was the height itself, more the thought of falling that far. Let’s face it, a gondola is a mystery of physics to most of us, and I almost failed that particular subject in high school.
For the first 30 seconds, I was fine. Then fear or perhaps the realization of how ludicrous this contraption really is struck like a king cobra. For the next seven minutes, I was the most terrified person alive. I was facing up the mountain, and Graeme was across from me, commenting on the spectacular views. “Look, Grundvald. It’s amazing” he was enthusing, until my silence prompted him to tear his eyes from the view and look at my face. I’m not sure who was more surprised at my mammoth freak out, Graeme or I, but certainly neither of us was expecting it.
When he asked me if I was all right, I could only shake my head slightly in response, fearing that if I opened my mouth, my stomach contents would make an unwelcome appearance. This would have been bad enough had Graeme and I been the only passengers, but sadly we were not. The two children with their parents could probably tell I was less than comfortable, but I’m not sure what they were saying about it as they stared at me. My German is about as good as my Mandarin. At least when the kids shoved past my quivering mass to get off the lift first, I was fully reassured that I hadn’t put them off.
Now I was worried whether or not I would be able to ski; my legs were shaking so badly. Luckily, Graeme hadn’t been on skis in years either, so he was happy to do the bunny run for a warm up. The gentle slope took off the adrenalin edge and helped me find my mountain legs. The rest of the day was a dream. The sun shone; the runs were great; the hills were alive with the sound of music (there was a festival going on after all).
Then came the time to head back down. In the spring, there’s no such thing as skiing out, so the only way down is on the gondola. Turns out, down is worse than up. Pointing down at such a steep incline, the feeling of falling is trebled. I decided if I got down on the floor, I could pretend that I wasn’t in the gondola at all. I kept saying, “I’m on the train. I’m on the train going from Waverly to Haymarket.” Graeme called me a lazy sod and told me to get off. It’s a ten-minute walk.
The laugh helped; however, I discovered that I still needed something to hold on to. That turned out to be Graeme’s leg. Luckily for me, he’s patient and somewhat amused by such weirdness. Even luckier, we were the only ones in the carriage. I can only imagine how this all may have looked to people in passing cubicles. At least they’ll get a story out of it, too.
The very worst moment came when the wind picked up. The carriage swayed, admittedly rather gently, but to me it was Armageddon. If you’ve seen the Goonies, you’ll know who Chunk is and what his wails sound and look like. It was like he was there, channeled by my panic, out of the celluloid and into the present day, alive and yelling. Amusement provided a temporary reprieve from the terror as that thought crossed my mind, but we still had two and half minutes left to go, a long time to be scared witless. I mean, sounding like Chunk? What else do you need to hear to know I was beyond afraid?
Very near the bottom, Graeme gave me the all clear to stand up, so I did. My legs were cramping wildly after a full day crammed in rental boots. My muscles had to struggle to move off the gondola, but the mind was willing. Otherwise it would have meant going right back up. Despite the wobbles of terror, that was all the motivation I needed to bolt when the doors opened.
Being the sort of person who hates having fears, I like to confront them, especially irrational ones. To be fair though, how irrational is it really to be frightened of a gondola? Really? However, the next day, I was determined to screw on the head and go up again. So I did. Go up again, that is. Sadly, it was a repeat performance, but perhaps some of the original drama was lost. I was still bricking it, but hit the floor sooner, pretending to go from Haymarket to Linlithgow, so as not to be asked to hop off again. As much as I hated that little box, I was not getting near the door until we reached the station. After all the thought of falling is the scary thing. Now the conundrum lies in how I will get over this newly acquired fear. Scotland, as far as I know, is gondola free. I knew this was a great country.
Now, I’d been on gondolas before and never batted one eyelash at the thought of climbing into a box suspended on a cable by rollers meant to wheel me up a mountainside. Maybe that had something to do with youthful naivety, or perhaps the snow always threw off my depth perception. If everything’s white, it’s harder to tell how far down it really is. Maybe the fact that this particular gondola went up a very steep incline and traversed a valley made it seem particularly death defying.
It could have been that the seats were tiny perches that made me feel like I was falling already. Perhaps the lack of anything to hold onto made me feel even more fatally suspended. I really don’t think it was the height itself, more the thought of falling that far. Let’s face it, a gondola is a mystery of physics to most of us, and I almost failed that particular subject in high school.
For the first 30 seconds, I was fine. Then fear or perhaps the realization of how ludicrous this contraption really is struck like a king cobra. For the next seven minutes, I was the most terrified person alive. I was facing up the mountain, and Graeme was across from me, commenting on the spectacular views. “Look, Grundvald. It’s amazing” he was enthusing, until my silence prompted him to tear his eyes from the view and look at my face. I’m not sure who was more surprised at my mammoth freak out, Graeme or I, but certainly neither of us was expecting it.
When he asked me if I was all right, I could only shake my head slightly in response, fearing that if I opened my mouth, my stomach contents would make an unwelcome appearance. This would have been bad enough had Graeme and I been the only passengers, but sadly we were not. The two children with their parents could probably tell I was less than comfortable, but I’m not sure what they were saying about it as they stared at me. My German is about as good as my Mandarin. At least when the kids shoved past my quivering mass to get off the lift first, I was fully reassured that I hadn’t put them off.
Now I was worried whether or not I would be able to ski; my legs were shaking so badly. Luckily, Graeme hadn’t been on skis in years either, so he was happy to do the bunny run for a warm up. The gentle slope took off the adrenalin edge and helped me find my mountain legs. The rest of the day was a dream. The sun shone; the runs were great; the hills were alive with the sound of music (there was a festival going on after all).
Then came the time to head back down. In the spring, there’s no such thing as skiing out, so the only way down is on the gondola. Turns out, down is worse than up. Pointing down at such a steep incline, the feeling of falling is trebled. I decided if I got down on the floor, I could pretend that I wasn’t in the gondola at all. I kept saying, “I’m on the train. I’m on the train going from Waverly to Haymarket.” Graeme called me a lazy sod and told me to get off. It’s a ten-minute walk.
The laugh helped; however, I discovered that I still needed something to hold on to. That turned out to be Graeme’s leg. Luckily for me, he’s patient and somewhat amused by such weirdness. Even luckier, we were the only ones in the carriage. I can only imagine how this all may have looked to people in passing cubicles. At least they’ll get a story out of it, too.
The very worst moment came when the wind picked up. The carriage swayed, admittedly rather gently, but to me it was Armageddon. If you’ve seen the Goonies, you’ll know who Chunk is and what his wails sound and look like. It was like he was there, channeled by my panic, out of the celluloid and into the present day, alive and yelling. Amusement provided a temporary reprieve from the terror as that thought crossed my mind, but we still had two and half minutes left to go, a long time to be scared witless. I mean, sounding like Chunk? What else do you need to hear to know I was beyond afraid?
Very near the bottom, Graeme gave me the all clear to stand up, so I did. My legs were cramping wildly after a full day crammed in rental boots. My muscles had to struggle to move off the gondola, but the mind was willing. Otherwise it would have meant going right back up. Despite the wobbles of terror, that was all the motivation I needed to bolt when the doors opened.
Being the sort of person who hates having fears, I like to confront them, especially irrational ones. To be fair though, how irrational is it really to be frightened of a gondola? Really? However, the next day, I was determined to screw on the head and go up again. So I did. Go up again, that is. Sadly, it was a repeat performance, but perhaps some of the original drama was lost. I was still bricking it, but hit the floor sooner, pretending to go from Haymarket to Linlithgow, so as not to be asked to hop off again. As much as I hated that little box, I was not getting near the door until we reached the station. After all the thought of falling is the scary thing. Now the conundrum lies in how I will get over this newly acquired fear. Scotland, as far as I know, is gondola free. I knew this was a great country.
Tuesday, 10 April 2007
Daisy Does America - Gold Star
Sorry if this is a bit behind the times for you, but I have just discovered Daisy Does America on Living TV2. The title is reminiscent of a badly scripted pornographic film. But honestly, this is family viewing; that is, if your family is not American and doesn’t take itself too seriously.
Daisy Donovan says in the intro that she has big American dreams. In order to realize these dreams, she attempts to break into stereotypically ultra-American pursuits. Among other things, she tries becoming a bounty hunter, a rapper, a dog handler, a beauty queen, and a wedding planner. These people take themselves and their ventures very seriously, and just can't tell when Daisy isn't doing the same.
Daisy’s earnest expressions and reverence for her mentors endear her to each group she infiltrates, but the underlying derision goes over their heads. Daisy doesn’t directly mock or make fools of anyone. They do it themselves, but in the most innocent and passionate of ways. It's funny and oddly endearing.
For example, Daisy enlists the help of a young beauty pageant star and her mother to prepare Daisy for her upcoming pageant debut. Both mother and daughter really want to help Daisy win, even if she never expects pageant glory. They ask Daisy if she has a routine for the talent competition. By her face, it’s obvious she doesn’t, but she says she does. Daisy gets marching and Britney Spears music-video dancing about the living room, which was comical in and of itself.
Even funnier however, is that the mum says it isn’t bad. By her face, you can see this isn't entirely true. But she sets about helping Daisy to refine the steps and arm movements, just refining, not changing. So pageant routines are meant to be look ridiculously cheesy? I actually laughed out loud watching this scene, which is a major accomplishment for any show. My reactions to on screen humour tend more toward smiles or light chuckles at best. Curiosity piqued, the rest of the family had to come see what I was watching.
Turns out, it’s not my partner’s sort of show. If you are, like he is, someone who gets embarrassed for people on television, you may not want to watch. While appearing to embarrass herself, Daisy points to the most ridiculous aspects of each career she tries. While the premise of the show is rather Ali G in nature, the delivery is all Daisy Donovan. The show isn't scripted, so the laughs are all natural.
Although I've been living in the UK for a few years now, I’m a Canadian who grew up with American television and culture colouring my identity. Maybe that's why I am partial to the brand of humour in this show. Daisy pokes fun at the extremes of American culture, while embracing them at the same time. Sort of like a Canadian.
To Americans, the humour in Daisy Does America may be a bit too British, or perhaps too close to the bone to bring about any really deep belly laughs. It may look like bad docu-drama, but it’s all genuinely good-natured ribbing. Daisy obviously does like America and Americans, even while she makes us laugh at some of the oddest the nation has to offer. The rap episode particularly shows how much she wants to successfully integrate and how well received she is by her hosts.
For Americans who haven’t seen the show, give it a try, and just remember she does love you. For everyone else, tune in, and see what I think is the funniest thing on television. Hey, she’s not laughing at you or me.
Daisy Donovan says in the intro that she has big American dreams. In order to realize these dreams, she attempts to break into stereotypically ultra-American pursuits. Among other things, she tries becoming a bounty hunter, a rapper, a dog handler, a beauty queen, and a wedding planner. These people take themselves and their ventures very seriously, and just can't tell when Daisy isn't doing the same.
Daisy’s earnest expressions and reverence for her mentors endear her to each group she infiltrates, but the underlying derision goes over their heads. Daisy doesn’t directly mock or make fools of anyone. They do it themselves, but in the most innocent and passionate of ways. It's funny and oddly endearing.
For example, Daisy enlists the help of a young beauty pageant star and her mother to prepare Daisy for her upcoming pageant debut. Both mother and daughter really want to help Daisy win, even if she never expects pageant glory. They ask Daisy if she has a routine for the talent competition. By her face, it’s obvious she doesn’t, but she says she does. Daisy gets marching and Britney Spears music-video dancing about the living room, which was comical in and of itself.
Even funnier however, is that the mum says it isn’t bad. By her face, you can see this isn't entirely true. But she sets about helping Daisy to refine the steps and arm movements, just refining, not changing. So pageant routines are meant to be look ridiculously cheesy? I actually laughed out loud watching this scene, which is a major accomplishment for any show. My reactions to on screen humour tend more toward smiles or light chuckles at best. Curiosity piqued, the rest of the family had to come see what I was watching.
Turns out, it’s not my partner’s sort of show. If you are, like he is, someone who gets embarrassed for people on television, you may not want to watch. While appearing to embarrass herself, Daisy points to the most ridiculous aspects of each career she tries. While the premise of the show is rather Ali G in nature, the delivery is all Daisy Donovan. The show isn't scripted, so the laughs are all natural.
Although I've been living in the UK for a few years now, I’m a Canadian who grew up with American television and culture colouring my identity. Maybe that's why I am partial to the brand of humour in this show. Daisy pokes fun at the extremes of American culture, while embracing them at the same time. Sort of like a Canadian.
To Americans, the humour in Daisy Does America may be a bit too British, or perhaps too close to the bone to bring about any really deep belly laughs. It may look like bad docu-drama, but it’s all genuinely good-natured ribbing. Daisy obviously does like America and Americans, even while she makes us laugh at some of the oddest the nation has to offer. The rap episode particularly shows how much she wants to successfully integrate and how well received she is by her hosts.
For Americans who haven’t seen the show, give it a try, and just remember she does love you. For everyone else, tune in, and see what I think is the funniest thing on television. Hey, she’s not laughing at you or me.
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