Danger, Will Robinson!

With the weekend looming, the organisers at the Aspen Center for Physics gave a short presentation on hiking in the local area. The sun was shining as we entered the auditorium, lighting up inviting green hills up which a stream of gondolas were gaily making their way. Everyone from the elderly professors to the young researchers clutching babies was keen to get outside.

The speaker was a retired Physicist from Chicago who started his speech with a clear pronouncement that he proceeded to repeat:

"If you want to go hiking, you should find someone who has been before. What we call an expert."

I looked sceptically out at the landscape around one of America's most up-scale tourist centres. Of course, all hiking had risks, but the walks around Aspen were not known for being technically difficult. Our guide however, was most insistent. A waterproof coat was essential if you were even looking in the direction of a mountain. As was a topologically detailed map, a cell phone (although this wouldn't work, so relying on it would result in DEATH) and you should inform at least three people and a lamppost where you were going and when you were expected back.

It was sound advice but presented with a strong side-dollop of terror, which swiftly became the main course as our host warmed up to the theme.

For Cinderella, the time of destruction was midnight, but for us hikers in Aspen, it was midday. Be up on the mountain after this time and a lightening storm would descend upon you, causing your hair to stand on end and leaving you nowhere to run. Then you would be electrocuted and promptly eaten by a bear. The end.

These instructions were followed by a tale of warning about a Physicist from the centre who went missing for three days. Apparently, despite having a topological map and other appropriate equipment, he became lost. Because he was a loner, no one noticed he was gone until his wife called the Sheriff's office after not hearing from him for two nights.

That could be YOU, you friendless socially awkward geeks

was the unvocalised message.

After fifteen minutes, a blue booklet listing walks was waved at us and our speaker departed with a cheerful, "I strongly encourage you all to get out and about!"

There was stunned silence in the auditorium.

This event was directly followed by a seminar on 'crumpling'. Yep, that's right - an entire scientific seminar on crumpling paper. Or Physicists. Somehow it was oddly appropriate.

ARCH RIVAL #1

My area of research in Astronomy involves computer simulations of individual galaxies. There are a few groups working on similar projects to me, but there is one person in particular whose research is so close that she shall henceforth be known as ARCH RIVAL #1. ARCH RIVAL #1 not only develops similar models, but she is also British and my exact contemporary, graduating the same year I did, albeit from a different university.

Even though we are employed on different continents (North America is MINE bitches, but one day I will retake Europe), the similarity of our work means that we frequently attend the same conferences. Currently, we are both in Aspen. In June, we were both in Barcelona. April saw us in Florida and last summer in Italy. You get the idea. Other scientists confuse us, sometimes using the wrong name even when facing the person in question.

So what was I to do when said ARCH RIVAL #1 had her birthday during this workshop? Clearly, a multi-step plan was in order:

1. First, announce said birthday to an entire room of Astronomers during the formal discussion we were jointly leading this morning.

2. Buy a cake.

3. Fill the birthday girl's slice with a slow acting poison that takes 72 HOURS to take affect, knowing that she reads my blog.

4. Laugh evilly.

5. Repeat (4) to taste.

WHAHAHAHAHAHA. 

Go west

Sharing the driving on long journeys might naively be considered an act worthy of encouragement. Car rental companies, however, appear to relish the prospect of a single jet-lagged aeroplane passenger, probably freshly arrived from the UK, Australia or Japan, taking out a vehicle they have never driven before on a long road trip starting at the edge of a major city. As such, they charge exorbitant rates for adding a second driver to the rental agreement. This phenomenon resulted in me taking advantage of Alamos' alternative solution of free coffee, before heading out from Denver airport to the ski resort town of Aspen.

The first part of the journey ran straight along the highway. Normally this would be an uninteresting route, but it was marked by me having the dubious honour of being the only sober driver on the road. Our first encounter with the upshot of this situation was a car just in front of us that was positioned in the lane about as centrally as the right-wing player in a hockey game. So far over was the vehicle that two of its wheels were running in the narrow hard shoulder. Deciding that this was not a person I wished to be behind, I overtook, allowing us a great view of the driver actually drinking behind the wheel.

Any illusions that we might have harboured of this being an isolated incident were swept aside by the electronic road signs. There must have been at least half a dozen, all flashing messages about fines incurred for DUI. The law, one stated, was cracking down, which rather implied this was a new initiative. Police cars littered the road side, pulling over cars on both sides of the highway. I should have pointed them half a mile back to our friend with the centring problem.

Since we were passing through the mountains, the road went through a series of fairly steep dips and peaks. This must have been an issue for large trucks, since sheer run off ramps, resembling the world's best skateboard playground, led off the road at frequent intervals. Despite the encouragement of my supervisor, I refrained from trying one out in our corolla. Worryingly, one of the only non drunk driver signs I saw requested those without breaks to not take the next turn.

Rather to my relief, a couple of hours later saw us leaving the highway and weaving into the mountains. The route was winding and narrow in places, with a number of hairpin 180 degree turns. My GPS unit apparently grew weary of it, since at one point it directed us to a track I could barely make out, that was unmarked by road signs. Evidently, it thought the time had come to go straight over a mountain. As with its suggestion regarding leaping the bridge at the US border, I ignored it. 

The main hazards on this part of the trip were not the roads, the GPS unit or the drunk drivers, but the wildlife. It was now late at night and the roadsides were peppered with deer, foxes, rabbits, raccoons and even a coyote. The raccoons comprised of a family, with two adults and a slightly smaller stripey beast. This diminutive one stopped right before my wheel to have a good examination of the red shiny machine before it finally conceded to move along. I could have taught it a lesson, but there seemed little point if it wouldn't have lived to benefit from the education.

Aspen itself is beautiful, as was revealed when we surfaced the next morning (from our beds, not a ditch, in case anyone was doubting my driving ability). Houses that I'd need to marry a movie star to own are scattered on the hillside and the town, when not in ski-season, hosts many different cultural groups including musicians, Shakespeare performers, ballet camps and, um, physicists. I couldn't help but wonder, as I walked through the streets in a tee-shirt and khakis, whether the person who suggested the institute was still allowed a home inside the town boundaries.

I have been put in an apartment with the two other British postdocs in our workshop. We have bought 100 teabags.

Quality, not quantity

During the entire season of softball I have never once made a successful catch. This was partly because I was lousy at determining where the ball would land, equally bad regarding the dimensions of my GIANT HAND and vain enough to like my nose the shape it was. Because of this, my team kindly placed me on short field when we weren't batting, meaning that I had back-up both behind me from the outer fielders and in-front of me from the basemen.

In the last game I was to play in, this successful set-up was changed and I was put as catcher. This was because I still couldn't run well after my fall in the previous game and everyone was kindly pretending that would make a difference. The catcher stands behind the batter as a backstop and doubles up as the forth basemen on home. While it is considered advantageous to have competent people on all the bases, the catcher is not as vital as the first basemen, who has the chance to get out every single player. For me, the batter has to have got past three of my friends first before I have a chance of getting them out.

Unfortunately, the other team were rather good at this. I was doing my best. Enthusiastically, I stepped forward when the batter ran and put one foot on the base, indicating that I was here, ready to stop all those home runs and hoping by now everyone had more sense than to take me up on this offer.

Half-way through the top of the seventh inning, and the other team had two people on the bases. Then the batsman hit far into the outfield and went for the home run. The guy on third base dashed past me, hotly pursued by his two teammates. Our outer fielder threw the ball towards the diamond, where it was caught by a baseman. He turned towards me and I held out my glove, thinking...

'..... oh crap.'

The ball landed squarely in my hand.

"Out and out!" shouted the umpire. "Three outs."

I stared at the yellow sphere. One season. One catch. But it was the right one.

Air border

US border guard: What is the purpose of your trip to the USA?

Me: I'm attending a conference in astrophysics.

US border guard: How long is this conference?

Me: Three weeks.

US border guard: .... that is too long.

Me: ..... you're telling me -.-

PMA

"We can do better than last time! Or the same! Or worse! Those are our three options and I feel we should be positive about all of them."

This bold, upbeat yet pleasingly accurate statement was issued by a teammate halfway through our softball game. Its quantitative nature also served to remind our rival team of historians that we were physicists and therefore, regardless of score, just harder than they were. Period.

Proof of this statement came minutes later when a ball smacked the same teammate in the arm and bounced into her face. I also fell before first base and skidded along the ground, neatly bruising everything from hip to ankle. Somewhat ironically, I wasn't even batting but running for another player who was injured. Good deeds don't always pay off; remember that. Yet we carried on! I have to say, not being able to walk made no noticeable difference to my fielding.

It might have been a tough game but you can always find satisfaction. Mine came in knowing that I could use all the hot water up that night and prevent my upstairs neighbour taking a shower. Poor boy. He was on the other team.

Frozen grape ammunition

"Each frozen grape only produces one drop of ice wine."

I looked up from the bottles I had been considering to see a smiling sales assistant. She indicated a TV screen in the corner of the store which was showing the ice wine making process. Apparently, the grape must freeze naturally after it has ripened, which makes the timing rather precarious.

"Only here in Niagara and Germany can make ice wine," the assistant continued.

Wikipedia, incidentally, disagrees with this. It notes that those two are the largest producers, but also throws in Austria before mentioning other countries make some ice wine but cheat by refrigerating the grapes. Evidently, my companion had a dim view of such methods, possibly coupled with an irrational dislike for 'The Sound of Music.'

"Have you ever tried ice wine? Let me give you a sample."

I looked back at the bottles and then glanced outside. I was at the duty-free shop at the Canadian/USA boarder on Saturday morning. The land border at Niagara. The one you had to drive through. The one EVERYONE passing through that duty-free had to drive through.

"Well, um... I'm driving?"

The woman followed my gaze. On the road running outside the store was a stationary line of traffic heading over the bridge to border control. To even get as far as the shop had been a painstakingly slow journey. When I had ground to a halt behind a large black SUV, I could not even make out the start of the bridge. Quite where everyone was going was somewhat of a mystery. It was almost lunchtime on a Saturday, so the only place that you really had time to travel to for the weekend was up-state New York. I guessed they were all taking off for several weeks summer vacation. I ground my teeth. Slackers.

The sales assistant turned from the unmoving line of cars to me, "You know, dear, I don't think it will be a problem."

I wondered whether it was possible to get free samples in tankards.

"You are going to the USA?" she confirmed as I was handed a paper thimble full of liquid. "We don't sell these bottles to go anywhere else and you can't buy them at the duty-free coming into Canada."

I raised an eyebrow. At this stage, I don't think I had a choice but to cross the border, or at least attempt to, but it made you wonder about the contents of the wines. Was this part of the grand invasion plan? First we poison you with ice wine, then we march on your ice rink? I swallowed the my sample. Invasion had never tasted so sweet.

Back on the road, I eased my car across the bridge. The speed limit on this stretch was 15 km/h and electronic speed detectors were set up to warn drivers if they were going too fast. As I passed one, it flashed up a '4'. My SatNav system randomly rotated the map by 180 degrees. It seemed to be subtly hinting that diving off the bridge might be quicker. Even with the associated jail time.

"When were you last in the USA?"

I had finally inched up to a booth and the occupant guard was idly flicking through my passport, hunting for the ID page.

"It's at the back," I volunteered. "And a couple of weeks ago."

"You didn't keep your green visa slip?" he grinned, quite unnecessarily in my opinion. "You'll have to stop. Hope you brought a good book!"

I sighed and speculated that maybe the border guards were only in a good mood when they could be assured that you were about to have a worse day then them.

The journey back, however, was its usual plain sailing.

"Are you bringing anything back from the USA?"

"Cat litter. Nope."

Hardball

There are four great North American sports that Brits largely fail to understand. Ice hockey (we don't really do 'ice'), basketball (too much like netball which is played by women), baseball (exactly like rounders which is played by small girls) and football (where do I even start?).

That said, the popularity of these sports means I often take opportunities to go to games, because it is something I wouldn't get to do at home. Hence, when a friend said she could get tickets for the baseball game between the Toronto Blue Jays and the Boston Red Sox, I jumped at the chance.

I didn't know much about the Jays, but the Red Sox name was familiar from being regularly cursed through the streets of New York. It turned out that the two teams were fairly close in the league, but that the Jays were suffering from some form of psychological block that was causing them to repeatedly loose spectacularly to the Red Sox. I couldn't help but feel that being sponsored by the Bochner eye institute probably wasn't doing much for their self-confidence.

It is hard to deny that baseball is a slow game. Fortunately, there are plenty of distractions in the form of adverts flashing across the big screen. "[American] Football is amazing" blazed one, implying that if you were bored here you should try that instead. This was followed by a clip from the previous Jays game proving that it was possible for them to get a home run. Then there was "David Roberts; the freshest name in nuts" (no witty byline required) and finally the "Dave Stieb bobblehead day" on August 29th, when you could own your own grossly proportioned nodding head version of the Jays player.

Meanwhile, the action on the pitch was heating up. The Jays were batting and there was a player on each of the three bases. This loaded configuration was made more tense by the fact that 3 out of the 4 allowed pitcher screw-ups and 2 out of the 3 "strikes" or batter screw-ups had occurred. In short, the batter had to hit this ball or he would advance to first base (if the pitcher messed up) or go out (if he messed up). In the movies, this would be the moment where our underdog hero would twack the ball into the stands, kill six spectators and get an automatic home run, causing all three of the players on the bases to also complete their circuit. The Jays would be saved!

In reality, he got to first base. I forget the details. The lack of a body count made it too much of a let down to remember.

The Red Sox, however, were going on a home run spree. Two home runs were achieved by the same batter hitting to exactly the same spot in the field. Evidently, the Jays didn't believe that lightning could strike in the same place twice. Another guy then got a home run that also enabled the two players on the bases to get runs. That last move ended up making it a tidy 5 runs for the one inning and rather sealed the fate of the Jays that day.

The final score was 10:1 and the casualties were a single broken bat. Disappointing for some fans perhaps, but at least they can go get a bobblehead at the end of the month.

Return to Hogwarts

"Oh you may not think I'm pretty, but don't judge on what you see, I'll eat myself if you can find a smarter hat than me."

The Hogwarts sorting hat; magical sentient artefact, previous property of Godric Gryffindor and currently being used to sort random visitors into school houses at "Harry Potter: the Exhibition" at the Ontario Science Museum in Toronto. The exhibit consists of items used in the Harry Potter movies and has been on tour across North America. However, this description does not do it justice for it is far more fascinating than you would expect to find a close-up view of a bunch of stage props.

For instance, did you know Daniel Radcliffe (Harry Potter) was allergic to the original metal his glasses were made from and came out in a rash? Or that Hagrid's extreme height was not done by clever camera angles but the actor was put on stilts? Hagrid's costume is on display and dwarfs everyone in the room. Each actor also had to have six wands; three hard version and three made of rubber for stunts.

The making of a soft, unbreakable version of a prop was common practice and many items had doubles, including the goblet of fire and the crystal balls for divination. This second item initially caused problems since a rubber crystal orb was no more than a child's ball and it bounced higher and higher as it rolled down the stairs; not at all the effect the irate Hermione was trying for when she pushed it!

Many of the items on display were particularly fun to get up close to. In one of the areas dedicated to the Defence Against the Dark Arts classrooms (multiple version of these due to Dumbledore's inability to hire anyone who wasn't working for Voldemort/incompetent/a bitey furry/working for Voldemort/wanting to work for Voldemort/partially working for Voldemort or indeed, working for Voldemort) there was the rattling wardrobe that contained the boggart in book three, along with the gigantic jack-in-the-box that Parvati 'riddikules' her boggart into.

Opposite Lupin's classroom set, Dolores Umbridge's pink office of hell was shown complete with gambling (though mercifully stationary) kitten plates. Something I had not consciously noticed in the movie was that the shade of pink Umbridge was decked out in gets steadily harder throughout the film to reflect her growing unpleasantness.

In the face of such candy coloured evil, I went to try my hand at scoring with a quaffle. Several of the displays were interactive, from the initial liaison with the sorting hat to a lamp-lit entrance through Hogsmead station. There was also the chance to pull up a mandrake and to sit on Hagrid's giant chair.

One of the most surprising elements I saw were models of the CGI creations in the movies. Dobby, Kreature, the centaurs, Buckbeak the hippogriff, the giant spidery acromantulas and the head of the Hungarian Horntail were all made at a life-size scale. Apparently, scanning the image into the CGI works best on 1:1 detail and the presence of the models on the sets helps both the actors and the lighting directors. Although stationary in the exhibit, Buckbeak's replica actually could move and follow actors around with its eyes. My audio guide assured me this made him popular on the sets. I edged away and went to check out the mandrakes.

These baby-faced plants are not CGI but animatronic, although the ones you get to play with did not move. The squirming plants went over very well with the school children actors and led to a problem with ensuring they were collected in after filming.

Just down from the gigantic spider was a model of the petrified Colin Creevey. This one didn't move (since that would defy the point) and I had always assumed the actor had just been threatened with something enough to freeze him for the duration of the scene. It would seem nothing short of an actual basilisk was scary enough so a task of over two months was undertaken to create the figure. For the exhibit, they had moved his hands down from his face slightly - a slow and painful task on a statue designed to be rigid!

Upon emerging from the exhibit we found a machine that allowed you to send free electronic postcards of scenes from the museum. It occurred to me that I had not explained to my advisor why I was missing the group meeting that day....

Grave diggers

Many questions arise when you approach a softball field to find your team-mates apparently in the process of digging a grave.

Had the previous team left a high body count for us to deal with? Or perhaps the umpire was so unreasonable he was lynched? Was it a failed PhD student's last wish to be buried in the place he spent most of his time? Was it truly necessary to bury the body on first base? Wouldn't the pitcher's mound be a better option, or the zombie graveyard just one field over?

Upon closer inspection, it appeared that the digging was an attempt to disperse the rain water that had formed small lakes on the diamond. Progress had been made in turning said lake into something approaching quick sand with rakes and a shovel.

It was a decent attempt, but evidently it looked too much like a tomb for the umpire not to see the potential death toll from our match. Accidents meant ambulances. Ambulances might mean helicopters. Helicopters meant the zombie graveyard would be awakened. You could see his thinking. He left, telling us we were welcome to play as long as he wasn't a witness.

At this point, I was planning to head off home but half my team (plus a guy we adopted/kidnapped from the other side) were staying on for practice. I thought of my nice, dry office. Then I thought of my fielding skills. I spun my umbrella around a few times. Finally, I remembered I was British and therefore impervious to water. I reassigned my umbrella the task of keeping a pair of shoes dry and picked up my glove. I didn't really have an excuse.

Arch enemy #1

My last apartment in Florida was on the first floor (that's second floor to all you people who start at 1). The biggest benefit to this was that passers-by could not gaze through my window and view the consequences of me forgetting I'd left my bath towel drying in the front room. The biggest disadvantage was that no cats could peer in either.

Don't get me wrong; Tallis hates other cats. Actually, she loathes them with a vengeance never before seen on earth. With people, she is the furry purry bundle of love, yet one sign of a whisker and satan himself has nothing on her. In the ground floor apartment previous to the last one, a neighbourhood kitty dropped by to look in the glass front door. It appeared a friendly type, but the greeting it received ultimately forced a verbal reply in kind and a swipe with the paw. This shadow boxing act sent Tallis flying backwards, matrix style, to slide against the opposite wall. I should emphasize that at no point had the door been opened.  Frankly, it was hilarious.

The lack of other felines is therefore a disappointment only to me but has now been rectified in my Canadian apartment. Meet "Arch enemy #1" (known as AE1 from this day forth). AE1 is looking through the basement window where I'm currently sleeping to avoid the heat. The window is open but there is a mosquito mesh separating Tallis from her new BFF. The look of mild disgust is entirely appropriate to the language, I admit.

You will note that AE1 has gotten him/herself comfortable. It was the start of a long day.

Can zombies catch?

There are four softball fields next to one another on the corner of campus where we play. The one furthest from the University is right by a zombie graveyard. Surprising, but true nonetheless. Within this fenced off square of ground, a series of low-level orange lamps glow eerily out of the grass and are clustered irregularly together like a mismash of tombstones in an old graveyard. Zombies, I tell you. Perhaps we should have asked if they could help us field.

The team we were playing had opted for the unfair advantage of matching jerseys. They also liked to keep the catcher busy by not bothering to attempt to hit the first two pitches but twacking the third one beyond all outfielders. It was dirty play.

Despite this, by the end of the game we were motoring... or at least running. I even got a run! Sadly, this was not until the 7th innings so we still lost by a rather unfortunate amount. Our bold attempts made no headway with the umpire who looked up at the bright blue sky to comment how we had ten more minutes of light, max. This changed to two minutes once the other team started batting. Perhaps this was her addition to the mercy rule. Perhaps the last team she umpired for had their brains eaten.

When the optimistic call to our fielders to 'let her know when they couldn't see the ball anymore' yielded no results (unsurprising since sunset wasn't for another hour and we are masochists when it comes to the score), she let us complete the innings and then insisted we packed it in. Maybe she had heard stirrings. We picked up our bats and left.

Later rumours marked the zombie graveyard as a helicopter pad for the hospital. It doesn't sound likely.

Zombies.

Laptop insomnia

My computer has become a work-a-holic. If you try shutting it down, it dutifully beavers away closing all the programs, ends the operating system session and then .... boots right back up again. At some level, I admire such industriousness. At another, I fear for my files.

It then decided that sleep was over-rated. Like a small child, it tries for less than a minute and then wakes up again. This results in it getting very hot and nuking its battery. If you take the power-cord out and refuse to talk to it, it normally will go to sleep eventually but you don't know for sure until you pick it up later and see if it's become a burning hot potato.

Clearly, someone had to have words and that someone probably had to be Apple. The situation was complicated by the fact the screen was cracked .... I, uh, might have dropped it. I was concerned that if I took it into the store, they'd try to blame the current issues on me, along with the iPhone 4 antenna problems and global warming. Then I'd cry and also refuse to go to sleep like a small child. Really, it wouldn't get us anywhere.

To prevent this, I commanded "Operation Cover Up" which involved a small shop in Toronto's China town and a fixed outer screen. This was particularly good since they were able to replace just the outer glass and not the whole (undamaged) LCD. Removing the entire screen is the default way to mend MacBooks but I discovered the alternative option by finding the required part on amazon.com. It was a bit like Anya finding the last urn of Osiris on eBay in season six of "Buffy".

Except none of that happen and you can't prove it.

Whistling innocently, I took the (still extremely active and un-asleep) laptop into the computer shop on campus. They told me it was a circuit board problem and it could be temporarily fixed by disconnecting the camera.

The former fact was good since it was covered by my warranty and actually confirmed that this really hadn't been my fault. The latter fact was just plain weird. I opted for this temporary fix while they ordered the required part until it emerged ... that the cord marked "camera" also deactivated the wireless.

Who exactly thought this was a good idea?!

So I now have a spicy hot laptop on my knee which I try to cool off by switching the power cord in and out at intervals. All credit to the university store, however, they allowed me to take the laptop away while the new logic board was on order and said they could try and fix it within one day. They are my heroes! And the fact that I claimed I needed my laptop for work and not for role playing will never be mentioned to them.

Cat litter & cherries

Canadian Border Guard: Are you bringing any items back from the USA?

I think of the 50 kg of cat litter, 6 apricots, 4 plums, the tub of home made pesto and a device for de-stoning cherries I picked up at the supermarket.

I could have explained it:

Me: I can't find a cat litter brand I like in Canada. There's only a couple of different ones and they don't clump the pee well, so the litter becomes manky in-between cleaning the box. It's pretty nasty for my cat, so I thought I'd stock up while I was in NY. Then, my friend and I visited a farmer's market on Saturday and they were selling this gorgeous looking fruit. I really had to buy some apricots and plums. We ate about half of them but there were a few left that I thought I'd eat tonight so I chucked them in my cooler. Then we made some pesto from a whole load of basil leaves, and it just seemed a shame to say 'no' to taking some back to try. It smells really good, I think I'm going to try making it myself from now on rather than buying the little jars; they are wasteful, don't you think? And then we went to Wagmans which is a huge supermarket and they had a demonstration on this device for removing cherry stones. I really like cherries, but I hate spitting out the stones - it's kinda gross - so this solves all that. But anyway, the whole lot is only worth like $30, so it's totally not worth you spending the time listening to this huge description and .... oh, your shift ended 3 hours ago? And you're going to steal my fruit?

Or I could just go and de-stone some cherries.

Me: Nope. Not a thing.

When I grew up, I became a wizard

When I was 8 years old my images of what it was like to be 30 were different. There was a matching home on a housing estate, a permanent job, a couple of kids -- including a daughter called Adora, because I was seriously into She-Ra -- and a dog. Or maybe a dinosaur. Hey, I was flexible like that.

The reality?

ROCKS SO MUCH MORE!
(apart from maybe the dinosaur)

I spent my 30th birthday at Hogwarts.

Universal Studio's Islands of Adventure theme park in Florida recently opened "The Wizarding World of Harry Potter". This new island consisted of the main street in Hogsmead and Hogwarts castle. There was Zonko's Joke shop, Honeydukes sweet shop, The Three Broomsticks and Hogshead pubs, the post office, Dervish & Banges, butterbeer, pumpkin juice, the Hogwarts Express .... need I say more? Yes. Yes, I think I do.

Somewhat bizarrely, to reach the wizard section of the attraction, you have to walk through Jurassic Park. I skirted the pterodactyl ride and began to re-think the dinosaur idea. Crossing the bridge, we dropped down into Hogsmead village, although I did take the opportunity to turnaround and take a clearly classic photo of the "Welcome to Jurassic Park" sign right next to Hogwarts castle.

The first feature that strikes you as you walk down the street is the incredible attention to detail. The place really does appear as it is described in the books. Snow covered gabled roofs are on both sides of you, with icicles dangling from their crooked tiles. Sadly, the actual temperature was well into the 30s but this was alleviated by our first stop at a giant barrel cart selling butterbeer. Since children are known to have zero restraint, this particular version was completely non-alcoholic but it was personally approved by J. K. Rowling. It tasted like ... well, I'm not going to tell you. You will have to go and try for yourself.

We decided to risk insane crowds and eat lunch at The Three Broomsticks. This proved to be a surprisingly good decision. While we had to queue for a short time to enter the pub (not a hardship because there was so much to see), once we had ordered there were plenty of tables to sit even seven people. The displayed menu showed a moving image that panned over the dishes and our waiter was a house elf. Fortunately, he was not just wearing a tee-towel.

Basic desires met, we went on a tour of the shops. Although a primary (and completely successful) purpose was to shake even more galleons from our purses, the shops themselves were an attraction and made to look as authentic as possible. Broomsticks hung from the ceiling of Dervish & Banges, the Monster Book of Monsters rattled in a cage and model owls looked down at you from the post office shelves. The goods themselves were everything you could expect from the shops in question. Magical paraphernalia from sneakoscopes to Quidditch bats, school robes and fanged wallets could be found in Dervish & Banges, a huge display of Bertie Botts Every Flavoured Beans was in Honeydukes along with Weasly favourites such an tongue ton toffee and Zonko's held such delights as fanged frisbees and boxing telescopes. The window displays of the shops, including ones that were not "open" were also fascinating to see. Honeydukes had a ribbit-ing chocolate frog, there was a bookshop with a excessive display of Gilderoy Lockheart volumes, complete with a moving picture of the man himself, and a botany store had a large mandrake and mimbulus mimbletonia behind its glass.

After all that it was time for a pumpkin juice. I would be lying if I said there weren't insanely large queues (although the books often describe similar scenes on Hogsmead weekends). Despite this, the park got a number of important things right, including our relaxed lunch and the lack of a wait for the (clean and pleasant) toilets.

The signature ride on the island was the part-coaster, part-simulated "Harry Potter and the Forbidden Journey". The seats for this are on a robotic arm which swings you about in combination with sophisticated animated screens.
.
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What, you wanted more details? Seriously, people, did you read my experiences on the 'Hello Kitty' ferris wheel? It was never going to happen. I did stand in line for it. That is a more exciting statement than you might first suppose, since the queue is part of the attraction and weaves through a series of scenes inside Hogwarts. You see Dumbledore's office, complete with a 3D hologram of the man himself who welcomes you to the school. You then pass through a corridor where portraits of the four founders are arguing over the wisdom of allowing muggles to see so much. The queue terminated in a classroom where Harry, Ron and Hermione appear (as holograms) and tell you they are going to kidnap you away from the tour Professor Bins has planned to go and see a Quidditch match. I wished there was a way to keep with the original program and ducked out to go and sit in the kids room where the first movie was playing to entertain the under 4 feet while the ride was in progress. Again, the attention to detail was beautiful. The moving portraits in particular were rather good, looking very much like the genuine article and not digital screens as they walked into each others frames.

At various times during the day, members of Beauxbatons and Durmstrang appeared to do a brief exhibit and the Hogwarts frog choir performed a few songs. Exhausted from the day, we summoned up the energy to queue one final time for Ollivanders' wand shop, who evidently had decided to cash in on the new business development in Hogsmead and moved over from Diagon Alley. Here, a group of a dozen visitors were let inside and one was picked to go through the wand selection process with Ollivander. The scene was directly from the movie with floor to ceiling wand boxes and the first two attempts by the would-be witch causing objects to break. Finally, the lights and air came up around her as a unicorn tail wand found its match.

The wand chooses the wizard....

If you were inclined, you could purchase any wand you desired from the movies, including Harry's own phoenix tail feather affair to the death eater's sticks of doom.

It was an amazing birthday with possibly my only disappointment being that I would have liked to hug Lord Voldemort, Mickey Mouse style, if he had been walking around. I did at least get to hug my friends a lot, even if their lack of red-slit eyes was a trace disappointing. So, sorry, Adora my would-be daughter, you're going to have to wait. Oh, and I might call you Voldermortaphine. It'll be great.

Felix Felicis

As I reached the bridge that separated the two sides of the Falls at Niagara, a single thought occurred to me:

"EVERYONE has read my blog and now they've poured in to sample the polygamous relationship I have with the USA border guards."

Guys, you missed the point! THIS RELATIONSHIP IS ABUSIVE.

I have crossed at Niagara at least half a dozen times and I had never seen queues so long. In both directions too. Was everyone doing U-turns so they can have a second date with the guards? Or was I in fact observing a gigantic population exchange between New York and Ontario? Perhaps everyone was trying to escape the heat in their home town. If so, boy were they going to be disappointed!

It took me over an hour to cross that bridge. Mercifully, my tourist visa was still in date, so I was able to drive straight through the border .... and into the backlog from three traffic accidents and the tail end of a police chase. I drummed my fingers on the steering wheel. There was only one explanation for all this chaos:

MUGGLE REPELLING CHARMS!

Someone was trying to stop me reaching Florida and visiting Universal Studio's new Harry Potter theme park. I gritted my teeth; they would fail! What I needed was a way to counteract this spell, something really .... lucky. I looked down at my car's cup holder. It contained a bottle of Mountain Dew. Probably not exactly the same recipe as Felix Felicis, but it was an exciting new flavour. It would do. I took a large gulp.

Accelerating into Buffalo airport 45 minutes before my flight, I tumbled through security and skidded down the corridor to the last gate in the terminal. Success! Feeling smug, I boarded the plane ...

... along with every under-2 toddler in up-state New York and (seemingly) none of their parents.

My eyes narrowed. There was no denying that my enemies were good. The kids were cranky; perhaps they too had been queuing at the Niagara border. Perhaps they were ALL visiting Harry Potter World. Perhaps no one would notice if I chucked a few out the emergency exit.

We touched down in Atlanta just as a storm rolled in, stranding us on the tarmac for twenty minutes. Little Joey still wanted a window seat. I pondered the merits of throwing little Joey and his friends through said requested window. Would I still be able to hear their screams from the runway?

Eventually we pulled up to Gate A36; out of 36. My connecting flight was at D36.... out of 36.

.... FML.

I arrived, out of breath, for the last boarding call and tumbled into my seat as the doors slammed shut. This allowed our plane to ... drive a few feet along the tarmac to the back of a line behind twenty other planes. I was in the front row, so my bag (containing a second book), was placed in the overhead bins. I finished my first book. We waited. I scowled at a small child in the row next to me who had a picture book. It began to cry.

When we finally landed in Gainesville, it was after midnight and the rental car place had closed for the day.

There was no doubt about it, the anti-muggle charms were good. But I was now so close .... I just had to find a way to my friend's house. It was late for the small college town, but perhaps a taxi would show up eventually or ...

"Elizabeth?"

I looked up from my examination of my iPhone (seriously, there had to be an app for my problems) to see one of my friends standing in the arrivals lounge, car keys in hand. I blinked. Then looked down at the empty Mountain Dew bottle still clutched in my hand. Perhaps I should keep this.

Breath

Summer in Toronto is hot, humid and unpleasant. No, before you ask, I don't recall Florida being anything but idyllically tropical and you're ALL WRONG if you heard me say otherwise.

Besides, my apartment down south had air conditioning.

This apartment has underfloor heating which is great for winters, but doesn't even attempt to multi-task as a cooler during the summer. The one saving grace is that I have a basement. While completely uninhabitable when the snow closes in, this semi-underground room has now become the only remotely habitable place in the house. I celebrated by furnishing it with a futon.

The first night I slept down there, I was insomniacal from jet-lag and sat up reading for a couple of hours (Percy Jackson and the Sea of Monsters, in case anyone was interested). By the time I put my book down, I had developed a headache. I am prone to this particular ailment and wouldn't normally have thought anything of it except that (a) it was irritating and (b) I was relaxing in a cool room and there was just no call for it. No call at all.

Annoyed, I rolled over and tried to ignore it; a popular strategy of mine that has never once worked. Still, statistics can be manipulated and .... then a thought occurred to me. The basement was also the location of the boiler. What if I had a headache due to carbon monoxide? WHAT IF I WOKE UP DEAD TOMORROW MORNING?!

No, there is nothing wrong with that statement.

There wasn't really any good evidence to support this idea. Said boiler had been put in by the landlord new in the last year and the basement bedroom actually had a window, albeit a small one, which was open. Still, once you get a thought like that into your head it's kinda impossible to shift. Especially because if it was carbon monoxide and you did snuff it, you'd feel pretty stupid at the Pearly Gates of Heaven.

Saint Peter: I'm sorry my child, you died from carbon monoxide poisoning.
Me: Ah, I thought that might happen.
Saint Peter: ........ WTF? 100 years in Purgatory for being too stupid to enter Heaven.

Yeah, it'd be embarrassing. So I grabbed my pillow and went up to my sweltering bedroom. Then I realised the cat was still in the basement.

Me: Tallis~!
Cat: Meow?
Me: We're sleeping up here now.
Cat: ....... meow?!

Which I think roughly translated as: 'You've got to be kidding?! You do realise the basement is the only habitable place in this sauna? YOU DO REALISE FUR IS STILL IN FOR ME?' No one slept well that night.

The following evening saw me driving over to Canadian Tire (a Walmart equivalent) to hunt for CO detectors. There was too much choice but in the end I opted for a mid-priced one that showed a child sleeping peacefully on the box. At least, I hoped the little brat was asleep and it wasn't a promise for how much a parent could save on college fees.

Returning home, I plugged it into the wall. It flashed green. A likely story. I pressed the 'test' button. It emitted a sound that sent the cat fleeing from the room to produce a mournful yowl from the top of the stairs. The detector then turned back to green again. Hmm. I rescued the cat and eyed it for a few more minutes. So far, nothing. Perhaps we were good after all. Or perhaps I should wallpaper the whole bedroom with detectors. Statistically, one is likely to fail and sound its alarm. THEN SEE IF YOU CALL ME PARANOID.

The fast & the furious

Using stray planks of wood, a skateboard and once an old baby bathtub, a series of prototypes for a Formula 1 racing car were developed in a small town just outside Oxford. Admittedly these early models lacked a few of the later luxuries such as ... breaks ... or indeed, steering. The engine also consisted of a small seven year old girl, as indeed did the unfortunate driver. None of this, however, stopped said prototype being test run on every street in the housing estate with quite genuinely zero thoughts for the consequences.

Nowadays our parents would probably be arrested by Social Services for allowing small hands near exposed, probably tetanus-covered, nails. Back then, it merely added a point of interest to the dinner time conversation.

At some point in the intervening years, go-karting lost its intense appeal. I think it was around the time I acquired a driver's license. So quite sometime had passed between my last outing in a kart/bathtub and the one I was about to have at San Diego's indoor kart racing track. I was in California for a computer code development meeting and this was how our group had decided to interpret the scheduled item "benchmarking". There were eight of us racing, one of whom had been before but the rest of us had a similar collection of 7 year old memories to work with. Then there were the two other guys who joined us, both of whom brought their own helmets and one who also brought his own whiplash support. I eyed the kart and my concept of 'what's the worst that can happen?' rose several notches.

The karts themselves had only two pedals -- stop and go -- and could reach speeds of up to 40 mph. Although bumping into both the barriers and other karts was a frequent occurrence, you were not allowed to do the latter on purpose.

Perhaps in the same way that running a race is fun even though you walk everyday, kart racing turned out to be great. The end results revealed that I had a much higher regard for life than anyone else at this conference, since they all out stripped me by five laps. This was fine though; they had done all the code development work so if it was only me left to run the simulations and reap MEEEEELLLLLIONS of research papers, well what could you do?

At the end, I came in last with a fastest lap time of 49.8 seconds. The top two racers were our new friends with their own helmets who got 30.9s and 31.4s respectively. Our final view was of them speeding out of the car park ... in their smart car. Suddenly, much became clear.

Awesome

Due to Toronto's continual bid to minimise carbon pollution by making its airport inaccessible by public transport, I decided to try out a private park 'n fly scheme. These businesses offer parking close to the airport at substantially cheaper rates than the official terminal parking and provide a free shuttle bus between your car and the airport.

The company I found had three car parks; 'valet parking', 'economy parking' and .... the middle one for which there was no helpful description. With my scientific love of averages, I opted for this label-less middle ground and parked my car in the lot before returning to the attendant's office to wait for the shuttle. The car parking attendant was a polite individual originally from, I would guess, India or close by. He looked at me very seriously as I sat down and said:

"English is not my first language and I have been wondering ..... "

Where you are from?
If G20 is a new energy drink?
Whether the English football team even practised?

".... what does 'awesome' mean?"

Definitely not a question about the World Cup. I thought perhaps this boded well for the parking lot if people had been using the word 'awesome' in conversation with the attendant. Although quite what a car park would have to do to become 'awesome' is less clear. Perhaps my bug will be replaced with a Ferrari while I travelled. Either way, it had to be better than being asked what 'insurance law suit' meant.

"It means 'great'," I said, raising my left hand in a thumbs-up to indicate my meaning.

"Ah. So if someone says it was 'awesome coffee'...?"

Coffee?! Must have been Irish.

"They thought it was very good," I confirmed.

"What would they say if they thought it was bad?"

I resisted the urge to supply the name of a popular coffee house chain.

"Uh, perhaps 'awful coffee'," I suggested instead.

"Awesome .... awful ...."

The shuttle arrived and I hopped on, hoping that my new friend wasn't preparing for a state visit from the Queen when she arrives in Canada tomorrow.

Advance to Go

When I was eight, my favourite computer game was a 2D shooter called 'Gauntlet'. In this game, you advance up the levels by finding the exit, denoted by a square marked with the letter 'E', and killing anything that moved. It was a pleasingly simple concept that I feel prepared me well for life; fight like a hero when you have to, but ultimately your goal should be to run away.

Due to the sheer number of levels, it was possible to skip through the early numbers by finding an exit marked by "E8". This was a short-cut to level 8 and saved you fighting the bad monsters individually and allowing you to advance to them attacking you all at one. Who wouldn't opt for that?

Until last Friday, I always thought real games did not have such short cuts. I was wrong. Softball totally has an E8 option.

It was my turn to bat, an event with marginally more potential than my attempts at fielding due to the fact we self-pitch. My team mate threw the ball, metal connected with .... whatever material non-soft softballs are made from, and I ran to first base. The referee called 'safe' (which was easy for him to say) and I braced myself to make an siege on second base, as soon as my next team mate batted.

Then oddly, inexplicably, the referee called out that I was to advance to base 3, do not pass go, do not connect $200. Did I drop a $20 bribe on the diamond when I batted? Did my attempt at a home run look so completely pitiful that the referee thought putting me on base 3 would actually make no difference? Maybe he thought it would be better for everyone if I were tucked out the way. Perplexed, I trotted across the diamond and completed the circuit a moment later.

Wow, the score sheet looks like I'm a useful player! How misleading.

Evidently reading my baffled look correctly, the referee came over after the inning to explain that it had been an 'overthrow', which entitled the runner to two extra bases. Since I had surprisingly successfully reached first base on my own, that put me at base 3. I actually still had no idea what this meant but attempted to look informed for the face of my team. Later interrogation of google suggested that one of the other team's out fielders had overly zealously thrown the ball, causing it to overshoot anywhere helpful for their team.

Sadly, after this momentous event, it became the other team's turn to bat, which proved to be entirely consistent with being attacked by all monsters on the level 8 of Gauntlet.