Conceptions and misconceptions

"Guess what? I'm going to be on the news!"

I felt this was a surprising statement, seeing as I'd only been left to my own devices for about 10 minutes at the stop for the tour bus I was taking around Santiago. The fact neither of my friends showed any great astonishment was either a reflection on my ability to cause enough trouble to hit the headlines in a very short amount of time or an insiders knowledge of Chilean reporters love of Gringos.

'Gringo', incidentally, is a Spanish term for 'foreigner' and, as an accurate description, is of course not insulting. In exactly the same way that 'gaijin' isn't in Japanese. Yes. >.>

My appearance on channel 11's news that night, however, was not for any nefarious dealings in the Chilean capitol but rather due to a roving reporter looking for visitors' views on the city. While slightly taken aback to have a camera suddenly focussed on me, I happily waxed lyrical about how great I'd found Santiago and how I'd recommend this clean, blooming city to everyone back home.

It was true too. Santiago is blooming, both in its glass tower high rises, the swaths of flowers in their summer glory and the people; a surprising number of which seemed to be pregnant. Chile's money comes primarily from copper which appears to have suffered less in the current economic down turn that other commodities. The previous president, Michelle Bachelet, was also allegedly careful with funds, putting aside a pillow for difficult times that had clearly paid dividends now. If it wasn't for the palm trees (some of which were actually disguised cell phone signal transmitters) and the mountainous backdrop, I could have convinced myself I was in any exceptionally wealthy western capital city.

I attempted to convey my enjoyment to the reporter without sounding flat-out astonished. Possibly I failed. Before coming here, my previous knowledge of South America was ... um ... the presence of a bunch of telescopes, the fact that Santiago could be full of smog, that a friend had spent a summer building ovens in rural Peru and an Oxfam alpaca another friend has adopted on my behalf as a birthday gift. I therefore naturally concluded that ALL of South America consisted of oven-less huts where people rode around on alpacas which appeared as two giant eyes in the fog filled landscape.

The fact that I had six friends all living in Chile for the last few years had not over ridden these assertions. They were observational astronomers; obviously they knew nothing. Also, they probably spent all their time at the telescopes. Which they reached via mountain-climbing alpacas. Yes.

I'd like to point out that NONE OF THEM had expressly told me I was wrong.

Santiago's impressive facade had therefore been rather unexpected. Nor was this attractiveness only skin-deep. Only last year, an 8.8 magnitude earthquake had hit the region, causing my friend's apartment on the 23rd floor to swing by over 1m and the roof-top pool spew its contents over the side of the building (apparently an intentional design, since it's preferable to having the weight of the displaced water elsewhere on the structure). The visible damage to the neighbourhood though, was a few tiny cracks in the plaster work and a single pane of cracked glass in an area packed with transparent buildings. The market downtown had taken more of a battering, but it was being replaced with something stronger and better. This infrastructure was for keeps.

All of this I had been admiring from my tour bus which was one of the ones that zoom around London. No really; it was a expatriated London bus, in the traditional brilliant red. The only difference was the enthusiasm for passengers to sit on the open top deck; a position rather better suited to the Santiago summer. From my view point, I could see the alpacas were sadly lacking from the paved streets, although I did see a mobile information booth attached to a Segway which was rather pleasing. The smog turned out to be more factual than the camelids, but only occurs in winter when the mountains trap the air over the city.

I had disembarked my British ride just outside ESO: the European Southern Observatory campus. Currently, I was just after lunch, but the following day I would be giving a talk. The buildings were decked with photographs of the telescopes they ran. I thought that possibly, like the smog, their presence was a fact I had not made up about South America. Then I saw a large photograph of an instrument not in existence and decided to group them in the same class an alpacas for now.


--
'Gaijin' translates to 'foreigner' in Japanese and, likewise, is not technically insulting, but the way it emphasises your difference leaves the point rather clear when liberally used.

Close encounters

"Ah, excuse me?"

I was sitting in the airport food court in Atlanta, checking my email on my iPad before my connecting flight to Santiago. As I had looked up to gaze across the bustling space, a man had caught my eye and now made his way over. He got out his boarding pass.

"I'm traveling to Arizona, the mountains, you know?"

Uh. Ok. I arranged my face into an expression of polite interest in an attempt to mask my growing discomfort as he came to stand RIGHT UP BESIDE ME. My hands tightened on my iPad.

"Could you tell me what the time is?"

... Because there are no clocks at the airport? But, to be fair, I'd been confused myself before when connecting through a location on a different timezone. I looked down at my iPad screen.

"6:48," I told him, wishing I was standing so I could take a step backwards.

"6.....48." He proceeded to write this on his boarding pass. I wondered if he realized it would be out of date in like ... a minute.

"People here are so rude," he continued. "I couldn't find anyone to tell me."

Yeah, well, buddy, if you went and stood THIS CLOSE TO THEM I'm not surprised they ran. The fact you ended up picking one of the few Brits in the airport to crush the personal space out of is particularly unfortunate. For me.

"I've just flown in from New Zealand."

Why were we still having a conversation?

"But I'm actually Italian. Most people can tell from the shoes!" He tapped me on the arm.

Forcing a smile, I looked down at the polished black footwear. I guessed it must be something notable and fashionable. I took the opportunity to move my bag under my table. Possibly his romantic-nation origins were an explanation for his extrovert behavior. My origins, however, dictated that I was sure such proximity meant he was about to rob me.

He looked down at the time scrawled on his boarding pass again. "And is this central time or ....?"

Why does that matter?

"It's east-coast time," I said uncomfortably. "EST."

He added this to his note. "E...S...T. How different is that from New York time?"

".... It's the same." I wrapped my legs around my bag, surreptitiously checked my pockets were zipped up and gripped my iPad harder.

"The same?!"

Longitude, dude.

"I'm going to the mountains in Arizona." He caught my arm again.

.... You mentioned and more to the point, you're totally creeping me out.

"Have a good trip." I made a show of turning back to my --tightly clutched-- iPad.

A hand was thrust in front of my face. My left hand tightened while I reluctantly reassigned my right to shaking the proffered paw.

"Goodbye!" The man walked a few steps back, repeated himself when I looked away so I could turn and see him salute me.

Then he was gone. I double checked my pockets and bag and resolutely refused to make eye contact for the rest of the trip.

Bumble bugs

"One good thing about this cold weather: if you flooded your backyard rink last night, it's looking pretty good this morning!"

One hand emerged from the pile of bedding to switch off the radio before I tumbled onto the floor. It was cold, but what did I care? I was going to Santiago where the temperature was in the 30s (that's in centigrade for all you snow-bound East Coasters).

I was packed ... well, mainly. My seminar talk was complete... or at least, most of the graphs were done. The apartment was sorted.... actually, it was in complete disarray, but that was the task for the morning, before dropping the cat at the boarding kennel and heading to the airport.

Look for me, it really was quite organized.

In fact, it was so organized that I found myself digging my car out of the snow an hour and a half before I had to leave. I put the key in the ignition to start the air flows and set about scraping the ice off the rear windscreen. Once done, I was grabbing the keys from the ignition when I decided to turn the engine on.

This was a random, yet fortunate, decision since the car made a loud clicking sound, flashed a random collection of dashboard lights and failed to start.

..... Unfortunate.

I tried again. It couldn't be the battery because the lights and air worked fine. That was a pity because I knew jump-starting a dead battery was potentially a fast fix. I turned everything off and then back on again. Hey, if it works for a computer....

Apparently, Volkswagens are not based on Microsoft Windows.

So on the day I was traversing the length of the globe, my car had broken down. I couldn't even give it up as a bad job until I returned and take an airport shuttle because I had to take the cat to the kennels first.

Calm. Calm.

This was why I was a member of CAA (the sister of the USA's AAA and equivalent to the AA in the UK). I dug out my membership card and called the number listed under 'Emergency roadside assistance', which seemed rather extreme for a breakdown on your own driveway. Still, I certainly didn't want their Monday-Friday membership services number. I explained to the operator that while I was not trapped on a lone highway surrounded by ravenous coyotes, I did have a flight to catch and I'd really appreciate someone coming round in the next hour. Then, my head full of images of my yellow bug being towed away down the snowy road to be hijacked and devoured by said rampant coyotes, I started hunting for a back-up plan.

My first idea of such a contingency operation was to phone a friend who didn't have a car, but might be able to magically make one appear. He was British; I had complete faith in my countrymen. Anyway, I was panicked and rambling, so he was possibly one of the few who would still understand me in such a state.

While refusing to convert my car into a pumpkin and back into airport-bound Cinderella carriage, he did suggest a couple of our friends who he knew had cars and gave me their numbers. Meanwhile, CAA called back to say roadside assistance would be with me in 10 minutes.

I confess to being pretty impressed by this.

I went back out to the car and dully turned the key in the ignition again. The car promptly started.

Um.

In disbelieve, I drove up and down my driveway, almost crashing into the CAA van that had just pulled up.

"It's starting now?" The guy from the CAA seemed unphased by this development as he stepped out of his vehicle, the smoke from his cigarette barely curling past his fingers in the cold air.

"Yeah." I gazed at my car in a mixture of relief and confusion. "Is it possible for fuel to freeze?" It was the only idea that occurred to me that would allow to the car to recover on its own.

I knew that fuel freezing must happen, since I'd heard that elsewhere in Canada it was common practice to plug your car into the mains over night to keep it warm. Yet, surely the freezing temperature for petrol was well below water and it wasn't all that cold.

"Oh, yeah." The CAA guy nodded. "The fuel is mixed with a lot of water and that freezes. You should add fuel-line antifreeze to your tank."

I should?! Why did not one mention this before?! Like when I bought the car .... in Florida. Ah.

Left on my own once again, I took my car for a spin around town to check it was serious about moving. There were a few things that didn't add up about the frozen-fuel theory; in particular, my clock had mysteriously reset and my radio had lost it's pre-tuned stations. Still, I stopped at a gas station and bought a bottle of the suggested anti-freeze to add into the tank. It was covered with toxic warnings. I hope my car enjoyed it.

A few hours later saw me parking at one of the airport satellite 'park n' fly' car parks. I pulled into a space that had become a deep snow drift. What could possibly go wrong?

Angels and Evas

"Random street fighter pose!"

The command came from several rows behind me. I turned to raise an eyebrow at my companion, a friend who lived in the upstairs apartment of the house I rented. It was entirely at her suggestion that we had come to see this film. Not that I had needed much in the way of encouragement; it was a showing of a movie from the anime series Evangelion and I was steadily falling in love with that entire Japanese genre.

We were however, possibly the only two girls in the theatre who were here voluntarily. The other two, possibly three, in the room seem to be there under duress.

Filling up the aisles were mullet cut males in stretched XXL tee-shirts with words such as "zombie" written across the back. The guy in front of us even sported a 'Nerv' cap; the principal organisation in the movie we were about to watch.

I briefly contemplated stealing it.

"I totally didn't forsee this," my friend admitted.

"Yeah." I looked around the room again. "I thought anime was mainly a girls thing."

"You did?" An eyebrow was raised in turn at me, followed by a pause to enable me to think that statement through more carefully.

I was basing my assertion primarily on the fact that all the people I role-played with in my anime-based game were girls. They were the ones who introduced me to other series and often mentioned anime clubs they had been in at college. Then I remembered the store in Osaka I had walked into accidentally because it was beside the manga-related retail store, Animate. It was also full of manga (hence the confusion) but a closer inspection revealed the characters to be primarily female, naked and with huge ... personalities. My thoughts then drifted to how I had first perceived typical anime drawings of people, with their ridiculously short skirts, long hair, huge eyes and and heaving shirts.

"Oh. Right," I said feebly. "I like it for the imaginative plots lines and character development." Apparently to the extent that I had forgotten the most obvious appeal.

"Well, so do I." My friend sat back in her seat. "And the fact there are literally hundreds of episodes, followed by live-action movies and musicals."

Really, the West just don't know how to feed an obsession well.

We listened to the raucous chatter around us. Apparently, the guy four rows back and to my left had stolen the gun of another individual on the same row. Somehow, I didn't think this was a firearm that required a licence. Or killed anything besides orcs and the undead.

The movie did not disappoint. Like seemingly most manga-based films, it was not designed to stand alone from the series, but rather act as fuel to an unhealthily dedicated fan base. It was therefore largely incomprehensible, even though I had seen the first half-dozen episodes of the anime. People died, then apparently didn't die. New characters appeared randomly in side plots that never succeeded in joining to the main thread. All personal relationships would be described as destructive by a psychologist.  Everyone was a victim of the secret agendas of shadowy organisations who may or may not know about the secret agendas within their agendas controlled by even more insubstantial bodies. At the end, everyone died. Or maybe not. Who could tell?

I loved it.

Though in case you think I'm exaggerating, Wikipedia tells me that one of the directors' comment regarding the series in general was: "It's strange that 'Evangelion' has become such a hit - all the characters are so sick!"

At the end the credits rolled and people started to move. I proceeded to attempt to extract a modicum of sense from the proceedings from my friend who was more familiar with the whole series. It wasn't particularly successful. As the last few names scrolled by on the screen a great 'Ssshhhh'-ing sound went through the room. There was a final few minutes to the movie designed to mock anyone who had made sense of the events up until that point. It even introduced a new character.

Frankly, I felt the people who all knew that was coming up had seen this movie too many times.

Ice breakers

The pavement sparkled like shattered diamonds in the neon glow of the street lamps. I admired its beauty, which was pretty much the only thing I could do since it was as deadly as hell. In one day, the temperature had gone from -18 C to around freezing, bringing with it a thaw that left a sheet of ice over all the surfaces. As I tremulously picked my way along the path, a car pulled out of its driveways and promptly slid to bump into the curb on the far side of the road. It flashed its lights in confusion before cautiously reversing and creeping off down the street.

I looked back the way I had come. It was late and I was trying to go home. I'd been walking for about half an hour and had managed the same distance I had covered in five minutes that morning. At each intersection, the path was so icy I had to drop into a crab position and crawl off the paved edge onto the tarmac. It would have been quite funny if I didn't think I might be squished like a crab as well. Eventually, I reached a bus stop --a whole one stop down from the University-- and admitted defeat. At this time of night it would be a wait for the next bus, but doubtless the wait at ER for broken bones was longer.

I parked myself by the pole and watched passers-by for tips as to how to walk on ice. Since a significant percentage ended up on their rear ends, it wasn't an overly useful exercise. I would be lying if I said it wasn't an overly entertaining one. There was one patch of cobble stones just past where I stood that was particularly deadly, causing walkers to either fall or barrel into their friends.

A boy approached me along the path.

"Careful," I cautioned, gesturing to the path ahead. "That area is seriously slippy."

He gave his thanks and joined me at the bus stop. It turned out he lived not far from where I did and had also realised the probability of falling to a horrific death while crossing the bridge over the highway was rather high at present. We bemoaned the situation, agreed that at least it was warmer for standing outside and that this was actually the problem.

A girl came by next and I warned her about the slippery pavement. She also thanked me and carefully stepped around that region before heading off down the road. My new companion chattered cheerfully and babbled about his classes which seemed to be in business. I tried to recall what I have learned from North American daytime dramas about 'mid-terms'.

Two other students approached us. One was skipping and sliding across the ice. "I have the sure-footedness of a lynx!" he declared confidently, bouncing towards the icy cobbles.

My eyes met my companion's. Neither of us said anything.

With a slight whoop of surprise, said lynx-boy skidded into his friend who narrowly succeeded in holding him up.

"It really would have served him right if he'd fallen," my companion remarked once they'd staggered out of earshot.

I didn't even try to cover my smile as I agreed. We talked more about classes. It occurred to me that my new friend assumed I was an undergraduate. I wondered how I was going to break it to him that I'd finished grad school six years ago.

"Hey, do you ever go to the Starbucks on Locke?"

I looked surprised. "Yeah, often." Studying him more closely, I realised he was one of the barristers who often worked there at weekends.

"I recognised your accent and your face," he told me, pleased. "What is it you normally order?"

A scene flashed before my eyes of ordering the most complicated drink on the menu due to a story written by a friend about an anime character I role-play. I could see the conversation unfolding:


"Why did you order that?"

"Oh, well, I spend most of my free-time pretending that I'm a Japanese teenage boy. My friend --who incidentally plays another boy who my character is OBSESSED with-- wrote this story where he orders that drink. So of course, I HAD to try it. In the actual TV serious, our characters are middle school tennis players, but in her fiction they are all customers and barristers in Starbucks like you. That's why I go; I sit there and pretend all the staff are in complex love pentagons with one another."


Suddenly, the revelation about my age seemed to matter a lot less.

"You often get tea, right?"

"Oh. Ah, yes!" Quickly I clung to this suggestion. Tea. British. Likely. Safer. Yes.

The bus rolled up and we both got on. During the short journey home, my new undergraduate-barrister-friend asked me what I did and I explained I was a post-doc researcher. His jaw fell open.

Seriously, kiddo, you don't know how lucky you got.

Probity Probes

Today I was anally penetrated by a laser.

Well, I exaggerate.

Slightly.

I have been thinking about laser hair removal for several years. The expense, the rumoured pain, the scary sounding name, the fact it's permanent and I might yet want to audition for a role in 'Planet of the Apes', all delayed this decision.

Shaving my bikini line, however, is a pain in the .... yes exactly. I get ingrowing hairs, red blisters, bumps and soreness whenever I even wave a razor below my navel. The local pool or beach inhabitants have the choice of their companion looking like she lost her cat in her swim suit or she has some terrible highly infectious disease. Take your pick.

All of this sent me to a clinic downtown for a free consultation. The cost --for those interested-- is $200 a session for this area of your body and you need 4-5 sessions for permanency, approximately two months apart.  There's no denying it's a hefty sum to put down, especially for something that is fundamentally a cosmetic procedure. This was the key reason I'd waited several years. On a plus point, you pay per session and each time you go, the hair re-growth is less. So if I had to stop for financial reasons, I'd still get some benefit.

Feeling brave for 2011, I made my first appointment for today after work. The clinic was a small place that doubled as a doctor's surgery (always reassuring). I went into the consultation room and ... well, dropped my pants. Both the American and British kind. My socks were long ones that came up to my knees with silver stars on them. I kept them on. The ridiculousness of this amused me.

The laser is actually not a laser at all but an intense pulse of (full spectrum) light that destroys the roots of the hair below the surface. It's a hand-held device that looks a lot like a supermarket barcode reader. Before we started, I had to read the obligatory safety warnings which frankly scared the hell out of me, rather like they do before I ride simulators at theme parks. It was the usual; I understand that I can expect soreness / the treatment might not be effective / it might be painful / I might spontaneously combust or turn into a giant cabbage etc etc.

Completely spooked, I asked to have the laser tried first on my leg since that seemed a far less scary area. In that region, I barely felt it and hesitantly agreed to continue. After all, I reasoned, if it was too painful I could just run away... screaming, half-naked, down the snow-packed street. No problem.

I was told it would feel like a snap from an elastic band and that wasn't a bad description. It actually sounds quite like that, but I would suggest an analogy with a pin prick or a pinch. While not agonising by any means, it wasn't pleasant. I think part of the issue is that discomfort in that bodily area is sufficiently uncommon it sends off a chorus of alarm bells. Still, the woman doing this was very nice and stopped whenever I said I wanted a break. In total, it took about half an hour, and would have been quicker if I'd just shut up and played 'Plants vs Zombies' on my iPhone and let her get on with it.

If anyone does think of following in my footsteps here, my only advice is to shave/wax well before hand. If the laser hits a hair, it does give you a zap that stings.

ZAP.

Yes.

As I got dressed, I was given advice about aloe and ice.

"Don't use a solid ice pack." I was instructed. "It numbs all sensation so you can't feel anything."

.... Numbs all sensation in an area that's sore? I really had no problem with this at all.

"Then you can't feel when it gets too cold. A previous client of mine did this and got frost bite. She had to go to the hospital."

Eeeeeeeeek! Eek.

"So just use a bag of frozen vegetables."

Noted. In fact, I have to say, it's not at all bad. I walked half-way home (about 1 km) before a convenient looking bus appeared without being particularly bothered. Now I'm just sitting as instructed with a bag of frozen peas between my legs thinking...

I am never eating these.

Doctor, doctor

The zombies were advancing. I planted a pea shooter which smacked the head off the nearest advancing brain eater. Six more were behind it, some with protective cones and buckets over their decaying heads. Swiftly, I slammed down an evil looking chilli plant which exploded to leave blinking columns of ash in its wake. The final wave was on the march and ....

... was rudely interrupted by the sound of bawling in my left ear.

I looked up from my iPhone. Seriously, kid, I get you're sick, but scream any more and I'll destroy your brains myself. Possibly Saturday afternoon was not the best of times to go to the walk-in health clinic[*]. I sighed and flicked out of the 'Plants vs Zombies' game on my phone to check the time. In truth, I wasn't sick --although that might be about to change given the state of people I was sitting beside-- but I wanted a prescription for ...

Look, I should probably mention now that this post might be too-much-information for some of you here. Just sayin'

... for the pill. This was to be the first time I'd seen a doctor in Canada and I'd taken great satisfaction in passing over my socialised medicine card, rather than my visa, when I walked through the door. Glee at that had gotten me through the first half hour, 'Plants vs Zombies' through the second and now .... now I was remembering I didn't like kids. All the more reason to get the pill.

"Elizabeth?"

W00t. We were rolling. I stuffed my phone into my pocket and followed the nurse out of the waiting room. The first step transpired to be a standard pregnancy test; the urine sample pots for this were in the washroom, the pen for labelling them afterwards was on the desk beside which was the counter where the sample should be left and after doing so, I should return to the consultation room. Then the nurse was gone in a whisk of crazy-time-at-the-clinic efficiency. I uncrossed my eyes and went into the single washroom to discover...

I really can't piss on demand.

I'd like to point out that the whole business of aiming into a small container is hard for a woman too. Possibly it was stress at this that caused my bladder to become drier than the Sahara desert. After what seemed like an obscene amount of time both for me and the mother of the crying boy outside who had seemingly decided that his rear-end needed to run as well as his nose, I managed something that I hoped would be sufficient.

Returning to the consultation room, I tried to remember whether I was told to keep the door open or closed. Fortunately, my choice (closed) worked and a doctor appeared. I showed him the brand of pill I used to take and he promptly whisked out a prescription pad. Gratuitously quick but ...

"I actually don't want the pill for contraception," I injected hurriedly, before he dashed out as quickly as he came in. "I want it because I get a ton of pain every month that's been getting worse since I came off the pill last year."

"Understandable." The doctor pulled off the top layer of his pad.

Understandable .... and .... worrying?

"Um. Should I be concerned?"

"Well, it could be due to a variety of things." This statement was followed by a reel of conditions that all sounded faintly life threatening.

".... Uh." What does one even say to that?!

"We could do blood works, an ultra-sound and then refer you to a specialist if that doesn't show the problem." The doctor continued when it appeared more input from him was necessary.

"..... Should we?"

I really didn't feel this was my call. I mean, I also wanted out of here and on the road but I didn't want to die horribly and prematurely either. I felt this was not an unreasonable standpoint.

"I used to have problems when I was in my teens." I volunteered the snippet of medical history, even though no one seemed interested. "But the pill sorted them out. I'd rather go back on the pill and forget all about it, but I don't want to cover up a more serious problem by doing so."

"Well, if the pill cures it, then it's probably nothing serious." The doctor concluded. He passed me the prescription. "If it doesn't, come back." He walked to the door. "And get a PAP done."

The door closed. I saluted it. If I have to come back, I'm totally going mid-week or finding a family doctor with appointments. Leaving the clinic, I set off at a brisk jog back home. It was necessary; I was desperate for the toilet.


--
[*] The reason for the long line; I didn't have an appointment.

New year, old romance

My flight from London had touched down in Detroit at 11:45am EST. It was now past 2pm and I had spent the last two hours of this fresh new year standing in the line before American border control.

For me, the standard question of "Why do you want to visit the United States of America?" had the simple -- if slightly obnoxious -- answer of "I don't." My intention was to take a connecting flight to Buffalo, collect my car and scoot over the border back to Canada. Because of this audacious plan, I had struggled with my customs form which demanded to know the full street address of where you would be staying while in the USA. After a moments consideration, I had scrawled 'Canada' in that box with the idea that this was either an issue they dealt with frequently, or they just wouldn't notice that Canada wasn't part of America. Of course, this did require me making my connecting flight. The 3.5 hour layover was starting to look woefully inadequate.

As I looked down the snake-like line of people waiting with me, I realized I was probably sharing these dilemmas with a sizable fraction of the room. American security demands that incoming international flights go through US customs, even if you are simply connecting through the airport to leave the country directly again.

I idled away the time imagining all the irritating answers I'd like to give to the humorless border control guards if I had less sense and a taste for prison food, and watched while a couple of students were carted away for forgetting their I-20 work permits.

Finally, after another 20 minutes of waiting, I was third from the front of the queue. Another student was taken away, probably to be sent to the modern equivalent of hard labor in Detroit's failing automobile industry. Second in line...

Due to a nation-wide error, we are have a problem with our computers and cannot process passengers at this time.

I raised my head slowly to look up at the intercom that just broadcast this announcement. It appeared the USA border control and I would be starting 2011 as we undoubtedly intended to continue.

May all your Christmases be white....

This is exactly how I pictured Christmas in Canada. White crunchy frosting everywhere and a hoard of snowmen to form an Arctic version of a zombie apocalypse. However, the photo is actually of my parents' garden in Leicestershire, since the UK responded to my move north by promptly filling up with snow. It brought a whole new meaning to the old concept that everything you search for is in your own backyard. Literally.

The real question is though, was this a white Christmas?

Let's consider the facts: It was (1) Christmas Day and (2) white. You might think that this was rather damning evidence and that it was a straight-forward done deal.

And you would be wrong.

Apparently, the official criteria for a white Christmas is that a single snowflake must fall in the 24 hours of the 25th December anywhere in the UK. So in fact, everyone could be up to their necks in snow and living in igloos due to brain-eating Frostys having invaded their kitchens and it could still not be an official white Christmas. Conversely, London could be improving their tans, but if that solitary snowflake lands on a bag pipe in Edinburgh, a white Christmas it be!

The Met Office web pages reveal nine 'Official white Christmas monitoring sites', one presumes for the people who have decided to bet their life savings / house / pet dog / first born on it being a white Christmas in a particular year. These locations are Aberdeen Football Club, Aldergrove Airport in Belfast, the Bullring mall in Birmingham, Millennium Stadium in Cardiff, Edinburgh Castle, Glasgow Cathedral, Albert Dock in Liverpool, Buckingham Palace and Granada Studios in Manchester. Presumably, people are hired for this snowflake counting. It could be quite lucrative, if not in over-time pay, then in bribes from people whose partner has bet their eldest son.

So was 2010 a white Christmas in the UK?

Yes.

Second children everywhere are disappointed.

Happy 2011, folks!

'Twas the night before Christmas....

'Twas the night before Christmas and all through the house, not a creature was stirring....

... Except me because I'd just blown one of the circuit breakers. Whoops.

Using my iPad as a flashlight, I wove through the dark living room to the fuse box and examined the situation. On the top row were a half dozen black rectangles that resembled dominoes. I had no idea what to make of those. The lower row showed six switches, one of which was in the 'off' position. Ah-ha! I was a genius! I flicked it to 'on', God said 'let there be light!' and....

.... nobody paid the slightest bit of attention.

I returned to the kitchen and confirmed that no one had listened there either. Dejectedly, I flicked the light switch a couple of times and returned to study the fuse box. It was after midnight, so possibly the best thing to do would be to go to bed and sort it out in the morning when it would be daylight and my parents would be awake. I looked at the switch I had just turned on and paused. Had I flicked the unmarked one on the end or the one beside it labelled 'cooker'? If it was the latter, then the oven had probably reset itself... The oven with the turkey in it.

That ... would be bad. Oh yes.

Deciding I would be in deeper trouble for letting such a catastrophe go unmentioned than for waking someone up, I crept upstairs with my iPad-flashlight. I have to say, the illumination from this make-shift lamp was not great; there should totally be an app for this. Creeping past my brother's room, I tapped on my parent's door.

"Mum? Uh... I blew all the lights.... And maybe the oven."

I'm unsure whether it was a reflection on my childhood that my mother seemed totally unphased by this occurrence. She located a real flashlight and I moved to documenting the events via twitter on my freed iPad as we moved around the house. Returning to the fuse box, Mum took out one of the domino thingos from the row above the familiar breaker switches. It turned out these were breakers too, but ones which you had to manually feed a strip of fuse wire into yourself.

I feel the need to confirm this was Christmas Eve 2010, not 1910.

One screwdriver and a length of 5 amp fuse wire later (5A for fuses, 15A for most electrical appliances and 30A for cookers. It's never too late in the year to improve your education of devices you thought you were born too late to have to deal with) and we were back in business. The other breaker switch that I had flicked turned out to be the unlabeled one and was not connected to anything. Actually, we're not sure, but Mum turned it back to 'off' to see if anyone complained.

"Sorry to wake you," I said sheepishly. "But I wouldn't have had a clue how to reset that fuse."

"It's fine," Mum said cheerily. "You can see why I study fossils now... Anything old is right up my alley!"

I consoled myself by thinking that at least I got to demonstrate how to get new mp3s onto her iPod this week.

Hell is the lap of luxury

Christmas presents packed. Suitcase closed. Extremely large book in hand luggage in anticipation of 10 days at the airport while London tries to work out where the runway is under the snow. Cat.... zooming in concentric circles around the apartment. Apparently, someone suspects the way this morning is going to go down.

Correctly.

It took me two attempts to get Tallis into her carrier. The first time she escaped to hide under the bed in the basement bedroom. As I lifted the futon to shift it across the room, I had to give her credit for continuing to remain out-of-reach under the middle of the slats in a brilliant thwarting of my scheme. Three more laps around the apartment later and my clean white sweater was covered with dusty black paw prints but we were finally in the car. I hit the highway.

"Tallis?" I glanced briefly down at the suspiciously silent carrier on the floor by the passenger front seat.

No response.

"Hey kitkat! How are you doing?"

Silence.

"Tal Tal...?" I stopped at a set of lights and took the opportunity to give the carrier a nudge. No response.

Had something awful happened? Did Tallis hurt herself as she was stuffed into the carrier? Was the black canvas holder in fact imbued with a rare poison that kills felines on contact as Tallis had always claimed? Had my crazy, selfish and (let's face it) highly unrealistic dream of going home for Christmas caused my poor sweet pussy cat to perish?! WAS I THE WORST CAT OWNER IN THE WORLD?

Concerned, I nearly missed the entrance to the 'Cat Castle' cattery, swerving into the driveway at a sharp angle and causing the cat carrier to roll onto its side.

"Meow!"

Apparently, the silent treatment can be over-ridden by an even bigger reason for indignation.

"Oops."

Parking, I scooped up the carrier and we went inside the house to be met by several of the assistants who were coming out to top up the bird feeders (cat TV).

"Oh, it's Tallis! We love Tallis! She is such an angel! Hello, Tallis!"

This declaration of love and friendship was met with a hissing, spitting ball of fury as the smell of the other cats reached my same-species-phobic companion.

"..... She's thrilled to see you too!" I tried to cover up the noise as the carrier wobbled in my grip under its inhabitant inflating her fur to ten times its normal volume.

I let Tallis out in her roomy cage, sprinkling cat nip over the three levels of bedding. "Look at it this way," I told the cat eying me as if I were spreading dog urine on her food bowl. "At worst, it's less than two weeks, but if the news is anything to go by, Heathrow will be closed and I'll be back tomorrow."

Yellow-green eyes narrowed. The message was clear: Let it snow.

"We need to work on selflessness for the sake of others."

"Meow."

The translation of that I leave to the reader.

Hot feet

"Meoooow."

"What's up?" I looked over at the cat sitting beside me on the desk.

"Meoooooooow."

"Is it the heated pad? Is it too hot?" I'd put down a small electric blanket on a cushion next to where I was working for Tallis to sit on. Technically, the box it came in said that it shouldn't be used on pets, but my friend had one that her cat used to love. I put my hand on the felty blue surface. Perhaps it was uncomfortable on the pads of her paws. "I can turn it down." I did so, clicking the control to 'medium'.

"Meoooow."

"You know .... you could always just get off it."

"Meooooow."

I picked her up and promptly received a vigorous face wash. I squinted out of one eye. "Do you just want me to hold you until the blanket cools?"

"....."

Apparently, yes. Cat is now curled in a ball on heated pad. Stroking has produced no interest.

Of reindeer and doll parts

My neighbors are enthusiastic about holiday decorations. As the end of October drew near, cobwebs began to creep over their eaves and a realistic, villainous looking crow took up residence on their front gate. The right side to their lawn was entirely covered by a gigantic inflatable black cat which must have obscured half the light coming through their front widow. Since it was approaching winter, I suppose there wasn't a huge amount of light to block, but I'm not sure how comfortable I'd be serving tea with the underside of a cat's tail pressed up against the panes.

That said, neither cat nor crow nor cobwebs were what really disturbed me as I walked past their front yard each day. It was the graves.

Of course, I know that Halloween is associated with the return of the dead. Indeed, its name is a variant of 'All Hallows Even', the night before All Hallows Day which, together with the following day, 'All Souls Day', commemorates those who have died.

The slightly gruesome twist on this for modern Halloween is nothing new and, indeed, if we were just talking about some spooky headstones with amusing bylines all would be well.

... It was really the doll's body parts sticking out of the freshly turned earth that I objected to. I mean, it was clear they weren't even connected. No one likes the idea of deformed doll zombies. NO ONE.

Now though, this is all gone. No black cat, no crow, no cobwebs. Instead, a equally mutant-sized inflatable penguin sits on the lawn and animatronic illuminated reindeer peacefully graze...

..... on the earth of the reassigned doll-zombie resurrection site.

It brings a whole new side to the term 're-gifting' .

Orders

"Why aren't you on the ice?"

As one, we turned on the bench to see the director of our ice hockey league walking up behind us, carrying a clip board.

"We're not allowed until the referees get here," volunteered one of my team mates. "Last time we went on before them we got into trouble."

Helmets nodded in agreement. In truth we had been gathered up and lectured at length about skating before an official rink attendant was present. It was pointed out to us that no one was going to rush to take responsibility if something HORRIFIC and AWFUL happened during warm-up. Like ... a mass pile-up in the goal .... or a puck rebellion.

"That is wrong," our director told us crisply. "You are not minors."

Blank faces peered at her from behind wire helmet cages. We totally were a minor league team. If there had been a mistake and we were this night facing a team from the pro league .... oh my.

"You're over 18," the director explained patiently. "You don't need to wait for a referee to warm up. Get on the ice. This will be resolved tonight."

There are some people you argue with and some people you really don't. Unfortunately, both our league director and the referee were examples of the latter case. Still, since the referee wasn't here ... We pulled open the door and pushed out onto the ice just as our captain appeared.

"Hey! How come we're on the ice?"

"She told us to!" At least five arms shot out to point accusingly at the director, who had moved across to talk to the other team.

Yes, we're clearly twelve.... That was probably where the confusion arose from in the first place.

The North Pole: when Canada just isn't far north enough

For the second year in a row, the UK has more snow than Canada. This is what is known as "WRONG". The UK are supposed to get a maximum of half an inch of the white stuff somewhere near the beginning of February. The whole country then shuts down for 24 hours while the Government tries to ascertain whether cars / trains / shoes actually work in snow. By the time they have agreed that someone should be let out of their house to try it, the snow has melted and blissful ignorance is preserved. Canada, meanwhile, should be on skiis. Everyone. Even the geese. And the milk bags. I feel duped. Clearly, there is only one solution:

I must go further north.

Unfortunately, for reasons I don't understand, there is a decided lack of computer facilities for theoretical astrophysics north of Canada. Perhaps, like Hawaiians who would really like to pay for their health care [*] if only they knew it, polar bears think they don't need simulated galaxies.

THEY'RE WRONG.

Until they come to their senses, however, I must fall back on the only activity I do more than astronomy: blogging. Quark Expeditions are running a competition to find an official blogger for their North Pole cruise. Apart from the whole trip-of-a-life-time factor, it's a job I would love more than any other. Unfortunately, they only select based on writing style from the top 5 competition entrants. To reach that top 5 everyone needs to vote for you.

And I mean EVERYONE.

I confess, I think this is a long shot. By the looks of things, I need at least 1,000 votes to stand a chance of making that 5.

But it would be incredible.

So I'm asking you, ALL OF YOU, to nominate me. Annoyingly, you need to register on the website to vote, but the spam you receive from them is small. I joined over a year ago and was sent less than 1 email a month. Please don't let that put you off.

Once you have done that .... thank you. Now I need you to go out into the world .... and make babies. Then get them email accounts so they can vote for me too. That done, pat the little tykes on the head and head out to accost at least ten people and get their votes. Preferably schizophrenics with multiple email addresses. If you get arrested for such antisocial behaviour ... I'm sorry ... but remember to direct your prison guard to the website. You have until February.

If it's any consolation, should I win, there's probably a fair chance I will fall into the mouth of a polar bear. In which case you can feel smug knowing that your small prison cell undoubtedly has more room than a stomach. This trip would also improve the content of my blog posts; I understand your complaints about the uneventful plumbing in Hamilton.

So please vote for me :-) Here ... here .... here ..... or maybe here. And here.


Plus here.


[* USA version of the Daily Show clip here.]

Green eggs, ham and twig fish

After a careful examination of cities, I have concluded that those closest to achieving the Buddhist state of nirvana are old factory buildings. These red bricked structures with their tall chimneys and wrought iron window decorations tend to be reincarnated as art galleries and sushi bars which Sex in the City assures us is a step towards paradise.

In Toronto, one such area is Liberty Village which was undoubtedly once thick with soot, but now is thick with gym goers mooching down from their loft conversions to pose by a running machine. It is also the location of a photography exhibition of a friend of mine, Ken Yan.

In keeping with the area, we began the day with brunch at an airy, pine attired restaurant with floor to ceiling windows. Attractive arrangements of greens were served with the dish of your choice which in my case was ....

Green eggs and ham.

It rocked, Dr Seuss style. (In case of alarm, I should probably mention the 'green' part of the scrambled eggs was spinach.)

The art gallery was in a boutique-sized shop down from a dance studio and opposite a yoga class. One wall was dedicated to 18 prints by Ken and the other had a massive wide angled photo of ....

.... So the problem with high resolution HUGE images is you spend all your time staring into the windows of taxi cabs and forget to look at the complete view. Yeah, I've no idea.

Ken's photos (she adds hastily) I did remember. One that particularly stood out was a picture of sunflowers in a similar design to van Gogh's famous painting. While produced with a camera rather than oils, Ken printed the photo on canvas to give it a painted feel. The result appeared to be a hybrid between a photo and a painting, leaving you unsure exactly which you were looking at.

Another photo I was admiring showed light reflected in a serene lake from which a few thin branches protruded in an arc. Ken told me a couple he had previously been showing it to had been indifferent until he had explained the title. My eyes slid down to the small square of card underneath the frame: "Twig fish". I was no artist and concluded this probably meant something deep. Maybe a commentary on the loneliness of the plant in the water, cut off from the lake shore. Or perhaps it was a reflection on the stick's sparse bark, a vision of scarcity in today's material world. I turned my head on one side.

Then again, maybe it was because the twigs combined with their reflection looked like a fish.

I nodded, tried to pretend I'd seen that straight away and made a mental note to not give up the day job for one as art critic.

When we left, it was starting to snow. It would have been so much more impressive if the UK hadn't got landed with twice as much. Perhaps if factories are on the doorstep to heaven, the UK is moving in the opposite direction.

HandOvalThing

It was Sunday night and I was watching a game of American Football on TV.

Actually, no, that is a complete lie. For a start, I wasn't really watching the game since a large plate of nachos had appeared which was commanding my attention. Secondly, this was Canadian Football. Prior to that evening, I wasn't aware that Canadian Football differed from its southern counterpart. It appeared to be an equally inaccurately named sport in which players with incredibly padded upper bodies manipulated a non-ball like object without their feet. Fans around the room assured me however, that not only did the Canadian Football League (CFL) have different rules from the National Football League (NFL) in the USA, but that they both came into being quite independently at around the same time.

The story goes that in the mid-19th century, McGill University in Montreal learnt a variation of Rugby from the British Army who were garrisoned in the city. Over the border, meanwhile, Havard started playing what was known as the 'Boston Game' which was similar to football (ok, ok, 'soccer') but allowed the ball to be carried. In 1873, Yale University invited Havard (among others) to a convention to produce an official set of rules for college soccer football games. Harvard boycotted this, since Yale refused to consider the variations used in the Boston Game. Yale returned the favour by declining to play this mutant game with Harvard the following year and Harvard, in a huff, invited down McGill to play instead.

When McGill arrived, it became obvious that there were many differences between the Canadian game and the Boston Game, the latter of which still retained many of the features of soccer football. A hybrid of rules was mashed together for the tournament, but the Harvard team liked the new tactics so much that they adopted purely Canadian rules for the second half of the game. In 1875, Harvard managed to convince Yale this newest variation was a great idea, although Yale attempted a show of authority by insisting on a round ball for their match. This was almost certainly singularly pointless since people had lost interest in kicking it.

Nowadays, there are several subtle differences between the sports on either side of the border. The CFL have an extra player, giving 12 men per side, who plays a backfield position. The pitch is larger, being 110 yards long by 65 yards wide, compared to 100 yards long by 53 1/3 yards wide. The ball is also a slightly different variation of not-round-and-ball-like. I was assured there were also some rule differences, but the basic concept of men wearing tight Lycra over their oversized pads while wrestling with one another seems remarkably similar.

The particular match that I was being instructed on was the 'Grey Cup', the championship of the CFL and equivalent of the USA Super Bowl. Having watched both, I would say there were some very noticeable differences that had nothing to do with the number of players or pitch size. For a start, the outside temperature measurement seemed to consist of the same digits, but with a minus sign in front of them. Players wore long sleeved shirts under their padding and mist rose from their mouths. The half-time musical act were forced to wear fingerless gloves and the necessity of layers made the chance of a 'costume malfunction' considerably lower. Oddly enough, the coach of the winning team still got covered with Gatorade.

Bizarrely, the CFL had a brief splurge where it expanded to include a number of teams from America. Since the two versions of North American football are still very similar, it is not entirely obvious how they sold this idea. The incorporated teams weren't even from confused border towns --perhaps angling for hospital as well as stadium access-- but from places that included California, Las Vegas and Baltimore. This USA invasion ran from 1992 - 1996, after which the league became entirely based in Canada once again, although this was in part because the only non-Canadian team to win the Grey Cup, the Baltimore Stallions, moved to Montreal.

So the game that started off being the same as real soccer football in the USA, was corrupted by the Brits teaching Rugby to the Canadians. Of course, we may yet come around full circle since interest in soccer is rising in the USA, who even bided to host the 2018 World Cup. Undoubtedly, this enthusiasm is due to their success in the last world cup in their match against England, which was summerised so perfectly by the New York Post:

World Cup Shocker: USA WINS 1:1

Advent jabs

Tallis: "Meow!"

Me: "Meow."

Tallis: "Meeeeooooooowwwww!"

Me: "Meeeeeooooowwww."

Tallis: "Mowowowowwww!"

Me: "......"

Tallis: "........ meow?"

While the beginning of December marks the start of the Christmas celebrations for many, for Tallis and I it means that her annual vaccinations are due. It is not our favourite time of the year. She was already in her carrier, having entered back first; a feat only to be surpassed one hour later when she entered head first for the return journey. Needless to say, her displeasure at the situation was being vocalised.

I pushed open the door and placed the cat carrier on the front step while I locked the house up. To my surprise, there was silence behind me. I turned to see a giant pompom of fur with two shocked looking eyes in its centre. I suppose it was rather cold.

OK, it was snowing.

But the veterinary practice was only around the corner and at least we didn't have to drive anywhere. I headed off down the street, carrying my silent companion. The vet was a cheerful woman who clearly loved animals. It could have been a meeting full of seasonal cheer, but unfortunately Tallis' vocal chords had de-thawed in record time and she didn't hesitate to inform the poor vet exactly what she thought of her.

Oh, it was terrible (she protested to me, to the vet, to the veterinary nurse who dropped in later, to the receptionist at the front desk and to the cat that was coming in after us. Well, actually, that last one might have been random abuse.) This vile, cat-hating minion of Satan looked in my EARS and then she poked my TUMMY and then she listened to my CHEST and oh! It was bad.

The vet also gave her the vaccination shot, but oddly that didn't seem to register as problematic. The tummy inspection though? Hell. On. Earth. Right there.

The final verdict was health 90% (possibility of asthma to keep an eye on) and charm 2%. We left to make the blustery journey back home.

Me: "There. Was that really so bad?"

Tallis: ..... Didn't you see she touched my TUMMY?!?!

We are now watching the snow from the living room. I have a mug of tea which I narrowly resisted added whisky too (largely because I had only pure malt and it would be a waste to mix it) and Tallis is trying to sleep beside me. I say 'trying' because I'm on the watch for any side-effects from the vaccinations which I've translated as the need to poke her every few minutes.

Me: "Aren't you glad I'm at home to look after you?"

Tallis: .........

A winning flush

It has been a life-long ambition to produce the GREAT AMERICAN NOVEL. Except you know, written in Canada .... by a Brit. There are those who have suggested becoming an astrophysicist was not the way to go about this. Their points largely focus on the difficulty of placing the word 'physicist' with 'socially perceptive masterpiece' in the same sentence.

They may have been right.

I realised my galaxy simulations were not making the cut. What I needed was a topic everyone could relate to. One full of inner meaning, gut wrenching suspense and satisfactory endings. Then it came to me:

Toilets.

Are not these white porcelain bowls of glassy water a key part of every person's day? Moreover, are there not some days when it is a positive highlight to be near one, if only because there is a 50% chance the person you are trying to avoid is not allowed to follow you into the restroom? You may laugh, but not for long because:

BOOYAH! I won the Leap Local Travel Story Competition[*]!

For toilets. Yes. Japanese ones to be precise.

I admit that a 500 word article perhaps can't be classified as the full classic novel, but with an expansion into different plumbing across the globe, I think I can easily expand it to rival all 7 of the Harry Potter novels. Just think of the movies!

The editor of Leap Local reported what a couple of the judges had said about my piece. One, an American author, commented:

"Informative, witty, focused. Author understands that a single slice of pie reveals the taste of the whole. We see all of Japan in these metonymical toilets."

..... I'm really hoping I still have friends in Tokyo after this.


[*]Leap Local run a website (and newsletter) that contains recommendations for travellers in different countries. People contribute tips for accommodation, eating, site seeing and other services that might not necessarily be found in a standard guide book.

Six secrets

While driving home this evening, I was listening to the radio which was presenting a short review of the book 'Six Secrets of a Lasting Relationship'. Evidently feeling that the average listener would drive into a wall if there was any form of suspense, the host proceeded to reveal the 'six secrets' without preamble:

1. Talk TO your spouse, not AT them.

The way to tell this --for those unaware of the difference between a conversation and a monologue-- was revealed to be body language. If you are accidentally engaged in a single-sided diatribe, your spouse will be tense. On the other hand, if information is being exchanged by both parties, they will relax. 

Now arguably, your spouse is liable to have an emotion response range rather greater than the average poodle, so declaring when they will or will not feel relaxed seems rather arrogant. On the other hand, there's no denying that considering the other individual in any form at all can only be a positive step. I concluded that this book was starting at the basics and turned my attention to secret #2:

2. Don't assume you know what they are thinking before getting all the facts.

The example given was that you might think your spouse did not like visiting your parents because they LOATHED THEM BEYOND ANY OTHER CREATURE ON EARTH whereas in fact, they felt intimidated. The DJ went on to emphasise that there was a difference between these two states, although he made no intimation as to which one was preferable. I vaguely thought the first might be easier to deal with by way of being emotionally straight forward and relieving you of the embarrassment of endless reruns of baby photos. However....

... we had to talk to our partner and remember we're not an X-man with psychic powers. Got it. What's next?

3. Don't say things like 'you always listen to your mother's advice over mine'.

Here, we were told you are not only accusing your spouse of hurting your feelings but of doing it on purpose. Again, our helpful radio translator was there with the warning that this is WORSE than hurting someone accidentally. 

So no random accusations that make you sound like a pre-schooler. Next!

4. Don't be late.

Remember, your spouse's time is as valuable as yours.

Did I mention that this advice was presented entirely from the point of view of the man? I'm nicely generalising it here, but the radio presenter almost always used 'she' and 'her' when talking about the wronged spouse. While faintly amusing from my perspective, it left me wondering about the state of the (male) DJ's own personal life. This concern escalated several orders of magnitude for secret #5:

5. Don't bad mouth your spouse behind their back.... not even to your boyfriend or girlfriend.

.... does anyone else think that if you are talking to your BOYFRIEND or GIRLFRIEND, the exact contents of what you are saying is unlikely to impact your marriage significantly? I'm assuming this was a slip on the behalf of the DJ, since he made no suggestion that a useful tip to a successful relationship would be to NOT SEE ANYONE ELSE. He just ploughed right on with secret #6, which I've entirely forgotten since it seemed negligible after the revelations in point #5.

As I pulled into my driveway, I reviewed the secrets to long lasting happiness that I had learnt: talk to your partner, recall you're not omniscient, restrain from accusing them of intentionally trying to cause you irreparable emotional damage and don't describe them as a puke-ridden cockroach on facebook.

But having a spare girlfriend on the side is no big deal. So long as you're not late for dinner.