Portugal is a wonderful place. How do I know? Well, there are about 10 times as many dogs wandering the streets (to their credit, a vast majority are collared) there than in Scotland (I think I’ve seen one in 9 months), and yet there is NO dog shit on the sidewalks (background note: NOBODY cleans up after their dogs in Scotland). I find that to be a sign of a truly superior people.
And speaking of shit, I was attacked by seagull excrement this morning. Above our balcony is a seagull nest, and the mother is none too happy that we’ve moved in downstairs. She caws and caws and finally this morning she made a couple of swooping gestures at as, gloriously accompanied by a large amount of falling, liquid bird poop. At first, I thought someone had tossed a glass of water out a window above us, such was the *splat* it made. This was followed by some more angry cawing, before our feathered harasser finally went back to her nest to settle on her eggs.
Thus, we started our day. We woke up rather early to enjoy some sleep out on our balcony while still in the Portuguese early-morning sun. Jonmikel took himself on a mission to find take-away coffee, which doesn’t exist at all here (at least it exists in Scotland, even if to-go cups are wussy, and the coffee is watered-down espresso). So after a fruitless effort, he just had a somewhat bemused girl pour espresso into plastic cups. This way we had at least a little coffee to go with our early morning relaxation regimen.
As the late morning showers rolled in, we headed out for a nice meander around town. We had explored the caves and crevices on the east side of town yesterday, so today we decided to head to the west, out to the marina, where we hoped to book a boat tour for tomorrow. So we… meandered. We walked along the coast until we hit fisherman territory, big signs that said “Professional Fisherman Only,” only in Portuguese, so it was something about “pescadors” or something. We also managed to find a fascinating sign showing a car falling off a cliff into the ocean inside a large red circle with a line through it. I felt that “No Driving Your Car Into the Ocean” would have been a given, but I guess it never helps to have a handy informational sign. Tourists, you know.
We ate lunch over-looking the ocean and watching people play with cats, and dinner over-looking parts of old town and watching girls in stilettos navigate the cobblestone streets. Our waiter for dinner was keen on practicing his English, and explained to us that he’s even learned a bit of German, but that Dutch is a killer. He was also, incidentally, very proud of his scooter, which he let a girl friend of his borrow the other day. Like a true woman, and much to our waiter’s chagrin, she crashed it into a wall. He spent the whole dinner lamenting his decision to loan it out and declaring “Never Again.”
The rest of the night was calm. We booked a trip tomorrow on a pirate ship. So rock on with that. We also had desert at a place right on the street, a very large and very good-looking (I think the reason we had to eat on the street: nothing brings in customers like good-looking sweets) banana split. We also managed to hit up some GIANT cocktails from a bar with street seating. They love their tall drinks here. I had a tasty Blue Lagoon (I’m having a continuous love affair with Blue Curacao) and Jonmikel went with a traditional pina colada, all served in foot-and-a-half long glasses with plenty of flair decorating the top. We even saw a couple get some drinks with sparklers in them. Rock on alcoholic beverages with fireworks. They seem to be a perfect match, things on fire and booze. Indeed.
We also sat for a while and listened to the music in town. Apparently, the big thing here is professional karaoke. All the bands/singers just do covers of good, old fashioned college-bar songs (you know, old stuff you can sing to while drunk, like the “Summer of 69” kind of genre). It’s fun, because you can tell none of them actually speak English; they just mimic sounds they hear, like the guy last night. So basically, professional karaoke. Some of them are fairly talented singers, if they could only get the words right. Though nobody seems to care much. Sun shine, sea air, and plenty of cheap wine will do that, I suppose. Everybody just sings along appropriately.
Saturday, May 31, 2008
Friday, May 30, 2008
I forgot to mention our encounter! At the bus station in Faro, a guy comes up, asks if we speak English, and asks if we could spare a Euro. Because he seemed polite and rugged and he had a specific amount of money in mind, we agreed. He was very grateful, and asked where we were from. We said “The States,” knowing that such a statement inevitably leads to political discussions, especially with the presidential campaigns now in full swing. He laughed heartily, and said, “Hey I come from another former British colony! Rhodesia!” Then, like he had experience with blanks stares (which we were not, in fact, giving him on this particular point), he informed us that Rhodesia is now Zimbabwe. We chatted for a while, and I totally believe him that he’s from southern Africa: he had that great not-quite-Aussie accent that many South Africans have. I’ve never met anybody from Zimbabwe, so I was pretty stoked.
Anyway, we slept in today, as the mornings in Albufeira were created to make up for the late nights. They were cool and still, with the exception of relaxing morning noises: the shuffle of opening shops and unrolling tarps (it seems to rain here during the night every night), quiet morning conversation that drifts up to our room as unintelligible musings in muted tones, the clink of coffee cups and the rustle of newspapers. We eventually woke up and meandered downstairs, happily clothed in shorts and light sweatshirts to ward off the late morning rains. It seems to be the norm here: early mornings are clear and sunny; in the late morning, the warm inland air crashes against the cool sea air and creates dark, stormy clouds that never really amount to anything except light showers and the necessity for a sweater. By 2 or 3, the clouds have rolled back inland, still looming ominously as an empty threat to the north, while the sun beats down luxuriously on the bathers below. When the late morning sprinkles come in. outdoor shops dutifully close up and go elsewhere for their mid-day siesta (as common here as it is in Spain), and sunbathers walk the 20 feet to the covered and heated bars that line the beach for a pile of fries and a beer.
As for Jonmikel and myself, we wandered out to find a cup of coffee. Unfortunately, finding a “real” cup of coffee is as impossible here as it is in Scotland. Everything is made with an espresso machine, and if you want anything resembling a large cup of coffee, you have to ask for an espresso watered down. All for the horrendous price of about $4. For a TINY little thing. We really should introduce bottomless cups of coffee made in a pot, as opposed to this expensive espresso stuff.
When the day cleared up, we slapped on our bathing suits and hit the beach. We walked down about a mile to explore some of the pretty wild-looking sandstone cliffs that surround the whole coast of the city. They’re craggy and cavey and moderately dangerous looking, but inside are small tide pools, cool crevices, and all manner of fun. We climbed around a while, poking our heads into small caves, climbing onto the rocks in the middle of the ocean, playing in the water. We even managed to get disapproving glares from a woman whose wonderfully red-headed and curious son was taking a cue from our antics and climbing all over the rocks and poking at tide pools, as well. She was refusing to give in to his youthful enthusiasm for cool sea life, standing back on the beach looking irritated. What bad influences we are. Or rather, what a boring mother.
After shredding our hands and feet on the rough rock, and laying out to soak up some much needed sun (we've been suffering from the fairly common British ailment of vitamin D deficiency...), we headed back to our balcony for a relaxing game of UNO while sipping at some of the famous Portuguese wine we bought earlier, which can be had for about $3 a bottle.
It was a calm night for us, meaning a late dinner, a couple of drinks at an interesting bar featuring a grungy looking cover band, the lead singer of which didn’t actually speak English. He just mimicked the sounds he heard in the songs. I wonder if I sound that bad when I sing Spanish songs?
Anyway, we slept in today, as the mornings in Albufeira were created to make up for the late nights. They were cool and still, with the exception of relaxing morning noises: the shuffle of opening shops and unrolling tarps (it seems to rain here during the night every night), quiet morning conversation that drifts up to our room as unintelligible musings in muted tones, the clink of coffee cups and the rustle of newspapers. We eventually woke up and meandered downstairs, happily clothed in shorts and light sweatshirts to ward off the late morning rains. It seems to be the norm here: early mornings are clear and sunny; in the late morning, the warm inland air crashes against the cool sea air and creates dark, stormy clouds that never really amount to anything except light showers and the necessity for a sweater. By 2 or 3, the clouds have rolled back inland, still looming ominously as an empty threat to the north, while the sun beats down luxuriously on the bathers below. When the late morning sprinkles come in. outdoor shops dutifully close up and go elsewhere for their mid-day siesta (as common here as it is in Spain), and sunbathers walk the 20 feet to the covered and heated bars that line the beach for a pile of fries and a beer.
As for Jonmikel and myself, we wandered out to find a cup of coffee. Unfortunately, finding a “real” cup of coffee is as impossible here as it is in Scotland. Everything is made with an espresso machine, and if you want anything resembling a large cup of coffee, you have to ask for an espresso watered down. All for the horrendous price of about $4. For a TINY little thing. We really should introduce bottomless cups of coffee made in a pot, as opposed to this expensive espresso stuff.
When the day cleared up, we slapped on our bathing suits and hit the beach. We walked down about a mile to explore some of the pretty wild-looking sandstone cliffs that surround the whole coast of the city. They’re craggy and cavey and moderately dangerous looking, but inside are small tide pools, cool crevices, and all manner of fun. We climbed around a while, poking our heads into small caves, climbing onto the rocks in the middle of the ocean, playing in the water. We even managed to get disapproving glares from a woman whose wonderfully red-headed and curious son was taking a cue from our antics and climbing all over the rocks and poking at tide pools, as well. She was refusing to give in to his youthful enthusiasm for cool sea life, standing back on the beach looking irritated. What bad influences we are. Or rather, what a boring mother.
After shredding our hands and feet on the rough rock, and laying out to soak up some much needed sun (we've been suffering from the fairly common British ailment of vitamin D deficiency...), we headed back to our balcony for a relaxing game of UNO while sipping at some of the famous Portuguese wine we bought earlier, which can be had for about $3 a bottle.
It was a calm night for us, meaning a late dinner, a couple of drinks at an interesting bar featuring a grungy looking cover band, the lead singer of which didn’t actually speak English. He just mimicked the sounds he heard in the songs. I wonder if I sound that bad when I sing Spanish songs?
Thursday, May 29, 2008
Highlight of the day:
We're sitting at a wonderfully touristy restaurant in Albufeira, Portugal, right on the ocean. It's a little chilly as the sun goes down, so heaters are going at the outdoor dining area. Jonmikel and I are relaxing after a day of traveling, sipping some wine and enjoying a large pot of stewed shellfish called a cataplana (extremely tasty, if you’re ever in Portugal!). There is am English couple sitting next to us, older, perhaps 70, fresh off the boat, if you would. They are friendly enough to their server, a young black man, mid-20s, swarthy and handsome, and he is quite friendly to them in return. He chats them up a bit, and we all know how I can't help but listen in on conversations. They laugh some, and then the woman says, "Well, it's obvious you're not from Portugal," referring to his dark skin. He laughs, as if he's gotten it before, and says, "Sure I am. I was born here!"
It's fascinating that English people assume that if you're not white, you're not European. This young black man MUST be African, NOT Portuguese (ignoring the fact that here in Edinburgh there are plenty of African, Asian, etc. people who are actually British)! Incidentally, my first impression of Portugal is that it is incredibly multi-ethnic (not only is it close to the African/Arab/Berber populations of northern Africa but all citizens of Brazil are eligible for Portuguese citizenship). That's not to say that there is no ethnic tension; multi-cultural and non-discriminatory are two different things. But there are so many people in this small beach city of all kinds of ethnic backgrounds all speaking Portuguese, all locals. All from up North somewhere, all Portuguese citizens. And then a bunch of crazy British people running around.
We flew into Faro, Portugal earlier in the day, getting up at 5 am to make our morning flight. We got a good deal on the flights, hence the ridiculous time. But no worries, because this was going to be a vacation of sun and sand and ocean breezes and frozen cocktails and all those things that come with them. As per my good luck on planes, I get stuck in front of a family who lets their young daughter kick the back of my seat. They got it when I glared at them, but every time they would tell the girl to stop, she would start screaming and crying, and they would try to explain to her that this was MY seat and she couldn't kick it. All I'm thinking is... she's too young to care about why she shouldn't kick my seat, just stop her! Spoiled brat. So the parents moved her one seat over so she could kick the seat next to mine, which was empty. So instead of teaching her not to do that, they just moved her. I hate stupid parents.
The rest of the trip was fairly uneventful. Faro was a neat little city, very Morocco-ish, complete with a maze-like and meandering old Medina within the confines of an old, Moorish, 13th century wall. There was also a neat castle inside that looks very modern now because it has been in continuous use (mostly as a military post) since the 1100s. How rockin’ is that? You can definitely see all the Berber influence there, in addition to all the influence Americans generally think of as Spanish as seen in Central and South America. You know, the big public squares surrounded by fruit trees and churches… that kinds thing. It’s funny, ‘cause it’s all Muslim. The coastal areas, mostly fishing ports and small marshy enclaves for fishing boats around the city, all reminded me of Asilah, Morocco, minus the rain (I was there in the winter… NOT the time to go). It just had the same feel.
But eventually, we decided we had to get to our destination: Albufeira (I should really look that up; it’s an Arabic word), about 35 km down the coast. We had read many complaints about the bus system but didn't want to shell out the 45 Euros for a taxi, so we chanced it. Aside from us not being able to read the bus signs (in English, I might add) and missing our first bus, we both found the system to be easy and cheap and well within the spirit of foreign adventure travel. Our hotel was exactly what we thought it was going to be: basic but clean, and right in the center of old town. For about $40 a night, it was brilliant. Our GIANT balcony (appreciative shout-out to EasyJet for that one!) overlooked part of the main drag of the old town, onto stone, almost mosaic-like sidewalks, street stalls, and rowdy bars and restaurants that partied until about 4am, festivities in which we dutifully partook.
We're sitting at a wonderfully touristy restaurant in Albufeira, Portugal, right on the ocean. It's a little chilly as the sun goes down, so heaters are going at the outdoor dining area. Jonmikel and I are relaxing after a day of traveling, sipping some wine and enjoying a large pot of stewed shellfish called a cataplana (extremely tasty, if you’re ever in Portugal!). There is am English couple sitting next to us, older, perhaps 70, fresh off the boat, if you would. They are friendly enough to their server, a young black man, mid-20s, swarthy and handsome, and he is quite friendly to them in return. He chats them up a bit, and we all know how I can't help but listen in on conversations. They laugh some, and then the woman says, "Well, it's obvious you're not from Portugal," referring to his dark skin. He laughs, as if he's gotten it before, and says, "Sure I am. I was born here!"
It's fascinating that English people assume that if you're not white, you're not European. This young black man MUST be African, NOT Portuguese (ignoring the fact that here in Edinburgh there are plenty of African, Asian, etc. people who are actually British)! Incidentally, my first impression of Portugal is that it is incredibly multi-ethnic (not only is it close to the African/Arab/Berber populations of northern Africa but all citizens of Brazil are eligible for Portuguese citizenship). That's not to say that there is no ethnic tension; multi-cultural and non-discriminatory are two different things. But there are so many people in this small beach city of all kinds of ethnic backgrounds all speaking Portuguese, all locals. All from up North somewhere, all Portuguese citizens. And then a bunch of crazy British people running around.
We flew into Faro, Portugal earlier in the day, getting up at 5 am to make our morning flight. We got a good deal on the flights, hence the ridiculous time. But no worries, because this was going to be a vacation of sun and sand and ocean breezes and frozen cocktails and all those things that come with them. As per my good luck on planes, I get stuck in front of a family who lets their young daughter kick the back of my seat. They got it when I glared at them, but every time they would tell the girl to stop, she would start screaming and crying, and they would try to explain to her that this was MY seat and she couldn't kick it. All I'm thinking is... she's too young to care about why she shouldn't kick my seat, just stop her! Spoiled brat. So the parents moved her one seat over so she could kick the seat next to mine, which was empty. So instead of teaching her not to do that, they just moved her. I hate stupid parents.
The rest of the trip was fairly uneventful. Faro was a neat little city, very Morocco-ish, complete with a maze-like and meandering old Medina within the confines of an old, Moorish, 13th century wall. There was also a neat castle inside that looks very modern now because it has been in continuous use (mostly as a military post) since the 1100s. How rockin’ is that? You can definitely see all the Berber influence there, in addition to all the influence Americans generally think of as Spanish as seen in Central and South America. You know, the big public squares surrounded by fruit trees and churches… that kinds thing. It’s funny, ‘cause it’s all Muslim. The coastal areas, mostly fishing ports and small marshy enclaves for fishing boats around the city, all reminded me of Asilah, Morocco, minus the rain (I was there in the winter… NOT the time to go). It just had the same feel.
But eventually, we decided we had to get to our destination: Albufeira (I should really look that up; it’s an Arabic word), about 35 km down the coast. We had read many complaints about the bus system but didn't want to shell out the 45 Euros for a taxi, so we chanced it. Aside from us not being able to read the bus signs (in English, I might add) and missing our first bus, we both found the system to be easy and cheap and well within the spirit of foreign adventure travel. Our hotel was exactly what we thought it was going to be: basic but clean, and right in the center of old town. For about $40 a night, it was brilliant. Our GIANT balcony (appreciative shout-out to EasyJet for that one!) overlooked part of the main drag of the old town, onto stone, almost mosaic-like sidewalks, street stalls, and rowdy bars and restaurants that partied until about 4am, festivities in which we dutifully partook.
Wednesday, May 28, 2008
Bluegrass in Scotland
Last night we managed to have a nice night out at the Village Pub with the Leith Folk Club. We had seen an advertisement for this roots music festival while having a drink at the Tass (an interesting pub in itself: it's right on the Royal Mile, prime tourist real estate, but on most nights there is live music played by local musicians who just know each other and want to get together and sing old Folk/Scottish diddies. What they play depends on who shows up, sometimes a banjo, sometimes a fiddle, sometimes a pianist, who oddly doesn't bring his own piano... you get the idea. But it also attracts a bunch of locals on these nights, too, as opposed to merely passing tourists. It's quite nice). I noticed that the festival featured many American bluegrass stuff, and since it had been AGES since we heard stuff that reminded us of home in the mountains, we decided to just go. I emailed the dude who runs the non-profit, volunteer Managed LFC, and he reserved us a couple of tickets for the night.
The couple we were seeing was Dana and Susan Robinson, from Asheville, North Carolina. A couple of interesting, friendly, granola "New Age Hippies," as I like to call them. They would fit in great in a place like Gardiner, or in a group of my brother's friends. Not quite hippies, because they drink too much bottled water and go to yoga classes, but very environmentally and socially conscience, so not quite yuppy. He played an acoustic guitar and the harmonica (and sometimes both at once, a la Bob Dylan) and the fiddle, and she played various percussion instruments as well as the banjo in an amazingly effortless and way cool style. Their voices were rough, like an self-respecting folk singer's should be, and they played a decent mix of old timey stuff, from both Appalachia and early 20th century "Out West" kind of songs, as well as a lot of their own music. It was all very nostalgic and paid tribute to the Hobo in all of us, well at least us Yanks. I'm sure who else there would have been an American, but there were definitely some people singing songs that most non-Yanks would never hear.
One thing about the Scottish... no dancing. Whenever there is a folk session or a concert like this one, everybody just sits quietly, maybe tapping a shoe or two. If this concert had been in the States, or in a place like Gardiner, everybody would have been up dancing and singing and truly appreciating the music. The Scottish are really missing out on this one.
Afterwards, we made our rounds, chatting with the bar manager, the Folk Club manager, the band. They all seemed excited to have new converts, and its such a shame we didn't find them sooner. It would have been a good spot to meet new people and do some volunteering or something. But they all kind of reminded me of Gardiner people, maybe that's why. We talked baseball shop with Dana and Susan, who got a kick out of our stories of the baseball league here. We bought an album of theirs to pass to Jenny Golding, who runs the Yellowstone Music Festival back in Montana. We think it would be right up her alley, plus the Robinsons expressed an interest in playing at a concert like that, you know, small town, beer, artisans and people dancing. It was nice to get out and about and talk to some people about all kinds of stuff. Turns out the guy who run the Folk Club, Martin, takes his family out west to go skiing every year. They were looking for a new place to go, as Colorado gets old. We suggested Big Sky, and they seemed up for it. Maybe we will have some visitors!
Incidentally, we also ended up winning a bottle of wine and tickets to another concert through a raffle there, so it looks like we're going again next week!
The couple we were seeing was Dana and Susan Robinson, from Asheville, North Carolina. A couple of interesting, friendly, granola "New Age Hippies," as I like to call them. They would fit in great in a place like Gardiner, or in a group of my brother's friends. Not quite hippies, because they drink too much bottled water and go to yoga classes, but very environmentally and socially conscience, so not quite yuppy. He played an acoustic guitar and the harmonica (and sometimes both at once, a la Bob Dylan) and the fiddle, and she played various percussion instruments as well as the banjo in an amazingly effortless and way cool style. Their voices were rough, like an self-respecting folk singer's should be, and they played a decent mix of old timey stuff, from both Appalachia and early 20th century "Out West" kind of songs, as well as a lot of their own music. It was all very nostalgic and paid tribute to the Hobo in all of us, well at least us Yanks. I'm sure who else there would have been an American, but there were definitely some people singing songs that most non-Yanks would never hear.
One thing about the Scottish... no dancing. Whenever there is a folk session or a concert like this one, everybody just sits quietly, maybe tapping a shoe or two. If this concert had been in the States, or in a place like Gardiner, everybody would have been up dancing and singing and truly appreciating the music. The Scottish are really missing out on this one.
Afterwards, we made our rounds, chatting with the bar manager, the Folk Club manager, the band. They all seemed excited to have new converts, and its such a shame we didn't find them sooner. It would have been a good spot to meet new people and do some volunteering or something. But they all kind of reminded me of Gardiner people, maybe that's why. We talked baseball shop with Dana and Susan, who got a kick out of our stories of the baseball league here. We bought an album of theirs to pass to Jenny Golding, who runs the Yellowstone Music Festival back in Montana. We think it would be right up her alley, plus the Robinsons expressed an interest in playing at a concert like that, you know, small town, beer, artisans and people dancing. It was nice to get out and about and talk to some people about all kinds of stuff. Turns out the guy who run the Folk Club, Martin, takes his family out west to go skiing every year. They were looking for a new place to go, as Colorado gets old. We suggested Big Sky, and they seemed up for it. Maybe we will have some visitors!
Incidentally, we also ended up winning a bottle of wine and tickets to another concert through a raffle there, so it looks like we're going again next week!
Tuesday, May 27, 2008
Weird British #6
Strange thing about the British #6:
They love calling tasty things by names that make them sound like medical devices: cookies are called "digestives" and a container of yogurt is a "biopot." See what I mean?
Monday, May 26, 2008
Baseball and Beer, but not together
Only in Scotland could you have a day of truly perfect weather - sunny, low-60s, not a cloud in the sky kind of thing - and a wind chill of damn near 40. Really. That was what the last couple of days have been. You look outside and think, "Wow, this is great!" and run down the stairs in a t-shirt only to catch hypothermia as soon as you hit the great outdoors. Brrrrrr.
So on this lovely windy day we decided to trek out to Duddingston for a alleged baseball game. There is ACTUALLY a Scottish Baseball League, and Edinburgh happens to have two teams. They play each other, oddly enough. There were a surprising (or maybe not so surprising if I had thought about it) number of Yanks on the teams, and it seemed odd to hear the American drawl again. My host brother back in Morocco used to tease me and my fellow Americans about our long, drawn out syllables, and after hearing only chipper British and roguish Scottish accents for 9 months, I've come to the conclusion that the teasing was well deserved.
At the game, we were the only spectators who weren't related to any of the players, aside from various drunks/neighborhood kids who stopped by periodically, spent 10 minutes asking questions about how the silly game was played, then 10 minutes wondering how Americans could ever enjoy watching something so droll, and then immediately departing to watch golf (no kidding on that; Scottish teenagers enjoy golf more than baseball!). I really wanted one group of teenagers get beamed by a ball because the only thing they could come up with about baseball was, "Oh, like the Yankees!" Chumps. I think baseball for them is like Rugby for Yanks: all Americans know that there is a sport played in the UK called rugby, but none of us have any idea how it's played, and put it on TV for us and we stare blankly at the screen and even drool a little with disinterest.
BUT the most fascinating thing about Scottish baseball is that the most important (and, indeed, the ONLY) way to score is to steal bases. It was the only way games ever progressed, and Scottish baseball has these complicated rules about who can steal when and how and who can be given a base, etc. There are things like a "Ball rolled into the equipment" rule, and the "Catcher is stuck in the net" rule, and the "Ball didn't actually sail into the home run zone, but they let it roll there on purpose" rule and the ever-popular "Ball just bounced over the wall into busy traffic" rule. Each rule involved some sort of Scottish jig, some wild hand signals, and the advancement of a randomly determined number of base runners. As far as I could tell, anyway. Oh, and they used wooden bats, which is kind of wild.
But it was entertaining, though FREEZING. When we couldn't take the cold anymore, we bundled up and made our way back to the Sheep's Heid Inn, where they were having a Beginning of Spring International Beer Festival. We'd been there on a Sunday afternoon before, but it has NEVER been as crowded as it was yesterday. The place was packed with tourists and locals and Just-Out-of-Churchers drinking happily in the beer garden, which was thankfully shielded from much of the arctic blast. I had a tasty little chocolate stout from Orkny while Jonmikel enjoyed an excellent amber WildCat Ale. It has been a long time since I'd had an actual stout, and I reveled in the fact that stouts are great sources of antioxidants not found in most other beers. Seriously.
So on this lovely windy day we decided to trek out to Duddingston for a alleged baseball game. There is ACTUALLY a Scottish Baseball League, and Edinburgh happens to have two teams. They play each other, oddly enough. There were a surprising (or maybe not so surprising if I had thought about it) number of Yanks on the teams, and it seemed odd to hear the American drawl again. My host brother back in Morocco used to tease me and my fellow Americans about our long, drawn out syllables, and after hearing only chipper British and roguish Scottish accents for 9 months, I've come to the conclusion that the teasing was well deserved.
At the game, we were the only spectators who weren't related to any of the players, aside from various drunks/neighborhood kids who stopped by periodically, spent 10 minutes asking questions about how the silly game was played, then 10 minutes wondering how Americans could ever enjoy watching something so droll, and then immediately departing to watch golf (no kidding on that; Scottish teenagers enjoy golf more than baseball!). I really wanted one group of teenagers get beamed by a ball because the only thing they could come up with about baseball was, "Oh, like the Yankees!" Chumps. I think baseball for them is like Rugby for Yanks: all Americans know that there is a sport played in the UK called rugby, but none of us have any idea how it's played, and put it on TV for us and we stare blankly at the screen and even drool a little with disinterest.
BUT the most fascinating thing about Scottish baseball is that the most important (and, indeed, the ONLY) way to score is to steal bases. It was the only way games ever progressed, and Scottish baseball has these complicated rules about who can steal when and how and who can be given a base, etc. There are things like a "Ball rolled into the equipment" rule, and the "Catcher is stuck in the net" rule, and the "Ball didn't actually sail into the home run zone, but they let it roll there on purpose" rule and the ever-popular "Ball just bounced over the wall into busy traffic" rule. Each rule involved some sort of Scottish jig, some wild hand signals, and the advancement of a randomly determined number of base runners. As far as I could tell, anyway. Oh, and they used wooden bats, which is kind of wild.
But it was entertaining, though FREEZING. When we couldn't take the cold anymore, we bundled up and made our way back to the Sheep's Heid Inn, where they were having a Beginning of Spring International Beer Festival. We'd been there on a Sunday afternoon before, but it has NEVER been as crowded as it was yesterday. The place was packed with tourists and locals and Just-Out-of-Churchers drinking happily in the beer garden, which was thankfully shielded from much of the arctic blast. I had a tasty little chocolate stout from Orkny while Jonmikel enjoyed an excellent amber WildCat Ale. It has been a long time since I'd had an actual stout, and I reveled in the fact that stouts are great sources of antioxidants not found in most other beers. Seriously.
Thursday, May 22, 2008
Midnight Showing of Indy!
Warning: some minor spoilers for Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull!
The growing popularity of artsy European-style film festivals means that Hollywood celebrities and critics have forgotten how to enjoy fun movies. If it's not existential or over-the-top witty or just downright depressing, movies are deemed childish, droll, uninteresting. Admittedly, there was less fanfare at Cannes coming out of the premier of Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull (horrendous name aside) than going in, which proves my point.
George Lucas told people not to expect the greatest movie of all time. He told people to expect an Indiana Jones movie. On this point, LucasFilms delivers once again.
Right down to the classic Paramount logo that graces the beginning of the film, fading into a scene of the movie in characteristic Indy fashion, The Kingdom of the Crystal Skull is 100% Indiana Jones. There's whip swinging and chases done with vintage-era cars. There are hat-saving enterprises and wonderfully foreign bad-guys. This time, our beloved Indy is a decorated Colonel, having done his patriotic duty in World World II as a spy in Germany (reminiscent of his comments in previous movies: "Nazis, I hate these guys") only to be captured by his comrades, the affable Russians, in their search for paranormal power. They are led by the ever-outstanding Cate Blanchett, playing a believable Russian who, like the Walter Donovans and Nazis before her, is driven not so much by the search for world domination (though it doesn't hurt), but by the almost academic need for knowledge of and control over the otherworldly, this time secrets held in Area 51 and ancient Peruvian temples.
Harrison Ford once again thrusts himself readily into the role of Professor Indy, and the drive of academic curiosity that got Karen Allen, reprising her role as the sassy Marion Ravenwood, into trouble in Raiders of the Lost Ark, hits home for all those who hang out with any real archaeologists. Discovery wins out over personal safety every time, and Ford embodies this drive with gusto. The nostalgic nods to Dr. Henri Jones and the late Marcus Brody are well deserved and well placed, bringing a tear to the eyes of longtime fans.
The dialog and sometimes over-the-top acting is right out of the 80s action film genre, as it should be as a revival of the Indiana Jones series (it feels odd not to say "Trilogy" doesn't it?), and even the clever dusty cinematography screams classic Indy. Unfortunately, Lucas can't help but to insert his mastery of his own paranormal nemesis: computer animation. The only time this really becomes a problem (aside from all of the new and redone Star Wars movies), is a deplorable toast to Tarzan, which adds nothing to the plot or the action sequence except to make fans squirm uncomfortably at the fallacy. Anthropologically speaking, one of the greatest shortcomings of the movie is not the complete lack of historical and archaeological feasibility (I mean, really, are any of the movies honest in this respect?), but instead the whole idea put forward that aliens landed and taught the native Peruvians agriculture and irrigation techniques. While this theory was popular during the mid-20th century, it was invented only because Europeans simply could not believe that Native Americans were mentally capable of independently developing agriculture or "civilization"; aliens were said to be the only explanation. It's taken real anthropologists YEARS to begin to dispel this insulting notion and undo the damage, and Indy has managed to break that down in a single sentence. Needless to say, the slight could have, and should have, been easily covered up. A benign alien temple in the middle of the jungle is not nearly as insulting as aliens being the only reason Native Americans could build temples in the first place.
But otherwise, The Kingdom of the Crystal Skull is a glorious romp through the nostalgic Indy in all of us, and is delightfully the first time most worshipers of my generation can remember seeing him on the big screen. The alien line is done no less believably than a 1000-year-old Crusader, or an Ark full of skin-melting divine will, or heart-eating cults, and the tempo remains fast-paced, leaving no time to think about how unrealistic it all is. Ford looks fit and capable, Blanchett is diabolical and slightly unhinged, Allen is refreshing, and Shia LeBeouf, as Indy's rebellious young sidekick, is endearing (though perhaps not yet experienced enough to base a new set of movies on: producers take note and don't ruin it!). But remember: don't expect brilliant philosophical exercises. Have fun!
The growing popularity of artsy European-style film festivals means that Hollywood celebrities and critics have forgotten how to enjoy fun movies. If it's not existential or over-the-top witty or just downright depressing, movies are deemed childish, droll, uninteresting. Admittedly, there was less fanfare at Cannes coming out of the premier of Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull (horrendous name aside) than going in, which proves my point.
George Lucas told people not to expect the greatest movie of all time. He told people to expect an Indiana Jones movie. On this point, LucasFilms delivers once again.
Right down to the classic Paramount logo that graces the beginning of the film, fading into a scene of the movie in characteristic Indy fashion, The Kingdom of the Crystal Skull is 100% Indiana Jones. There's whip swinging and chases done with vintage-era cars. There are hat-saving enterprises and wonderfully foreign bad-guys. This time, our beloved Indy is a decorated Colonel, having done his patriotic duty in World World II as a spy in Germany (reminiscent of his comments in previous movies: "Nazis, I hate these guys") only to be captured by his comrades, the affable Russians, in their search for paranormal power. They are led by the ever-outstanding Cate Blanchett, playing a believable Russian who, like the Walter Donovans and Nazis before her, is driven not so much by the search for world domination (though it doesn't hurt), but by the almost academic need for knowledge of and control over the otherworldly, this time secrets held in Area 51 and ancient Peruvian temples.
Harrison Ford once again thrusts himself readily into the role of Professor Indy, and the drive of academic curiosity that got Karen Allen, reprising her role as the sassy Marion Ravenwood, into trouble in Raiders of the Lost Ark, hits home for all those who hang out with any real archaeologists. Discovery wins out over personal safety every time, and Ford embodies this drive with gusto. The nostalgic nods to Dr. Henri Jones and the late Marcus Brody are well deserved and well placed, bringing a tear to the eyes of longtime fans.
The dialog and sometimes over-the-top acting is right out of the 80s action film genre, as it should be as a revival of the Indiana Jones series (it feels odd not to say "Trilogy" doesn't it?), and even the clever dusty cinematography screams classic Indy. Unfortunately, Lucas can't help but to insert his mastery of his own paranormal nemesis: computer animation. The only time this really becomes a problem (aside from all of the new and redone Star Wars movies), is a deplorable toast to Tarzan, which adds nothing to the plot or the action sequence except to make fans squirm uncomfortably at the fallacy. Anthropologically speaking, one of the greatest shortcomings of the movie is not the complete lack of historical and archaeological feasibility (I mean, really, are any of the movies honest in this respect?), but instead the whole idea put forward that aliens landed and taught the native Peruvians agriculture and irrigation techniques. While this theory was popular during the mid-20th century, it was invented only because Europeans simply could not believe that Native Americans were mentally capable of independently developing agriculture or "civilization"; aliens were said to be the only explanation. It's taken real anthropologists YEARS to begin to dispel this insulting notion and undo the damage, and Indy has managed to break that down in a single sentence. Needless to say, the slight could have, and should have, been easily covered up. A benign alien temple in the middle of the jungle is not nearly as insulting as aliens being the only reason Native Americans could build temples in the first place.
But otherwise, The Kingdom of the Crystal Skull is a glorious romp through the nostalgic Indy in all of us, and is delightfully the first time most worshipers of my generation can remember seeing him on the big screen. The alien line is done no less believably than a 1000-year-old Crusader, or an Ark full of skin-melting divine will, or heart-eating cults, and the tempo remains fast-paced, leaving no time to think about how unrealistic it all is. Ford looks fit and capable, Blanchett is diabolical and slightly unhinged, Allen is refreshing, and Shia LeBeouf, as Indy's rebellious young sidekick, is endearing (though perhaps not yet experienced enough to base a new set of movies on: producers take note and don't ruin it!). But remember: don't expect brilliant philosophical exercises. Have fun!
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