A weekend in Paris

One question I am frequently asked lately is: "So why did you decide to live in London?".
Given that it is usually someone British asking, I generally give them one of the following reasons:

• To get a tan
• Things are so cheap here when you're spending Australian dollars
  
• I enjoy crowded trains
• To learn a second language

But seriously, London is brilliant for a host of reasons which I'll save for another post. And if you're not satisfied with just one of the world's greatest cities, you can grab a train, take a nap, and wake up in another.

Two weeks ago was a bank-holiday weekend, and we had the decision of where to go. There were a few places on the 'maybe list', but only one was ever really a contender. When it comes to tourist destinations, Paris is the heavyweight champ. It is the world's most popular tourist destination after all.

We left early Saturday morning on the Eurostar. I know very little about trains, but I can't help noticing that everywhere in the world appears to be significantly better at building them than Oz. This bad-boy traveled at 300km/h for most of the journey. And the only way to tell it was moving was to look out the window at the green blur of English countryside, interrupted by a brief moment of darkness, only to be replaced by the green blur of French countryside. Just over 2 hours later, we stepped off into the middle of Paris. Australian train-builders would do well to steal their notes.*

Given we only had two-and-a-bit days to explore, we focused on the big-ticket items. Where to start? Where else? The tour Eiffel (from here on, all French words will be italicized, and should be mentally pronounced with a bad French accent - comprendez vous?). We headed towards the tower, and on the way passed that other great Parisian landmark, the Arc de Triomphe - but we'll return to it a bit later.

Approaching via the Trocadero, first impressions of the Eiffel tower did not disappoint. It is an imposing piece of art. But it is simply structural art. It was built for no other purpose than to show off - to say "Look what we can build". Although the fact it was built in 1889, and is still the tallest building in Paris, is pretty impressive. And because there are no high-rises in the surrounding area, it completely dominates the skyline.

The cafe we visited to eat some lunch provided M-A her first opportunity to try out her high-school french. I was very impressed. From her conversations with the waitress, I could make out M-A telling her that we were in Paris for two-nights, and that we had come from Australia. No wonder the waitress looked a little surprised. M-A neglected to mention the whole living in London situation.

On dusk, we braved the hour-long (which I'm told is relatively short?) line to ascend the tower. Obviously it gave a great view of Paris at sunset. The illuminated tower at night is also pretty cool; like a giant steel christmas tree.

Sunday, and it was time for another of Paris' great cultural icons; the Musée du Louvre. This was definitely the most people I had ever seen in a museum. Was it this popular before Dan Brown?

The Louvre covers an immense area, so once inside the crowd was generally quite dispersed. However, it was immediately clear which pieces were the rockstars of the art world. The Venus de Milo and the Mona Lisa were engulfed by tourist paparazzi. And as far as I could tell, like their human celebrity counterparts, the renown of these works is due more to their fame than any technical superiority over those surrounding them. Research I have done since has reinforced this view. Both pieces have compelling stories attached, involving thefts, vandalism, international tug-of-wars and large doses of conspiracy theories that have only enhanced their profiles (and of course, Dan Brown).

Something I consider to be an interesting compliment to the artists responsible, was that my camera's facial-recognition feature identified the faces of many of the Greek and Roman sculptures. Whatever criteria the software developers at Panasonic consider defines a human face, these artists apparently satisfied them with chisels and marble.

Sunday afternoon we took the long walk down the Champs-Élysées, which runs all the way from the Louvre to the Arc de Triomphe. The icons on this Napoléon Bonaparte vanity piece depict nude French youths battling giant, bearded, chain-mailed, German warriors. Maybe Napoleon should have spent less on giant arches, and more on buying his soldiers some armour (or even some clothes)? At least the view from the top was good.

Sunday evening we caught the Metro up to Montmartre, and found a quaint little restaurant, the La Maison Rose.After some great food and wine, we walked to the Sacré-Cœur Basilica - another monstrosity of a church with a prime piece of real estate (sorry, just try to ration my enthusiasm for churches for when I eventually travel to Rome).

Monday morning we relaxed, Paris-style, with a couple of espressos and some pastries, before taking the Eurostar back to London. Final verdict: Brilliant city. If I spoke French I'd seriously consider living there. Unfortunately the only phrase I managed to learn was Je ne parle pas français.

Coming soon: a cheese-rolling adventure. Stay tuned.

* No offense meant to any Australian rail workers. I'm sure the Australian soil\climate\government-funding\[insert excuse here] are at fault. In fact, the number of times I rode without a ticket means I'm probably partly to blame?

Ireland

It was Thursday the 22nd of March. I'd just finished a long, hard two-day working week, and the 4-day Easter weekend had just begun. I desired a beverage. To be precise, I desired a Kilkenny Irish Ale. It is quite probable I could have obtained one in London. It is quite possible I could have laid my hands on one in West Hampstead. But that would be too easy, and I wasn't willing to risk it. There was only one way to be sure. We assembled a recon team and shipped out early Friday morning, and a couple of hours later we arrived in Dublin.

Our unit consisted of Brendan Lynch (farl left - went to school with Tim), Cameron Rush (third from left - also went school with Tim and now lives in Dublin), Tim, Kate, M-A and yours truly.

We jumped in our 9-person troop carrier and headed to our rendezvous point in Dublin, to meet Brendan and Cameron. Good Friday seems to mean different things in different parts of the world. In Australia, nothing is open (not necessarily out of any reverance, Australians just love a good public holiday). In London, everything is open (London stops for no man, prophet, god, fire or plague). In Dublin, everything seems to be business as usual, minus the alcohol. Not a drop of it to be found anywhere. So in the search for Kilkenny we had to widen the net. We decided to roll straight on out of Dublin. For those playing along at home, a rough guide to our circumnavigation can be seen here.

We drove across to Galway that Friday, and spent the night there in a travel-lodge we had booked from London. We figured that since the search for beer had brought us to Ireland, we may as well do a little sight-seeing, so Saturday morning we headed for the Cliffs Of Moher.

The Irish countryside can be summarised as: Fields, castles and sheep.

The cliffs were definitely cliffs.

And there were some nice beaches.

Ireland even has a surf scene. This beach was crowded even by Gold Coast standards, despite the water being arctic and the swell non-existent.

We picked up some hitchhiking girls, but they turned out to be Americans, so we dropped them off pretty quickly :P

Saturday night we found a B&B in Dingle to stay for the night. We had a great view as we warmed up with some drinking games before hitting the Dingle town, but alas, still no Kilkenny was to be found.

Lonely Planet had informed us that the sight-that-must-be-seen in Ireland is to drive the Ring of Kerry. Having already spent most of two days in the car, and still feeling the effects of the drinking games the night before, we passed on the 200ish km ring. Maybe another time.

And if the Ring of Kerry is the sight-that-must-be-seen, then the cheesy-tourist-magnet-that-must-be-done is the Blarney Stone. And was it ever cheesy. The fact that those of our group who been there previously elected to stay at the pub and watch football rather than return should have been a clue. Brendan, M-A and myself walked from Blarney town up to the castle. We then climbed the castle, dutifully reading the first few of the hundreds of signs that adorn every goddamn rock in the thing. When we got to the top, we watched a few people suffer the warm embrace of the man assisting people to lie on the floor whilst leaning out to kiss the stone - he seemed to be enjoying it a little too much. We passed. M-A kissed a stone. Close enough. We headed back to the pub - which incidently did not serve Kilkenny.

It was Sunday afternoon, and time to head back towards Dublin. Fortunately, a beeline from Cork to Dublin passes directly over a town by the name of Kilkenny. Finally...

We spent Sunday night at Rushie's place in Dublin, and jetted back to London on Monday afternoon. Mission successful.

Fortune Green Road

Every good superhero needs a hideout. Safe in the knowledge that no doers-of-evil would ever use the internet, I can reveal that my London lair will be located at 58 Fortune Green Road, West Hampstead, NW6 1DT. It is located above a scooter store, making quick getaways rather convenient (in a race across London, I would choose a Vespa over the bat-mobile anyday. I imagine afterburners are of limited effectiveness in gridlock, and the turning-circle on that thing didn't look great). It's nice and close to West Hampstead tube station (even superheroes have to use public transport sometimes), and Fortune Green (Green = Park) is right across the road (you've got to stay in shape when you wear spandex to work).

Sure, the fact it is has three decent-sized bedrooms (i.e. their dimensions are greater than a human lying horizontally) and two bathrooms meant it was a long way in front of the pack to start with, but the deal-sealer was the terrace. Admittedly, on days like today, with a maximum temperature of 6 degrees celsius and a minimum of 0, it isn't the place to be. But come summer (I'm told England has one), I'm sure it will come into its own.

And, we have a sofa-bed and a camp-bed downstairs, so if anyone needs refuge from the cold streets of London, just send up the bat-signal.

Tahoe

I suspect it is because I grew up in a climate in which a snowball wouldn't have a... well, a snowball's chance in hell; but something about seeing that fluffy, white, frozen susbtance covering everything turns me into a little kid.

We spent the 22/02 - 25/02 in the chalet pictured at Lake Tahoe. I think the picture captures M-A's trepidation at navigating the driveway, and rightfully so. Doug parked the car when we first arrived, and after unloading the gear into the house, we returned to find it had slid off the driveway! Naturally we wedged the wheels from then on. We headed out on the saturday morning to Northstar ski resort.

Unfortunately, I have come to the conclusion that in order to be truly proficient in alpine sports, you need to travel to the snow more than once every 3-5 years. Perhaps the black-diamond run wasn't the best choice of warm-up? Apparently the snow-plow technique's effectiveness diminishes as the angle of descent increases (the quad-burn, however, certainly increases). Doug and Geli had no such problems. Doug on his snowboard managed to comfortably outpace M-A and I, while travelling backwards and filming us. And Geli was just a purple-colored blur on skis! Check out the attached video for a sample of our style, as filmed by Doug. OK, so we may not make the next Warren Miller film, but it was steeper than it looks, I promise ;) That's Geli in the purple that goes speeding past us.

I also have to make it official that I am never staying in a chalet without an outdoor jacuzi again. Sitting in a steaming bath, with your beer being kept cold by a cup-holder dug into the snow, after a long day on the slopes is about as good as it gets.

Saturday night it continued to snow. There was some disupte as to how much was actually dumped, but you can take a look at the cars below and judge for yourselves.

This certainly made for some interesting skiing on the Sunday. Powder is fantastic up to a point, past that it actually becomes a hindrance. Taking a fall into a metre of snow certainly makes for a soft landing, but getting back to your feet is a challenge. And 3 feet of visibility was a stretch of my limited abilities. The Irish coffees Doug and I shared at the end of the day went along way towards thawing me out though. Doug graciously offered to pick up the bill - an act I think he may have regretted slightly once he saw the price. I think they came in at about $US9 a pop. Although in typical American style, they did come in containers that would be more accurately described as buckets than cups. Also, the canteen was at the very top of the mountain, so then we had to navigate down. Despite, or perhaps because of the whiskey boosting my courage and impairing my motor-skills, I made it down.

By Monday morning the storm has passed, and as far as snow-days go, it was about as good as it gets. Blue skies and plenty of snow. The pciture on the right is the view down our street! Geli took M-A and I to Alpine Meadows ski resort, and we all had a brilliant day (despite me initially releasing that Doug's snowboard I had borrowed was configured for a goofy-footer. Now I know why they call it goofy; because that's how I felt when trying to ride that way).

All up, three sensational days. Not much else to say...

IT Mecca

There is a sacred duty which requires all abled-bodied members of the Muslim cult who can afford it, to travel to the city of Mecca at least once in their lives. Likewise, all abled-bodied IT professionals (no, its not an oxymoron) should make the pilgrimage to Silicon Valley at least once in their's. Thanks to Doug, Geli and their friends (thank-you again Martina) I was fortunate enough to have guided tours through the headquarters of Sun Microsystems and Hewlett-Packard, and to have lunch in the cafeteria of a little known internet start-up called Google. And I'd have to say, the religous fervour of Muslim devotees has nothing on that of the members of the cult of Google.

If the Google-flavoured umbrellas and sweaters (despite the fact there is no uniform) weren't enough, the hundreds of matching Google bicycles gave it away. And like any good cult, the brainwashing mechanisms are extremely effective; after spending a couple of hours there, I was ready to be baptised! We drove in past the vans providing hair-dressing and dental services to employees, walked past the fully-assembled Tyranosaurous skeleton, continued past the LCD screens showing live search queries and into one of the many cafeterias serving endless amounts of some of the best food I've had anywhere. Apparently, Larry and Serge (the Google high priests, aahh...I mean founders) liked a particular Mexican resteraunt so much that they bought it and installed on the campus for employees to enjoy! I also had my closest encounter with a multi-billionaire when Larry Page walked right by us having lunch.

So at least now when I complain about whatever workplace I happen to be in, I can do so knowing that the Google grass is in fact greener (at least for now; I have to wonder if financial times ever get tougher (like their money-tree gets termites), what will be the first to go; the free haircuts or the jumping castle?)

My only regret from my latest trip to Silicon Valley is that the Computer History museum was closed the day I wanted to visit it. M-A was also devastated (at least I think that's what she said?).

Invincible

If I stop to think about it, I am aware of how fragile life is. I know, as Richard Dawkins has written, there are infinitely more ways to be dead than there are to be alive. But often my experience of every-day life does not seem to concur. In fact, sometimes I have to conciously remind myself that I am actually not invinvible.

Ten days ago, back in Brisbane, while cycling to work on a Monday morning I was hit bit a car. Well, to be strictly accurate, I hit a car. I was cycling along the side of Ipswich Road (the only reason I was riding in that location was that road works have destroyed large portions of the south-east bikeway, but I won't get started on that here). I was travelling perhaps 40km\h, when the car beside me decided to turn left into a driveway. As I was directly beside the vehicle on its left, I was trapped with nowhere to go other than hurtling into the passenger-side front door. I had almost no time to brake, and the majority of my velocity was still present at impact. As it was a 4WD-style vehicle (an SUV as they would call it here in California), my head struck the passenger's window (chalk one up for mandatory helmet laws) and I found myself lying on my back on the road - my kinetic energy having been very quickly transformed into a lovely cocktail comprising a splash of noise, a sprinkling of heat, a dash of gravel-rash and a side-serve of bruised hip. Having assuaged the occupants of the vehicle of their fears that they had done me some permanent damage, I continued on my journey, cursing my bad luck and the fact that I was going to be five minutes later to work. It wasn't till a few hours later that I began to reflect on the many, many ways this could of turned out much, much worse.

Fast-forward six days, and I am in California with Doug and Geli (M-A's brother and his wife). Doug decides he and I will go mountain-biking for the day, up in the Soquel Demonstration Forest. Now Doug is a far more experienced mountain-biker than I (as is anyone who has ever owned a mountain-bike, sat on a mountain-bike, or even played a mountain-biking video game), but I wasn't about to let this deter me from trying to keep up with him. Perhaps, in hindsight, the result was predictable.

A warning for the kids at home: don't attempt a somersault while riding a mountain-bike.

Although this did get me to slow down considerably for the remainder of the ride (unfortunately, but not suprisingly, this fall happened rather early on, in the less difficult terrain), the fact is I completed another few hours of similar, but even more dangerous behaviour than that which had just caused me to part with some of my own blood. Once again, this most obvious of sensory feedback (in the form of physical pain) that the activity I was undertaking was a potential threat to my existence did not cause me to cease it. Once again, it was not until a few hours later that I reflected on the fact that had those sprockets, which made a series of punctures both above and below my eyes, taken a slightly different path across my face, things could have turned out significantly worse.

As humans have evolved, we have developed a few useful mechanisms to give us the maximum chance of survival.
Pain; the body telling the brain 'I am being physically damaged, please attempt to stop this from happening'.
Fear; an emotional response to a threatening situation that causes a number of physical changes in the body, proven to increase the chances of surviving the situation (ideally by removing oneself from the location).
Why is that modern humans not only ignore these inbuilt warnings, but actively pursue them in the name of recreation? Do we really think we are invincible, or our day-to-day lives so boring that we need to remind ourselves we can die in order to remind ourselves we are alive? Is adrenaline addictive?

I don't know, but the day after we hiked up to a place called Castle Rock, in the Santa Cruz mountains and went rock-climbing.

And tomorrow we leave for Tahoe to go snowboarding.

Invincible!

Homeless and unemployed

In 1770, Captain James Cook, aboard the Endeavour, extended a scientific voyage to the South Pacific, charted the east coast of Australia and claimed it for the British Crown.


And what did the Brits decide to do with this vast land, abounding in nature's gifts and girt by sea. This land with a unique set of flora and fauna found nowhere else on this planet. A land whose climate, it would surely be admitted by the most patriotic Englishmen, is more suited to human habitation.


They made it a penal colony, of course.


They then spent the next 80 scraping the bottom of the Brittish barrel, and hearding up the societal sediment onto ships bound for Oz.


Little did they suspect that 200+ years later the decendants of those convicts would have their revenge (and not just by beating the English at every sport they ever invented). It seems to have become a right-of-passage for every Australian, at some stage between the ages of 20 and 30, to voyage to the ol' dart, spend a few weeks\months\years there whinging constantly about the weather\food\beaches\etc, then fly back to Oz with pasty-white skin and as many pounds as they can carry (pounds being used here to measure both currency and weight).

And so it is that M-A and I take our place in the queue.
We have left our home, jobs and almost everyone who cares about us behind, and departed for London, England (via a few weeks in sunny California). Here we go. . .