Dallas, New Orleans, Austin and San Antonio. I’ve covered a fair bit of ground since my last blog. There’s so much to tell, but in the interests of brevity, I’ll just give you some highlights. It will still take ages.
Firstly Dallas. It’s my second visit to Dallas but I’m still fascinated by it. Dallas epitomises the thing Texas is particularly famous for, namely, that everything is bigger. Hats, belt buckles, hair, food portions, roads and cars. It’s all bigger here. Tease it to Jesus is apparently the instruction one gives to hairdressers to get Texas-sized hair (although allegedly large hair is not fashionable, at least amongst hairdressers). Unless you are talking about hair fountaining skywards, Jesus’ name can only be used in praise at all other times. Same goes for the Georges Bush (or is that George Bushes?). This is definitely a Republican State, as the billboards declaring Obama to be a socialist confirm. Texans are nothing if not polite but you will know when you have said something socialist. The air gets a distinct chill, which given it has been over 104 (that’s 40 for celcius users) for more than 40 days, might not be a bad thing. Then again, it is a State with high gun ownership so perhaps not...
It’s a funny ol’ place, is Texas. People here are friendly beyond measure and quite charming. Everything takes me ages to do because everyone wants to chat. The minute I open my mouth, whatever business is being done is suspended in favour of hearing all about me. If one had an ego, it would be well-stroked here.
One thing I have to mention about Dallas is the roads. A road may be a road by any other name but not in Texas. Leaving aside the President George Bush Turnpike (which needs no further descriptors to garner a wry giggle), the various Parkways, Highways, Interstates etc are fascinating in themselves. My favourite image of Dallas is the multi-storey roads which remind me of a scene out of the Jetsons where little futuristic put-puts whizz by each other on skyways (see how I did that? Sky + highway = skyway. I would like the first one named after me please.) The roads in Dallas look much the same. It’s quite a thrill to drive here - even though the roads are very well designed and easy to follow, my brain can’t help but trigger an adrenalin rush when it registers five levels of road to navigate at break-neck speed in a large conveyance that here passes for a car but anywhere else would be labelled a truck at least, and possibly a road train.
I left Texas for a few days to visit New Orleans in the fine Southern State of Louisiana. In case I thought it was hot in the desert or Dallas, New Orleans brought some more heat to the party and threw in high humidity for good measure. Now I know why August is low season. Unbearable is not an unreasonable word to use to describe their weather and I’m still sweating just thinking about it. Nay, not just sweating, I feel quite faint at the thought. Have I convinced you it’s really, really, every-swear-word-you’ve-got hot? However hot you think it was, double it and add a baker’s dozen. Now you’re close. And now you should be sharply drawing in breath in awe as I tell you that despite the heat, we powered on and sight-saw all day.
During our modest 2-day stay, we:
- cruised down the Mississippi on the only steam-powered paddle-steamer left on the river (called the Natchez). Here’s an interesting fact about the Mighty Mississippi - at Algiers Point, the river is 214 feet deep due to the volume of water coming down river and scouring the bottom. As we say in the business, that’s a bloody lot of water;
- explored the French Quarter by foot and by mule and cart. They use mules because they are more heat-tolerant than horses. Interesting fact about mules - they are sterile. You can only get one by crossing a female horse and a male donkey. This is the way you get the best of both animals (never mind the logistics). Do it the other way and you'll get the worst. I’m still wondering who was the first person to cross the species, why and what would happen if you threw a zebra into the mix. I need some gainful tasks or these are the types of thoughts that occupy my mind;
- drank hurricanes (4 oz of alcohol in each one) and Voodoo Daquiris (presumably the unholy purple colour came from the blood of virgin chickens or something of that ilk);
- cruised the Bayou and fed marshmallows to alligators. It turns out, ‘gators are really quite cute. I was a bit worried we were creating a generation of diabetic gators but the guides assured us the mallows are mostly air and therefore fine. (Shame I don’t like marshmallows or this would be an excellent way to sneak dessert into the diet.) There was lots of animalia in the swamp and I must admit that apart from the heat, it was a beautiful place. Still, we did pass houses that looked like banjos might duel there so I don’t think it’s a place I’d choose for residential purposes;
- saw the famed above-ground grave yards of New Orleans. They have to intern bodies above ground because the water table is so high here. In the good old days before they understood such things, Uncle Merv used to float up and out of his grave every time it drizzled.
- visited the Louisiana State Museum which was enormous and held a range of fascinating displays about the State. Best museum I’ve been too ever (or at least thus far).
Now we can’t talk about New Orleans without mentioning Katrina. She has left an extraordinary mark on this city. While the French Quarter itself was spared (being a whole 9 feet above sea-level), the rest of the city was not so lucky. One can’t help but be slightly judgmental about the wisdom of building a large city on a floodplain that lies well below sea level and has a groundwater table about a foot below the surface. That said, the effect of that storm on the people of this city is pervasive. Everything is measured in terms of pre-and post Katrina. For these people, that storm was an apocalypse and the nightmare continues. As everyone knows the poorer parts of the city are not yet repaired. Indeed, many parts remain flooded. The saddest thing is that it will probably stay that way for a goodly while. The French Quarter continues to live on with a party spirit and tourists know not to go north of Rampart Street (did you know that New Orleans was recently assessed as the fourth most dangerous city on the planet? The first three in that survey were Mogadishu, Juarez (Mexico) and Caracas).
As there is no damage to be seen where the tourists are, there is no external impetus to restore infrastructure or reinvest in poorer suburbs. I have to say that I didn’t really understand the scale of the storm, the destruction or the impacts of the response to it until I visited the Katrina Museum. And there I wept at the pain and with frustration as I saw the worst of what happens when government policies are piecemeal. Hurricanes come and go. As much as we’d like to, we cannot control the weather. But with the environmental and engineering knowledge we have in this modern age there is no excuse for what happened in that city. It should serve as a warning to every government in every town, city and nation.
Continuing with the theme of being a trooper in the face of oppressive heat, we travelled down to Austin and San Antonio. Austin is, quite possibly, the funnest city on Earth. It is famed as the live music capital of the world and it does not disappoint. Once again, I hit Sixth Street and partied a good deal of the night away. Even if it was 111 degrees. In the middle of the night. The most commonly seen slogan on souvenir t-shirts from this city is “keep Austin weird”. Not only does it have more varieties of live music than the jelly belly factory has flavours, it doesn’t take itself very seriously. So a riotously good night listening to any genre of music you fancy is guaranteed. And, unlike New Orleans, it’s perfectly safe. So, if you have a choice between a night out in Bourbon Street (NO) or Sixth Street (AU), take Sixth.
On to San Antonio. Quite possibly the prettiest city in Texas. Admittedly I haven’t seen much of Texas so that’s a pretty big (and very early) call but I’m confident in my assessment. The city has a river running through it which it has interfered with excessively to turn it into an extremely effective flood control system. Indeed, it recently withstood a 1 in 500 year flood. Even better than that, it’s darn attractive. The entire length of the river is a Riverwalk, bordered by trees, with public artworks scattered throughout. The river is a thoroughfare for water taxis and tourist cruises. Off the river walk are a number of public parks which have been designed to maximise public amenity. I know this is nerd alert stuff, but I get super excited when I see a well-designed city. It proves that it can be done. And, what’s even more exciting (I can barely keep from wetting my pants at this point) a lot of the work on the Riverwalk was done in the 1990s. They actually managed to retro-fit a whole heap of flood controls and create a beautiful linear park for everyone to enjoy within an existing, very large city.
San Antonio is also home to the Alamo, source of a level of Texas pride that seems out of proportion to the size of the battle or the level of success achieved (ie, nil). Over 200 men lost in less than 90 minutes, having woken to face a force of thousands. I could never say this out loud to a Texan, but the battle seemed more like foolish bravado than courage to me. Then again, I haven’t seen John Wayne’s iconic movie so perhaps I have missed the glorious point. Or perhaps that chill in the air is suggesting that I am socialist after all. Who knew valuing human life over bricks and mortar made one a socialist? I live and learn.
My time in Texas ends in a couple of days and then I head to Northern California. However, before I go I will return to the Stockyards at Fort Worth and once again sit in a bar with saddles in lieu of bar stools. Once again I will go to the world’s largest Honky Tonk (Billy Bob’s) and dance under the refracted light of the rhinestone saddle suspended above the d-floor. Once again, I will have a drink or five while watching cowboys ride into town and hitch their horses outside their favourite saloon. One just can’t leave Texas without remembering the way the wild west used to be and letting one’s inner cow-girl out for a ride. Yeeeeeeeeehaaaaaaw!!!!
Wednesday, 31 August 2011
Thursday, 18 August 2011
Welcome to the USA
It’s been a big week in travel. On Sunday, I once again braved US customs and made it south of the border. But I get the feeling it was touch and go. US Customs and Border Control has been written about by many. I love Bill Bryson's description of the lunacy of requiring a customs form to be filled in for an infant which asks questions such as "are you, or have you ever been a communist?" This is the same form that asks whether you plan to engage in acts of moral turpitude, which I'm always tempted to answer with a 'yes'. While it's never a fun experience, the guards are usually polite. This time though, I watched some interesting displays of lack of humour and God complex that were above and beyond the norm. Thankfully they weren't directed at me so I'll just slink off quietly without saying anything more on the matter. But I don't think they understand the irony of working under a sign that says "Welcome to the United States of America" when the paranoia exhibited is anything but welcoming. Nonetheless, I made it through and spent the first three days in the City of Angles.
LA is a strange place. Obviously it is well known to everyone as a major hub of the rich and powerful. But I do wonder exactly why anyone wants to live here? Beverley Hills is nice enough but there are plenty of lovely suburbs attached to much more attractive cities. I guess if you’re in the film or television industry, it’s the best place to be but I wonder at the fact that a place full of very talented creative-types would countenance living in such a sinfully unattractive place. Unless of course they don’t leave Beverley Hills. Ever. Because you don’t have to go far for the manicured lawns and pretty streetscapes to turn to a sprawling concrete...er.....well, sorry to all Angeleans....mess.
Even Hollywood Boulevard is underwhelming when it comes to style and charm. I began to wonder about the prestige of having a star on the walk of fame. It seemed an almost ignominious honour once I saw it in the flesh. I’m also curious about the design principles behind it. The stars (thousands of them) aren’t in alphabetical or chronological order. So a star of the 40s could be right next to a current day starlet. The placement is also odd. For example, Frank Sinatra’s star is now outside a rather dirty tattoo parlour, while Godzilla’s star is outside the doors to the very ostentatious Chinese Theatre. In some parts of the Boulevard, stars are doubled-up, while in other parts there are multiple blanks in a row. It surprised me just how many stars there are and how few of them were names I recognised. There was a star for "The Original 5th Dimension". Apart from not knowing them/it, the name suggests there was a later or false 5th Dimension. Really? Who was Ethel Merman? Elmo Lincoln? Lon Chaney? Dennis Day? Of course this is evidence that I simply do not know everything (yes, I am surprised) and given how long the film industry has been around I guess there would be lots of stars but the stars are not reserved just for the film industry. Thomas Edison has one too. And as for the names I didn’t know, I guess it goes to show how few people create a really lasting legacy. It was somewhat ironic that the most photographed names were cartoon characters - Mickey, Donald, Bugs, Woody Woodpecker all have a star of their own. One wonders why their creators weren’t credited instead (at least in small print somewhere on the plaque). Life is obviously pretty good if my most pressing worry is trying to work out the logic of the walk of fame.
On Wednesday, I picked up a hire car, tuned into the Outlaw Station and headed east out into the desert. My destination: La Quinta, California, just past Palm Springs. I was told by my friend Nancy (who I was visiting) that La Quinta is a small town, so I had a bit of a giggle when I drove in and the welcome sign declared that the population was over 41,000. Obviously small is relative.
La Quinta is part of the Coachella Valley and is in the midst of some very interesting landscapes. Desert is not far wrong as far as appearance and temperatures go but interestingly, it is a citrus and date growing area. There is a big, salty in-land lake that they desalinate. They also bring in irrigation water from the Colorado River by open channel - WTF???? I was horrified that a nation so advanced in so many ways could get something so basic so terribly, terribly wrong. Especially since the Colorado is over-drawn and basically dying from the mouth up. It’s one of the areas predicted as a high-potential flashpoint should World War Water ever break out. What are they thinking?
On the upside, between Palm Springs and La Quinta I found the largest wind farm I have ever seen. When Nancy said “you’ll drive past our windmills” I had no idea what I was in for. Turns out that the “wind farm on the San Gorgonio Mountain Pass in the San Bernadino Mountains contains more than 4000 separate windmills and provides enough electricity to power Palm Springs and the entire Coachella Valley” (www.palmsprings.com). Wow.
In my view, these two contrasting examples show the influence of profit in making infrastructure decisions and the importance of clear regulatory signals in ensuring good environmental (and thus social and economic) outcomes. See, I’m still a public policy nerd even on holidays.
LA is a strange place. Obviously it is well known to everyone as a major hub of the rich and powerful. But I do wonder exactly why anyone wants to live here? Beverley Hills is nice enough but there are plenty of lovely suburbs attached to much more attractive cities. I guess if you’re in the film or television industry, it’s the best place to be but I wonder at the fact that a place full of very talented creative-types would countenance living in such a sinfully unattractive place. Unless of course they don’t leave Beverley Hills. Ever. Because you don’t have to go far for the manicured lawns and pretty streetscapes to turn to a sprawling concrete...er.....well, sorry to all Angeleans....mess.
Even Hollywood Boulevard is underwhelming when it comes to style and charm. I began to wonder about the prestige of having a star on the walk of fame. It seemed an almost ignominious honour once I saw it in the flesh. I’m also curious about the design principles behind it. The stars (thousands of them) aren’t in alphabetical or chronological order. So a star of the 40s could be right next to a current day starlet. The placement is also odd. For example, Frank Sinatra’s star is now outside a rather dirty tattoo parlour, while Godzilla’s star is outside the doors to the very ostentatious Chinese Theatre. In some parts of the Boulevard, stars are doubled-up, while in other parts there are multiple blanks in a row. It surprised me just how many stars there are and how few of them were names I recognised. There was a star for "The Original 5th Dimension". Apart from not knowing them/it, the name suggests there was a later or false 5th Dimension. Really? Who was Ethel Merman? Elmo Lincoln? Lon Chaney? Dennis Day? Of course this is evidence that I simply do not know everything (yes, I am surprised) and given how long the film industry has been around I guess there would be lots of stars but the stars are not reserved just for the film industry. Thomas Edison has one too. And as for the names I didn’t know, I guess it goes to show how few people create a really lasting legacy. It was somewhat ironic that the most photographed names were cartoon characters - Mickey, Donald, Bugs, Woody Woodpecker all have a star of their own. One wonders why their creators weren’t credited instead (at least in small print somewhere on the plaque). Life is obviously pretty good if my most pressing worry is trying to work out the logic of the walk of fame.
On Wednesday, I picked up a hire car, tuned into the Outlaw Station and headed east out into the desert. My destination: La Quinta, California, just past Palm Springs. I was told by my friend Nancy (who I was visiting) that La Quinta is a small town, so I had a bit of a giggle when I drove in and the welcome sign declared that the population was over 41,000. Obviously small is relative.
La Quinta is part of the Coachella Valley and is in the midst of some very interesting landscapes. Desert is not far wrong as far as appearance and temperatures go but interestingly, it is a citrus and date growing area. There is a big, salty in-land lake that they desalinate. They also bring in irrigation water from the Colorado River by open channel - WTF???? I was horrified that a nation so advanced in so many ways could get something so basic so terribly, terribly wrong. Especially since the Colorado is over-drawn and basically dying from the mouth up. It’s one of the areas predicted as a high-potential flashpoint should World War Water ever break out. What are they thinking?
On the upside, between Palm Springs and La Quinta I found the largest wind farm I have ever seen. When Nancy said “you’ll drive past our windmills” I had no idea what I was in for. Turns out that the “wind farm on the San Gorgonio Mountain Pass in the San Bernadino Mountains contains more than 4000 separate windmills and provides enough electricity to power Palm Springs and the entire Coachella Valley” (www.palmsprings.com). Wow.
In my view, these two contrasting examples show the influence of profit in making infrastructure decisions and the importance of clear regulatory signals in ensuring good environmental (and thus social and economic) outcomes. See, I’m still a public policy nerd even on holidays.
Sunday, 7 August 2011
Uh-oh, I’m not sure I’m human
I think I might be a bear. I say this, not on account of how much I’ve been eating, drinking and sleeping lately. (Although the casual observer could be forgiven for believing that I am in training for hibernation, storing up enough calories to last several winters and practicing sleeping for extraordinary lengths of time.) I say this because the bins here are designed to be bear-proof and I can’t bloody well figure out how they open.
Apart from carting my rubbish around with me, I have had a very busy week. After defending Vancouver so vigorously in my last blog, I promptly left the city. I blame the Grouse Grind, which is the name given to the act of climbing Grouse Mountain. Several times during the journey, I balefully groused (har, har, har) at my grinding companion Cara that it was a stupid thing to do to climb a mountain. Eventually, even Cara’s usually ever-present good humour evaporated as she reminded me that the climb was actually my idea. My humour returned in the form of abject hysteria when it turned out neither of us was very good at fractions. Cara and I, already causing landslides with our sweat and panting loudly enough to distress the bears in Washington State, were convinced we must be about 7/8ths of the way up the mountain. It had been 40 minutes after all. Then we rounded a corner and we saw what Cara pronounced as the most disheartening sign she’d ever seen. The half way mark. I was laughing so hard that people stopped to watch. And asked what drugs I was on. And asked whether they could have some. Luckily the second half didn’t seem as long as the first half and we made it to the top of the mountain. The bears were happy to see us. I was happy to see a plateau. I vowed never to climb another mountain for as long as I live. Remind me of that next time I get the urge to go hiking. Remind me also that while wine tasting is fun, moderation is the key.
Sadly, moderation was not a key word during our visit to the Okenagen Wine Region. Officially the furthest that the three of us had ever been in Canada, we were prepared to represent and show those Canadian wine growers how tastings are done (that being, in spades). And so it came to pass. After a disappointing start at Mission Hill (great views, great architecture, really awful wine), the wine improved at the next three. And the next three the following day. Sadly, the brain cells responsible for remembering the names of those wineries were massacred in the battle waged with their wines. Absent names notwithstanding, the wine was excellent and as you might have guessed, plentiful. Also taking plentiful to all new heights, depths and as a consequence my width, was the food we consumed. I think we probably ate enough to feed most of Africa for a year. At least, this is what my jeans are telling me. I blame Joe - it’s hardly my fault he is an excellent cook and provided us with delicacies beyond imagining. You try sitting in front of a prawn the size of a lobster and not eat five of them. Bacchus was well served over the course of the weekend.
After defying death by food and drink, I decided I had to run away from Joe’s cooking for a couple of days to allow digestion time. So off I went to Whistler and Victoria, the capital of British Columbia.
Whistler is a charming mountain town, best known for skiing. It is summer and the snow is thin at best so you’d think Whistler would be a ghost town. Not so! These crazy Canadians, not content to just use mountains for skiing have turned Whistler into a summer cycle paradise. Mountain bikers belt down mountains like avalanches and BMX bikers hurtle through the air in full body armour. Even the ski lifts have special bike rack seats to get people up the mountain expeditiously. The really interesting thing about Whistler is that I think it’s actually in the wrong place. Judging by the number of Australians working there, it should be in either the Victorian or NSW Alps. The Australian Census needs to send some forms to Whistler - that’s where the other 50% of the nation’s population is at present.
After finding so many Australians, I decided to try and locate some real Canadians (not those strange Vancs from my previous blog) so I jumped on a sea-plane and putted across the Straights to Victoria on (ironically, in my view) Vancouver Island. Vic is the capital of British Columbia, so it is the seat of the Provincial Government. If anyone is going to accuse anyone of being boring, I think Victoria might be a contender. Not to say it isn’t nice - it is. If nothing else, it has a lovely hop-on, hop-off tour past alleged points of interest and it does have the stunning 100-year old Butchart Gardens. So....it has a bus and a nice backyard.
Look, in all seriousness, I’m not knocking it. It is a nice, small town - not quite charming or quaint but pleasant nonetheless - with some nice scenery around it. I think it is precisely its vanilla-ness that annoyed me. It’s neither grand, nor iconic, nor great, nor steeped in history, nor modern, nor anything else remotely defining. It’s just a bland blancmange of buildings. And, to add insult to blandness, the walls of my hotel room, despite appearing to be made of concrete, have the soundproofing quality of a lady-bug’s undies. The person next door was flatulent.
On the upside, Victoria is the closest point of departure to catch a boat for some whale-watching. I was thoroughly spoiled by my experience - not only did we see around 20 killer whales (or orcas if you prefer) but they were feeling particularly playful that day. We saw spying, fluking, breeching and all manner of socialising. I had not realised just how large these beasties are - the males’ dorsal fins can be six feet high!! While the boats are required by law to keep a sizeable distance from the whales, we were lucky enough to be in the direct path of a pod. This meant that we had a closer than normal look at them as it took a while to gently get out of their way. As well as seeing some very large males, there where also a couple of babies to enjoy watching. I’m usually a determined landlubber but after this experience, I can at least understand why the sea holds such fascination for so many people.
Back in Vancouver, my last two days passed in a blur. Not the least because we were desperately trying to finish off all the wine we bought the weekend before. Not sure why we felt the need for total consumption but it seemed like a good idea at the time. On Friday evening, the three of us went to see “The Bard on the Beach”. We saw the Merchant of Venice which turned out to be an interesting production. Maybe it was just me spending too much time on Pride Proud Davie Street, but the play was very heavily laced with homosexual overtones. It was distracting to try and follow the love story between Portia and Bassanio when in fact Bassanio was clearly in lust with Antonio. Perhaps it was true to the original then?! Sub-texts and mistaken love interests were always favourite themes of the Bard.
On Saturday Joe and I headed to Granville Street to check out a Brazilian festival. Before you get too excited boys, it was of the Brazil kind, not the waxing variety. (Given Vancouver’s penchant for strangeness, I did feel the need to clarify that.) As you’d expect from anything involving Brazilians, it did not get started until well past the appointed hour. We intermittently enjoyed the music and watched some weirdos before wandering down to see the skate-boarding competition on the next block. That night, we went to the baseball and saw the Vancouver Canadians (yes, I kid you not, that is what they are called) beat ...um...someone. I was too wrapped up with the assistance-dog-in-training brought along by Cara’s friend to notice that there were some blokes bashing a ball around.
And so once again, I ask you - with all that activity, how can Vancouver possibly be considered boring? Well, of course it will be a lot more boring now that I have left but that’s not the city’s fault.
Apart from carting my rubbish around with me, I have had a very busy week. After defending Vancouver so vigorously in my last blog, I promptly left the city. I blame the Grouse Grind, which is the name given to the act of climbing Grouse Mountain. Several times during the journey, I balefully groused (har, har, har) at my grinding companion Cara that it was a stupid thing to do to climb a mountain. Eventually, even Cara’s usually ever-present good humour evaporated as she reminded me that the climb was actually my idea. My humour returned in the form of abject hysteria when it turned out neither of us was very good at fractions. Cara and I, already causing landslides with our sweat and panting loudly enough to distress the bears in Washington State, were convinced we must be about 7/8ths of the way up the mountain. It had been 40 minutes after all. Then we rounded a corner and we saw what Cara pronounced as the most disheartening sign she’d ever seen. The half way mark. I was laughing so hard that people stopped to watch. And asked what drugs I was on. And asked whether they could have some. Luckily the second half didn’t seem as long as the first half and we made it to the top of the mountain. The bears were happy to see us. I was happy to see a plateau. I vowed never to climb another mountain for as long as I live. Remind me of that next time I get the urge to go hiking. Remind me also that while wine tasting is fun, moderation is the key.
Sadly, moderation was not a key word during our visit to the Okenagen Wine Region. Officially the furthest that the three of us had ever been in Canada, we were prepared to represent and show those Canadian wine growers how tastings are done (that being, in spades). And so it came to pass. After a disappointing start at Mission Hill (great views, great architecture, really awful wine), the wine improved at the next three. And the next three the following day. Sadly, the brain cells responsible for remembering the names of those wineries were massacred in the battle waged with their wines. Absent names notwithstanding, the wine was excellent and as you might have guessed, plentiful. Also taking plentiful to all new heights, depths and as a consequence my width, was the food we consumed. I think we probably ate enough to feed most of Africa for a year. At least, this is what my jeans are telling me. I blame Joe - it’s hardly my fault he is an excellent cook and provided us with delicacies beyond imagining. You try sitting in front of a prawn the size of a lobster and not eat five of them. Bacchus was well served over the course of the weekend.
After defying death by food and drink, I decided I had to run away from Joe’s cooking for a couple of days to allow digestion time. So off I went to Whistler and Victoria, the capital of British Columbia.
Whistler is a charming mountain town, best known for skiing. It is summer and the snow is thin at best so you’d think Whistler would be a ghost town. Not so! These crazy Canadians, not content to just use mountains for skiing have turned Whistler into a summer cycle paradise. Mountain bikers belt down mountains like avalanches and BMX bikers hurtle through the air in full body armour. Even the ski lifts have special bike rack seats to get people up the mountain expeditiously. The really interesting thing about Whistler is that I think it’s actually in the wrong place. Judging by the number of Australians working there, it should be in either the Victorian or NSW Alps. The Australian Census needs to send some forms to Whistler - that’s where the other 50% of the nation’s population is at present.
After finding so many Australians, I decided to try and locate some real Canadians (not those strange Vancs from my previous blog) so I jumped on a sea-plane and putted across the Straights to Victoria on (ironically, in my view) Vancouver Island. Vic is the capital of British Columbia, so it is the seat of the Provincial Government. If anyone is going to accuse anyone of being boring, I think Victoria might be a contender. Not to say it isn’t nice - it is. If nothing else, it has a lovely hop-on, hop-off tour past alleged points of interest and it does have the stunning 100-year old Butchart Gardens. So....it has a bus and a nice backyard.
Look, in all seriousness, I’m not knocking it. It is a nice, small town - not quite charming or quaint but pleasant nonetheless - with some nice scenery around it. I think it is precisely its vanilla-ness that annoyed me. It’s neither grand, nor iconic, nor great, nor steeped in history, nor modern, nor anything else remotely defining. It’s just a bland blancmange of buildings. And, to add insult to blandness, the walls of my hotel room, despite appearing to be made of concrete, have the soundproofing quality of a lady-bug’s undies. The person next door was flatulent.
On the upside, Victoria is the closest point of departure to catch a boat for some whale-watching. I was thoroughly spoiled by my experience - not only did we see around 20 killer whales (or orcas if you prefer) but they were feeling particularly playful that day. We saw spying, fluking, breeching and all manner of socialising. I had not realised just how large these beasties are - the males’ dorsal fins can be six feet high!! While the boats are required by law to keep a sizeable distance from the whales, we were lucky enough to be in the direct path of a pod. This meant that we had a closer than normal look at them as it took a while to gently get out of their way. As well as seeing some very large males, there where also a couple of babies to enjoy watching. I’m usually a determined landlubber but after this experience, I can at least understand why the sea holds such fascination for so many people.
Back in Vancouver, my last two days passed in a blur. Not the least because we were desperately trying to finish off all the wine we bought the weekend before. Not sure why we felt the need for total consumption but it seemed like a good idea at the time. On Friday evening, the three of us went to see “The Bard on the Beach”. We saw the Merchant of Venice which turned out to be an interesting production. Maybe it was just me spending too much time on Pride Proud Davie Street, but the play was very heavily laced with homosexual overtones. It was distracting to try and follow the love story between Portia and Bassanio when in fact Bassanio was clearly in lust with Antonio. Perhaps it was true to the original then?! Sub-texts and mistaken love interests were always favourite themes of the Bard.
On Saturday Joe and I headed to Granville Street to check out a Brazilian festival. Before you get too excited boys, it was of the Brazil kind, not the waxing variety. (Given Vancouver’s penchant for strangeness, I did feel the need to clarify that.) As you’d expect from anything involving Brazilians, it did not get started until well past the appointed hour. We intermittently enjoyed the music and watched some weirdos before wandering down to see the skate-boarding competition on the next block. That night, we went to the baseball and saw the Vancouver Canadians (yes, I kid you not, that is what they are called) beat ...um...someone. I was too wrapped up with the assistance-dog-in-training brought along by Cara’s friend to notice that there were some blokes bashing a ball around.
And so once again, I ask you - with all that activity, how can Vancouver possibly be considered boring? Well, of course it will be a lot more boring now that I have left but that’s not the city’s fault.
Wednesday, 3 August 2011
Hello Vancouver!
It’s nice to be back in moose territory. Although the Canadians don’t really like moose references made by others (think back to the Montreal comedy festival when one of the performers made a reference to Canadians doing with moose what we say Kiwis do with sheep), they do like to use it as a symbol of their Canadian-ness. Along with the beaver (lots of damn good puns there), the bear, the wolf and the husky. Otters and whales get thrown in from time to time as well. And ravens, some butterflies and some water fowl I have no interest in.
Vancouver is a stunning city. Australians who live here tell me it is as boring as all get-out because it is full of Canadians but I think this might be a bit unfair and I am launching myself in defense of this fair city.
Firstly, I think it is less boring and more wholesome. Vancouverians (??? Vancs??? Vancrians??? Vancouveros???) are health conscious and, like their cousins south of the border, damn nice (beaver alert). Therefore they don’t drink to drunkenness, they can be seen engaging in lots of out-door activities such as walking, running, biking, roller-blading and their speech is generally of an up-building and perky nature. But it’s not all cheerleaders and jocks. Fear not, there are plenty of weird and wonderful specimens to keep you entertained. Not just Spandy Andy (the spandex-clad entertainer who spends his days riding around the city on his vespa with music blaring, taking advantage of every traffic light to dismount and dance around the cars) but a full army-sized host of strangely coiffed, oddly dressed, unusually behaving individuals who cannot be accused of conforming with any trend, group or genre. Watching them is of itself an interesting activity. Just yesterday I saw a young lass working as a greeter in a pub restaurant (they have strange fits of over-employment here) who looked like a cross between a punk, an alien and a Medieval princess. Despite being quite pretty, I would have been more than a little frightened had I met her in a dark alley. Since I don't frequent dark alleys and it was daylight, I could instead just stare at her in bemusement, wondering how one would actually describe her look in 2 words or less. Strange kept coming to mind. Nevertheless, I was intrigued (hence not bored) for several hours - and that was before I saw Spandy Andy.
Secondly, Vancouver is a very diversity-friendly city which naturally yields loads of activities. At the moment, there is a big gay-pride festival coming up and rainbow flags and “pride proud” (???WTF???) stickers abound. It’s also a big(ish) city so there are plenty of events, concerts, shows and things to do. There are at least four different “hop on, hop off” bus tour companies - there must be loads to do just by virtue of their presence. How can a city with so much to do be considered boring? Sure, the weather isn’t as great as ours but as someone once said to me “there is no such thing as bad weather, just inadequate clothing”. In other words, the weather is what you make of it. And frankly, I hear it's better than Montreal's and Toronto's.
Thirdly, Vancouver is a visually stunning city. Truly beautiful. Given my recent meeting in Curitiba and reflections on Adelaide, I have been considering carefully what makes Vancouver so beautiful. Certainly it’s physical location helps - being set between snow-capped, tree covered mountains and the sea does not detract from its beauty. But it’s more than that. The city itself - that is the skyline, the buildings, the whole effect is beautiful quite apart from the natural scenery surrounding it. Why? I’ve narrowed it down to three things (I can’t help it, I like lists).
1. Scale - buildings vary in height. There are very tall buildings but there are also single-storey houses right in the middle of the city. This makes the skyline interesting and it also stops the city from dwarfing you (no short jokes about the author please) the way Sydney does.
2. Placement - buildings are set well back from the streets, which themselves are generally wide (even the one-way streets have room for parking on both sides of the road). The set-back means that, most importantly, footpaths are wide and in many places there are double rows of trees - one in front of the building and then one at the edge of the street with a wide footpath in between. This creates a lovely, soothing, leafy colonade on the majority of streets. Again, it prevents the dwarfing effect and it encourages a feelings of tranquility even amongst the hustle. (There is also an abundance of balcony and rooftop gardens and public parks but that is another story.)
3. Materials - Vancouver is a city of glass. Most buildings have enormous windows. As well as making indoor spaces light and making use of a recyclable material, it means there is plenty of light reflected throughout the streets and therefore even the streets surrounded by very tall buildings feel light and spacious.
So, there you go (another excellent Canadian expression). It is easy-peasy to make a damn (beaver alert) beautiful city. Now I’m sorry but I have to go - I have damn (beaver alert) important things to do.
Vancouver is a stunning city. Australians who live here tell me it is as boring as all get-out because it is full of Canadians but I think this might be a bit unfair and I am launching myself in defense of this fair city.
Firstly, I think it is less boring and more wholesome. Vancouverians (??? Vancs??? Vancrians??? Vancouveros???) are health conscious and, like their cousins south of the border, damn nice (beaver alert). Therefore they don’t drink to drunkenness, they can be seen engaging in lots of out-door activities such as walking, running, biking, roller-blading and their speech is generally of an up-building and perky nature. But it’s not all cheerleaders and jocks. Fear not, there are plenty of weird and wonderful specimens to keep you entertained. Not just Spandy Andy (the spandex-clad entertainer who spends his days riding around the city on his vespa with music blaring, taking advantage of every traffic light to dismount and dance around the cars) but a full army-sized host of strangely coiffed, oddly dressed, unusually behaving individuals who cannot be accused of conforming with any trend, group or genre. Watching them is of itself an interesting activity. Just yesterday I saw a young lass working as a greeter in a pub restaurant (they have strange fits of over-employment here) who looked like a cross between a punk, an alien and a Medieval princess. Despite being quite pretty, I would have been more than a little frightened had I met her in a dark alley. Since I don't frequent dark alleys and it was daylight, I could instead just stare at her in bemusement, wondering how one would actually describe her look in 2 words or less. Strange kept coming to mind. Nevertheless, I was intrigued (hence not bored) for several hours - and that was before I saw Spandy Andy.
Secondly, Vancouver is a very diversity-friendly city which naturally yields loads of activities. At the moment, there is a big gay-pride festival coming up and rainbow flags and “pride proud” (???WTF???) stickers abound. It’s also a big(ish) city so there are plenty of events, concerts, shows and things to do. There are at least four different “hop on, hop off” bus tour companies - there must be loads to do just by virtue of their presence. How can a city with so much to do be considered boring? Sure, the weather isn’t as great as ours but as someone once said to me “there is no such thing as bad weather, just inadequate clothing”. In other words, the weather is what you make of it. And frankly, I hear it's better than Montreal's and Toronto's.
Thirdly, Vancouver is a visually stunning city. Truly beautiful. Given my recent meeting in Curitiba and reflections on Adelaide, I have been considering carefully what makes Vancouver so beautiful. Certainly it’s physical location helps - being set between snow-capped, tree covered mountains and the sea does not detract from its beauty. But it’s more than that. The city itself - that is the skyline, the buildings, the whole effect is beautiful quite apart from the natural scenery surrounding it. Why? I’ve narrowed it down to three things (I can’t help it, I like lists).
1. Scale - buildings vary in height. There are very tall buildings but there are also single-storey houses right in the middle of the city. This makes the skyline interesting and it also stops the city from dwarfing you (no short jokes about the author please) the way Sydney does.
2. Placement - buildings are set well back from the streets, which themselves are generally wide (even the one-way streets have room for parking on both sides of the road). The set-back means that, most importantly, footpaths are wide and in many places there are double rows of trees - one in front of the building and then one at the edge of the street with a wide footpath in between. This creates a lovely, soothing, leafy colonade on the majority of streets. Again, it prevents the dwarfing effect and it encourages a feelings of tranquility even amongst the hustle. (There is also an abundance of balcony and rooftop gardens and public parks but that is another story.)
3. Materials - Vancouver is a city of glass. Most buildings have enormous windows. As well as making indoor spaces light and making use of a recyclable material, it means there is plenty of light reflected throughout the streets and therefore even the streets surrounded by very tall buildings feel light and spacious.
So, there you go (another excellent Canadian expression). It is easy-peasy to make a damn (beaver alert) beautiful city. Now I’m sorry but I have to go - I have damn (beaver alert) important things to do.
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