tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32995887627883388402024-03-12T19:49:18.059-07:00The Local EyeStevehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07521392100827092942noreply@blogger.comBlogger28125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3299588762788338840.post-10226840023343470402011-01-24T18:46:00.000-08:002011-01-24T19:05:47.149-08:00The Last LegThence began the most miserable part of my trip. I arrived at the Sevilla train station, after a harrowing race against time and through a maze of streets, to find out that the bus was later than advertised, and as soon as I got to the station, I experienced what would become a regular painful pang that told me it was time to find a washroom quickly. I went in the disgusting bus station washroom, found it crowded, and dashed into the street to find another place, running into a tapas bar. The next 15 minutes was nature's way of telling me that I needed to get home eventually and find a doctor.<br /><br />It's times like this in which travelling alone is unpleasant.<br /><br />I got on the bus, concerned about the lateness of the time, and grew quickly nauseous over the bumpy roads heading south. The fellow beside me spoke absolutely no English, but offered me something to eat out of his bag, and I politely accepted. It was a pork rind, I decided, and I ate it. It was vile. I thanked him politely, and, in a show of unwanted generosity, he surprised me by pouring a huge amount into my hands.<br /><br />I ate them, and their effects on my already parasite-tainted body were wholly unpleasant. There was no bathroom on the bus, but it did stop at what seemed like every local village. As the sun went down, we by-passed the depressingly industrial outskirts of Cadiz, and I started to wonder how long it would take.<br /><br />South and south we went, now in the darkness, until I could see across the straights of <span class="il">Gibraltar</span> to Africa. The lights of Tangiers, Morocco glowed brightly. I got off in Tarifa, quite late, and was on my own to find a hostel. A friend at the hostel in Sevilla told me that rooms in Tarifa were both cheap and plentiful. Neither claim was true. After almost an hour of walking around, I found a seedy place for just over 20 Euros. <br /><br />Feeling sick in a dingy room in a small town across from Morocco, I guess I should have felt like I was having an adventure, but I had had enough adventure for then. I went to sleep, and woke up to see if I thought anything better of the town in the morning.<br /><br />No.<br /><br />But I still decided to explore the place.<br /><br />Tarifa is one of the principal ports from Spain to Tangiers, Morocco, with ferries running every hour. It was amazing how close Africa was. There was a certain dinginess about the place. I had read that Tarifa is known as being the mecca for windsurfing, with great winds making conditions ideal, but I saw little of that while I was there.<br /><br />I walked down to the beach, and decided to go for a quick dip. This is the point that separates the Atlantic from the Mediterranean, so I went for a swim in both.<br /><br />I soon trudged up the main street, hauling my suitcase, and hopped on a bus to <span class="il">Gibraltar</span>. The steep mountains, covered in turbines, looking across the straits to the Rif Mountains, were magnificent. The process of getting to Gibraltar was labyrinthine; I had to get re-routed on a city bus in Algeciras and was dropped just shy of the border. <span class="il">Gibraltar</span> was clearly and dramatically visible from a distance,with a 400 metre tower of a rock rising straight out of the ocean. I arrived there and got through a joke of a border crossing (I didn't even have to stop walking, as I merely flashed my passport). As soon as I got in, I had to walk cross the landing strip for <span class="il">Gibraltar</span>, pausing for any planes that land, and arrived in an English city set in the Mediterranean.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_u6joSMQ4wEQ/TT49ye58jUI/AAAAAAAAAHg/P7EQGeMe_jM/s1600/IMG_1140.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_u6joSMQ4wEQ/TT49ye58jUI/AAAAAAAAAHg/P7EQGeMe_jM/s320/IMG_1140.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5565954126975372610" border="0" /></a><br /><br />I briefly walked through the town, got a cable car up the Rock, and enjoyed a vast view of the Mediterranean. <span class="il"></span>I found some nice Dutch people to take my picture. I was enjoying the view, but I realized it was time to go home, back to Canada. I realized I really, really missed Canada.<br /><br />And I needed to see a doctor.<br /><br />My homeward journey began here.<br /><br />I took a train to Malaga airport, and slept poorly on the floor. I flew to Paris, then to Montreal, and I have never been that happy to be home. A thunderstorm delay and a short hop of a flight to Toronto later, and I was in Toronto. Did it ever feel good to sleep on my own couch again!Stevehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07521392100827092942noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3299588762788338840.post-14839807071520903922010-08-31T15:28:00.000-07:002010-08-31T15:48:20.538-07:00SevillaI left Cordoba, a quiet town, called the Damascus of the West (and a town at the centre of the "9-11 Mosque" debacle), and took the bus for <span class="il">Sevilla</span>, a very busy city by comparison. <span class="il">Sevilla</span> is the biggest city in southern Spain and is that region's commercial centre. It is also said to be a town which typifies Spanish culture, sort of a display of Spanishness on steroids. Its bullring, along with Ronda's, is considered the most important in Spain, sort of a Montreal Forum of the sport. Its barrios (historic neighbourhoods) are the birthplace of flamenco, that most Spanish of art forms. It also has the most over the top Santa Semana (Holy Week) celebrations, where men with hoods looking eerily close to those of the Ku Klux Klan parade through town with their crosses and candles and statues of the saints. Months after these parades, the ground is still covered with black splotches from their candles. There are literally dozens of parades during Holy Week, the most dramatic of which features several especially devout men carrying a huge float of the Virgin -- get this -- on the back of their necks. The float weighs hundreds of pounds, and they carry it in shifts for the entire day. <span class="il">Sevilla</span> is famous for its parties in the street, its labyrinthine barrios, and its particular brand of folk dance, which I heard being described as plucking an apple from the tree, twisting it off, taking a bite, throwing it to the ground, and stomping on it, all the while snapping your fingers and looking your partner passionately in the eye. "Passion" is a word you hear applied to <span class="il">Sevilla</span> and its residents a lot. It definitely has a very romantic feel to it, despite its size. The character of Don Juan was based in <span class="il">Sevilla</span>, and there is a statue of him to this day. Any resident of <span class="il">Sevilla</span> can quote you the Spanish poetry which, according to the legend, allowed him to seduce a nun.<br /><br />Originally (no surprises by now) a Moorish city, it was taken at around the same time as Cordoba, and it became a more important port and commercial centre. Its location on the Guadalquivir River, upstream from the Atlantic Ocean, is still navigable by ocean-going vessels. For this reason, it was the port of departure for Columbus' voyage of discovery, and was the chief Spanish port for the discovery of the New World. It was here that the treasure fleet brought back enormous quantities of New World gold and silver, mined or taken from the Aztecs, Mayans, and Incas. You can almost imagine the ships coming back as you stand on the banks of the Guadalquiver. The great piles of lucre that must have come through this port left their mark on <span class="il">Sevilla</span>. It is filled with grand architecture which is very particular to that part of Spain. The King of Spain currently keeps a converted Moorish castle here, letting tourists look at it while he is not there. I did not go to see it, as I was sight-seen out.<br /><br />I did, however, see what is one of the most prominent sights in the city, the Cathedral of <span class="il">Sevilla</span>. Architecturally, I found the Mezquita of Cordoba to be very interesting, but the Cathedral of <span class="il">Sevilla</span> overwhelms in its sheer volume and grandiosity. In fact, it is the third largest cathedral in the world, after the Vatican and Saint Paul's in London. It had a series of treasure rooms, where the church holds statues, rosaries, and crosses which dazzled the eye with gold, silver, precious woods, ivory, and gems. There were other rooms dedicated to sacred paintings. The cathedral also has the largest alterpiece in the world, which is over-the-top, to say the least. First of all, I would estimate that it was about the area of the small hockey rink, maybe a little smaller, laid on its end. Oh yeah, and it is all gold, as far as the eye can see, with around 50 scenes of the saints. A tad much for me. There is also another, smaller one, made out of silver. They only use that one during Holy Week. I can only imagine what it would be like for a 17th century townsperson to come in and be bowled over by the wealth and power of the church. The bell-tower was interesting. It used to be a square minaret, with a ramp going up to the top, so that the first muezin, who was disabled, could ride it all the way to the top. It was quite a trip up, giving you a magnificent view of <span class="il">Sevilla</span>. <br /><br />My first job when I got to <span class="il">Sevilla</span> was to find a place to stay, according to the usual pattern. <span class="il">Sevilla</span> is huge compared to the other cities I was in, even just its city core. Also, its streets are more winding and harder to navigate. This made finding a place hard. I overheard these students talking about a hostel, checked it out, and took it. It was the first place I stayed in that was like the hostels that you hear about, with 6 people staying in seperate bunks in each room. It was nice, though, with every person getting their own safe, free internet access, a kitchen, free breakfast, a pool, and lots of social events. I also met some interesting English-speaking people there which was a nice change, and I went around with them for a while. I paid for a tour of the bullfighting ring, as there were no fights on, and that was interesting. The tour-guide was a stereotypically hot-blooded Spanish girl, who started quarrelling with one of the guests, and seemed to be really into the bullfighting scene.<br /><br />It really is a dangerous sport for all involved: bull, bull-fighter, even occasionally for the fan. While I was there, I saw a picture in a magazine of a bull-fighter getting gored through the mouth by a bull's horn. He lived. On the other hand, just the other week, I saw an article<br />in the news of a bull in Spain that got into the crowd and injured quite a few people. They are really quite feisty, those bulls. No wonder they go for confession before every fight; they also have two operating theatres on site for every bull fight. I came to have a certain respect for the bullfighters, as they do a dangerous job with a sort of panache. It's kind of like a mix between an art form and a sport, one which runs in families like a trade. Hemingway, who was quite a fan,<br />called it the only art form where the artist is in danger of death, and in which the degree of brilliance is left to the performer's honor. Walking past the corridors leading to the bull-ring actually got my pulse up, as I imagined what it would be like to walk onto the ring as a matador, knowing either you or the bull were going to die. <br /><br />I took a walking tour of the city from an Australian guy who lived there, and it was fascinating. The city has quite the history. We went past little courtyards in houses, where it is culturally acceptable to walk into someone's place to look around, as they are quite proud of the way they take care of their gardens. On a sad note, we went to "El Calle Muerte" (the Street of Death), a Jewish ghetto where the inhabitants were savagely killed without warning, during the brutal years of the Spanish Inquisition. Sites relating to the Inquisition are still there to see, as <span class="il">Sevilla</span> was quite prominent in this unfortunate part of history, but I opted not to go see any. <br /><br />In the evening, a group of us from the hostel went to go see a Flamenco show in one of the most famous barrios in <span class="il">Sevilla</span>, right across the river. On a side note, if you ever listen to the song "Mr. Jones" by Counting Crows, I realize it very well could have been inspired by <span class="il">Sevilla</span>. Flamenco was not what I expected. It's kind of a gypsy thing. There are three components to flamenco. Guitar, voice, and dancing. It's also free-flowing, not being planned ahead. The guitar is highly rhythmical. The voice is not for everyone. One girl I met described it as being like "an Indian rain-making dance". It was definitely very emotive, almost like yelling, with the guy screwing up his face like he was constipated beyond remedy. I was told the lyrics were about bad things happening in love or missing one's home turf, nothing new there. The dancer would occasionally get up and stomp her feet and swing around in time to the music. I thought it was fascinating, but not everyone liked it. The same girl described the dancing as looking like something that one would do at gunpoint. <br /><br />Regardless, <span class="il">Sevilla</span> was interesting, but in the end, not my favourite, as it was really big and hard to find your way around. I stayed for a couple days, contemplating making a run for Portugal at one point, but ultimately opted against it, as I would not be able to do it justice in roughly 24 hours, and I would exhaust myself in the process. It was in <span class="il">Sevilla</span> that my parasite became fairly apparent. In my last hours in <span class="il">Sevilla</span>, I swung by their free fine arts museum, whizzed through it, and took my bag to the bus station, which was really hard to find, around all the medieval walls of the city, across public squares, and through gardens. I met a lot of nice people at the hostel, and one guy who helped run it told me about a city called Tarifa. It is the southernmost city in Spain, and in Western Europe.<br /><br />He said that the hostels there were cheap and plentiful. This was on my way home, kind of, and en route to Gibraltar, so I decided to take a bus and wing it when I got there.Stevehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07521392100827092942noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3299588762788338840.post-48440569291270998992010-08-30T20:37:00.000-07:002010-08-30T21:08:26.825-07:00Cordoba Part 2<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_u6joSMQ4wEQ/THx8N1ALhII/AAAAAAAAAHE/2OPCoMLhVAE/s1600/IMG_5559.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_u6joSMQ4wEQ/THx8N1ALhII/AAAAAAAAAHE/2OPCoMLhVAE/s320/IMG_5559.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5511416621002622082" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br />I fell asleep that night and slept like a baby, waking up later than I thought, and I rushed off to the Mezquita. I met Amy and her sister, and we got in for free, as the mass was going on.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_u6joSMQ4wEQ/THx8M280QfI/AAAAAAAAAG0/_3v4paojQsQ/s1600/IMG_5554.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_u6joSMQ4wEQ/THx8M280QfI/AAAAAAAAAG0/_3v4paojQsQ/s320/IMG_5554.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5511416604345516530" border="0" /></a>The Mezquita was a phenomenally interesting building, one of the most interesting I saw in Spain. It started as a Visigothic church, 1500 years ago, and one could see remnants of this inside. The Moors took over and built the greatest mosque in the West over the site. It is impressive, with a sea of red and white striped pillars inside, hundreds of them, along with a beautifully decorated prayer wall. Then, the Catholics conquered the area in the 13th century, and built a cathedral -- get this -- inside the mosque. Where there were quranic verses, there now are spaces for images of the Virgin Mary, and in the middle of the mosque, there is an incredibly ornate Cathedral with elements of Gothic, Renaissance, and Baroque architecture. Much of it was built in the Catholic Counter-Reformation, a time when the Catholics were vying with the Protestants for control over Europe. There were incredible amounts of mahogany and decoration which staggered the eye.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_u6joSMQ4wEQ/THx8Nbt7SNI/AAAAAAAAAG8/i0ptPJHgp4c/s1600/IMG_5570.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_u6joSMQ4wEQ/THx8Nbt7SNI/AAAAAAAAAG8/i0ptPJHgp4c/s320/IMG_5570.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5511416614215174354" border="0" /></a><br />Outside of the Mezquita was a courtyard with orange trees where swallows were flitting around in circles, as if they were playing in flight for the mere joy of it. We then got some food at another highly recommended restaurants in the area. We tried orange with salted cod and bull's tail, which was quite tasty.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_u6joSMQ4wEQ/THx8OSjwgrI/AAAAAAAAAHM/N5Ak52oCxTQ/s1600/IMG_5586.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_u6joSMQ4wEQ/THx8OSjwgrI/AAAAAAAAAHM/N5Ak52oCxTQ/s320/IMG_5586.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5511416628936475314" border="0" /></a>We checked out a museum which covered the area's history since the earliest inhabitants, thousands of years ago, continuing through the Celtic peoples, and then onto Roman and Moorish history. There were tonnes of Roman artifacts, from statues of gods and goddesses to early Christian art to crypts with skeletons inside. Then, I fell asleep in a sunny courtyard outside. Before supper, we all parted ways, which was kind of sad for me, as I enjoyed the company. I spent the evening walking around by myself, trying some different food before returning back to my original hostel.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_u6joSMQ4wEQ/THx8Oy4MYoI/AAAAAAAAAHU/t8AFpn9oF2k/s1600/IMG_5577.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_u6joSMQ4wEQ/THx8Oy4MYoI/AAAAAAAAAHU/t8AFpn9oF2k/s320/IMG_5577.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5511416637612122754" border="0" /></a>As much as I enjoyed <span class="il">Cordoba</span> (it was a favourite of mind), I woke up the next morning and headed out for the bus station and hopped on a bus for Sevilla.Stevehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07521392100827092942noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3299588762788338840.post-75408618630723903832010-08-28T15:23:00.001-07:002010-08-28T15:34:17.462-07:00Cordoba Part 1I got on the bus, and left behind the camera debacle as best as I could.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_u6joSMQ4wEQ/THmN7npuPAI/AAAAAAAAAGE/zrYW8Say9MU/s1600/IMG_5444.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_u6joSMQ4wEQ/THmN7npuPAI/AAAAAAAAAGE/zrYW8Say9MU/s320/IMG_5444.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5510591674460290050" border="0" /></a>Now, Granada was the easternmost point I went to in Spain, and <span class="il">Cordoba</span> was going to be the northernmost. Granada was a bustling centre of students and a hub for a lot of tourists, while <span class="il">Cordoba</span> was described by Lonely Planet as being a city in the midst of a very rural area. The two cities did contrast. Even the journey over was different. While there were mountains on the way to Granada, the road to <span class="il">Cordoba</span> was one of very gently rolling hills, with olive groves as far as the eyes could see. I wondered, as I looked out at the groves, how the whole world could eat as many olives as there must be growing in this area. At times, the olive groves were replaced by fields of sunflowers or wheat stretching from horizon to horizon.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_u6joSMQ4wEQ/THmN8DRdXHI/AAAAAAAAAGM/b8-dRWRylDE/s1600/IMG_5466.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_u6joSMQ4wEQ/THmN8DRdXHI/AAAAAAAAAGM/b8-dRWRylDE/s320/IMG_5466.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5510591681874713714" border="0" /></a><br />When the bus rolled into the station, I started the game of getting my bearings again. I walked to the historic centre, stopping only to eat some snails at a roadside stand and pick up some free Team Spain gear that someone was handing out. I looked around and around for a hostel, playing the "let's find an affordable, non-crappy place to stay" game. I was starting to feel desparate when I saw a tiny sign for a "Pension", which I had learned was a type of place to stay. I walked down the narrow side street, and checked it out. It was a beautiful, quiet house with a courtyard inside and this kind of old guy running it. I was one of the only people staying there, and he told me I could have a whole floor to myself. I took it for 18 Euros. It was an even nicer place than the one I had in Granada. As a bonus, the place across from it was a music conservatory, and you could hear the sound of pianos being practiced softly. I bought some groceries, and the people who ran the hostel let me keep it in their fridge.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_u6joSMQ4wEQ/THmN9oDdWYI/AAAAAAAAAGU/TRI5w1l-HqI/s1600/IMG_5504.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_u6joSMQ4wEQ/THmN9oDdWYI/AAAAAAAAAGU/TRI5w1l-HqI/s320/IMG_5504.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5510591708927973762" border="0" /></a><br />The whole feel of <span class="il">Cordoba</span> was very peaceful and quiet, yet with lots of rich history. Its quietness contradicts its history. It was the capital of a Roman province, a Moorish caliphate, and it was one of the first cities in Andalusia taken back in the Reconquista. During its Moorish period, it was (I think) the biggest city in Europe, and the centre of research and culture, with a university hosting the finest Muslim, Christian, and Jewish minds. In short, it was one of the most happening places to be. All of these era left their mark on the city. Now, it feels very quiet, like as if it retired and thinks back now on its former years. As per custom, I left my bags in the room, and I went to wander the streets of <span class="il">Cordoba</span>. It was much more walkable than Granada, being smaller. My place was located less than a minute or two from "La Juderia", the old medieval Jewish part of the city, which was phenomenally cool. It was, again, hauntingly quiet, with gorgeous, narrow streets which were at times narrower than my arm span. This neighbourhood was like a labyrinth, but I still soon stumbled on the Mezquita, an old mosque with a cathedral built inside it which I will talk about later on. It was beautiful, even from the outside. I walked a little further and found the Guadalquivir River, with an intact Roman Bridge crossing it. I walked on the Roman Bridge and watched the sun set over the old medieval mosque with the river flowing beneath me. It was stunningly beautiful.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_u6joSMQ4wEQ/THmN-SYlQpI/AAAAAAAAAGc/Ny2NWecHxhI/s1600/IMG_5636.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_u6joSMQ4wEQ/THmN-SYlQpI/AAAAAAAAAGc/Ny2NWecHxhI/s320/IMG_5636.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5510591720290861714" border="0" /></a>I thought about having supper, then I just started watching a World Cup game from the window of an eatery. All of a sudden I heard, "Hey Steve!" It was Amy again! We caught some supper at a place that used to be a monastary. The food in <span class="il">Cordoba</span> was really good, with a regional specialty being Salmorejo, a cold soup with tomato and lots of garlic, and ham and eggs on top. It was seriously delicious. I've had gazpacho, and this is way better. Then, we wandered the streets and found an old Roman temple devoted to the worship of the emperor, just in the middle of the city, as if it were no big deal, then wevgot some ice cream in an old 17th or 18th century square. Amy had found out that if you wanted to go to the Mezquita, it was free if you went early in the morning, so we arranged to meet there the next day.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_u6joSMQ4wEQ/THmN_Kv9etI/AAAAAAAAAGk/3H6kLVmeseA/s1600/IMG_5641.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_u6joSMQ4wEQ/THmN_Kv9etI/AAAAAAAAAGk/3H6kLVmeseA/s320/IMG_5641.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5510591735421303506" border="0" /></a><br />I went to bed, and slept like a rock...Stevehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07521392100827092942noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3299588762788338840.post-65912804288252180032010-08-23T01:54:00.000-07:002010-08-23T02:15:17.098-07:00Granada Part 2I'm almost ashamed to say what a difference getting settled into my hostel made to my outlook. Before, you feel homeless and out of place. After, you are ready to go exploring. So, exploring I went.<br /><br />I immediately walked up the hill from the Spanish Catholic part of town to the older, Moorish section. I sound like a broken record, but the streets around the Albaizin were beautiful and narrow and winding. I wanted to case out the Alhambra, where it was, how much tickets were, etc., for the next day. I asked around, and went up the cobblestone streets leading to the very big hill it was on. What a walk it was! After the heat of the Spanish sun, the path went up into beautiful deciduous trees which reminded me of Ontario woods. On either side of the path watered flowed in a sort of pebbled stone trough, which made a delicious gurgling sound. It was a long way to the top. Afterward, I wandered the streets of the Albaizin, taking in the atmosphere. It was that night that I was to have my worst ever meal in Spain. I went from place to place asking if they were open, as it was around 8:30. They thought it was ridiculous that I would want supper that early, as restaurants only begin to open for supper after 9 PM. Businesses are also usually closed during the afternoon for the siesta, even banks.<br /><br />However, I found a place that was selling a salad with asparagus, cheese, and ham. This sounded good, so I ordered that, with a drink. The salad came, and it was downright nasty. Pale pieces of iceberg lettuce, with bits of processed cheese, little squares of processed ham, really terrible olives, and canned, pale aspargus, all drowning in mayonnaise that they had just squeezed on in a gridiron on top. I honestly couldn't finish it, and that's saying a lot, as I will eat a lot of stuff. When the bill came, it cost me 9 Euros, which was ridiculous. Feeling ripped off and unimpressed with <span class="il">Granada</span>, I went back to the hostel, bought some fruit juice and went to my room, where I fell asleep before 10, I was so exhausted. I still had not had a really solid night since my mountain experience. I woke up to a drunken guy yelling at his dog in Spanish, made a phone call about my camera to the bus station, and found out that I would not find out decisively until the next morning for some reason. I decided to just enjoy myself in <span class="il">Granada</span> for the next day.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_u6joSMQ4wEQ/THI6Okw9aPI/AAAAAAAAAFQ/Kwlo3BqCjsA/s1600/IMG_5130.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_u6joSMQ4wEQ/THI6Okw9aPI/AAAAAAAAAFQ/Kwlo3BqCjsA/s320/IMG_5130.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5508529316289145074" border="0" /></a>I wandered in search of breakfast and found another sub-par meal, which seemed to be becoming a theme in <span class="il">Granada</span>. It was just the smashed up pulp of a tomato on top of toast. It was cheap, and since my bank card wasn't working, I wasn't going to be prodigal about it. The cathedral was close by, and I stopped in during Mass, as this was the only time the Cathedral was free, and I was curious. It was interesting seeing Mass in a Spanish cathedral, particularly one built in the last city taken from the Moors. I believe it was built right over top of their old mosque. I didn't understand anything the priest was saying, but I'm pretty sure at one point he did the Apostle's Creed or the Lord's Prayer. I checked out the cathedral after. It was not as big as Malaga's, but still interesting. By this time I was ready for some English speaking company, as I was missing Abe. I heard these girls speaking English in an American accent as they were looking around at the Cathedral, and I got talking to them. They invited me to check out the Alhambra with them and walk around the city, and I was pleased to oblige. It was nice to have company. They were dentistry students from Texas. We exchanged travel stories; they had just come from Barcelona and Valencia. We wandered around in search of lunch and found a place where, after we bough a drink each, the owner brought out a free paella and potato salad thingy. It was glorious. Afterward, we checked out the Alhambra. It was impressive, with vast gardens, Moroccan-looking rooms, and vistas looking out over the city below. There was a theatre that the Catholics had built later on, and a separate medieval Moorish fortress inside, with really cool look-out towers. Unfortunately, when we went to see the star attraction, the inner palace, we were told that we had not come at exactly the time our tickets said we should, and we could not be let inside. "It's impossible," the gate keeper said. I suggested that it was not impossible, he could just let us walk in, but that did not change our situation appreciably.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_u6joSMQ4wEQ/THI6PS6wHoI/AAAAAAAAAFg/2qEnYzc0KAM/s1600/IMG_5417.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_u6joSMQ4wEQ/THI6PS6wHoI/AAAAAAAAAFg/2qEnYzc0KAM/s320/IMG_5417.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5508529328678248066" border="0" /></a><br />It would have been cool... a friend who did go there said it was amazing inside. But I was enjoying the company and was not too bothered. All this walking around was tiring us out, so we were looking for a green park to just chill during the late afternoon sun. As I was walking in the city core, I thought I heard a voice yelling "Hey Steve!" I looked around, and it was Amy again with her sister! What a welcome sight. My American friends left for a park, and I switched to hanging with Amy and her sister. My debit card wasn't working, so we spent the better part of two hours finding a place to call North America to get it to work, when we finally got it to work, it was quite exciting. We walked around the city a bit, and then we went to a Bodega (winery/restaurant) where her sister had read some of the best eats in <span class="il">Granada</span> were. So far, my <span class="il">Granada</span> experience was underwhelming gastronomically, so I thought I had nothing to lose by going there. It blew my mind. It was busy, and just locals were there. We couldn't get a table so we stood at the bar, in front of 6 enormous casks of wine. We each got something to drink, and it came with some really good, generous tapas. Then we decided to get a cold platter, and it was tremendous. It cost only 15 Euros, and it would have been enough to stuff four of us. It had local cheese, breads, jams, smoked salmon, and loads of meat. It was there where I was introduced to the tinto de verano ("the colour of summer"), a Spanish drink mixing a bit of wine with sparkling lemon soda. It was delicious and refreshing. We had a really fun time there, then we went for some good Spanish ice cream and had a good chat. I made sure they got on the bus back to their hotel, then I went wandering one of the famous tapas streets. I went home satisfied and full of good food, and I slept.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_u6joSMQ4wEQ/THI6PzN-xzI/AAAAAAAAAFo/xXbaSnUsisQ/s1600/Money.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_u6joSMQ4wEQ/THI6PzN-xzI/AAAAAAAAAFo/xXbaSnUsisQ/s320/Money.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5508529337348835122" border="0" /></a><br />The next morning I woke up, went to make my phone call for my camera in the lobby of the other building, and got hassled by one of the servants and made to feel generally unwelcome. It's OK. It was time to go. I got on a crowded bus for the bus station. It was long, and the longer I was on there, the more ready I was to leave <span class="il">Granada</span>. I made a last ditch attempt to find my camera, but it was ultimately fruitless, so I regretfully hopped on a bus for Cordoba.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_u6joSMQ4wEQ/THI6QBGIkiI/AAAAAAAAAFw/r7PByMYqt_g/s1600/Tapas+2.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_u6joSMQ4wEQ/THI6QBGIkiI/AAAAAAAAAFw/r7PByMYqt_g/s320/Tapas+2.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5508529341074018850" border="0" /></a>Stevehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07521392100827092942noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3299588762788338840.post-9595434973586325352010-08-22T19:37:00.001-07:002010-08-22T19:52:22.480-07:00Granada Part 1<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_u6joSMQ4wEQ/THHgTdXvJtI/AAAAAAAAAEY/sh7XCX8agnM/s1600/DSCN1476.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_u6joSMQ4wEQ/THHgTdXvJtI/AAAAAAAAAEY/sh7XCX8agnM/s320/DSCN1476.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5508430444157150930" border="0" /></a><br />I got to the bus station with my bag, and a nation of options stared me in the face. At the train station, names like "Madrid", "Barcelona", "Valencia", and "Sevilla" flashed across the departure list, with trains leaving several times an hour. At the bus station, Sevilla, Cordoba, Cadiz, <span class="il">Granada</span>, and other smaller towns were options. I could even get a bus to Romania, but I quickly ruled out that option. I remembered reading a description of a route encompassing Ronda, <span class="il">Granada</span>, Cordoba, and Sevilla in a book which we had on our coffee table at home called "National Geographic's 500 Trips of a Lifetime". That intrigued me and I considered these cities especially, a consideration which was not hurt by the fact that they were far closer than Madrid or Barcelona; all of them were within Andalusia. Check a map if you like. I had previously asked the guy at the desk in the hotel and the girl next door who sold flamenco dresses. They both listed <span class="il">Granada</span> as the top city they would go to, and each of them liked either Sevilla or Cordoba and were ambiguous regarding the other one. Also influencing the decision was the fact that I read that there would be a big bullfight in Sevilla the following day, and this was considered, along with Ronda's, to be the greatest bullfighting ring in Spain. However, I realized I couldn't do everything, and I decided to start off with <span class="il">Granada</span>.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_u6joSMQ4wEQ/THHgT3uU5DI/AAAAAAAAAEg/e6FqSvC5jVw/s1600/DSCN1464%282%29.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_u6joSMQ4wEQ/THHgT3uU5DI/AAAAAAAAAEg/e6FqSvC5jVw/s320/DSCN1464%282%29.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5508430451231220786" border="0" /></a><br />I got my ticket, hopped on the bus, ate a pear and part of my sausage, started reading my book, looked at some of my pictures, and fell into a fairly uncomfortable sleep on the way to <span class="il">Granada</span>. The scenery was mountainous, much like the way to Ronda. Three hours and about 9 Euros later, I arrived in <span class="il">Granada</span>. I heard some girls next to me speaking English and saying they lived in <span class="il">Granada</span>, so I ran out and asked them what to look for in the town. While I was still in the train station, I sadly noticed that my camera wasn't in my pocket, I rushed back to the bus, less than 90 seconds after leaving it, and it was gone. The next few hours were an ordeal, talking with the station information desk, tracking down the bus number, sitting outside what I thought was the bus, etc... the long story is, I couldn't get it back. Theft is widespread in Spain. I was unspeakably disappointed, as I love that camera (I still hold a fool's hope of finding it again), and it cast a cloud over the next while. I realized how much easier things would be with Abe, who spoke Spanish.<br /><br />Eventually, I realized I had to go, though. Thus began the process of exploring the new city. I can safely describe the process of seeing a new city in Spain in terms of several stages.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_u6joSMQ4wEQ/THHgUTDoilI/AAAAAAAAAEo/_aeQWaR736k/s1600/Alhambra+by+Night+Mirador+San+Nicolae.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_u6joSMQ4wEQ/THHgUTDoilI/AAAAAAAAAEo/_aeQWaR736k/s320/Alhambra+by+Night+Mirador+San+Nicolae.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5508430458568346194" border="0" /></a><br />1. Arrival. Arrive in the city. Mentally tell yourself, "I am in x. Cool." And, in the future, carefully check your person for everything valuable you should have.<br /><br />2. Initial let down. You get to the city and were expecting beautiful architecture and history. Instead, you are surrounded by Spanish convenience stores and dilapidated sticks. You realize that you are outside the city centre, and you ask where the city centre is in your best Spanish, which, if you are me, is pretty bad indeed. Bonus points if you ask an interesting person.<br /><br />3. The journey to the centre. Whether by bus or by foot, you get yourself to the historic downtown, and you begin to be relieved that it doesn't all look like a let-down.<br /><br />4. The search for housing. You realize that you need a place to stay that night. You feel slightly anxious, fearing the worst. You wander narrow cobblestone streets, dragging your big bag, looking for anything that looks like a hostel. You want something decently nice, but not too expensive. You drag your bags up an entire set of stairs to reach the front desk, only to find out that the rooms are 90 Euros. Too pricey. You keep walking, and your standards start to slide. Maybe you already had a reservation, but you are trying hard to find it on unlabelled streets. You finally find one, and pay slightly more than you told yourself you wanted to.<br /><br />5. Settling in. You put your bag in your room, feel relieved, and start thinking you could enjoy this new town. You find a map, explore, and get some food in your belly.<br /><br />6. The visit. Check out everything you want to see.<br /><br />7. The nudge. You start feeling like you've enjoyed this city, but it is time to see the next one. You hop on a bus, and start the cycle again.<br /><br />That's the basic pattern. I felt really selfish just living for Stevo, sleeping where I wanted, eating what I wanted after being responsible for a bunch of people. It was like being a bachelor on steroids.<br /><br />Back to <span class="il">Granada</span>...<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_u6joSMQ4wEQ/THHgU-uix4I/AAAAAAAAAE4/_SflRZL5u8E/s1600/Narrow+Street+3.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_u6joSMQ4wEQ/THHgU-uix4I/AAAAAAAAAE4/_SflRZL5u8E/s320/Narrow+Street+3.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5508430470291048322" border="0" /></a><br />After doing everything I could (and I mean everything, spending several hours) to find my camera, I made a booking at the bus station for a hostel, as they had a little booth there set up to get people hostels. 17 Euros. Not bad. I realize the booth may have taken a cut, as you can get places online for about 11, but I was in no position to be picky. The guy at info told me he could get me a cheaper hostel, and he gave me the address for one for 15. Stepping outside in <span class="il">Granada</span>, it looked unimpressive mainly, with a road under construction, some fairly seedy restaurants across, and a McDonald's just up the street. However, off in the distance were the Sierra Nevadas, huge mountains which keep a snowcap year round, even in that hot climate. It was cool seeing snowcapped mountains there. I was told I had to take a city bus to the city centre, so I lugged my huge bag on the bus, paid my fare, and strained my ears and my eyes for "Real Porto" my stop, asking people around me fairly regularly if they knew where it was. You feel kind of vulnerable in a new city by yourself, particularly when your bank card is not working.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_u6joSMQ4wEQ/THHhovXWJJI/AAAAAAAAAFI/dXLIqgiQyrc/s1600/IMG_5176.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_u6joSMQ4wEQ/THHhovXWJJI/AAAAAAAAAFI/dXLIqgiQyrc/s320/IMG_5176.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5508431909276230802" border="0" /></a><br />I got off at Real Porto, and the city centre was quite different. Busier, narrow cobblestone streets, fountains, old churches, etc. But I would check that out later... I had wasted my afternoon looking for my camera, and I needed to find a place to stay before I thought of anything else. I tried to follow a questionable map to the cheaper hostel, but the old man at the place I came to gave me a quizzical look when I tried to tell him I should get a room for 15 Euros. This one was much more expensive. I went back into the streets and tried to look for the place. I was tired, I was hungry, I was ticked off at losing my camera, and I was getting sick of not having a place to stay. I was even feeling a little bit lost. <span class="il">Granada</span> is a really student-y town with a lot of hippy stores with statues of Buddha. I decided to try and find the first hostel, and, after not too long, I walked past a convent and arrived at it. It was like an oasis. I walked in, and was greeted by a landing with Catholic iconography and a picture of Jesus that said "Jesus is a friend who never fails" written in Spanish. It felt welcoming. Off to the side was a room where a Spanish grandma watched TV. A girl I assumed was her grand-daughter confirmed my reservation, took my passport, and gave me some keys, taking me to another, close-by building, walking me up the stairs and showing me my room. It was much better than I expected, spacious, with a sink, a bed, a desk and a chair, and two windows opening out to the street. She didn't even want me to pay her until the morning. It felt like a Godsend. I still think of the YMCA song when I think of that place, for some reason. What a relief it was. I left my bags in the room, freshened up, and prepared to go out and explore the city.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_u6joSMQ4wEQ/THHgUicTFTI/AAAAAAAAAEw/rmlq3WPrOL4/s1600/View+from+top+of+Puerta+Elvira.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_u6joSMQ4wEQ/THHgUicTFTI/AAAAAAAAAEw/rmlq3WPrOL4/s320/View+from+top+of+Puerta+Elvira.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5508430462698329394" border="0" /></a>Let me give a brief intro to <span class="il">Granada</span>. <span class="il">Granada</span> was the last city occupied by the Moors, and it surrendered to Ferdinand and Isabel, a famous Spanish King and Queen, in 1492. That's not too long ago. Partially as a result of that, the city feels quite Arabic. Parts of it really felt like Morocco. The most well-known place in <span class="il">Granada</span> is the Alhambra, an old Moorish palace with fantastic architecture. I believe it was there, in 1492, that Isabel and Ferdinand met with Christopher Columbus to commission him to make his voyage of discovery. The Alhambra is on a big hill, and there is a lot of up and down in the city, with cobblestone streets. Also well known, across from the Alhambra, is the Albayzin, an old medieval Arab neighbourhood, with incredibly narrow and winding streets. <span class="il">Granada</span> is a big student city, with a famous university and loads of students, and some male students there have a dorky habit of growing one really long thin braid. They will regret having pictures of that when they are older. <span class="il">Granada</span> is also famous for its tapas culture, where free tapas are given with every drink that one purchases.Stevehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07521392100827092942noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3299588762788338840.post-29889228749427895022010-08-18T14:48:00.000-07:002010-08-18T15:03:20.021-07:00Ronda<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_u6joSMQ4wEQ/TGxXDPUGZfI/AAAAAAAAADg/JlfUQJ4jK80/s1600/IMG_0189.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_u6joSMQ4wEQ/TGxXDPUGZfI/AAAAAAAAADg/JlfUQJ4jK80/s320/IMG_0189.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5506872157529335282" border="0" /></a><br />Abe and I had good time in Malaga as we were waiting for his emergency passport to come in, but I really wanted to check out another city on a day trip, since I felt we had Malaga fairly cased. We went in to the consulate on Friday morning as soon as it opened (10 AM for those industrious Spaniards) and, low and behold, his emergency passport was there waiting for him. There was nothing keeping us from staying in Malaga. We made a mad-cap dash for the bus/train stations which lay on the other side of the city centre, I with a big backpack and wearing sandals. The bus, typically, was not keeping to its advertised schedule, and we had a few minutes to pick up some lunch at a grocery store. We did, but ended up making another mad-cap dash for the bus, with two minutes to spare. At this point in time, we decided to be more conservative in our scheduling.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_u6joSMQ4wEQ/TGxXEizimHI/AAAAAAAAADw/ZRI-HMh9YDI/s1600/IMG_0204.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_u6joSMQ4wEQ/TGxXEizimHI/AAAAAAAAADw/ZRI-HMh9YDI/s320/IMG_0204.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5506872179941349490" border="0" /></a><br /><span class="il">Ronda</span> is somewhat west of Malaga, about two hours, above the Costa del Sol in some nice mountains. The drive was a pleasant one, going through little villages whose primary industry seemed to be pressing olive oil. We arrived in <span class="il">Ronda</span> in the early afternoon, found a map, and headed for the historic centre, stopping only at a video store so Abe could ask if they had "Nacho Libre", an old, presumably very awful comedy which he was obsessed with finding. No dice.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_u6joSMQ4wEQ/TGxXD3wGyTI/AAAAAAAAADo/ELfWjvFnXlY/s1600/IMG_0217.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_u6joSMQ4wEQ/TGxXD3wGyTI/AAAAAAAAADo/ELfWjvFnXlY/s320/IMG_0217.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5506872168384219442" border="0" /></a><br />Now, a word about <span class="il">Ronda</span>. <span class="il">Ronda</span> is, quite simply, spectacular. It is the largest of what are called "puebla blancas", Spanish for white villages, a fairly self-descriptive term for white-washed villages in the mountains which the Moors made for defensive value. <span class="il">Ronda</span> is one of the most scenic, as it is situated high on a mountain side, with a 100 metre deep gorge gouging it through the middle, and two magnificent old bridges spanning the chasm to the medieval part of the city. The streets were narrow, steep, and winding, with old men and school-children walking inclines which at times were around 45 degrees. Old churches, monastaries and shrines littered the streets; it would have been nearly impossibly to even walk by all of them. I particularly liked a beautiful, centuries old fountain which the local kids drank out of. It provided cold, clean mountain spring water in the hot dry weather of Andalusia. The town was incredibly beautiful, historic, and peaceful. <br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_u6joSMQ4wEQ/TGxXFG4CoaI/AAAAAAAAAD4/FrAxscnfwVw/s1600/IMG_0294.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_u6joSMQ4wEQ/TGxXFG4CoaI/AAAAAAAAAD4/FrAxscnfwVw/s320/IMG_0294.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5506872189623902626" border="0" /></a>We approached the old Arab gates to the city, going by old tanneries and baths which were around a thousand years old. We saw old winding paths going down the river, which in turn flowed out onto the valley floor, littered with olive groves and wheat fields. Guitars were played softly in the streets. How do I describe the sights there? Churches with horse drawn carriages and mountain vistas and old moorish tilework in centuries old houses. The old part of the city was hemmed in by mountain cliffs for about 270 degrees, making all but the most stalwart siege impossible. We checked out a free historical museum, and it chronicled the old Celtic, Roman, Visigothic, and Arabic history of the area. After walking and seeing many sites, we decided it was time to eat. We settled into a little restaurant, got some tapas, and watched the USA play Serbia in the world cup. It was a very satisfying day trip. It was there that I discovered that my debit card wasn't working.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_u6joSMQ4wEQ/TGxXF-Bl6VI/AAAAAAAAAEA/9RCLXKJMGVE/s1600/IMG_0240.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_u6joSMQ4wEQ/TGxXF-Bl6VI/AAAAAAAAAEA/9RCLXKJMGVE/s320/IMG_0240.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5506872204427913554" border="0" /></a><span class="il">Ronda</span> was definitely one of my favourite places in Spain, and I would highly recommend it.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_u6joSMQ4wEQ/TGxXkoM7SaI/AAAAAAAAAEQ/eoEYXtPH46I/s1600/IMG_0263.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_u6joSMQ4wEQ/TGxXkoM7SaI/AAAAAAAAAEQ/eoEYXtPH46I/s320/IMG_0263.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5506872731145816482" border="0" /></a>We got the evening bus back to Malaga, got some more cheap tapas, and stayed our last night in Malaga. In the morning, we checked out of the comfortable Hotel Tribune, I got Abe a taxi going to the airport, and I was on my own. I picked up some chorizo sausage and pears at the farmer's market, and trucked with my bag out for the bus station, blazing my own path.Stevehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07521392100827092942noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3299588762788338840.post-28619310800682221972010-08-15T13:02:00.001-07:002010-08-15T13:48:45.533-07:00Malaga<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_u6joSMQ4wEQ/TGhSXfzQFCI/AAAAAAAAADY/JZ08OhSBWy0/s1600/IMG_0312.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_u6joSMQ4wEQ/TGhSXfzQFCI/AAAAAAAAADY/JZ08OhSBWy0/s320/IMG_0312.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5505741108087362594" border="0" /></a><br />I have decided to include a synopsis of some of my time in Spain on this blog...<br />As the staff team was packing early on the morning on which we had to leave, Abe found out that he could not find his passport. As this is important for flying, we had to come up with a plan. Fortunately, there is a Canadian consulate in <span class="il">Malaga</span>, so he had to extend his flight, cancel his current passport, and stay in <span class="il">Malaga</span> till he could get his emergency travel documents sorted out. We got his flight delayed by a few days, and so that he could get his passport. I decided to stay with him, check out <span class="il">Malaga</span>, and chill, as I was kind of tired. The rest of us scattered, some to Canada, some to France, and some to the south of Spain. Abe and I grabbed a cab for the Canadian consulate, found it, and began the lengthy process of applying for an emergency passport. I tried to be somewhat helpful, making hotel arrangements while he processed his forms, getting something for us to drink, and then returning to the tiny consulate, eating paella out of a tupperware container with my hands, and falling asleep under the consulate's homey-feeling Canadian map, which apparently hadn't been updated since the 1960s or 70s. We got a girl at the travel agency to show us how to get to the hotel. She was from Romania, and talked about how much she hated living in <span class="il">Malaga</span>. How charming. We walked past the bull ring, and continued on for about 20 minutes.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_u6joSMQ4wEQ/TGhMsjnE7WI/AAAAAAAAACw/GX7DgLP08rk/s1600/IMG_0134.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_u6joSMQ4wEQ/TGhMsjnE7WI/AAAAAAAAACw/GX7DgLP08rk/s320/IMG_0134.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5505734872817528162" border="0" /></a>The map I had of <span class="il">Malaga</span> said that our hotel was right on the river flowing into the Mediterranean. We were excited. As it turns out, however, the "river" was actually not more than a sort of dried out bed of dust with absolutely no water in it, where some people played soccer.<br /><br />We settled into the Hotel Tribune, left our stuff in the modest, but clean room, and decided to check out our surroundings.<br /><span class="il">Malaga</span> was the first fairly large Spanish city I was in. It is on the Mediterranean, has a prominent port, and is built against the backdrop of some fairly big hills. Apparently it is the sixth largest city in Spain, with over half a million people. Lonely Planet (one of my favourite travel websites) describes the city as "very Spanish" and "exuberant", and I would tend to agree with their assessment. Several things stand out about <span class="il">Malaga</span>. First, the streets are very cool. Lots of little alleyways, which feel very Spanish. That's the best way I can describe it. The broader avenues were sometimes covered over from on high with this somewhat translucent cloth which would cut down on the sun. <span class="il">Malaga</span> is also known for its botanical gardens and plants, and this was quite cool, with lots of flowers growing in the downtown, beautiful trees, and gardens. This was the first place I was in that really felt like Old Europe. There were centuries old monastaries, cathedrals, churches, chapels, etc. everywhere, and you would find what in Canada would be considered a very important historical site by walking down what seemed to be a dead end street. Ronda was even more this way; it seemed to me that if you picked up a stone and were to throw it randomly, you would probably hit an old church.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_u6joSMQ4wEQ/TGhNofmBWsI/AAAAAAAAAC4/eGPBjI0GNyI/s1600/IMG_0138.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_u6joSMQ4wEQ/TGhNofmBWsI/AAAAAAAAAC4/eGPBjI0GNyI/s320/IMG_0138.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5505735902531508930" border="0" /></a>Since Abe was disappointed that he had to stay an extra few days instead of going home to see his lady friend, I asked him what sites he would like to see. He wanted to see the Picasso Museum, as Pablo Picasso was born and raised in <span class="il">Malaga</span>. Fair enough. We checked out the museum. I was surprised that Picasso had some earlier stuff that looked entirely different from his later, cubist stuff. There were some interesting pieces on bullfighting and on horses. But, for the most part, I need to be honest, Picasso doesn't really turn my crank. It was still cool to have gone, though. The coolest part of the museum was when we thought we were done, and we saw a very small sign saying simply "Ruins" or something like that, pointing toward a very nondescript staircase that looked like it could have been used to access a cleaning supply closet. We shrugged and decided to check it out. Turns out, the museum is built over a set of Phoenician ruins from when <span class="il">Malaga</span> was a Phoenician colony exporting salt and stuff. Being a history geek, I really enjoyed checking out original Phoenician walls, guard towers, houses and stuff like that. I can't believe they didn't really advertise it. It was stuff that was around 2500 to 3000 years old.<br /><br />After leaving, we decided to keep up with the historical bent and check out the local Roman ampitheatre. While there, we ran into Amy and her sister who were staying in <span class="il">Malaga</span>! It was fun catching up, even though it had only been several hours. We exchanged information on what was hot and not in <span class="il">Malaga</span>, took our picture together in the theatre, and continued on.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_u6joSMQ4wEQ/TGhOs_mAWsI/AAAAAAAAADA/OMev23cY_bQ/s1600/IMG_0153.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_u6joSMQ4wEQ/TGhOs_mAWsI/AAAAAAAAADA/OMev23cY_bQ/s320/IMG_0153.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5505737079352482498" border="0" /></a>Both Abe and I are "economical" (or "cheap"), and we looked for the cheapest food we could find. We found a place that had tapas, 6 for 5 Euros. This became our dependable haunt, and it introduced me to an illustrious sandwhich made up of brie cheese and caramelized onions. Delicious. I saved money by getting my money at a local farmer's market, which was really neat. I would get chorizo (sausages) along with fresh fruit and manchego cheese (cheese from La Mancha). It was cheap but good.<br /><br />I wanted to go on a day trip, but Abe needed to stick around town the next day, contact referees for his passport, and deal with the consulate, so we did our business there the next day, and after briefly checking out the bus and train station (where we saw Amy and her sister again), decided to spend the rest of the day in <span class="il">Malaga</span>. It was a good call.<br /><br />The next thing we checked out was the old fortess, called the Alcazaba, which the Moors left behind on the imposing hill of <span class="il">Malaga</span>. Say what you want about the Moors, they built impressive castles and fortresses. It was super fun to check out their well-built system of defenses, utilizing the slope of the hill, tight gates, archer towers, imposing walls, and walkways bent back on themselves. They were also recyclers, using old Roman columns they found, which are still part of their gates. As you got higher up, it changed from a fortress to a palace, with nice gardens, these really lovely fountains and systems of channelled water gurgling pleasantly at your feet, and beautiful lookouts over the Mediterranean. The interior of the palace looked very Arabic, with the same sort of tilework, arches and pillars, and what must have been considered luxurious living in medieval Spain. Also, there were these Chinese tourists who seemed to be stalking us and giggling. We paid the extra money (about a euro) to see the part of the fortress further up the hill, which was quite a hike, but it was less impressive than the lower fortress, though it did have a cool little museum about Spanish colonialism. Apparently, the Catholic forces only managed to take the Alcazaba, and hence, <span class="il">Malaga</span>, in 1487, just over 500 years ago.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_u6joSMQ4wEQ/TGhQF8OLK7I/AAAAAAAAADI/za7ogO2ZbGI/s1600/100_1040.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_u6joSMQ4wEQ/TGhQF8OLK7I/AAAAAAAAADI/za7ogO2ZbGI/s320/100_1040.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5505738607455579058" border="0" /></a>We also checked out the Cathedral of <span class="il">Malaga</span>, out of all the churches in the city. It was the first old Cathedral I have ever checked out. It is pretty impressive, although when a building takes 260 years to build, you expect it to meet certain standards. The architecture is not like the old Gothic cathedrals of France and England; it has a different style, a Renaissance style. There are almost no windows, and the interior is filled up with a lot of little chapels to various saints, with a lot of old religious artwork contained inside. I'm going to state the obvious and say it was huge.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_u6joSMQ4wEQ/TGhRSW0ArJI/AAAAAAAAADQ/yu1i44OX6qU/s1600/100_0990.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_u6joSMQ4wEQ/TGhRSW0ArJI/AAAAAAAAADQ/yu1i44OX6qU/s320/100_0990.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5505739920263654546" border="0" /></a>The rest of the time, Abe and I did stuff like eat, drink zumo (juice), and watch world cup games in little cafes.Stevehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07521392100827092942noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3299588762788338840.post-32954796356639370492010-08-10T11:37:00.000-07:002010-08-10T11:42:24.516-07:00Uncle Steve!<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_u6joSMQ4wEQ/TGGdfmsDOTI/AAAAAAAAACo/Nbh6oZIGzTY/s1600/Molly-First-Days-0202-300x225.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 225px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_u6joSMQ4wEQ/TGGdfmsDOTI/AAAAAAAAACo/Nbh6oZIGzTY/s320/Molly-First-Days-0202-300x225.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5503853385910270258" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_u6joSMQ4wEQ/TGGdfZJj9KI/AAAAAAAAACg/uyDLIeA8s90/s1600/Molly-First-Days-037-300x225.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 225px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_u6joSMQ4wEQ/TGGdfZJj9KI/AAAAAAAAACg/uyDLIeA8s90/s320/Molly-First-Days-037-300x225.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5503853382275953826" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_u6joSMQ4wEQ/TGGdfAuvYXI/AAAAAAAAACY/OHGuAazEvLU/s1600/Home-56-300x225.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 225px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_u6joSMQ4wEQ/TGGdfAuvYXI/AAAAAAAAACY/OHGuAazEvLU/s320/Home-56-300x225.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5503853375721005426" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_u6joSMQ4wEQ/TGGdewUNZ7I/AAAAAAAAACQ/0aO-9l3La60/s1600/Home-42-300x225.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 225px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_u6joSMQ4wEQ/TGGdewUNZ7I/AAAAAAAAACQ/0aO-9l3La60/s320/Home-42-300x225.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5503853371314759602" border="0" /></a><br />On July 28th, I became an uncle! Kevin and Anna had a baby girl. Her name is Molly Margaret Ava Adam. I think she is very cute, and I can't wait to see her.Stevehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07521392100827092942noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3299588762788338840.post-25157325665602761892010-07-13T19:15:00.001-07:002010-07-13T19:20:06.422-07:00Back from SpainWell, I got back not too long ago from Spain and Gibraltar. I'm going to keep this blog short, but I may write some more posts later on.<br /><br />For right now, I'm just trying to get a bit healthier after a parasitical infection. They are surprisingly draining. I guess you could consider me the host with the most.<br /><br />My time in Spain took me to Malaga, Ronda, Granada, Cordoba, Sevilla, and Tarifa. Pretty much, if it ends with the letter "a", I was allowed to go there. This was all in the region of Andalucia, and the cool thing is, every city has a different flavour. More on these flavours later...Stevehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07521392100827092942noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3299588762788338840.post-85329430428325960452009-10-11T21:02:00.000-07:002009-10-11T21:05:31.675-07:00SickI'm sick... not badly, but for long enough to lower my morale. I love reading this poem when I'm sick, although when you have the flu, it's a tad dramatic. This gem was written by John Donne eight days before his death...<br /><br />Hymn to God, My God, in my Sickness<br />by John Donne<br /><br />Since I am coming to that holy room,<br /> Where, with thy choir of saints for evermore,<br />I shall be made thy music; as I come<br /> I tune the instrument here at the door,<br /> And what I must do then, think here before.<br /><br />Whilst my physicians by their love are grown<br /> Cosmographers, and I their map, who lie<br />Flat on this bed, that by them may be shown<br /> That this is my south-west discovery,<br /> Per fretum febris, by these straits to die,<br /><br />I joy, that in these straits I see my west;<br /> For, though their currents yield return to none,<br />What shall my west hurt me? As west and east<br /> In all flat maps (and I am one) are one,<br /> So death doth touch the resurrection.<br /><br />Is the Pacific Sea my home? Or are<br /> The eastern riches? Is Jerusalem?<br />Anyan, and Magellan, and Gibraltar,<br /> All straits, and none but straits, are ways to them,<br /> Whether where Japhet dwelt, or Cham, or Shem.<br /><br />We think that Paradise and Calvary,<br /> Christ's cross, and Adam's tree, stood in one place;<br />Look, Lord, and find both Adams met in me;<br /> As the first Adam's sweat surrounds my face,<br /> May the last Adam's blood my soul embrace.<br /><br />So, in his purple wrapp'd, receive me, Lord;<br /> By these his thorns, give me his other crown;<br />And as to others' souls I preach'd thy word,<br /> Be this my text, my sermon to mine own:<br />"Therefore that he may raise, the Lord throws down."Stevehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07521392100827092942noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3299588762788338840.post-56002637333052694912009-10-09T19:12:00.000-07:002009-10-09T19:55:25.941-07:00The Concert of a Lifetime -- Part 3"Uno! Dos! Tres! Catorce!" (One, Two, Three, Fourteen!)<br /><br />So screamed Bono with a rollick, in terrible Spanish, and "Vertigo" began. "Vertigo" isn't my favourite U2 song in particular, but I hate to admit that I was taken with Bono's swaggering intro. Next on the setlist was "I'll Go Crazy If I Don't Go Crazy Tonight", another song I'm not yet fully enamoured with, but it was still enjoyable.<br /><br />Really, I was hoping for as many oldie-goldies as possible, and the next song didn't disappoint. With a somewhat unclear introductory video referencing the Iranian elections, Larry's militant drumbeats and Edge's insistent repetitions of one of the most iconic guitar riffs in rock history ushered in the oldest song of the night: "Sunday, Bloody Sunday" from 1983's War album. You just can't go wrong with it. Edge's guitar instrumental in the middle was slashing and jarring, just as it should be.<br /><br />Afterwards, U2 was generous enough to include a rare treat, which I quite enjoyed: "MLK" from 1984's "Unforgettable Fire" album. An underspoken, hymn-like tribute to the great Dr. King. It was so stirring, I was wrapped up in the moment of appreciating the song. I was grateful, too, that they included the following song on their setlist. Devoting it (and the rest of the concert) to Burmese civil rights leader Aung Sun Suu Kyi, they played song which pleases my sentimental side: "Walk On". It was everything that I hoped for it to be. U2 then left the stage, and some suckers in the crowd, thought that the concert was over, and left. In disbelief, I repeatedly pointed out that they still hadn't played "Streets".<br /><br />Of course, they came back. They played "One", their painfully beautiful song about love and isolation in a fallen world. I pulled out the lighters I had brought for this song and distributed them accordingly. Next, they lead the oblivious crowd in a stirring rendition of "Amazing Grace". It was wonderful to sing the song along with the band. And then... the stained-glass strains of Edge's guitar filled the Roger's Centre with the chiming notes of what is arguably their greatest masterpiece: "Where the Streets Have No Name". It was simply perfect; there is no more that they can say. The three songs together held a sort of redemptive trajectory: from the ironic (in the Fryean sense) separation of fallen love in the first, to the comedic path of redemption in the second, to the enjoyment of the Romantic world of Heaven in the third. <br /><br />U2 then went back under the stage, and more suckers left the building.<br /><br />Their second encore was tremendous. Bono was wearing -- I kid you not -- a jacket with lasers coming out of it, and was holding onto and swinging from what I can only describe as a flourescent steering wheel of a microphone suspended from above. The opening chords of their next song took me aback, initially, because I didn't at first know what they were, but I quickly realized that they were playing "Ultraviolet" from "Achtung Baby". I really loved it, a fantastic song. To hear Bono wail "Baby, baby, baby, light my way" as lasers shot out of his chest was truly magical.<br /><br />Next was, I have to say, was the song I had been waiting for. As soon as I heard Adam's insistent bass line and the unearthly and pure sustain of Edge's guitar on "With or Without You" I felt deeply affected. Words fail for how magical this song was. Bono's vocal performance was perfect as the disco ball illuminated a crowd of tens of thousands, while one felt a strange intimacy with the band, even in the nosebleed section. This was the most magical song of the night. I wish I was still listening there listening to that song.<br /><br />The final song of the night is the second best song on the new album: "Moment of Surrender" -- another Augustinian spiritual song. As Bono sang such naked lyrics as "My body is a begging bowl, and I'm begging to get back to the rhythm of my soul, to the rhythm of my unconsciousness", my friend pointed out that the lights of the CN tower were pulsing in many colours along with the music. It was gorgeous. The band left, and I was silent. I could barely say anything for the rest of the night.<br /><br />My analysis several days (weeks?) after the concert? It was surprising to see not a single song from "Pop" on the setlist, although I have read they have not played an entire song from the album on their whole tour. I was especially glad that they played "Until the End of the World" at this concert. I would have been happy if they had played "Gloria" or "40" or "New Year's Day", but I could not complain with the fantastic song line-up.<br /><br />All in all, the concert renewed my love for U2 and was an entirely unforgettable night.Stevehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07521392100827092942noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3299588762788338840.post-17248173895091051402009-09-25T20:13:00.001-07:002009-09-26T13:38:11.319-07:00The Concert of a Lifetime -- Part 2As day gave way to dusk, and dusk in turn yielded to darkness under the shadow of the CN tower, my pulse increased as it struck me that I really was about to see U2. And then, I saw the cars roll in.<br /><br /><br /><br />They were in the stadium.<br /><br /><br /><br />As I looked onto the green monster of a stage, the speakers blared "Space Oddity" by Dave Bowie, and one by one, the members took the stage. Larry went to the kit and immediately started pounding the skins. Ash-haired Adam took his lanky stance with the bass. The Edge slung his guitar over his shoulder. And then a rather short man in a leather jacket came out. But enough of that... on to the concert.<br /><br /><br /><br />In standard form for the 360 tour to that point, U2 opened with "Breathe", a song from their new album which I am still warming up to. A good friend of mine drew attention to a different lyrical interpretation of the song, casting it in the light of establishing one's personal identity. I'm still considering this, although I can say that it's very much a beat-like poem set to music, like nothing else they've ever written. In my mind, it took them a few songs to really get reved up. Next on the setlist was "No Line on the Horizon", a somewhat more compelling song from the new album, performed in front of a stark screen of black and white. Instrumentally, this was a very tight performance of a song which harkens a bit more to the glory days of the Joshua Tree. Bono's introduction of the band was disarmingly humourous, with a low key charm which contrasted with the high, operatic drama of the Popmart tour or ZooTV. Bono called Adam a "sexual predator" and dropped references to the "space ship" they were performing in and claimed that they had "some new songs, some old songs, and some songs they could barely play". It was blatant false humility on the last claim.<br /><br /><br /><br />Next up on the roster was "Get on Your Boots", which I frankly think is one of their most ridiculous songs to date. Time will not redeem this song. It is the "Some Days are better Than Others" of the new album, without the contrived seriousness. "Magnificent", on the other hand, is hands-down the best song of the new album, a glorious return to old form, and an Augustinian declaration of worship. Their performance was indeed flawlessly magnificent, and with Bono's arms outstretched and eyes closed, I felt he was leading the unknowing crowd in worship of the Magnificent. Next was a rendition of "Beautiful Day", a personal favourite.<br /><br /><br /><br />However, the next song -- "I Still Haven't Found What I'm Looking For" -- is the point where I felt the band began to capture the crowd and show their true magic. Bono let the crowd sing the first verse, and his singing of the rest of song was sweetly soulful. It was undeniably magical. "Elevation" came next, and then the rare and strange song "My Blue Room", which I admit I was not familiar with. The video, though, was a strangely haunting one, linking the viewer to an astronaut on the International Space Station. If it were a lesser band, it may have been a momentum killer. "Unknown Caller" followed on its heels, with a karaoke like screen.<br /><br /><br /><br />Next, they pulled out one of my all-time favourite songs: "Until the End of the World". A musically epic, and poetically brilliant song, it is an exploration of sin and redemption, ironically written to sound like the tale of the broken and remade hearts of lovers, but actually somewhat cryptically written (mostly) from the vantage point of Judas Iscariot during the events surrounding the crucifixion. The Edge's guitar work could not be better, and Bono delivered with passion and drama, running a lap around the massive stage before collapsing in a heap at the Edge's feet, with the spotlight on him. This was definitely one of the best performances of the night. <br /><br />U2 followed it with a song which is best performed live - "Stay (Faraway, So Close)". It was simply electrifying in its soaring beauty. U2 also played a stirring, sing-a-long version of "Stand by Me". It was simply one of those perfect moments. <br /><br />"The Unforgettable Fire", a way-back-playback from its eponymous album, surprised me by how much I enjoyed it, as it usually is not a song I'm partial to. And in the first track from "How to Dismantle an Atomic Bomb", the pulled out "City of Blinding Lights", a song I was hoping they'd play. It was sweet to belt out the chorus to the band, "Oh, you look so beautiful tonight, in this city of blinding lights", underneath the lights of condos, Toronto's Bay Street Banking Core, and the CN tower. It seemed fitting.<br /><br />Part 3 is yet to come...Stevehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07521392100827092942noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3299588762788338840.post-1772057413117323272009-09-22T19:11:00.000-07:002009-09-22T19:54:12.171-07:00The Concert Of a Lifetime -- Part 1If you have been in any sort of contact with me in the past month, you will know that I had been looking forward with what could understatedly be called rabid enthusiasm to a concert on September 16. Those of you who have known me for a long time know that I am a massive fan of U2, and I secured tickets to their 360 tour on September 16, in the Skydome. I have been looking forward to blogging about this for some time, but I have been fairly busy. Prepare yourself to read about this concert in detail which will either be excruciatingly drawn out or deliciously detailed, depending on your point of view.<br /><br /><br /><br />Simply put, seeing U2 live was something I wanted to do before I died. I'm almost ashamed to say how important this was for me... a dream for years.<br /><br /><br /><br />I was delighted to hear that U2 was going to be playing in the Skydome (which sold out for a rock concert in only the second time in its history) and that, as the weather was good, they were going to be playing with the top open (also for only the second time in its history). After working at York that day (it was a delightful day) I scooted downtown on the reliable TTC, rendezvoused with my friend, and headed over to the 'Dome. My seats were not amazingly close, being seated in the 500 level, but they were directly across from the front of the stage, if you could call it that. True to its name, the 360 tour features a massive stage -- the biggest in rock history -- which features no bad views. The stage is quite literally monstrous, a colossal green and yellow set of tentacles which look like they were ripped out of a 1950s Japanese sci-fi.<br /><br /><br /><br />Adding to the delight of the evening was the fact that so many of my friends were at the concert. After excitedly talking on the phone with as many of them as I could, we sat down and watched the opening band, Snow Patrol. I hadn't had a huge exposure to the band before the concert, although I tried to do my homework before the show, and my friend was fairly knowledgeable and had a good appreciation for them. The crowd was understandably smaller, but the boys from North Ireland (Dundee, Scotland? Glasgow?) did not disappoint. The band was tight, and the lead singer had a certain self-deprecating charm, tinged with awe-filled humility to be opening for the greatest rock act of our time. I can't quite find Snow Patrol's setlist, but they seemed to play a lot of stuff from their "Eyes Open" album. Their rendition of "Shut Your Eyes" in which they got the audience to sing along (I'm a sucker for band sing-a-longs) drew me in to the band's performance; it's just a hauntingly melodic, yet rocking song as it is. Not surprisingly, "Chasing Cars" was a run away success, performed flawlessly live, with the dramatic, throbbing crescendo of guitar and beautiful, passionate vocals which made it such a hit song. One of their last songs was "Open Your Eyes", a tune I was not that familiar with but which was my friend's favourite Snow Patrol song. It was a winner, combining rock-out rattle and hum with a flirtatious taste of what the 360 screen was capable of, flashing unrelentingly and rapidly between shots of the individual band members and a couple who made out for the camera with a love for exhibition. Snow Patrol gained my unqualified respect by the end of their set. Overall, the band was solid and Gary Lightbody was impressive as a humerous, Celtic frontman and as a passionate singer with a unique voice. As we went to get our Skydome burgers, I couldn't help but reflect, like a true English lit major, on the band's insistent imagery focused on eyes and hands, coupled with imperatives to the audience as the second person, combining for a sense of immediacy in the moment which lent themselves to a sort of intense, earnest passion.<br /><br /><br /><br />And, as their set went on, the Toronto sky, framed behind the CN Tower and the newly mushrooming glass condos, shifted from daylight to a beautiful dusk. Night was approaching, and with it, U2. My excitement was rising, even as the temperature dropped to the point where it necessitated sweaters. I was stoked.<br /><br /><br /><br />Part 2 is coming...Stevehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07521392100827092942noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3299588762788338840.post-48759371934075436542009-09-06T18:41:00.000-07:002009-09-06T18:46:39.014-07:00Weekend Pleasures.Good conversation. The challenges of friends. <br /><br />Meat.<br /><br />The feel of working up a sweat moving boxes.<br /><br />Meat again.<br /><br />Finis.Stevehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07521392100827092942noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3299588762788338840.post-32157904426595311282009-08-24T14:40:00.000-07:002009-08-24T14:57:47.884-07:00Canterbury Tales<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_u6joSMQ4wEQ/SpMMVPl2U4I/AAAAAAAAACE/JmQZ5Bbane8/s1600-h/canterbury.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5373652339485201282" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 106px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 150px" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_u6joSMQ4wEQ/SpMMVPl2U4I/AAAAAAAAACE/JmQZ5Bbane8/s320/canterbury.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div>Continuing in my review of the 24 books I have planned to read in 2009, the second category I planned to read from was Medieval Literature. For this category, I read Chaucer's "Canterbury Tales".</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>First off, I would like to say that I eschewed reading them in their original Middle English, as in 2008 I took a graduate class where there was far too much reading in Middle English.</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>Chaucer seems to be almost universally lauded as a genius. It seems to me, though, that almost every particular type of critic and reader likes to imagine Chaucer as someone who is exactly like themselves. Secular humanists like to see him as a proto-humanist, with his religious tales being mainly satirical. The religious crowd likes to imagine Chaucer as being devout, although most would be happy to somehow bury the anti-semitism of the Prioress' tale. I prefer to leave Chaucer's slippery personality in the Canterbury Tales to be uninterpreted. It's more a mess of the diversity of points of view and experiences in human life, a mass of stories. It is a text easy to read from a post-modern perspective. </div><br /><div></div><br /><div>I must say that I much prefer "Troilus and Criseyde" or many other medieval romances to the individual Canterbury Tales, but that's just me. The potty humour is not generally enough to leave me entertained, nor do I have a great desire to use Chaucer to press my critical agenda (see above). Some tales have some good entertainment value (see the Knight's Tale or the Wife of Bath's Tale). Some, such as the disturbing Prioress' Tale, in which a kabal of Jews slaughters a young Christian boy, are interpretatively knotty, and can sustain lengthy analysis. Some are just downright boring. There. I said it.</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>The form itself is interesting, although the versification can make extended reading quite tiring. The very framed narrative structure, with the quarrelling, worldly characters taking turns telling their tales along the way to Canterbury is the most truly noteworthy and ingenious part of Chaucer's work, though. If you wish to get a taste for this work without reading the entirety of it, as I did, may I suggest you read the General Introduction and the Wife of Bath's Tale?</div>Stevehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07521392100827092942noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3299588762788338840.post-26047183794713972742009-08-19T15:52:00.000-07:002009-08-19T16:00:26.838-07:00Where There's Smoke...<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_u6joSMQ4wEQ/SoyD6YEfpOI/AAAAAAAAAB8/hTfh0HmMbiw/s1600-h/fire.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5371813494463112418" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 130px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 98px" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_u6joSMQ4wEQ/SoyD6YEfpOI/AAAAAAAAAB8/hTfh0HmMbiw/s200/fire.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div>Today, as I was walking home from a refreshing time in the woods of a local ravine, I saw the flash of emergency lights. Coming closer, I realized there were not just a few emergency vehicles, but, indeed, the police had cordoned off the entire block where I lived. Police cars, paramedic vehicles, fire trucks. Especially fire trucks.</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>I asked some of the local firemen if my place was OK. After I told them where I lived, he said the people above me had had a fire and the firemen had to punch out the locks from my door to get in my apartment. I secretly thought that the second part was pretty cool. </div><br /><div></div><br /><div>I spent the next few hours leading firemen and electric inspectors through my apartment, taking care of my neighbours, and doing things that needed to happen like sorting things out with my landlord and getting new deadbolts put on the door. Fortunately, there was no water or smoke damage to my apartment, but the neighbours upstairs have an apartment that looks like a small bomb went off in it.</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>In other news, we found out that my landlord has not had functional smoke alarms or carbon monoxide detectors in our place, and, according to the fire department, that's a big deal. Charges shall be pressed. The worst part of it is my neighbours' two year old girl is still in the hospital being checked out.</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>I am thankful it happened in the day, though, as the firemen says that if it were night, they'd have to be carrying people out. I may try and sleep somewhere else tonight.</div>Stevehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07521392100827092942noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3299588762788338840.post-46992879849368743082009-08-12T14:05:00.000-07:002009-08-12T14:29:37.413-07:00Upon Reading Fagles' IliadLast December, in a move which must have been subconsciously aimed at cementing "nerdy" status, I made a list of 24 categories from which I wanted to read one book each in 2009. I'm sure there will be a post on "Stuff White People Like" on something like this sometime soon. So far, I'm pretty close to being on pace. <br /><br />One of the categories which I put down I wanted to read a book out of was "Ancient and Classical Literature". So, since I had never actually read the "Iliad" and I was going on a long trip to North Africa, I decided to pick up a translation -- Robert Fagles'. <br /><br />It's a long book.<br /><br />My non-professional thoughts?<br /><br />I honestly preferred the "Odyssey" to the "Iliad", but there is much to be said about the "Iliad". The long-churning battle scenes, with extended, gory descriptions of death -- "Person X hacked Person Y with Weapon Z and Body Organ Q was visible" -- almost seemed to produce an imitation of the battle weariness of the Greeks and Trojans after nine years of combat in the reader himself. I could not bring myself to enjoy the extended battle in a straightforward way after the eleventh such 20 page battle, so I'll chalk Homer's technique up to some sort of mimesis. This view could be supported by Homer's tendency to describe the life of a promising young youth -- his parentage and upbringing -- only to have him die savagely at the hand of Hector or Achilles, a seeming nod to the wastefulness of war. I say this even though I am not a strict pacifist myself. <br /><br />Likewise, although I expected myself to be rooting for the Greeks the entire time, Homer seemed to make it impossible to side entirely with the Greeks or the Trojans. <br /><br />Surprisingly, my favourite character in the "Iliad" would have to be Hector. The image of a man who is chiefly dedicated to caring for his family, yet is willing to face his duty in war courageously and with deadly capability is very appealing to the Renaissance Man in me. Most noteworthy in the "Iliad", to me, is the scene in which he tenderly bids his wife goodbye before he faces the battlefield, and when his toddler son sees him in his horsehair helmet, his son cries, scared of his father. The couple laugh at the son, and Hector takes his son in his arms and prays that the son might grow to be a better man than the father. That is better than a rom-com for men. It is little wonder that the Medieval Europeans counted him as one of the four Pagan Worthy Knights <br /><br />Out of all the Greeks, Odysseus, the crafty and diplomatic one, seems to be the most likeable. Compare his tact and wisdom against the infantile power-plays of Agamemnon and the selfish, childish sulking of Achilles, and he stacks up quite well. <br /><br />A good friend of mine considers Achilles to be his favourite character in the book, but I would dissent. Achilles is undoubtably unmatched on the field of conflict, almost godlike in his powers. But Hector's strength is a well-tempered strength; his character is well-rounded. And until the Styx-dipped Achilles shows up, Hector is well-nigh unstoppable. His death, like an animal put to flight around the walls of Troy, was, to say the obvious, lamentable. <br /><br />The translation itself, by Robert Fagles, leaves me nothing to complain about. It is terse and highly readable.Stevehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07521392100827092942noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3299588762788338840.post-24424693173466643812009-08-04T14:22:00.000-07:002009-08-04T14:36:59.639-07:00RefreshmentI have a mixed relationship with summer. Don't get me wrong, I love the season itself. The lush green of verdant forests, running in the muggy heat until the sweat pours down your skin and you plunge into a cold lake, and the magic of late summer evenings are all things that I enjoy. The world is alive in summer. Heck, I even like the idea of summer, as Northrop Frye expresses it. Summer, Frye suggests, is the representation of Romance, the perfect world, Heaven. The typology is there.<br /><br />The reality of summer doesn't alway measure up, though. For me, growing up, summer was when the students left my college town, making it feel empty. I remember summers working questionably legal jobs in Owen Sound, like moving bricks up uneven scaffolding without safety equipment (I never was paid for that). Summers could be great, but sometimes they could be slow, in all the bad senses of the word.<br /><br />This summer has been refreshing in so many ways. Along with all the physical refreshments of summer, which I first alluded to, this summer has had deeper, more subtle, but more exquisite pleasures of refreshment, suggesting a shadow of Frye's Summer. Reunification with people you have not seen in years, with all the laughter that brings. Meeting new people who may become old friends. The delicious ache which comes through getting back into running. The soul-restoring quiet of a cottage from childhood memory, reading books which restore my spirit. Words of Truth at Grace Toronto. Remembering things which were forgotten. Becoming re-newed. <br /><br />Sometimes, "thank you" doesn't seem enough.Stevehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07521392100827092942noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3299588762788338840.post-28249995836427654582009-07-06T15:27:00.000-07:002009-07-06T15:38:56.428-07:00Overcoming Blog-guiltI think a lot more people would start blogs if they didn't dread the prospect of feeling guilty for when they don't update. I, currently, while not feeling guilty, per se, am feeling like a very bad blogger. Which in turn makes me delay updating my blog. Which in turn makes me feel bad. It kind of reminds me of checking in on that person you have not talked to in ages, but were supposed to. Or unclogging the bathroom drain. Tasks you delay become more painful. Not that this is a task.<br /><br />How do you sum up the past few months? I was best man for my buddy, started a new job, went to North Africa, saw people come into my life and leave, some of them significantly. Looking back on my old blog postings, it's fascinating to see how I (and we all) evolve as a person. How the things we think about, the things that bother us and worry us, the view from here all change. <br /><br />I will resist the urge to quote Heraclitus here. <br /><br />My old blog posts look like the rings of an old tree, or the layers of sedimentation, where I can read the past from the eye of the past me, not from the renewed lens of the present. I sometimes wonder how my future eyes will read this present. <br /><br />After arriving home from North Africa, I am more excited for what life holds. I love the sensation of catching a whiff of a scent you have not smelled in a while, the pungent odour of adventure. It is a pleasure, more than any other, to know, more than I did yesterday, the God who has created me to know and follow Him.Stevehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07521392100827092942noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3299588762788338840.post-69029930764756338042008-11-05T08:07:00.000-08:002008-11-05T08:30:25.318-08:00The Summer of Weddings<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_u6joSMQ4wEQ/SRHHfDjaHYI/AAAAAAAAABE/GZhShtwnPqM/s1600-h/n58012564_42350867_3171.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_u6joSMQ4wEQ/SRHHfDjaHYI/AAAAAAAAABE/GZhShtwnPqM/s200/n58012564_42350867_3171.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5265208775716511106" border="0" /></a><br /><br />My first wedding of the summer, was in early July for my friends Murph and Nicole. It was a beautiful wedding and I had the great honour to stand in for him as his best man. Stratford is a truly charming town, and myself and the rest of the wedding party enjoyed chasing swans in the park.<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_u6joSMQ4wEQ/SRHIfcv56BI/AAAAAAAAABM/GxsoO9HGuho/s1600-h/n121503089_37112528_8539.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 134px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_u6joSMQ4wEQ/SRHIfcv56BI/AAAAAAAAABM/GxsoO9HGuho/s200/n121503089_37112528_8539.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5265209881991440402" border="0" /></a><br /><br />The following weekend, I went to Ottawa for Joel and Denise's wedding. There's nothing wrong with a good half-Indian, half-white wedding, especially because they give me a chance to wear my truly great kurta pajama.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_u6joSMQ4wEQ/SRHJRa40F0I/AAAAAAAAABU/mFJhyjukI5U/s1600-h/n58003969_43638854_2833.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 134px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_u6joSMQ4wEQ/SRHJRa40F0I/AAAAAAAAABU/mFJhyjukI5U/s200/n58003969_43638854_2833.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5265210740485396290" border="0" /></a>Finally, in early August, I hit up St. Catherine's for Nathan and Jenn's wedding. It was a grand time, with some pretty rippin' food. As per usual, some new dance moves were invented on the floor. Kudos to Ben Joliffe in this department.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Not the most exciting blog, but it needed to be made.Stevehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07521392100827092942noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3299588762788338840.post-6841750296912886452008-07-16T10:12:00.001-07:002008-07-16T10:34:10.398-07:00Parry Sound Adventures<div><br /><br /><div><a href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_u6joSMQ4wEQ/SH4wUo2TokI/AAAAAAAAAAs/4gQRz52rOTU/s1600-h/IMG_3291.JPG"></a><br /><br /><br /><div><a href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_u6joSMQ4wEQ/SH4wIYtzBKI/AAAAAAAAAAk/iUsR94KJVFg/s1600-h/IMG_3274.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5223665538427978914" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_u6joSMQ4wEQ/SH4wIYtzBKI/AAAAAAAAAAk/iUsR94KJVFg/s320/IMG_3274.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><div>I recently had the opportunity to go visit Julia's place and family in Parry Sound. It was great! Parry Sound is a beautiful area of Ontario, placed in a labyrinthine interchange of rocky, <span style="color:#009900;">wooded land</span> and the <span style="color:#6600cc;">deep, blue waters</span> of Georgian Bay. It's an outdoorsperson's paradise. The town itself is smaller, but nice. Julia's family was, of course, very nice and hospitable. It was a fun time, with good food, great people, and, later on, a very nice cottage on Georgian Bay.</div><br /><br /><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5223666462694667938" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_u6joSMQ4wEQ/SH4w-L4JdqI/AAAAAAAAAA8/iXk9-bLsrB8/s320/IMG_3263.JPG" border="0" /><br /><div></div><br /><br /><br /><br /><div>As much as I could talk about many things that we did, it was my introduction to kayaking which was particularly memorable. As Julia is a kayak instructor, and I had never kayaked before, I wanted to get out on the waters as soon as we got to the cottage. After a brief lesson on shore, we took to the waters on a beautiful day. Naturally, I was awesome at kayaking and got the hang of it quickly. On the way to a bridge we were trying to reach, I saw an island which had flowers growing on it. I told her to go ahead of me, and that I would catch up. Suspicious that I was going to relieve myself, she did not hesitate to make a break for it. I got the contraband and set to get back into my boat, noting how clever I was. As I am used to canoes, I braced my hands on the gunwhales while getting in and proceeded to flip the kayak. After doing this a second time, I called her back to give me a hand and took notice of the fact that my foot was stinging. She laughed at me, and when I got back on land, I noticed my foot was <span style="color:#ff0000;">bleeding</span>, with the middle toe cut to the point where I could see the white tendons inside. When we got back to the cottage, Julia's dad, a physician, cleaned out my foot and stitched it up on the back deck. Without anaesthetic. It hurt, but being a male, I was thrilled to have the experience and feel kind of tough. </div><br /><br /><br /><br /><div></div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5223666006117178514" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://bp3.blogger.com/_u6joSMQ4wEQ/SH4wjm_l3JI/AAAAAAAAAA0/eH64w_8yzdE/s320/IMG_3303.JPG" border="0" /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div>Lesson learned? I hate zebra mussels.</div></div></div></div>Stevehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07521392100827092942noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3299588762788338840.post-19448344259371062032008-07-14T15:12:00.001-07:002008-07-14T15:20:56.034-07:00Lord of the Rings<a href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_u6joSMQ4wEQ/SHvRPJfbr3I/AAAAAAAAAAc/a30w0t0_zE4/s1600-h/n533680360_3488973_1250.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5222998251042221938" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_u6joSMQ4wEQ/SHvRPJfbr3I/AAAAAAAAAAc/a30w0t0_zE4/s320/n533680360_3488973_1250.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div><a href="http://bp3.blogger.com/_u6joSMQ4wEQ/SHvQ6McCvgI/AAAAAAAAAAM/Lw1VoMYZufY/s1600-h/n533680360_3488972_865.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5222997891056057858" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://bp3.blogger.com/_u6joSMQ4wEQ/SHvQ6McCvgI/AAAAAAAAAAM/Lw1VoMYZufY/s320/n533680360_3488972_865.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="http://bp2.blogger.com/_u6joSMQ4wEQ/SHvQ6SvosEI/AAAAAAAAAAU/5AA3Gjsajmk/s1600-h/n533680360_3488973_1250.jpg"></a><br /><br /><div>On the following weekend, just over two weeks ago, I was able to do my small part to help my buddy, Ethan Park, get engaged to his sweetheart, Janette Doerksen. Although I did little more than show up, hobble over to the Eaton centre with Ben and Steph to deliver a clue in a scavenger hunt, and eat and drink at the victory party, I like to think that I did my small part to pay tribute to the great relationship between Ethan and Janette. Looking forward to the wedding guys!</div></div>Stevehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07521392100827092942noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3299588762788338840.post-7575806782652239662008-07-10T08:06:00.001-07:002008-07-10T08:20:53.021-07:00RenfrewUpon finishing my Master's degree, I took off for Ottawa with several family members. It was pleasant. From there, I had the pleasure of visiting my friend Jess's place near Renfrew, Ontario, with several friends. Jess, I must admit, has a pretty swinging life near the Quebec border. Her backyard literally backs onto an idyllic little river which is navigable by canoe and surrounded by beautiful green woods. The river itself is less than a half mile from the place where it empties into the rather larger Ottawa river, the last defence from Quebec. <br /><br />Naismith and I naturally decided to canoe up the river as far as we could. Before long we encountered a set of rapids where the river dropped a few feet; it was nothing too serious, but still promised adventure. Always thinking clearly, I got out of the canoe, put on a PFD, and launched myself into the middle of the current some ways down, keeping my legs in front of me to protect myself from unseen rocks. It turned out to be quite a hit, and we occupied ourselves for a good time, progressing to the more intense side of the river. I got a little banged up, but we had a blast. We had noticed that the river seemed somewhat polluted, though, and when Naismith noticed that his throat felt really weird, we decided it was time to head 'er back. <br /><br />All in all, it was a great weekend, with great people. Jess and her father modelled hospitality, which was no surprise, even when Naismith and I insisted on cranking up the country music. As sorry as we were to leave the place, the drive back was pretty great. As I went to high school in Western Ontario, driving through the Ottawa valley was a new experience for me. At one point in time, we ended up on a logging road, watching pavement disappear into gravel, which gave way to dirt roads, which eventually disappeared into the brush. We did, however, get back alive, which is always a plus.Stevehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07521392100827092942noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3299588762788338840.post-63782149546312446352008-07-09T09:20:00.000-07:002008-07-09T09:21:21.120-07:00End of an EraAfter a long absence from blogging, I am getting back into the swing of things. There's a lot to catch up on, so I'll spread the updates over the next few days...<br /><br />Well, the sweet day finally arrived a few weeks ago when I handed in the last paper of my degree! I now have my M.A. all but officially. The feeling of relief has been palpable, and it is still sinking in, as I have been on the road so much since that happened. I'm glad I got to do my degree here at Queen's, but by the end, school was beginning to feel like some sort of P.O.W. camp. <br /><br />It's been a real pleasure celebrating being done with my classmates, as many of them move back to their parts of the country. As good as it is to be done, I have had good times with many of you people. <br /><br />Godspeed.Stevehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07521392100827092942noreply@blogger.com0