Short Version:
We leave.
Long Version:
We drove 31,455 kilometers, through two provinces of Canada, two states of Mexico, and nine states of Amerika. We met incredible numbers of incredible people and rode our bikes so far that we lost count of the miles; through rain and snow and hail and wind and sun, in forests and deserts, across mountains and plains, on rock and wood and dirt and mud and sand and snow. We saw canyons and weird rock formations, old mines, new cities, spiky plants. We drank beers tasty and not-so-much (but mainly tasty), and ate some seriously delicious foods.
In short, we've had a blast.
But it's cold now, in the wintery north, and the sun is shining on the beaches of Waiheke Island and Mount Maunganui, so - as Rancho Notorious once sang - we're heading south.
The Reaper is gone, driven away to its new home by the first people to come look at it. They looked, they listened to it and to us, they admired the graceful lines and subtle paintjob, the (freshly scrubbed and de-stained) tan velour upholstery, and they handed Nene a big wad of hundred-dollar bills before setting off into the gloom of yet another rainy winter's day in Vancouver. We didn't go so far as to shed little tears, but it was kind of weird and sad to watch someone else drive away in what had been our home for seven months and through uncounted adventures.
The bikes have been stripped and cleaned (with my sister's toothbrush - Hi Steph!) and bubble-wrapped for their long trans-Pacific journey. We couldn't bubble-wrap ourselves for it, though, and now find ourselves sitting in a flying tube, high above the ocean. Well, hopefully we're high above it; one of the cabin crew asked if we had cycle helmets because we didn't trust their driving (most of them were too bemused at the sight of the raccoon and moose headgear coming down the skybridge towards them to say anything much at all).
They've been feeding us Business Class wine despite our cattle-classness, which is very nice. Not sure if that's because of the raccoon/moose parade, or because we've told every Air NZ staffer who'll listen that it's our wedding anniversary. Either way, yum, and we wouldn't want to hit Auckland at 6am on a Tuesday without a hangover, would we?
Thursday, December 16, 2010
The High Cost of Living
Short Version:
Houses aren't cheap, especially if you have Chinese neighbours
Long Version:
We plan to return to Vancouver pretty soon; it's a really neat city. There's shitty stuff that goes on, for sure - in a metropolitan area where over 4 million people live there are bound to be some ratbags - but it seems to keep itself confined largely to areas we wouldn't want to go anyway (ie Surrey) and/or to those involved in the (apparently very lucrative) drug trade. That's not to say that all of the laws are obeyed all of the time by all of the people, even in the nicer parts of the city - we heard a tale the other day of a street race and a confiscated car and an unimpressed father; apparently Dad was none-too-impressed that his CAD$200,000 Lamborghini had been taken away from his miscreant son. That's permanent confiscation too, none of the pussy thirty-days crap that NZ feebly imposes.
One of the biggest drawbacks Vancouver has, apart from the massive amount of precipitation it gets, is how unaffordable its housing market is; on average, for homeowners in the Greater Vancouver area, 68% of total household income goes towards servicing the mortgage. That's a lot. The cost of housing is so high that first-home buyers are virtually unheard-of anywhere near the city proper, despite the preponderance of one-bedroom and studio apartments; those start around the CAD$300,000 mark. And you probably wouldn't want to live in one from the lower end of that scale. There are, of course, a bunch of factors influencing price, including the recently-researched impact on sale price of the property's street number; this, we're told, can raise or lower the sale price of a property by as much as 2.5%, which is not very much if you're shopping at one of the thrift stores we frequented (and which tended to throw 40-50% reduction sales on a weekly, if not daily basis), but can amount to a significant amount when you're speaking of a CAD$500,000* apartment**. And that's the average amount, so you have to figure that some people out there are paying vast amounts for some particularly auspiciously-numerated house.
The price inflation is higher in neighbourhoods which are heavily populated by ethnic Chinese, and according to wikipedia, Chinese lucky numbers are 2, 3, 5, 6, 7, 8, and 9 (ie most of them), with 8 the special favorite. On the downside of the ledger, unlucky numbers are 4, 5, 6, and 7 (ie half of the lucky ones, plus four***). Four is the big nasty of the bunch - it's the anti-eight, akin to 13 in Western societies. so, if you're looking to purchase a property for its resale value, and you believe for some reason that the Sinofication of the area is shaping to increase, nab an 8 property (or an 88, or an 888) but steer clear of 4, or 44.
Also beware of 167, 169, and 1679, which are dirty jokes; 250, which means imbecile; 5354, which often refers to something that is half dead or on the verge of death; 7456, which is "pissing me off"; and 9413, which can be interpreted as inferring "nine die to one live meaning 90% chance of being dead and only 10% chance of being alive, or survived from such situations (a narrow escape)."
Apparently these numbers are used by some Sinophile interwebsters as shorthand statements, so the next time someone responds to your brilliance with "Nice call, Mr 250," or simply says "1679" at you, be offended.
* = For the mathematically-challenged, 2.5% of 500,000 is 12,500. That's a lot of beer tokens.
** = It's a condominium (a "condo" if you're young and hip, or trying to be) if the occupant is the owner.
*** = No known numerologically-evil association with the golfing pants known as plus-fours, which are breeches or trousers that extend 4 inches (10 cm) below the knee (and thus are four inches longer than traditional knickerbockers, hence the name); they're awful of their own accord.
Houses aren't cheap, especially if you have Chinese neighbours
Long Version:
We plan to return to Vancouver pretty soon; it's a really neat city. There's shitty stuff that goes on, for sure - in a metropolitan area where over 4 million people live there are bound to be some ratbags - but it seems to keep itself confined largely to areas we wouldn't want to go anyway (ie Surrey) and/or to those involved in the (apparently very lucrative) drug trade. That's not to say that all of the laws are obeyed all of the time by all of the people, even in the nicer parts of the city - we heard a tale the other day of a street race and a confiscated car and an unimpressed father; apparently Dad was none-too-impressed that his CAD$200,000 Lamborghini had been taken away from his miscreant son. That's permanent confiscation too, none of the pussy thirty-days crap that NZ feebly imposes.
One of the biggest drawbacks Vancouver has, apart from the massive amount of precipitation it gets, is how unaffordable its housing market is; on average, for homeowners in the Greater Vancouver area, 68% of total household income goes towards servicing the mortgage. That's a lot. The cost of housing is so high that first-home buyers are virtually unheard-of anywhere near the city proper, despite the preponderance of one-bedroom and studio apartments; those start around the CAD$300,000 mark. And you probably wouldn't want to live in one from the lower end of that scale. There are, of course, a bunch of factors influencing price, including the recently-researched impact on sale price of the property's street number; this, we're told, can raise or lower the sale price of a property by as much as 2.5%, which is not very much if you're shopping at one of the thrift stores we frequented (and which tended to throw 40-50% reduction sales on a weekly, if not daily basis), but can amount to a significant amount when you're speaking of a CAD$500,000* apartment**. And that's the average amount, so you have to figure that some people out there are paying vast amounts for some particularly auspiciously-numerated house.
The price inflation is higher in neighbourhoods which are heavily populated by ethnic Chinese, and according to wikipedia, Chinese lucky numbers are 2, 3, 5, 6, 7, 8, and 9 (ie most of them), with 8 the special favorite. On the downside of the ledger, unlucky numbers are 4, 5, 6, and 7 (ie half of the lucky ones, plus four***). Four is the big nasty of the bunch - it's the anti-eight, akin to 13 in Western societies. so, if you're looking to purchase a property for its resale value, and you believe for some reason that the Sinofication of the area is shaping to increase, nab an 8 property (or an 88, or an 888) but steer clear of 4, or 44.
Also beware of 167, 169, and 1679, which are dirty jokes; 250, which means imbecile; 5354, which often refers to something that is half dead or on the verge of death; 7456, which is "pissing me off"; and 9413, which can be interpreted as inferring "nine die to one live meaning 90% chance of being dead and only 10% chance of being alive, or survived from such situations (a narrow escape)."
Apparently these numbers are used by some Sinophile interwebsters as shorthand statements, so the next time someone responds to your brilliance with "Nice call, Mr 250," or simply says "1679" at you, be offended.
* = For the mathematically-challenged, 2.5% of 500,000 is 12,500. That's a lot of beer tokens.
** = It's a condominium (a "condo" if you're young and hip, or trying to be) if the occupant is the owner.
*** = No known numerologically-evil association with the golfing pants known as plus-fours, which are breeches or trousers that extend 4 inches (10 cm) below the knee (and thus are four inches longer than traditional knickerbockers, hence the name); they're awful of their own accord.
Wednesday, December 15, 2010
Prairie Girls Are Wild!
Short Version:
Home comforts and the Chinese have a physical effect, orange, wearing watermelons
Long Version:
We're getting fat. Or, more accurately, I'm getting fat. Fatter. Whatever. Nene's still lovely, of course.
We arrived back in Vancouver fighting fit but slightly gaunt; seven and a half months living in a van and riding nearly every day will do that to you. Since we've been back, though, the proximity of a refigerator full of food has proved dangerous, and the various charms of a warm house with comfy chairs, giant televisions, and access to the interwebs without having to purchase a shitty coffee have added up to not going out into the cold rain all that often. We have been running - Nene according to her marathon training programme; me randomly and with lots of falling over on snow and ice - but not nearly enough to counter the vast calorific intake. Especially not when eggnog - which is essentially liquid lipid - can be purchased from the supermarket, handily-packaged in a recyclable cardboard carton.
We do have the option to claim victim status though: apparently my rapid expansion is probably a result of climate change: scientists* have discovered the existence of a hitherto-undiagnosed global-warming-derived obesity epidemic**. Apparently the ever-increasing amount of pollution in the atmosphere - largely due, we're told, to coal-fired power stations in China - is to blame for the fattening of rats, mice, and lab primates. And, by logical extension, me.
To the tune of five new kilograms in two weeks.
Nothing to do with the non-stop eating and drinking, of course, and nothing at all to do with peanut butter confectionery, which is really really good. Over here it's BIG business, too; Hershey Corp (which makes top peanut-butter/chocolate line Reese's Pieces) is battling Mars Inc in the courts for trademark infringement because the latter chose to package their competing peanut-butter/chocolate product in Reese's-style orange packaging.
Also bedecked in orange are the Oregon State University Beavers, which makes them the Oregon College team I'm cheering for***. There's an orange-clad team in the Canadian Football League too - the BC Lions - but if you ignore the humour value of Head Coach Wally Buono's name they're kind of crap; much more fun are the Saskatchewan Roughriders. Quite apart from the fact that they're named after a ribbed condom, their fans are famed for carving gameday headgear from watermelons, often adding moose antlers viking-style to the sides or Mohican hair-strips to the top. Fruiterers import vast quantities of the bulbous, tapered seedy-fleshed goodness capsules ahead of each home game, and up the numbers significantly when the game is a big one (like the recent Grey Cup final, which the Roughtriders lost, for the second year in a row, to the dirty pseudo-Frenchies from Montreal).
The only other things we know about Saskatchewan are that "Prairie girls are wild," and that they refer to gin as "Panty-remover." Both these things we learned from my cousin. At our wedding.
* = We heart scientists!
** = Coexisting happily with the fast-food-and-TV-engendered one we already knew about
*** = Crush the filthy OU Ducks!
Home comforts and the Chinese have a physical effect, orange, wearing watermelons
Long Version:
We're getting fat. Or, more accurately, I'm getting fat. Fatter. Whatever. Nene's still lovely, of course.
We arrived back in Vancouver fighting fit but slightly gaunt; seven and a half months living in a van and riding nearly every day will do that to you. Since we've been back, though, the proximity of a refigerator full of food has proved dangerous, and the various charms of a warm house with comfy chairs, giant televisions, and access to the interwebs without having to purchase a shitty coffee have added up to not going out into the cold rain all that often. We have been running - Nene according to her marathon training programme; me randomly and with lots of falling over on snow and ice - but not nearly enough to counter the vast calorific intake. Especially not when eggnog - which is essentially liquid lipid - can be purchased from the supermarket, handily-packaged in a recyclable cardboard carton.
We do have the option to claim victim status though: apparently my rapid expansion is probably a result of climate change: scientists* have discovered the existence of a hitherto-undiagnosed global-warming-derived obesity epidemic**. Apparently the ever-increasing amount of pollution in the atmosphere - largely due, we're told, to coal-fired power stations in China - is to blame for the fattening of rats, mice, and lab primates. And, by logical extension, me.
To the tune of five new kilograms in two weeks.
Nothing to do with the non-stop eating and drinking, of course, and nothing at all to do with peanut butter confectionery, which is really really good. Over here it's BIG business, too; Hershey Corp (which makes top peanut-butter/chocolate line Reese's Pieces) is battling Mars Inc in the courts for trademark infringement because the latter chose to package their competing peanut-butter/chocolate product in Reese's-style orange packaging.
Also bedecked in orange are the Oregon State University Beavers, which makes them the Oregon College team I'm cheering for***. There's an orange-clad team in the Canadian Football League too - the BC Lions - but if you ignore the humour value of Head Coach Wally Buono's name they're kind of crap; much more fun are the Saskatchewan Roughriders. Quite apart from the fact that they're named after a ribbed condom, their fans are famed for carving gameday headgear from watermelons, often adding moose antlers viking-style to the sides or Mohican hair-strips to the top. Fruiterers import vast quantities of the bulbous, tapered seedy-fleshed goodness capsules ahead of each home game, and up the numbers significantly when the game is a big one (like the recent Grey Cup final, which the Roughtriders lost, for the second year in a row, to the dirty pseudo-Frenchies from Montreal).
The only other things we know about Saskatchewan are that "Prairie girls are wild," and that they refer to gin as "Panty-remover." Both these things we learned from my cousin. At our wedding.
* = We heart scientists!
** = Coexisting happily with the fast-food-and-TV-engendered one we already knew about
*** = Crush the filthy OU Ducks!
Saturday, December 11, 2010
Dog Mountain
Short Version:
Music, snow, movies, popcorn.
Long Version:
The charity single "2 Minutes of Silence" has cracked Britain's Top20 chart. Given the tripe that constitutes the UK's so-called "music" scene post-1984, it's not really surprising - it's almost certainly far more listenable than anything else out there.
We found some silence of our own, pausing en route from one mountain to another across a snowy hillside. A sunny Saturday was drawing to a close, and we'd driven up Mount Seymour to the Sno-Park, where we'd lucked into a parking space right at the top end of the top parking lot. From there we wandered in past the user-pays lift-enabled trail system to the back-country snowshoe trails, strapped on our borrowed snowshoes (Janine had to help me do mine up) and set off, following the channel which had been pressed into the deep powder by other ambulators.
Walking in snowshoes is an art, and we were kind of at the crayon scribble stage to start with: I fell all the way over a couple of times and even Nene had snow caking the back of her legs where the tails of her snowshoes had flicked it up. The longer we walked the better we got, though, and by the time we'd powered past First Lake and out onto the high spur that is Dog Mountain we were getting pretty good; sliding down chutes in a more-or-less controlled manner and hiking up steep grades without slipping backwards. Much. We even had a crack at running. The snow-covered trees were spectacular in the last, golden sunlight, and we had fantastic views from Dog Mountain: West out over Horseshoe Bay, the Strait, and the Island; East towards seemingly endless chains of snow-covered mountains and towering peaks; and South past Vancouver into Amerika, where glimpses of Cascades volcanoes reminded us of Mounts Hood, and St Helens, and of all of the Black Buttes.
Then we went home and ate delicious foods before hitting the town, to the Banff Mountain Film Festival World Tour, which was playing at North Vancouver's Centennial Theatre. We'd caught the festival on its Auckland stop a few years back and thoroughly enjoyed it; this time around the films were less impressive, and the highlight was - somewhat surprisingly - a half-hour semi-doco about fly-fishing in Russia's remote Kamchatka region. All eight of the films that played had some great bits, but most - and particularly the foreshortened festival edits - lacked flow. Suspicion is that they'd been butchered in the edit suite. Still, watching people climb up then snowboard down sheer snow walls hundreds of metres high was pretty impressive, as were some of the rapids and waterfalls negotiated by the kayakers. Unfortunately, the mountain-biking film suffered more than most at the hands of the brevity-mandated editors, and we were left feeling more like we'd just seen some wonderful cinematography rather than an awesome mountain-biking flick. Parks Canada had an informational stand, though, and they gave us some microwave popcorn which we cooked and ate when we got home, which was kind of neat, and very definitely not something we could have done in the Reaper!
Music, snow, movies, popcorn.
Long Version:
The charity single "2 Minutes of Silence" has cracked Britain's Top20 chart. Given the tripe that constitutes the UK's so-called "music" scene post-1984, it's not really surprising - it's almost certainly far more listenable than anything else out there.
We found some silence of our own, pausing en route from one mountain to another across a snowy hillside. A sunny Saturday was drawing to a close, and we'd driven up Mount Seymour to the Sno-Park, where we'd lucked into a parking space right at the top end of the top parking lot. From there we wandered in past the user-pays lift-enabled trail system to the back-country snowshoe trails, strapped on our borrowed snowshoes (Janine had to help me do mine up) and set off, following the channel which had been pressed into the deep powder by other ambulators.
Walking in snowshoes is an art, and we were kind of at the crayon scribble stage to start with: I fell all the way over a couple of times and even Nene had snow caking the back of her legs where the tails of her snowshoes had flicked it up. The longer we walked the better we got, though, and by the time we'd powered past First Lake and out onto the high spur that is Dog Mountain we were getting pretty good; sliding down chutes in a more-or-less controlled manner and hiking up steep grades without slipping backwards. Much. We even had a crack at running. The snow-covered trees were spectacular in the last, golden sunlight, and we had fantastic views from Dog Mountain: West out over Horseshoe Bay, the Strait, and the Island; East towards seemingly endless chains of snow-covered mountains and towering peaks; and South past Vancouver into Amerika, where glimpses of Cascades volcanoes reminded us of Mounts Hood, and St Helens, and of all of the Black Buttes.
Then we went home and ate delicious foods before hitting the town, to the Banff Mountain Film Festival World Tour, which was playing at North Vancouver's Centennial Theatre. We'd caught the festival on its Auckland stop a few years back and thoroughly enjoyed it; this time around the films were less impressive, and the highlight was - somewhat surprisingly - a half-hour semi-doco about fly-fishing in Russia's remote Kamchatka region. All eight of the films that played had some great bits, but most - and particularly the foreshortened festival edits - lacked flow. Suspicion is that they'd been butchered in the edit suite. Still, watching people climb up then snowboard down sheer snow walls hundreds of metres high was pretty impressive, as were some of the rapids and waterfalls negotiated by the kayakers. Unfortunately, the mountain-biking film suffered more than most at the hands of the brevity-mandated editors, and we were left feeling more like we'd just seen some wonderful cinematography rather than an awesome mountain-biking flick. Parks Canada had an informational stand, though, and they gave us some microwave popcorn which we cooked and ate when we got home, which was kind of neat, and very definitely not something we could have done in the Reaper!
Wives!
Short Version:
Toes. Wives.
Long Version:
While we've been wandering through ramshackle ex-factories perusing artists' studios, buttering up little old ladies at craft fairs, and spending hour after hour exploring the forested foothills of the North Vancouver mountains with the increasingly disobedient pooches, Canada's been popping up in the NZ news, and for some slightly odd reasons:
- Sour Toe Cocktails.
A glass of whisky, into which a severed human toe is plopped. You pays your money, you drinks your whisky - ensuring that the wrinkled, brownish toe touches your lips - and you is a member of the club. Nice one!
- Polygamy.
Canada, and particularly British Columbia, are investigating whether the ban on polygamous relationships contravenes the Canadian Charter of Rights and Freedoms, which is the equivalent of the Amerikan Constitution, only without the hype. In short, they're questioning whether polygamy should be allowed, and the scaremongers are already ranting about the inevitable influx of fringe religious groups should the 120-year-old prohibition be overturned. Having spent a bunch of time in Utah, and drunk a lot of Wasatch Breweries' Polygamy Porter (You can't have just one!"), this one piqued our interest.
The definitions of what constitutes an illicit multiple-partner relationship which have emanated from various lawyers and law-makers since the hearings began have been confused, confusing, and contradictory, and the issue which we initially thought was so laughable has proved to have some depth to it: leaving aside personal prejudice against extremist Mormons and other religious personages, why is polygamy so frowned-upon? In this day and age, where Civil Unions between homo couples is deemed perfectly acceptable, why is it considered reasonable to limit the number of participants in that union to two? Or does the prohibition apply only to hetero couples, and then only when the gender mix is one-to-many man-to-women? Are provisos around underage brides sufficient, or is a brainwashed wife an inappropriate wife regardless of her age?
Far as I'm concerned, if you need more than one wife, you married the wrong woman.
Toes. Wives.
Long Version:
While we've been wandering through ramshackle ex-factories perusing artists' studios, buttering up little old ladies at craft fairs, and spending hour after hour exploring the forested foothills of the North Vancouver mountains with the increasingly disobedient pooches, Canada's been popping up in the NZ news, and for some slightly odd reasons:
- Sour Toe Cocktails.
A glass of whisky, into which a severed human toe is plopped. You pays your money, you drinks your whisky - ensuring that the wrinkled, brownish toe touches your lips - and you is a member of the club. Nice one!
- Polygamy.
Canada, and particularly British Columbia, are investigating whether the ban on polygamous relationships contravenes the Canadian Charter of Rights and Freedoms, which is the equivalent of the Amerikan Constitution, only without the hype. In short, they're questioning whether polygamy should be allowed, and the scaremongers are already ranting about the inevitable influx of fringe religious groups should the 120-year-old prohibition be overturned. Having spent a bunch of time in Utah, and drunk a lot of Wasatch Breweries' Polygamy Porter (You can't have just one!"), this one piqued our interest.
The definitions of what constitutes an illicit multiple-partner relationship which have emanated from various lawyers and law-makers since the hearings began have been confused, confusing, and contradictory, and the issue which we initially thought was so laughable has proved to have some depth to it: leaving aside personal prejudice against extremist Mormons and other religious personages, why is polygamy so frowned-upon? In this day and age, where Civil Unions between homo couples is deemed perfectly acceptable, why is it considered reasonable to limit the number of participants in that union to two? Or does the prohibition apply only to hetero couples, and then only when the gender mix is one-to-many man-to-women? Are provisos around underage brides sufficient, or is a brainwashed wife an inappropriate wife regardless of her age?
Far as I'm concerned, if you need more than one wife, you married the wrong woman.
Tuesday, December 7, 2010
Enviropig, SuperSalmon, Bionic Woman
Short Version:
Genetically-modified pork products are headed your way! Backhanders for healthcare professionals. A bad pun.
Long Version:
Neither the AquaBounty AquAdvantage salmon, which grows twice as fast as its unmodified counterparts, nor the Guelph Enviropig, which thanks to the E. Coli bacteria (famous for living in swimming pools) has a vastly more efficient digestive system (ie poops and farts less) than its ancestors have been approved for commercial release in Canadian markets - no genetically modified animal has, yet. But there are indications that it's probably not far off, and the race is on to see which of these transgenic critters will be the first to gain approval from Amerika's Food and Drug Administration, which is not only the key to the blockbusting US market, but also to the lesser but more red-taped Canadian environment; the markets are so tightly-integrated that an approval from the (multitudinous) Canadian authorities would essentially mean the Amerikans following suit, turning a blind eye, or banning Canadian piggy/salmonish products entirely. The first two aren't going to happen, and the third would be disastrous for Canada's economy, so that's out too, which leaves Amerika going first.
Apparently the Amerikan FDA approvals processes for both species are halfway complete, which is stark contrast - maybe - to how things stand north of the border, where the Canadian government decided to go around the difficulties involved with regulating the burgeoning new industry by shoe-horning transgenic animals into the existing regulatory systems as a new type of veterinary medicine. Both critters have received conditional approval from one of the three Canadian regulatory bodies involved in the certification process, but neither of their backers have heard anything from the other two.
Still, it sounds very much like both these critters are likely to be signed off as fit for Amerikan (and subsequently, no doubt, for Canadian, and therefore probably NZ - did I mention that Canada's where NZ gets most of its imported pork products?) consumption in the relatively near future, which should enrage some people so much that they join a facebook group in protest.
Speaking of protests, when we were in Amerika much was being made of the near-universal antipathy towards ObamaCare, the much maligned universal medical insurance scheme introduced by the Nobel Peace Prize-winning 44th President of Amerika. (Theoretically, his Peace Prize was awarded on the strength of "...his extraordinary efforts to strengthen international diplomacy and cooperation between peoples." Arse; bunch thereof.) Giving credit where it's due, though; in tackling Amerika's healthcare industry he certainly wasn't shying away from the big jobs - it's a bloody mess.
In contrast, Canadians have long held dear the belief that their public health system is a wonderful thing; that it provides an umbrella of care for all Canadians, no matter how full their pocketbooks. Recently, evidence has come to light to suggest that this may not necessarily be true, at least not all of the time in all parts of this sprawling country. Admittedly, most of the stories of medico-fiscal malfeasance which have been trumpeted about the place of late involve Quebec, which is that crappy bit in the middle of Canada where they wish they were French, and which has long been renowned as a hotbed of corruption at all levels of the public sector, so it may well be that the one (very) bad apple province is tainting the reputations of all the others. Still, any time you have people stating outright and on the record that the going rate to have your doctor bother to turn up for the birth of your child is somewhere between two- and ten-thousand dollars, you know your medical system has a problem. Similarly, the tales of envelopes stuffed with large-denomination bills being stuffed under pillows for the anaesthetist to find are mildly horrific. Especially when your step-mother's just had a knee replaced, and has spent several days post-op throwing up near-constantly after receiving some bizarre anaesthetic concoction that contra-indicates her prominently-displayed allergy status.
Fat envelope under the pillow? No.
Several days of narcotized misery? Yes.
Coincidence? Probably.
Still, the new knee seems to be at least as good as the old one, and that's even before the surgical slice and dice has had a chance to heal up. Friends are already planning a knees-up to celebrate.
Genetically-modified pork products are headed your way! Backhanders for healthcare professionals. A bad pun.
Long Version:
Neither the AquaBounty AquAdvantage salmon, which grows twice as fast as its unmodified counterparts, nor the Guelph Enviropig, which thanks to the E. Coli bacteria (famous for living in swimming pools) has a vastly more efficient digestive system (ie poops and farts less) than its ancestors have been approved for commercial release in Canadian markets - no genetically modified animal has, yet. But there are indications that it's probably not far off, and the race is on to see which of these transgenic critters will be the first to gain approval from Amerika's Food and Drug Administration, which is not only the key to the blockbusting US market, but also to the lesser but more red-taped Canadian environment; the markets are so tightly-integrated that an approval from the (multitudinous) Canadian authorities would essentially mean the Amerikans following suit, turning a blind eye, or banning Canadian piggy/salmonish products entirely. The first two aren't going to happen, and the third would be disastrous for Canada's economy, so that's out too, which leaves Amerika going first.
Apparently the Amerikan FDA approvals processes for both species are halfway complete, which is stark contrast - maybe - to how things stand north of the border, where the Canadian government decided to go around the difficulties involved with regulating the burgeoning new industry by shoe-horning transgenic animals into the existing regulatory systems as a new type of veterinary medicine. Both critters have received conditional approval from one of the three Canadian regulatory bodies involved in the certification process, but neither of their backers have heard anything from the other two.
Still, it sounds very much like both these critters are likely to be signed off as fit for Amerikan (and subsequently, no doubt, for Canadian, and therefore probably NZ - did I mention that Canada's where NZ gets most of its imported pork products?) consumption in the relatively near future, which should enrage some people so much that they join a facebook group in protest.
Speaking of protests, when we were in Amerika much was being made of the near-universal antipathy towards ObamaCare, the much maligned universal medical insurance scheme introduced by the Nobel Peace Prize-winning 44th President of Amerika. (Theoretically, his Peace Prize was awarded on the strength of "...his extraordinary efforts to strengthen international diplomacy and cooperation between peoples." Arse; bunch thereof.) Giving credit where it's due, though; in tackling Amerika's healthcare industry he certainly wasn't shying away from the big jobs - it's a bloody mess.
In contrast, Canadians have long held dear the belief that their public health system is a wonderful thing; that it provides an umbrella of care for all Canadians, no matter how full their pocketbooks. Recently, evidence has come to light to suggest that this may not necessarily be true, at least not all of the time in all parts of this sprawling country. Admittedly, most of the stories of medico-fiscal malfeasance which have been trumpeted about the place of late involve Quebec, which is that crappy bit in the middle of Canada where they wish they were French, and which has long been renowned as a hotbed of corruption at all levels of the public sector, so it may well be that the one (very) bad apple province is tainting the reputations of all the others. Still, any time you have people stating outright and on the record that the going rate to have your doctor bother to turn up for the birth of your child is somewhere between two- and ten-thousand dollars, you know your medical system has a problem. Similarly, the tales of envelopes stuffed with large-denomination bills being stuffed under pillows for the anaesthetist to find are mildly horrific. Especially when your step-mother's just had a knee replaced, and has spent several days post-op throwing up near-constantly after receiving some bizarre anaesthetic concoction that contra-indicates her prominently-displayed allergy status.
Fat envelope under the pillow? No.
Several days of narcotized misery? Yes.
Coincidence? Probably.
Still, the new knee seems to be at least as good as the old one, and that's even before the surgical slice and dice has had a chance to heal up. Friends are already planning a knees-up to celebrate.
Monday, December 6, 2010
The War of the (Bloody Big, Bloody Scary) Bears
Short Version:
Chores are very tiring.
Long Version:
As the world warms, the sea-ice upon which polar bears live will disappear. The bears will be forced to adapt in two main ways: First, they'll need to migrate to areas where there's more actual land instead of spending the majority of their time wandering about on the frozen seas, because less of the sea will be frozen; Second, they're going to have to adapt their diet, as there are far fewer seals swimming about on land than there are under the sea-ice. This means a probable shift to a plant-heavy omnivorousness, as there are few remaining land mammals available as prey which are large enough to satisfy the nutritional requirements of a predator of that size operating as a carnivore. This, scientists say, means war, against their bigger, browner cousins...
Grizzly v Polar.
At stake: undisputed enormous omnivore supremacy, and, perhaps, survival of the species.
Scientists say they've figured out the result already, based on skull and jaw strength: put your money on the grizzly ones.
Having said that, there is another way: Making Love, Not War. Apparently crossover bears were a favorite selective breeding programme of the Germans a hundred-or-so years ago, and recently there have been numerous sightings of what are thought to be bears born of polar/grizzly lovestorms wandering in the wild. Jury's still out on whether that should be exciting and cause for renewed faith in nature's ability to overcome the human obstacle, or whether we should all just go back to bed and pull the covers over our heads and wait for the world's scariest hybrid to come get us.
I wanted to write: "The bears are all asleep at the moment, of course; slumbering their way towards spring," but that would be untrue: bears don't hibernate. Their winter state, wherein body temperature drops around six degrees and metabolic rate is significantly lower than usual but they remain relatively easily roused, is called winter lethargy. Even so, we haven't seen hide nor hair of any kind of bear since we left Corvallis, where we saw the hairy hide of a small black bear draped over the arm of a couch. This means we've both restarted listening to music while running in the woods - we'd stopped doing so while there were critters bigger and grumpier than us meandering about seeking delicious foods. We've been doing a lot of trail-running, as we a) can't face the prospect of sitting on our bikes at the moment and b) have pulled all the ruined and/or worn-out components - which is pretty much all of them - off the bikes in order to reduce baggage weight on our impending trans-Pacific journey, back to NZ, where sunshine and warm seas await. And, of course, we've both been eating and drinking too much, so inactivity is not an option.
In between running in the woods (an activity which now includes not only cantering in an ungainly manner across icy boardwalks, but also falling face-first onto said icy boardwalks and sliding off their edges into half-frozen swampy mud puddles) we've been busy since we returned to Vancouver:
- Yoga. Thirty dollars gets you two weeks of unlimited classes. Nene's been at least once a day, sometimes more. I was banned for bad behaviour.
- Cooking. We have stove! No-one else has been allowed in the kitchen as Nene rediscovers the joys of cooking on something other than a single-burner propane-powered camping stove
- Movies. Nene's watched many, many films. Documentaries, boy-wizard adventures, historical romances... you name it, she's wallowed in it.
- Cleaning. Thanks to Nene, the Reaper is clean (and for sale). Our clothes are clean. Pots and pans and plates and cups are clean, tent and sleeping stuff is clean, everything that can be cleaned has been.
For those of you who've failed to pick up on the common theme, Nene's the one who's been busy. She's done pretty much all of the chores, apart from driving the Reaper to a carwash and sitting in it, reading, while the nozzles sprayed various liquids against the outside of the van, and the brushes whirled and the jets blasted air. Man, that was tiring! I needed a cup of tea and a lie-down when I got home, but settled for a beer on the couch in front of a sports channel playing on the wall-sized television.
Chores are very tiring.
Long Version:
As the world warms, the sea-ice upon which polar bears live will disappear. The bears will be forced to adapt in two main ways: First, they'll need to migrate to areas where there's more actual land instead of spending the majority of their time wandering about on the frozen seas, because less of the sea will be frozen; Second, they're going to have to adapt their diet, as there are far fewer seals swimming about on land than there are under the sea-ice. This means a probable shift to a plant-heavy omnivorousness, as there are few remaining land mammals available as prey which are large enough to satisfy the nutritional requirements of a predator of that size operating as a carnivore. This, scientists say, means war, against their bigger, browner cousins...
Grizzly v Polar.
At stake: undisputed enormous omnivore supremacy, and, perhaps, survival of the species.
Scientists say they've figured out the result already, based on skull and jaw strength: put your money on the grizzly ones.
Having said that, there is another way: Making Love, Not War. Apparently crossover bears were a favorite selective breeding programme of the Germans a hundred-or-so years ago, and recently there have been numerous sightings of what are thought to be bears born of polar/grizzly lovestorms wandering in the wild. Jury's still out on whether that should be exciting and cause for renewed faith in nature's ability to overcome the human obstacle, or whether we should all just go back to bed and pull the covers over our heads and wait for the world's scariest hybrid to come get us.
I wanted to write: "The bears are all asleep at the moment, of course; slumbering their way towards spring," but that would be untrue: bears don't hibernate. Their winter state, wherein body temperature drops around six degrees and metabolic rate is significantly lower than usual but they remain relatively easily roused, is called winter lethargy. Even so, we haven't seen hide nor hair of any kind of bear since we left Corvallis, where we saw the hairy hide of a small black bear draped over the arm of a couch. This means we've both restarted listening to music while running in the woods - we'd stopped doing so while there were critters bigger and grumpier than us meandering about seeking delicious foods. We've been doing a lot of trail-running, as we a) can't face the prospect of sitting on our bikes at the moment and b) have pulled all the ruined and/or worn-out components - which is pretty much all of them - off the bikes in order to reduce baggage weight on our impending trans-Pacific journey, back to NZ, where sunshine and warm seas await. And, of course, we've both been eating and drinking too much, so inactivity is not an option.
In between running in the woods (an activity which now includes not only cantering in an ungainly manner across icy boardwalks, but also falling face-first onto said icy boardwalks and sliding off their edges into half-frozen swampy mud puddles) we've been busy since we returned to Vancouver:
- Yoga. Thirty dollars gets you two weeks of unlimited classes. Nene's been at least once a day, sometimes more. I was banned for bad behaviour.
- Cooking. We have stove! No-one else has been allowed in the kitchen as Nene rediscovers the joys of cooking on something other than a single-burner propane-powered camping stove
- Movies. Nene's watched many, many films. Documentaries, boy-wizard adventures, historical romances... you name it, she's wallowed in it.
- Cleaning. Thanks to Nene, the Reaper is clean (and for sale). Our clothes are clean. Pots and pans and plates and cups are clean, tent and sleeping stuff is clean, everything that can be cleaned has been.
For those of you who've failed to pick up on the common theme, Nene's the one who's been busy. She's done pretty much all of the chores, apart from driving the Reaper to a carwash and sitting in it, reading, while the nozzles sprayed various liquids against the outside of the van, and the brushes whirled and the jets blasted air. Man, that was tiring! I needed a cup of tea and a lie-down when I got home, but settled for a beer on the couch in front of a sports channel playing on the wall-sized television.
Goodbye Amerika!
Short Version:
We head for the border via the booze/cheese/gasoline store, acquire a little person, and make someone cry.
Long Version:
Our final morning in Amerika dawned... actually, we have no idea how it dawned.
We arose reluctantly and eventually, bleary-eyed and thick-tongued and full-bladdered. Between the beautiful shining espresso machine and Wendy's fresh-baked scones it wasn't long before we were feeling good again, though, and we hit the road north excited to be travelling, and looking forward to seeing the Candians again, but also somewhat sad that we had to go, and determined to return to hang out with Scott and Wendy again, and to take in some of Seattle's trails, on a day with less standing snow and leftover rain.
Wendy had pointed us at a super-cool store in Mount Vernon, halfway to the border, and we stocked up on booze and cheese and gasoline before plowing onwards and upwards. We joined a queue of vehicles at the border, and hadn't been sitting long when a young Border Police officer approached the driver's side window and started asking me questions about where we were from, where we'd been, what our plans were, what did we have in the van... His ginger moustache made it difficult to take him seriously, but we were doing pretty well, right up until the point where his patrol partner, who had sneaked (or possibly walked normally, peering into each of the Reaper's rear windows) around to the van's far side, knocked on the window next to Janine's head. The surprised leap she performed was one of which Yelena Isinbayeva would have been proud, and the next round of questioning saw us somewhat less composed than we had been beforehand. They eventually had us drive on up to the booth, where the bloke asked many of the same questions, using the same sneaky-trick, "Let's see if we can get these potential scoundrels to contradict themselves" style employed by his mobile colleagues.
And then we were free to go, onwards into Canada, where I immediately exceuted a chewing-gum fail, biting my tongue hard enough to draw a significant and unstemmable flow of blood, only a little of which ended up in my beard. It had stopped by the time we reached the ferry terminal at Tsawassen, and cleaned up reasonably well, although I still garnered more than a few strange looks as I stood, shabby and unkempt, in the Arrivals waiting area. Maybe it was the fact that I was staring intently at all the really short people; I was trying to spot which of the heavily-bundled midgets was my smallest sister, but given how disreputable I now look I probably looked like I was sizing children up for bed and/or oven.
Smallest sister acquired, we carried on driving, under a river and up into the hills, to North Vancouver, where we hid the Reaper and arrived at the family doorstep clutching booze galore and gifts aplenty for smallest sister's big sister on her birthday. She cried when she saw us, because of happy surprisedness, and then we all ate delicious foods and drank some drinks and left the dirty washing in the Reaper overnight, because a task that monumental is not one to be attempted late in the day, and especially not when there are illicit imported alcholic beverages to be consumed, and for such a good cause!
We head for the border via the booze/cheese/gasoline store, acquire a little person, and make someone cry.
Long Version:
Our final morning in Amerika dawned... actually, we have no idea how it dawned.
We arose reluctantly and eventually, bleary-eyed and thick-tongued and full-bladdered. Between the beautiful shining espresso machine and Wendy's fresh-baked scones it wasn't long before we were feeling good again, though, and we hit the road north excited to be travelling, and looking forward to seeing the Candians again, but also somewhat sad that we had to go, and determined to return to hang out with Scott and Wendy again, and to take in some of Seattle's trails, on a day with less standing snow and leftover rain.
Wendy had pointed us at a super-cool store in Mount Vernon, halfway to the border, and we stocked up on booze and cheese and gasoline before plowing onwards and upwards. We joined a queue of vehicles at the border, and hadn't been sitting long when a young Border Police officer approached the driver's side window and started asking me questions about where we were from, where we'd been, what our plans were, what did we have in the van... His ginger moustache made it difficult to take him seriously, but we were doing pretty well, right up until the point where his patrol partner, who had sneaked (or possibly walked normally, peering into each of the Reaper's rear windows) around to the van's far side, knocked on the window next to Janine's head. The surprised leap she performed was one of which Yelena Isinbayeva would have been proud, and the next round of questioning saw us somewhat less composed than we had been beforehand. They eventually had us drive on up to the booth, where the bloke asked many of the same questions, using the same sneaky-trick, "Let's see if we can get these potential scoundrels to contradict themselves" style employed by his mobile colleagues.
And then we were free to go, onwards into Canada, where I immediately exceuted a chewing-gum fail, biting my tongue hard enough to draw a significant and unstemmable flow of blood, only a little of which ended up in my beard. It had stopped by the time we reached the ferry terminal at Tsawassen, and cleaned up reasonably well, although I still garnered more than a few strange looks as I stood, shabby and unkempt, in the Arrivals waiting area. Maybe it was the fact that I was staring intently at all the really short people; I was trying to spot which of the heavily-bundled midgets was my smallest sister, but given how disreputable I now look I probably looked like I was sizing children up for bed and/or oven.
Smallest sister acquired, we carried on driving, under a river and up into the hills, to North Vancouver, where we hid the Reaper and arrived at the family doorstep clutching booze galore and gifts aplenty for smallest sister's big sister on her birthday. She cried when she saw us, because of happy surprisedness, and then we all ate delicious foods and drank some drinks and left the dirty washing in the Reaper overnight, because a task that monumental is not one to be attempted late in the day, and especially not when there are illicit imported alcholic beverages to be consumed, and for such a good cause!
Figgy Pudding
Short Version:
Waffle fail, Black Friday. Angry cripple, fridge excellence. It's a small world.
Long Version:
We started the day with a telling-off from the hotel manager. Apparently the sign affixed to the waffle-maker that read: "Pour mixture in, close lid, turn handles" meant that after pouring the mixture in and closing the lid one should grasp the two handles and rotate the entire device. I'd been busily unscrewing the plastic handles while the "This muppet hasn't flipped me!" alarm blared out, grating and harsh in the early morning stillness.
Black Friday's a strange one: Thanksgiving Day is a public holiday. It falls each year on the last Thursday in November. Many businesses don't open on the Friday either*, turning Thanksgiving weekend into a 4-day break. Kind of makes sense when half your populace is travelling long distance to be with family. Most of the thrift stores in Corvallis were open, though, as was brewpub Block15, which is the home of delicious Figgy Pudding seasonal beery deliciousness. Both things suited us just fine but did mean that it was evening by the time we reached northern Seattle.
We stopped at the local shopping centre for delicious foods and wine, and witnessed a wizened little old crippled lady taking to task a robust chap who'd sinned cardinally by parking his enormous pickup truck in the disabled parking spaces (both of them). We joined in the righteous indignant condemnation of the able-bodied park-snatcher ("How dare he? Shame on him!"), and then high-tailed it out of there, to the not-quite-as-badly-parked Reaper and then on to Scott and Wendy's house, where we found the two of them and daughter Fiona decorating a bloody big Xmas tree, with "assistance" from Lulu the dog and the two cats.
Scott has edited their downstairs fridge, and it is now such a beautiful marriage of form and function that it beggars description. The key change is the hole in the door, sealed by rubber flanges, to which a hose has been run, on the inside. On the outside of the door, a tap. Inside the fridge, at the far end of the hose and connected to a gas cylinder for propulsion: a keg of delicious, nutritious Deschutes Brewery's Jubel Ale (a seasonal release from the people who bring you Black Butte Porter).
To recap: the fridge has a keg of beer in it, hardwired to a tap on the door.
It's like those refigerators with an inbuilt iced-water/ice dispenser built into the door, only much, much betterer.
Between that miracle of modern engineering and the bottle that came out once we admitted a liking for usquebaugh, we were a little the worse for wear by the time we hit the sack after an evening of conversing about everything under the sun, and some things which aren't. Mighty interesting to hear an alternate perspective on Amerikan politics, although one can't help wondering whether referring to Sarah Palin's political prominence as a proof-positive of the Mayan calendar's determination that the world will end in 2012 might be taking things a step too far. Speaking of that so-called lady, it turns out that our Seattle and Sedona connections were already connected, through mountain-biking, trail-building, and the magic of tequila. Small, small world!
* = Although it sounds like more and more stores are buying into the concept of Black Friday Sales and opening their doors. The name Black Friday actually comes from the belief - probably apocryphal - that it's the day of the year when retailers move to profitability for the year. Whether that's a result of having most of a year's trading under their belts, or whether it originated as a throwaway remark from a retailer enjoying a frenzied sale attendance, it's certainly now the equivalent of the Boxing Day Sales in NZ**
** = ie Avoid at all costs
Waffle fail, Black Friday. Angry cripple, fridge excellence. It's a small world.
Long Version:
We started the day with a telling-off from the hotel manager. Apparently the sign affixed to the waffle-maker that read: "Pour mixture in, close lid, turn handles" meant that after pouring the mixture in and closing the lid one should grasp the two handles and rotate the entire device. I'd been busily unscrewing the plastic handles while the "This muppet hasn't flipped me!" alarm blared out, grating and harsh in the early morning stillness.
Black Friday's a strange one: Thanksgiving Day is a public holiday. It falls each year on the last Thursday in November. Many businesses don't open on the Friday either*, turning Thanksgiving weekend into a 4-day break. Kind of makes sense when half your populace is travelling long distance to be with family. Most of the thrift stores in Corvallis were open, though, as was brewpub Block15, which is the home of delicious Figgy Pudding seasonal beery deliciousness. Both things suited us just fine but did mean that it was evening by the time we reached northern Seattle.
We stopped at the local shopping centre for delicious foods and wine, and witnessed a wizened little old crippled lady taking to task a robust chap who'd sinned cardinally by parking his enormous pickup truck in the disabled parking spaces (both of them). We joined in the righteous indignant condemnation of the able-bodied park-snatcher ("How dare he? Shame on him!"), and then high-tailed it out of there, to the not-quite-as-badly-parked Reaper and then on to Scott and Wendy's house, where we found the two of them and daughter Fiona decorating a bloody big Xmas tree, with "assistance" from Lulu the dog and the two cats.
Scott has edited their downstairs fridge, and it is now such a beautiful marriage of form and function that it beggars description. The key change is the hole in the door, sealed by rubber flanges, to which a hose has been run, on the inside. On the outside of the door, a tap. Inside the fridge, at the far end of the hose and connected to a gas cylinder for propulsion: a keg of delicious, nutritious Deschutes Brewery's Jubel Ale (a seasonal release from the people who bring you Black Butte Porter).
To recap: the fridge has a keg of beer in it, hardwired to a tap on the door.
It's like those refigerators with an inbuilt iced-water/ice dispenser built into the door, only much, much betterer.
Between that miracle of modern engineering and the bottle that came out once we admitted a liking for usquebaugh, we were a little the worse for wear by the time we hit the sack after an evening of conversing about everything under the sun, and some things which aren't. Mighty interesting to hear an alternate perspective on Amerikan politics, although one can't help wondering whether referring to Sarah Palin's political prominence as a proof-positive of the Mayan calendar's determination that the world will end in 2012 might be taking things a step too far. Speaking of that so-called lady, it turns out that our Seattle and Sedona connections were already connected, through mountain-biking, trail-building, and the magic of tequila. Small, small world!
* = Although it sounds like more and more stores are buying into the concept of Black Friday Sales and opening their doors. The name Black Friday actually comes from the belief - probably apocryphal - that it's the day of the year when retailers move to profitability for the year. Whether that's a result of having most of a year's trading under their belts, or whether it originated as a throwaway remark from a retailer enjoying a frenzied sale attendance, it's certainly now the equivalent of the Boxing Day Sales in NZ**
** = ie Avoid at all costs
New Nubbins
Short Version:
Thanksgiving in Amerika is about gathering together with family and friends and eating far too much. Kind of like Xmas in NZ, only without the crass commercialism and the religious nonsense.
Long Version:
We arrived back at the house on Canterbury Circle to find it filling rapidly - eventually to the brim - with people who, for one reason or another, were not with their families; a few literal orphans, and a lot of East Coast folks, for whom the tyranny of Amerikan distance had proved visit-prohibitive. Several of them, at various points in the evening, described moving West as the best thing they've ever done, with one saying she felt like she hadn't realised what it was like to breathe properly until she moved to Oregon.
The Nest of pillows and blankets on the living-room floor worked a treat in the absence of and in preference to a more formal table setting, and the feeling of familial friendliness that permeated the gathering was wonderful. We met a bunch of new faces, and by the end of the evening felt like we'd known them all for a lot longer than just a few hours. Unsurprisingly, week-old Corbin stole the show when he put in his appearance, although the description of beer-cheese soup (and the promise of a recipe) was up there as well. The deliciousness of the delicious foods was pretty extreme, from cranberry/wasabi cream cheese dip, to roast tofurkey with cranberries, to pumpkin pies, and and and and and and we all ate far too much, especially Nubbins*, who ended up lying on the floor rubbing her belly and groaning. There were conversations about bioluminescence in Puerto Rico and on Waiheke, medical and other writings, and the joys and perils of being a counsellor for drug-addled teens at a remote backwoods treatment facility.
Then, all-too-soon, it was time for us to leave. Farewells were said, threats (to and from me) and promises (to and from Nene) of visits in the future were made, hugs were given and received. The Reaper seemed extra-cold on the way to the motel.
* = A complaint about an inappropriate nickname led to a raft of suggestions for new ones. Nubbins** was the clear standout.
** = All together now; (E) A nubbin, a nubbin, a nubbin, a nubbin, (A7) A nubbin, a nubbin, a nubbin, a nubbin! (REPEAT)
Thanksgiving in Amerika is about gathering together with family and friends and eating far too much. Kind of like Xmas in NZ, only without the crass commercialism and the religious nonsense.
Long Version:
We arrived back at the house on Canterbury Circle to find it filling rapidly - eventually to the brim - with people who, for one reason or another, were not with their families; a few literal orphans, and a lot of East Coast folks, for whom the tyranny of Amerikan distance had proved visit-prohibitive. Several of them, at various points in the evening, described moving West as the best thing they've ever done, with one saying she felt like she hadn't realised what it was like to breathe properly until she moved to Oregon.
The Nest of pillows and blankets on the living-room floor worked a treat in the absence of and in preference to a more formal table setting, and the feeling of familial friendliness that permeated the gathering was wonderful. We met a bunch of new faces, and by the end of the evening felt like we'd known them all for a lot longer than just a few hours. Unsurprisingly, week-old Corbin stole the show when he put in his appearance, although the description of beer-cheese soup (and the promise of a recipe) was up there as well. The deliciousness of the delicious foods was pretty extreme, from cranberry/wasabi cream cheese dip, to roast tofurkey with cranberries, to pumpkin pies, and and and and and and we all ate far too much, especially Nubbins*, who ended up lying on the floor rubbing her belly and groaning. There were conversations about bioluminescence in Puerto Rico and on Waiheke, medical and other writings, and the joys and perils of being a counsellor for drug-addled teens at a remote backwoods treatment facility.
Then, all-too-soon, it was time for us to leave. Farewells were said, threats (to and from me) and promises (to and from Nene) of visits in the future were made, hugs were given and received. The Reaper seemed extra-cold on the way to the motel.
* = A complaint about an inappropriate nickname led to a raft of suggestions for new ones. Nubbins** was the clear standout.
** = All together now; (E) A nubbin, a nubbin, a nubbin, a nubbin, (A7) A nubbin, a nubbin, a nubbin, a nubbin! (REPEAT)
"I'm SO Into Neuter Clinics!"
Short Version:
We give thanks for things, including snow, bikes, and beer.
Long Version:
Thanksgiving Day in Amerika is huge. We'd not realised quite what a big deal it was, and had some confused and confusing notion of what it was about which involved people dressing up as Pilgrims and giving each other turkeys to say "Thanks" for royally screwing the Indians.
Apparently we weren't entirely correct, and Thanksgiving in Amerika is more about gathering together with friends and family to stuff yourself far too full of delicious foods for comfort. Hence the huge numbers of vehicles caught on Amerika's highways and byways without chains or snow tyres when the weather got cold fast earlier in the week. They'd be facing official sanctions, ticketing, and potential vehicle impoundment if they were that irresponsible in Canada, where iciness is taken much more seriously. Need proof? Canadian Prime Minister Stephen Harper recently visited Quebec City, home to 750,000-or-so people. Admittedly it's in Quebec, which makes those 750,000 people pseudo-French, but even so the PM's decision to snub meeting the mayor of this, the capital of Quebec and the province's second-largest metropolitan area, so that he could spend more time with a giant snowman is pretty awesome.
Not as awesome as riding* a titanium single-speed bicycle up the side of a snow-covered mountain, drinking beer at the top, and then riding** back down again, in company of Corvallis Carl and a bunch of folks from nearby Salem***. That was a pretty excellent way to spend Thanksgiving morning. Next time I'll take a flask of something stronger to the top, and sip small sips whilst looking out over the awesome views of the Corvallis area, floating dreamily beneath banks of fog lit by bright orange morning sunlight. I'll also bear in mind that those soft-looking piles of snow on either side of the trail are a) made of cold stuff that's wet when it gets warm, and b) not always composed entirely of snow (the ones made mainly from rock, especially, defy their pillowy appearance when employed as landing zones). Several times I watched others disappearing up hills on their one-gear machines while I walked the walk of shame. I shudder to think how little of the uphill I'd've been riding had this taken place towards the front end of our trip! And once again I found myself entrapped by attempts at caution: riding slower than usual, due to an unholy combination of unfamiliar bike and end-of-trip Murphy's Law paranoia, caused me to crash a bunch more times than I would have under more normal circumstances.
Of course, the snow didn't help much on that front either, and I found myself at one point looking down the hill towards where the trailblazers were gathering (variously picking themselves up, licking - or bandaging - their wounds, or standing around chatting and sharing further pulls on flasks) and thinking "Yes! Their sliding has cleared the snow from this hillside! I can ride down it!" The assumption that the ground they'd uncovered would be less slippery than the cold white stuff turned out to be fallacious; it was, in order of appearance:
- Frozen mud
- Wet leaves
- Frozen puddles
- Unfrozen, wet puddles
- Unfrozen, wet mud
All of these things were at least as slippery as the snow that had been moved aside by the wheels of the frontispieces, and, adding insult to injury****, we were riding beneath and between conifers.
Beautiful trees, smell really nice. Those ones.
That bugged me for some reason. Took me a while to figure out why: Conifers = evergreen. So where the hell did the Andre-the Giant's-palm-sized wet, slippery leaves that carpetted the uncovered ground come from?*****
When we arrived back at the cars it was both all- and none-too-soon for my liking: I'd loved the ride. It was great to ride a singlespeed, and especially a handmade one. Riding in the snow was awesome, the scenery was great, and the trails were pretty amazing. Having said all that, I was knackered! My legs were so weakened by their exertions that just standing up to drink my delicious post-ride beer was a challenge. Having interesting folks around to chat to helped, though.
Eventually (soon) the beer was gone, and we made our way back to Carl and Shaun and Mary's house on Canterbury Circle, where Janine and Mary had returned from their run, and Shaun from his deer-hunting expedition*****. The house was full of the odours of delicious foods being cooked (until we dragged our smelly selves on in, that is) and the construction of The Nest was in progress.
* = May have involved walking, through what was, in places, shin-deep fresh powder snow.
** = I'm told that following me was kind of dangerous, on the grounds that the entertainment value of watching me was distracting people from concentrating on what they were supposed to be doing. I'm not sure what the big deal was: surely the forests of Oregon are chock full of shabby beardy guys sailing through the air to faceplant into snowbanks, cartwheeling (with bike attached) down near-vertical slopes, sliding sideways towards sheer drops, and bouncing off tree after tree? Maybe the grinnin' and hollerin' was unusual, although I saw and heard others doing likewise.
*** = Not the one with the witches. I asked.
**** = I managed to escape relatively unscathed. The biggest scare I had was when I landed on what turned out to be a snow-covered branch, which snapped. Loudly. I thought I'd snapped my femur, and that the sound of the break had reached my ears before the pain had hit my brain. I'm learning to like being proved wrong*******
***** = Vine Maple, apparently
****** = No deer this time, which was a shame, but also no being menaced by a cougar, which is an improvement on his last time out
******* = Probably a good thing, being married to Janine.
We give thanks for things, including snow, bikes, and beer.
Long Version:
Thanksgiving Day in Amerika is huge. We'd not realised quite what a big deal it was, and had some confused and confusing notion of what it was about which involved people dressing up as Pilgrims and giving each other turkeys to say "Thanks" for royally screwing the Indians.
Apparently we weren't entirely correct, and Thanksgiving in Amerika is more about gathering together with friends and family to stuff yourself far too full of delicious foods for comfort. Hence the huge numbers of vehicles caught on Amerika's highways and byways without chains or snow tyres when the weather got cold fast earlier in the week. They'd be facing official sanctions, ticketing, and potential vehicle impoundment if they were that irresponsible in Canada, where iciness is taken much more seriously. Need proof? Canadian Prime Minister Stephen Harper recently visited Quebec City, home to 750,000-or-so people. Admittedly it's in Quebec, which makes those 750,000 people pseudo-French, but even so the PM's decision to snub meeting the mayor of this, the capital of Quebec and the province's second-largest metropolitan area, so that he could spend more time with a giant snowman is pretty awesome.
Not as awesome as riding* a titanium single-speed bicycle up the side of a snow-covered mountain, drinking beer at the top, and then riding** back down again, in company of Corvallis Carl and a bunch of folks from nearby Salem***. That was a pretty excellent way to spend Thanksgiving morning. Next time I'll take a flask of something stronger to the top, and sip small sips whilst looking out over the awesome views of the Corvallis area, floating dreamily beneath banks of fog lit by bright orange morning sunlight. I'll also bear in mind that those soft-looking piles of snow on either side of the trail are a) made of cold stuff that's wet when it gets warm, and b) not always composed entirely of snow (the ones made mainly from rock, especially, defy their pillowy appearance when employed as landing zones). Several times I watched others disappearing up hills on their one-gear machines while I walked the walk of shame. I shudder to think how little of the uphill I'd've been riding had this taken place towards the front end of our trip! And once again I found myself entrapped by attempts at caution: riding slower than usual, due to an unholy combination of unfamiliar bike and end-of-trip Murphy's Law paranoia, caused me to crash a bunch more times than I would have under more normal circumstances.
Of course, the snow didn't help much on that front either, and I found myself at one point looking down the hill towards where the trailblazers were gathering (variously picking themselves up, licking - or bandaging - their wounds, or standing around chatting and sharing further pulls on flasks) and thinking "Yes! Their sliding has cleared the snow from this hillside! I can ride down it!" The assumption that the ground they'd uncovered would be less slippery than the cold white stuff turned out to be fallacious; it was, in order of appearance:
- Frozen mud
- Wet leaves
- Frozen puddles
- Unfrozen, wet puddles
- Unfrozen, wet mud
All of these things were at least as slippery as the snow that had been moved aside by the wheels of the frontispieces, and, adding insult to injury****, we were riding beneath and between conifers.
Beautiful trees, smell really nice. Those ones.
That bugged me for some reason. Took me a while to figure out why: Conifers = evergreen. So where the hell did the Andre-the Giant's-palm-sized wet, slippery leaves that carpetted the uncovered ground come from?*****
When we arrived back at the cars it was both all- and none-too-soon for my liking: I'd loved the ride. It was great to ride a singlespeed, and especially a handmade one. Riding in the snow was awesome, the scenery was great, and the trails were pretty amazing. Having said all that, I was knackered! My legs were so weakened by their exertions that just standing up to drink my delicious post-ride beer was a challenge. Having interesting folks around to chat to helped, though.
Eventually (soon) the beer was gone, and we made our way back to Carl and Shaun and Mary's house on Canterbury Circle, where Janine and Mary had returned from their run, and Shaun from his deer-hunting expedition*****. The house was full of the odours of delicious foods being cooked (until we dragged our smelly selves on in, that is) and the construction of The Nest was in progress.
* = May have involved walking, through what was, in places, shin-deep fresh powder snow.
** = I'm told that following me was kind of dangerous, on the grounds that the entertainment value of watching me was distracting people from concentrating on what they were supposed to be doing. I'm not sure what the big deal was: surely the forests of Oregon are chock full of shabby beardy guys sailing through the air to faceplant into snowbanks, cartwheeling (with bike attached) down near-vertical slopes, sliding sideways towards sheer drops, and bouncing off tree after tree? Maybe the grinnin' and hollerin' was unusual, although I saw and heard others doing likewise.
*** = Not the one with the witches. I asked.
**** = I managed to escape relatively unscathed. The biggest scare I had was when I landed on what turned out to be a snow-covered branch, which snapped. Loudly. I thought I'd snapped my femur, and that the sound of the break had reached my ears before the pain had hit my brain. I'm learning to like being proved wrong*******
***** = Vine Maple, apparently
****** = No deer this time, which was a shame, but also no being menaced by a cougar, which is an improvement on his last time out
******* = Probably a good thing, being married to Janine.
Baaaaaaaa! Baaaaaaaa!
Short Version:
Truck crash chaos, we taunt Amerikans unjustly. Arsenic.
Long Version:
It took us a long time to get to Oregon. Not because it was particularly far from where we were in northern Kalifornia, but because the road was blocked by trucks which had jack-knifed atop the Siskiyou Summit, which is the passage over the Siskiyou Mountains through which the Interstate passes. At 4310ft it's not all that high - it's barely half the elevation of either the Deadman or Conway Summits, both of which we crossed en route to our unplanned overnight in Susanville. Actually, since we passed that way, much attention's been focussed on Mono Lake (pronounced MOE-noe, not MON-oh, apparently) - not because we passed that way, or because we harvested a bird there, but because the lake, which has always been known to have thrice the salinity of seawater, has now been found to be hosting sizeable communities of hitherto unpossible extremophile bacterium (poetically named GFAJ-1) which usually eat phosphorous but which, when starved of their normal sustenance, become eaters of arsenic, which has the coolest name of any of the elements (tungsten's the runner-up) but which kills pretty much everything with which it comes into contact.
The traffic jam on I-5 stretched for miles and miles, and was heralded well in advance by nifty electronic informational signage, which told us the road was blocked, and that all traffic was to exit at Yreka. Which we did, along with literally thousands of other vehicles. Yreka was ill-prepared for the onslaught, at least from a traffic management perspective, and it was with some relief that we found our way onto the narrow, winding byway that our map showed parallelling the Interstate. I'd not want to be driving anything bigger than the Reaper up (or down) that road. Twisting, turning, off-camber corners, potholes and other surface damage, overhung by rock outcrops... it was like being back in NZ, apart from the other drivers, who over here are, for the most part, actually capable of driving. Still, it popped us out fifteen or so scenic miles north, back onto the deserted Interstate, free and clear and laughing and making derisional sheep noises at all the stoopid Amerikans who'd blindly obeyed orders and were now sitting in food-vending establishments in Yreka, drinking highly-caffeinated sugary beverages they'd stood in lengthy queues to obtain while awful plastik musik played through tinny speakers. Baaaaaaaa! Baaaaaaaa! Stoopid Amerikans! Stoopid... Wait, what's that up ahead? It looks like... the tail end of a traffic jam. Rats.
We sat for an hour, then crawled for another one. We learned about how dirty snow becomes when it's been lying on the Interstate for a while; our windscreen was so befilthed by the time we started down the northern slopes of the hills that we couldn't see much at all, and had to stop at a gas station in some random highway town to wash it. And then another anonymous hotel room, and on the TV was more unfathomably popular "football" being played by men in tights and helmets who get paid insane amounts of money, and then we hit the thrift stores and then the highway, and rolled back into Corvallis just before the end of the working day, to the Cyclery where Carl was actually literally in process of sending us an email when we arrived. Synchronised!
Truck crash chaos, we taunt Amerikans unjustly. Arsenic.
Long Version:
It took us a long time to get to Oregon. Not because it was particularly far from where we were in northern Kalifornia, but because the road was blocked by trucks which had jack-knifed atop the Siskiyou Summit, which is the passage over the Siskiyou Mountains through which the Interstate passes. At 4310ft it's not all that high - it's barely half the elevation of either the Deadman or Conway Summits, both of which we crossed en route to our unplanned overnight in Susanville. Actually, since we passed that way, much attention's been focussed on Mono Lake (pronounced MOE-noe, not MON-oh, apparently) - not because we passed that way, or because we harvested a bird there, but because the lake, which has always been known to have thrice the salinity of seawater, has now been found to be hosting sizeable communities of hitherto unpossible extremophile bacterium (poetically named GFAJ-1) which usually eat phosphorous but which, when starved of their normal sustenance, become eaters of arsenic, which has the coolest name of any of the elements (tungsten's the runner-up) but which kills pretty much everything with which it comes into contact.
The traffic jam on I-5 stretched for miles and miles, and was heralded well in advance by nifty electronic informational signage, which told us the road was blocked, and that all traffic was to exit at Yreka. Which we did, along with literally thousands of other vehicles. Yreka was ill-prepared for the onslaught, at least from a traffic management perspective, and it was with some relief that we found our way onto the narrow, winding byway that our map showed parallelling the Interstate. I'd not want to be driving anything bigger than the Reaper up (or down) that road. Twisting, turning, off-camber corners, potholes and other surface damage, overhung by rock outcrops... it was like being back in NZ, apart from the other drivers, who over here are, for the most part, actually capable of driving. Still, it popped us out fifteen or so scenic miles north, back onto the deserted Interstate, free and clear and laughing and making derisional sheep noises at all the stoopid Amerikans who'd blindly obeyed orders and were now sitting in food-vending establishments in Yreka, drinking highly-caffeinated sugary beverages they'd stood in lengthy queues to obtain while awful plastik musik played through tinny speakers. Baaaaaaaa! Baaaaaaaa! Stoopid Amerikans! Stoopid... Wait, what's that up ahead? It looks like... the tail end of a traffic jam. Rats.
We sat for an hour, then crawled for another one. We learned about how dirty snow becomes when it's been lying on the Interstate for a while; our windscreen was so befilthed by the time we started down the northern slopes of the hills that we couldn't see much at all, and had to stop at a gas station in some random highway town to wash it. And then another anonymous hotel room, and on the TV was more unfathomably popular "football" being played by men in tights and helmets who get paid insane amounts of money, and then we hit the thrift stores and then the highway, and rolled back into Corvallis just before the end of the working day, to the Cyclery where Carl was actually literally in process of sending us an email when we arrived. Synchronised!
Thursday, December 2, 2010
Don't Eat the Yellow Snow
Short Version:
We rip off Amerika, see some natural and unnatural history, ignore our responsibilities as responsible road users, and get trapped in a small town with a little old lady for company. Then we leave, but not fast enough for some people.
Long Version:
Most of the ex-Vegas traffic stayed on the Interstate, bound for LA. We had less than no interest in going back to that horribly enormous shitty pit of a city, so turned north, up Scenic Highway 395. Once again, the scale of Amerika caught us napping, and as the sun set behind the freshly snow-dusted Sierra Nevada mountains we had no idea where on earth we were going to find a place to park up for the night. The full moon rose bulbous and yellow over the China Lake Naval Weapons-Testing Area, and illuminated an unlooked-for bonus: signage for a dirtbag campground! Really it was a fee campground, but three days in Vegas had eroded our morals to the point where we didn't pay the $6 despite filling our solitary remaining water canister from the manual pump and hiking the trail to the now-dry Fossil Falls, where ten to twenty thousand years ago Indian bands lived on the banks of the then-rushing river. The effects of both river and people on the landscape can still be seen: the jagged edges of the area's volcanic rocks are smooth where the water once flowed, and human-made flakes of obsidian still lie where tools were made in ages past.
The wind that had kept us pinned in the Reaper near Boulder City was the warm desert fringe of the first big winter storm for the year, which had dumped a bunch of snow on both the Sierra Nevada and Coso mountains, so we were driving in a green valley between two snow-covered ranges as we worked our way north. Unfortunately, the storm had also heralded the closure of the eastern entrances to Yosemite National Park, but we had enough on our plate just trying to get over the comparatively low passes along our route without trying to get up even higher. Warnings and admonitions about chains and snow tyres abounded, and the wisdom of a backroad run in the face of imminent winter started to seem more and more suspect as the amount of snow and ice on the road increased. Near Reno the highway was closed to trucks and other large vehicles due to wind gusts, and the looming ominosity of the weather became even more pronounced at the Kalifornia border inspection station ("Do you have any fruit in the vehicle?"), where the inspector lady told us there was another snowstorm coming in overnight. Joy.
We had just left Susanville when the snow began to fall. Half an hour later the road was barely visible beneath a chilly white blanket and the world was disappearing into dark grey. We figured enough was enough and turned back, to the Susanville River Inn, which had the world's most stereotypical Sweet Little Old Lady manning the reception desk. When we arose late the morning the Reaper was covered in snow, and it was still falling when we left town after a quick stop to ogle the stuffed bobcat swiping the stuffed bird out of the air in the shop run by the woman in the motorised wheelchair. By the time we reached the previous night's turning point the road was no longer visible beneath several inches of snow. Not having the foggiest idea what might constitute good snow-driving practise, we were driving pretty slowly, but then so was everyone else... except the logging trucks, which had the hammer well and truly down; we were averaging around 40mph, they were doing at least twice that, fully loaded with enormous frozen logs. Still, we made it to Weed without mishap, although anyone planning to eat snow near Hat Creek should avoid gobbling the yellow patches.
We rip off Amerika, see some natural and unnatural history, ignore our responsibilities as responsible road users, and get trapped in a small town with a little old lady for company. Then we leave, but not fast enough for some people.
Long Version:
Most of the ex-Vegas traffic stayed on the Interstate, bound for LA. We had less than no interest in going back to that horribly enormous shitty pit of a city, so turned north, up Scenic Highway 395. Once again, the scale of Amerika caught us napping, and as the sun set behind the freshly snow-dusted Sierra Nevada mountains we had no idea where on earth we were going to find a place to park up for the night. The full moon rose bulbous and yellow over the China Lake Naval Weapons-Testing Area, and illuminated an unlooked-for bonus: signage for a dirtbag campground! Really it was a fee campground, but three days in Vegas had eroded our morals to the point where we didn't pay the $6 despite filling our solitary remaining water canister from the manual pump and hiking the trail to the now-dry Fossil Falls, where ten to twenty thousand years ago Indian bands lived on the banks of the then-rushing river. The effects of both river and people on the landscape can still be seen: the jagged edges of the area's volcanic rocks are smooth where the water once flowed, and human-made flakes of obsidian still lie where tools were made in ages past.
The wind that had kept us pinned in the Reaper near Boulder City was the warm desert fringe of the first big winter storm for the year, which had dumped a bunch of snow on both the Sierra Nevada and Coso mountains, so we were driving in a green valley between two snow-covered ranges as we worked our way north. Unfortunately, the storm had also heralded the closure of the eastern entrances to Yosemite National Park, but we had enough on our plate just trying to get over the comparatively low passes along our route without trying to get up even higher. Warnings and admonitions about chains and snow tyres abounded, and the wisdom of a backroad run in the face of imminent winter started to seem more and more suspect as the amount of snow and ice on the road increased. Near Reno the highway was closed to trucks and other large vehicles due to wind gusts, and the looming ominosity of the weather became even more pronounced at the Kalifornia border inspection station ("Do you have any fruit in the vehicle?"), where the inspector lady told us there was another snowstorm coming in overnight. Joy.
We had just left Susanville when the snow began to fall. Half an hour later the road was barely visible beneath a chilly white blanket and the world was disappearing into dark grey. We figured enough was enough and turned back, to the Susanville River Inn, which had the world's most stereotypical Sweet Little Old Lady manning the reception desk. When we arose late the morning the Reaper was covered in snow, and it was still falling when we left town after a quick stop to ogle the stuffed bobcat swiping the stuffed bird out of the air in the shop run by the woman in the motorised wheelchair. By the time we reached the previous night's turning point the road was no longer visible beneath several inches of snow. Not having the foggiest idea what might constitute good snow-driving practise, we were driving pretty slowly, but then so was everyone else... except the logging trucks, which had the hammer well and truly down; we were averaging around 40mph, they were doing at least twice that, fully loaded with enormous frozen logs. Still, we made it to Weed without mishap, although anyone planning to eat snow near Hat Creek should avoid gobbling the yellow patches.
Shagging Ginger Rogers' Mother
Short Version:
We visit the Hoover Dam.
Long Version:
The Hoover Dam is named for a bloke named Herbert Hoover, who was President between 1929 and 1933. He was a Quaker, a charter student at Harvard, and an engineer who once translated the Latin text De re Metallica (On the Nature of Metals) into English. His personal physician, recognising the sedentary, stressful lifestyle associated with the Presidency, devised a sport designed to keep Herbert physically fit. Known as Hooverball, it's very much akin to a game of catch-and-release volleyball played with a medicine ball, was played pretty much daily on the south lawn of the White House* during Hoover's term in office. It's still played today; primarily in Iowa, Hoover's home state.
Having read James Ellroy's excellent novels, we'd always assumed the dam was named for J. Edgar Hoover, long-time Director of the FBI, and the only human Hoover of whom we'd heard. It did seem somewhat paradoxical that an edifice that sizeable and overt should be named for someone who dealt in shadows and insinuation, and it turns out that the dam was completed and named at around the time that John Edgar commenced his lengthy FBI Directorship, which lasted from 1935 to 1972 (and followed on the heels of the eleven years he spent running the FBI predecessor; the non-Federal Bureau of Investigation). Subsequent FBI Directors' terms have been limited to ten years maximum in order to forestall their gaining as much power as was achieved by John Edgar, who was a committed Freemason and whose unorthodox personal life lead to persistent rumours of homosexuality, including orgy participation, as well as allegations of cross-dressing. It is now believed that these rumours sprang largely from discreditation campaigns carried out by both Amerikan and foreign interests, especially in light of the substantial evidence linking Hoover romantically with the divorced mother of dancer Ginger Rogers.
The Hoover Dam was constructed between 1931 and 1936, at great cost to the USA, both monetarily and in terms of human life: 112 people died to bring the dam to completion, assuming you exclude the 42 workers who died of either pneumonia or carbon monoxide poisoning. The 112 does include J. G. Tierney, who is generally counted as the first man to die in the construction of Hoover Dam. He was a surveyor who was looking for an ideal spot for the dam when he drowned on December 20, 1922. His son, Patrick W. Tierney, was the last man to die working on the dam's construction, 13 years to the day later.
The heavily-used US Highway 93, which links the tri-state nexus where Arizona, Nevada and Utah meet with Sin City ran across the top of the Hoover Dam until October this year, when a new bypass bridge was opened. The dam parapet is still open to non-through traffic, though, so we took the Reaper across. No harvest on the top, as far as we know, although we got close to some of the many jay-walking waddlers; the annual visitor numbers have been pushing a million for a few years now, and are expected to have exceeded that number this year.
We ogled the dam for a while, impressed by its immensity, then joined the westbound traffic, which was a trickle on the way in to Las Vegas, and a flood out the other side; Sunday afternoon, and people who'd been living large for the weekend were heading home to Kalifornia.
* = The Amerikan Presidential home office, not the strip club / knock shop on Auckland's Queen Street
We visit the Hoover Dam.
Long Version:
The Hoover Dam is named for a bloke named Herbert Hoover, who was President between 1929 and 1933. He was a Quaker, a charter student at Harvard, and an engineer who once translated the Latin text De re Metallica (On the Nature of Metals) into English. His personal physician, recognising the sedentary, stressful lifestyle associated with the Presidency, devised a sport designed to keep Herbert physically fit. Known as Hooverball, it's very much akin to a game of catch-and-release volleyball played with a medicine ball, was played pretty much daily on the south lawn of the White House* during Hoover's term in office. It's still played today; primarily in Iowa, Hoover's home state.
Having read James Ellroy's excellent novels, we'd always assumed the dam was named for J. Edgar Hoover, long-time Director of the FBI, and the only human Hoover of whom we'd heard. It did seem somewhat paradoxical that an edifice that sizeable and overt should be named for someone who dealt in shadows and insinuation, and it turns out that the dam was completed and named at around the time that John Edgar commenced his lengthy FBI Directorship, which lasted from 1935 to 1972 (and followed on the heels of the eleven years he spent running the FBI predecessor; the non-Federal Bureau of Investigation). Subsequent FBI Directors' terms have been limited to ten years maximum in order to forestall their gaining as much power as was achieved by John Edgar, who was a committed Freemason and whose unorthodox personal life lead to persistent rumours of homosexuality, including orgy participation, as well as allegations of cross-dressing. It is now believed that these rumours sprang largely from discreditation campaigns carried out by both Amerikan and foreign interests, especially in light of the substantial evidence linking Hoover romantically with the divorced mother of dancer Ginger Rogers.
The Hoover Dam was constructed between 1931 and 1936, at great cost to the USA, both monetarily and in terms of human life: 112 people died to bring the dam to completion, assuming you exclude the 42 workers who died of either pneumonia or carbon monoxide poisoning. The 112 does include J. G. Tierney, who is generally counted as the first man to die in the construction of Hoover Dam. He was a surveyor who was looking for an ideal spot for the dam when he drowned on December 20, 1922. His son, Patrick W. Tierney, was the last man to die working on the dam's construction, 13 years to the day later.
The heavily-used US Highway 93, which links the tri-state nexus where Arizona, Nevada and Utah meet with Sin City ran across the top of the Hoover Dam until October this year, when a new bypass bridge was opened. The dam parapet is still open to non-through traffic, though, so we took the Reaper across. No harvest on the top, as far as we know, although we got close to some of the many jay-walking waddlers; the annual visitor numbers have been pushing a million for a few years now, and are expected to have exceeded that number this year.
We ogled the dam for a while, impressed by its immensity, then joined the westbound traffic, which was a trickle on the way in to Las Vegas, and a flood out the other side; Sunday afternoon, and people who'd been living large for the weekend were heading home to Kalifornia.
* = The Amerikan Presidential home office, not the strip club / knock shop on Auckland's Queen Street
Inconvenient Wind
Short Version:
Back in the Reaper, we head to an internationally-renowned mountain-biking destination, where we experience inconvenient wind.
Long Version:
Boulder City was built back in the 1930s to provide accommodation and services for workers involved in the construction of the nearby Hoover Dam. Nowdays it's a bit of a mixed-bag: dormitory town for the ever-expanding menace that is Las Vegas*; Hoover Dam tourism centre; birthplace of Playboy's May 1998 Playmate Deanna Brooks; sixth-best place in the USA to retire to; and - most importantly for our purposes - home of the Bootleg Canyon mountain-bike park, which kind of made it a near-mandatory stop for us despite their traditional focus on downhill trails rather than cross-country / all-mountain, which is where we fit when pigeonholed.
The main trailhead area is well-equipped with flush toilets(!) and showers(!!!), so we parked up and settled in for a couple of days of riding hard in our new, temporary back yard.
The wind had other ideas.
Not much point digging out official definitions of "gale force"**, as we had no way to measure what we were experiencing. The van was rocking, and not cos of us: we read books.
We did manage a 90-minute ride, and we could tell that there was some great riding to be had, but the wind was nasty, and kind of ruined the fun. What we did ride was loose-over-hardpack interspersed with sections of rock that looked scarier and less rideable than they really were. In the end, though, Boulder City goes down in our annals as the place we went straight after the luxury hotel experience, and where we spent two days shut in the Reaper while the wind howled outside. Quite a contrast.
* = With around two million inhabitants, Vegas is now Amerika's 28th-largest city, and grew the most of all US cities during the 20th century (it inherited that mantle from Chicago, which was the fastest-growing city during the 19th century)
** = 62-74kph; 8 on the Beaufort scale***.
*** = v = 0.836 B3/2 m/s, where v is the equivalent wind speed at 10 meters above the sea surface and B is Beaufort scale number.
Back in the Reaper, we head to an internationally-renowned mountain-biking destination, where we experience inconvenient wind.
Long Version:
Boulder City was built back in the 1930s to provide accommodation and services for workers involved in the construction of the nearby Hoover Dam. Nowdays it's a bit of a mixed-bag: dormitory town for the ever-expanding menace that is Las Vegas*; Hoover Dam tourism centre; birthplace of Playboy's May 1998 Playmate Deanna Brooks; sixth-best place in the USA to retire to; and - most importantly for our purposes - home of the Bootleg Canyon mountain-bike park, which kind of made it a near-mandatory stop for us despite their traditional focus on downhill trails rather than cross-country / all-mountain, which is where we fit when pigeonholed.
The main trailhead area is well-equipped with flush toilets(!) and showers(!!!), so we parked up and settled in for a couple of days of riding hard in our new, temporary back yard.
The wind had other ideas.
Not much point digging out official definitions of "gale force"**, as we had no way to measure what we were experiencing. The van was rocking, and not cos of us: we read books.
We did manage a 90-minute ride, and we could tell that there was some great riding to be had, but the wind was nasty, and kind of ruined the fun. What we did ride was loose-over-hardpack interspersed with sections of rock that looked scarier and less rideable than they really were. In the end, though, Boulder City goes down in our annals as the place we went straight after the luxury hotel experience, and where we spent two days shut in the Reaper while the wind howled outside. Quite a contrast.
* = With around two million inhabitants, Vegas is now Amerika's 28th-largest city, and grew the most of all US cities during the 20th century (it inherited that mantle from Chicago, which was the fastest-growing city during the 19th century)
** = 62-74kph; 8 on the Beaufort scale***.
*** = v = 0.836 B3/2 m/s, where v is the equivalent wind speed at 10 meters above the sea surface and B is Beaufort scale number.
$1 Margaritas and Photos of Lion Butts
Short Version:
More sights, sounds, and smells of Vegas. We win, then we leave.
Long Version:
There really were quite a lot of fat people in Las Vegas. Many of them were appallingly dressed (as were many of their skinny counterparts). I know I occasionally tuck my T-shirt in, but that's purely to irritate Janine. Really, it's an unacceptable choice, and especially when you're in your forties, you're a bit fat, it's a Harley Davidson T-shirt, and the jeans it's tucked into are from Wal-Mart and you're not wearing a belt. The men were even worse.
We breakfasted in a rainforest with an assortment of animatronic critters that don't coexist out in the outside world, then went and ogled the lion cubs at the MGM Grand. We tried to take photos of their butts up through the glass floor they were sitting on, but they seemed to know there were southern hemisphere perverts about, and several times moved away just before we pulled the trigger.
We wandered for hours among the chaos and carnage of the Strip, stopping every so often to drink $1 margaritas and free beer, or to admire some pretty cool public art, and eventually we admitted to each other that we weren't ready to leave town and go live in the van again just yet. The Luxor is a big black pyramid with a beam of light emanating from its tip. Not as fancypants as NY:NY, and cheaper. We walked there, and noted the change in the style of the winnable vehicles in the casinos we passed through: the Audi and Mercedes cars of The Bellagio and The Venetian became Camaros and Corvettes, and then we were inside the gaudy Excalibur, where the cars gave way to custom choppers, and the crowds got even less stylish, which we frankly hadn't expected to be feasible. Our waitress at dinner had big tits that were barely contained by her exposed black lace bra, which; a) spoke volumes about the place we were in, and b) earned her an extra-good tip. The class downshift was even more evident in the show we went to: too worn-out to leave the Luxor we plumped for half-price tickets to the Criss Angel magic show, where we found a lowbrow crowd and a show that was big on crass humor and loud rap-rock, interspersed with some pretty cool magic tricks. The highlight was without question the lenticular poster for the show which featured a lovely white rabbit that bared some serious fangs as one walked past. Not for sale*, unfortunately.
We saw some people throwing down some big sums on gaming tables, but there were far more people pumping cash into bleeping, brightly-lit machines. We did too: Nene turned $1 into $40 on a Sabretooth at The Luxor, and a $10 payout from a Shark Attack at The Venetian saw us call "Time" on our gaming while we were ahead on the ledger**. A quick jaunt out into the streets saw us exploring a whole bunch more fantastic architecture, being astounded by opulence and by the apparent expense of the design options, and mildly nauseated by the insanity of adding layers of over-the-top Xmas decorations to the already overblown casino areas. We caught the fountain show at The Bellagio, which was ever-so-romantic, and wandered off hand-in-hand, past the homeless people and the fat tourists, back to the NY:NY parking garage and the Reaper, which harvested my sunglasses as I desecured the doors. Bastardo!
* = Of course, this being Vegas, it probably was for sale, for the right amount; it's just that the right amount was probably a first-born, or a soul, or something else above and beyond our ability or willingness to pay
** = Ahead assuming you're not counting accommodation and food costs, that is
More sights, sounds, and smells of Vegas. We win, then we leave.
Long Version:
There really were quite a lot of fat people in Las Vegas. Many of them were appallingly dressed (as were many of their skinny counterparts). I know I occasionally tuck my T-shirt in, but that's purely to irritate Janine. Really, it's an unacceptable choice, and especially when you're in your forties, you're a bit fat, it's a Harley Davidson T-shirt, and the jeans it's tucked into are from Wal-Mart and you're not wearing a belt. The men were even worse.
We breakfasted in a rainforest with an assortment of animatronic critters that don't coexist out in the outside world, then went and ogled the lion cubs at the MGM Grand. We tried to take photos of their butts up through the glass floor they were sitting on, but they seemed to know there were southern hemisphere perverts about, and several times moved away just before we pulled the trigger.
We wandered for hours among the chaos and carnage of the Strip, stopping every so often to drink $1 margaritas and free beer, or to admire some pretty cool public art, and eventually we admitted to each other that we weren't ready to leave town and go live in the van again just yet. The Luxor is a big black pyramid with a beam of light emanating from its tip. Not as fancypants as NY:NY, and cheaper. We walked there, and noted the change in the style of the winnable vehicles in the casinos we passed through: the Audi and Mercedes cars of The Bellagio and The Venetian became Camaros and Corvettes, and then we were inside the gaudy Excalibur, where the cars gave way to custom choppers, and the crowds got even less stylish, which we frankly hadn't expected to be feasible. Our waitress at dinner had big tits that were barely contained by her exposed black lace bra, which; a) spoke volumes about the place we were in, and b) earned her an extra-good tip. The class downshift was even more evident in the show we went to: too worn-out to leave the Luxor we plumped for half-price tickets to the Criss Angel magic show, where we found a lowbrow crowd and a show that was big on crass humor and loud rap-rock, interspersed with some pretty cool magic tricks. The highlight was without question the lenticular poster for the show which featured a lovely white rabbit that bared some serious fangs as one walked past. Not for sale*, unfortunately.
We saw some people throwing down some big sums on gaming tables, but there were far more people pumping cash into bleeping, brightly-lit machines. We did too: Nene turned $1 into $40 on a Sabretooth at The Luxor, and a $10 payout from a Shark Attack at The Venetian saw us call "Time" on our gaming while we were ahead on the ledger**. A quick jaunt out into the streets saw us exploring a whole bunch more fantastic architecture, being astounded by opulence and by the apparent expense of the design options, and mildly nauseated by the insanity of adding layers of over-the-top Xmas decorations to the already overblown casino areas. We caught the fountain show at The Bellagio, which was ever-so-romantic, and wandered off hand-in-hand, past the homeless people and the fat tourists, back to the NY:NY parking garage and the Reaper, which harvested my sunglasses as I desecured the doors. Bastardo!
* = Of course, this being Vegas, it probably was for sale, for the right amount; it's just that the right amount was probably a first-born, or a soul, or something else above and beyond our ability or willingness to pay
** = Ahead assuming you're not counting accommodation and food costs, that is
The Strip
Short Version:
Living high on the hog, we see a bunch of low-lifes and some high-class art and architecture
Long Version:
The transition from living in a van to a luxurious hotel with king bed and unlimited hot water was tough, but we managed. The purple corn chips with chipotle salsa helped, as did the fancypants Gnarly Head Zinfandel we were drinking. Leaving the room was kind of tough, but the madness of Las Vegas Boulevard was calling to us, with voices made of neon and excitement, so we put on our party frocks* and hit the Strip.
Things we saw on the Strip:
- Fat people
- Rappers
- Darth Vader and a TIE pilot
- Drunk people
- Enormous sculptures, of horses and mythological figures
- Elmo from Sesame Street
- Huge blown-glass things
- Spiderman
- Homeless people
- Sunglasses vendors
- People carrying plastic yard-glasses of artificially-coloured frozen margarita
- Batman
- Can-can girls
- Rednecks (aka meshbacks)
- Mexicans handing out business cards for hookers**
The hotel/casino complexes were pretty amazing:
- Paris, Paris and its Arc d'Triumph/Eiffel Tower/balloon adornments
- The Venetian/Palazzo, where the architecture of Venice has been brought to full-sized life, including canals and singing gondoliers, all indoors
- Caesar's Palace, where an entire city block has been transformed into an amalgam of ancient and modern Rome
- The Bellagio, Italian opulence di eccellenza
- The ultra-flash ultra-modern Vdara and Aria hotel/apartment complexes
No wonder Amerikans feel like they don't have to leave Amerika; Las Vegas provides replikas of the good bits of the rest of the world, conveniently packaged and without the inconveniences of international travel: no funny money; the people who can't speak Amerikan properly can be safely ignored; and no intrusive, privates-manipulating airport security searches.
The Treasure Island Hotel and Casino was a bit shit, but we went inside to the Cirque d'Soleil show Mystere, which was pretty excellent. The outdoor Siren's Cove musical performance was very much not so excellent. Indeed, it well and truly sucked. And the crowd was full of weird-looking drunken Russians or Belarussians or Bulgarians or whatever they were, all smoking revolting-smelling cigarettes and talking too loud. We went home to the 34th floor*** of New York New York, to the king bed and the endless shower, where we drank some more delicious wine before sleeping the sleep of the virtuous**** caught in the City of Sin.
* = Not literally
** = We collected hundreds***** and alphabetised them
*** = The floors were numbered 1, 2, 3, 30, 31... and on up from there. Not sure what happened to floors 4 through 29
**** = That's us, in case you were wondering
***** = Of business cards, not Mexicans.
Living high on the hog, we see a bunch of low-lifes and some high-class art and architecture
Long Version:
The transition from living in a van to a luxurious hotel with king bed and unlimited hot water was tough, but we managed. The purple corn chips with chipotle salsa helped, as did the fancypants Gnarly Head Zinfandel we were drinking. Leaving the room was kind of tough, but the madness of Las Vegas Boulevard was calling to us, with voices made of neon and excitement, so we put on our party frocks* and hit the Strip.
Things we saw on the Strip:
- Fat people
- Rappers
- Darth Vader and a TIE pilot
- Drunk people
- Enormous sculptures, of horses and mythological figures
- Elmo from Sesame Street
- Huge blown-glass things
- Spiderman
- Homeless people
- Sunglasses vendors
- People carrying plastic yard-glasses of artificially-coloured frozen margarita
- Batman
- Can-can girls
- Rednecks (aka meshbacks)
- Mexicans handing out business cards for hookers**
The hotel/casino complexes were pretty amazing:
- Paris, Paris and its Arc d'Triumph/Eiffel Tower/balloon adornments
- The Venetian/Palazzo, where the architecture of Venice has been brought to full-sized life, including canals and singing gondoliers, all indoors
- Caesar's Palace, where an entire city block has been transformed into an amalgam of ancient and modern Rome
- The Bellagio, Italian opulence di eccellenza
- The ultra-flash ultra-modern Vdara and Aria hotel/apartment complexes
No wonder Amerikans feel like they don't have to leave Amerika; Las Vegas provides replikas of the good bits of the rest of the world, conveniently packaged and without the inconveniences of international travel: no funny money; the people who can't speak Amerikan properly can be safely ignored; and no intrusive, privates-manipulating airport security searches.
The Treasure Island Hotel and Casino was a bit shit, but we went inside to the Cirque d'Soleil show Mystere, which was pretty excellent. The outdoor Siren's Cove musical performance was very much not so excellent. Indeed, it well and truly sucked. And the crowd was full of weird-looking drunken Russians or Belarussians or Bulgarians or whatever they were, all smoking revolting-smelling cigarettes and talking too loud. We went home to the 34th floor*** of New York New York, to the king bed and the endless shower, where we drank some more delicious wine before sleeping the sleep of the virtuous**** caught in the City of Sin.
* = Not literally
** = We collected hundreds***** and alphabetised them
*** = The floors were numbered 1, 2, 3, 30, 31... and on up from there. Not sure what happened to floors 4 through 29
**** = That's us, in case you were wondering
***** = Of business cards, not Mexicans.
The Wickedest Town in the West
Short Version:
We see some sights on the (long!) way to Las Vegas
Long Version:
Having found a better Sedona, with loads of awesome riding still to do and a bunch of interesting people, we didn't want to leave. Unfortunately we'd booked ourselves some Vegas action back when we weren't quite so enamoured of the place, so after a delicious farewell breakfast in Darch's uber-luxury RV we hit the road, north and east towards Nevada.
We didn't get very far; the first town we reached - it was called Cottonwood - soaked up a bunch of our time with its thrift stores and chore-enabling facilities. Some loud subnorms had an argument over a television at the local Goodwill store, and we met a man shopping on behalf of his broken-backed wife (she'd been pulled downwards and sideways by a rather strong patient in the hospital where she works as a nurse).
In the mountains to the west of Cottonwood we found ourselves wending our way up, and up, and then into and around the narrow streets of a little town called Jerome, once heralded as "the wickedest town in the West." Jerome was a mining town, contributing heavily during the back half of the 19th and front of the 20th centuries to Arizona's status as Amerika's leading copper producer. The town burnt down repeatedly during the late 1890's, and blasting (the intentional kind) in the mines at one point shook the town so hard that the local jail slid down the hillside. They had a bunch of mining disasters, including innumerable fires throughout the mines; one of them stayed alight for over twenty years. Nowadays it's a tourist-focussed town, with souvenir shops and art galleries galore, and a bunch of ghost-related stuff. And a wine-tasting cellar for the vineyard owned by Maynard James Keenan, lead singer of prog-rock band Tool.
We carried on, over the hills and far away. Far, far away. You'd think by now that we'd be used to the huge distances between things here in Amerika, but we're still being surprised at how long it takes to get from one place to another. In this instance, it was dusk when we started down into the Las Vegas basin, giving us seriously excellent views of the city lighting up for the night as the sun set behind the Spring Mountains to the west. The skyward beam from the tip of the black pyramid that is the Luxor was a great navigational beacon, and we made it to the nearby, mildly fancypants New York, New York hotel relatively unscathed by the chaos of the city's rush hour.
We ensconced the Reaper in the parking lot amid a wild assortment of luxury sports cars, then set off into the labyrinthine hotel/casino complex in search of the hotel registration desk. Which we found, but not before we saw an incredible assortment of people, and started to figure a few things out about Vegas:
- You can smoke wherever you like. Please do.
- There is no dress code.
- Fat is good.
We see some sights on the (long!) way to Las Vegas
Long Version:
Having found a better Sedona, with loads of awesome riding still to do and a bunch of interesting people, we didn't want to leave. Unfortunately we'd booked ourselves some Vegas action back when we weren't quite so enamoured of the place, so after a delicious farewell breakfast in Darch's uber-luxury RV we hit the road, north and east towards Nevada.
We didn't get very far; the first town we reached - it was called Cottonwood - soaked up a bunch of our time with its thrift stores and chore-enabling facilities. Some loud subnorms had an argument over a television at the local Goodwill store, and we met a man shopping on behalf of his broken-backed wife (she'd been pulled downwards and sideways by a rather strong patient in the hospital where she works as a nurse).
In the mountains to the west of Cottonwood we found ourselves wending our way up, and up, and then into and around the narrow streets of a little town called Jerome, once heralded as "the wickedest town in the West." Jerome was a mining town, contributing heavily during the back half of the 19th and front of the 20th centuries to Arizona's status as Amerika's leading copper producer. The town burnt down repeatedly during the late 1890's, and blasting (the intentional kind) in the mines at one point shook the town so hard that the local jail slid down the hillside. They had a bunch of mining disasters, including innumerable fires throughout the mines; one of them stayed alight for over twenty years. Nowadays it's a tourist-focussed town, with souvenir shops and art galleries galore, and a bunch of ghost-related stuff. And a wine-tasting cellar for the vineyard owned by Maynard James Keenan, lead singer of prog-rock band Tool.
We carried on, over the hills and far away. Far, far away. You'd think by now that we'd be used to the huge distances between things here in Amerika, but we're still being surprised at how long it takes to get from one place to another. In this instance, it was dusk when we started down into the Las Vegas basin, giving us seriously excellent views of the city lighting up for the night as the sun set behind the Spring Mountains to the west. The skyward beam from the tip of the black pyramid that is the Luxor was a great navigational beacon, and we made it to the nearby, mildly fancypants New York, New York hotel relatively unscathed by the chaos of the city's rush hour.
We ensconced the Reaper in the parking lot amid a wild assortment of luxury sports cars, then set off into the labyrinthine hotel/casino complex in search of the hotel registration desk. Which we found, but not before we saw an incredible assortment of people, and started to figure a few things out about Vegas:
- You can smoke wherever you like. Please do.
- There is no dress code.
- Fat is good.
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