Oh man, you gotta love casual American religiosity for its sheer, blithe illogicality:
Jeff Kolodjay, one of the passengers, said that after take-off they had heard a bang and the plane filled with smoke from the left engine. "It was pretty scary, man. We got out by the luck of God. I take my hat off to the pilot – it was incredible we all made it off alive." (The Guardian, 16/01/09)
Well, come on sonny, make your mind up: was it the Great Almighty that saved "yo' ass", or the fucking pilot?
In God we trust.
Friday, 16 January 2009
Tuesday, 13 January 2009
... I'd package it in paper wrapping
The recession is getting worse by the day and City-workers are losing their jobs all over the shop: but - as far as I can tell using the Guardian-Website from 500 miles away, London still seems to be doing OK:
"McDonald's topped the litter list in Newcastle, Leicester and Birmingham, while Greggs packaging was most often found to have been discarded in Manchester, Leeds, Market Harborough, Bristol and Weston-super-Mare.
In Sheffield KFC was the most branded rubbish, while in London coffee cups from a mixture of brands accounted for most litter. Unbranded wrappings from fish and chip shops or burger outlets caused most problems in Liverpool."
Tuesday, 9 December 2008
... I'd make it Christmassy
"Es weihnachtet schon sehr..." is an opener you'll read in almost any food-, beauty- or lifestyle-related article in Germany at the moment. Translated in an uncomplicated manner, it means: "It's beginning to look a lot like Christmas..."
But it's worth noting that this sentence is making use of what is essentially a verb you could literally translate as "to christmas". It's a sign that Germans are quite a festive lot when it comes to yuletide: people spend so much time talking about it that they need a verb to describe the slow transformation that comes over German cities from the end of November onwards.
Lights in trees on high-streets; Christmas markets in every conceivable place with cauldrons of broiling punches and mulled wine; chocolate, biscuit and cakes until you want to chuck up. In the crisp midday air or in the icy night dark, there's something about Germany in December that just screams "Christmas".
Well, in fact, it proudly announces "Christmas". "Screaming Christmas" is what London and New York do. Loudly.
But it's worth noting that this sentence is making use of what is essentially a verb you could literally translate as "to christmas". It's a sign that Germans are quite a festive lot when it comes to yuletide: people spend so much time talking about it that they need a verb to describe the slow transformation that comes over German cities from the end of November onwards.
Lights in trees on high-streets; Christmas markets in every conceivable place with cauldrons of broiling punches and mulled wine; chocolate, biscuit and cakes until you want to chuck up. In the crisp midday air or in the icy night dark, there's something about Germany in December that just screams "Christmas".
Well, in fact, it proudly announces "Christmas". "Screaming Christmas" is what London and New York do. Loudly.
Wednesday, 3 December 2008
... I'd give it two (or possibly more) homes
Last week I was at home for the first time since August. Then again - at the risk of getting lost in one the clichéd questions of ex-patriate life - where is "home"?
Now, before we go any further, I promise not to keep using quotation marks to talk about "home". Honest injun.
Now, er, where was I?
Yes, so where is "home"? Er, sorry - home?
Some ideas: most prosiacally, a place you have the keys to; or perhaps a place where you start and end journies; or - and this runs contrary to the first suggestion - a place where you used to live, where you were once at home, the previous stop on the journey of life, the place to which you cannot really ever return.
Last year, home was certainly London. Everywhere else I had lived, I had got along fine, made lots of friends, felt "at home". But I always picked up and left after a pre-defined length of time. This peripatetic lifestyle continued this year: Dortmund, two months; Münster, two months; Düsseldorf, six months.
Yet, unusually, I went from place to place without returning to London. I didn't get to "go home" in between, so home slowly became the place from which I had moved, the place that disappeared and where I occasionally returned to a warm welcome and to awake memories of an already distant seeming past. Home became less London and more wherever. It became a mixture of London, Paris, Hamburg, Marseille, Dortmund, Münster: anywhere where I could remember living.
So it was that, whilst in Düsseldorf, the closest I got to "returning home" was kipping on the floor of the flat I'd lived in in Münster for a mere six weeks in early spring. It's amazing what travelling can do: as soon as I was in Düsseldorf - no more than 75 miles south of Münster - the small student city got filed into my memory as a home, a place I had warm, fuzzy memories of and to where I knew I would always go back. It's like, in my mind, the Münster folder got mixed up with my last year of school 2003, with Oxford in 2006/7, and feels sometimes just as distant: probably because I had a lot of fun there and felt good.
And now Hamburg, always the destinantion on this long tramp through North-Western Germany, is definitely home. It fulfills all the criteria: I have a set of keys here which I shall have for some time; for the foreseable future, my journies will start and end here; and, because I've lived here before, there is still a home I can never go back to. And I couldn't be happier about Hamburg being home.
And yet, and yet... As soon as I was back in London last week, I felt instantly at home. My room had changed slightly, but I feel confident of leaving stuff there and returning to find it. I still have my keys. In England, my various journeys last week all started and ended there, too. And there are periods of time, states of mind, experiences I've had there to which I can never return.
So I really do think it is possible to have two homes; or perhaps more. If I were to ever be able to afford a pied-à-terre in Paris, for example, it would fulfill all the criteria, too.
Before, I assumed that, even living abroad long-term, home would always be this mythical place where I grew up, had my formative experiences, cried my most bitter tears and laughedmy hardest laughs. But bitterer tears and harder laughs have yet to come, and I've had them in several countries in several situations.
Eating poultry in a small studio in North-Western Paris, the autumn approaching and Kanye West's Late Registration playing in the background. Walking through the forest in Reinbek near Hamburg in the snow. Feeling sweat collect in my belly button on the burning sand in Marseille. Serving a full Christmas meal to a pack of hungry students in Oxford. Drinking coffee with my mum, my feet up on the sofa in London. Smoking unfiltered Colombian cigarettes in Münster. The smell of my godmother's laundy powder in Solingen. The sound of seagulls at my grandmother's house in Hythe as she served me ginger nuts in bed...
All experiences that, when I think about it for more than two seconds, are called into my memory by the word home. But when I think about it for one second.
But when I'm going "home" now, I'm always going back to London, or back to Hamburg.
Now, before we go any further, I promise not to keep using quotation marks to talk about "home". Honest injun.
Now, er, where was I?
Yes, so where is "home"? Er, sorry - home?
Some ideas: most prosiacally, a place you have the keys to; or perhaps a place where you start and end journies; or - and this runs contrary to the first suggestion - a place where you used to live, where you were once at home, the previous stop on the journey of life, the place to which you cannot really ever return.
Last year, home was certainly London. Everywhere else I had lived, I had got along fine, made lots of friends, felt "at home". But I always picked up and left after a pre-defined length of time. This peripatetic lifestyle continued this year: Dortmund, two months; Münster, two months; Düsseldorf, six months.
Yet, unusually, I went from place to place without returning to London. I didn't get to "go home" in between, so home slowly became the place from which I had moved, the place that disappeared and where I occasionally returned to a warm welcome and to awake memories of an already distant seeming past. Home became less London and more wherever. It became a mixture of London, Paris, Hamburg, Marseille, Dortmund, Münster: anywhere where I could remember living.
So it was that, whilst in Düsseldorf, the closest I got to "returning home" was kipping on the floor of the flat I'd lived in in Münster for a mere six weeks in early spring. It's amazing what travelling can do: as soon as I was in Düsseldorf - no more than 75 miles south of Münster - the small student city got filed into my memory as a home, a place I had warm, fuzzy memories of and to where I knew I would always go back. It's like, in my mind, the Münster folder got mixed up with my last year of school 2003, with Oxford in 2006/7, and feels sometimes just as distant: probably because I had a lot of fun there and felt good.
And now Hamburg, always the destinantion on this long tramp through North-Western Germany, is definitely home. It fulfills all the criteria: I have a set of keys here which I shall have for some time; for the foreseable future, my journies will start and end here; and, because I've lived here before, there is still a home I can never go back to. And I couldn't be happier about Hamburg being home.
And yet, and yet... As soon as I was back in London last week, I felt instantly at home. My room had changed slightly, but I feel confident of leaving stuff there and returning to find it. I still have my keys. In England, my various journeys last week all started and ended there, too. And there are periods of time, states of mind, experiences I've had there to which I can never return.
So I really do think it is possible to have two homes; or perhaps more. If I were to ever be able to afford a pied-à-terre in Paris, for example, it would fulfill all the criteria, too.
Before, I assumed that, even living abroad long-term, home would always be this mythical place where I grew up, had my formative experiences, cried my most bitter tears and laughedmy hardest laughs. But bitterer tears and harder laughs have yet to come, and I've had them in several countries in several situations.
Eating poultry in a small studio in North-Western Paris, the autumn approaching and Kanye West's Late Registration playing in the background. Walking through the forest in Reinbek near Hamburg in the snow. Feeling sweat collect in my belly button on the burning sand in Marseille. Serving a full Christmas meal to a pack of hungry students in Oxford. Drinking coffee with my mum, my feet up on the sofa in London. Smoking unfiltered Colombian cigarettes in Münster. The smell of my godmother's laundy powder in Solingen. The sound of seagulls at my grandmother's house in Hythe as she served me ginger nuts in bed...
All experiences that, when I think about it for more than two seconds, are called into my memory by the word home. But when I think about it for one second.
But when I'm going "home" now, I'm always going back to London, or back to Hamburg.
Friday, 21 November 2008
... I'd feed it 3830 kcal per day
"Brian, are you really going to eat all of that?" My colleague looks mildly shocked.
"Well, I was planning to, yes. Why, do you want some?"
"No, not at all. I only asked because of the sheer quantity."
I take a look at my corner of the table. There's a steaming bowl of stew, a large hunk of bread and two cheese rolls with salad. It doesn't look like all that much to me; but then again, Petra is quite thin, and shorter than me. Everything is relative.
"Do you eat like that every day, then?" Since it's winter, I kind of do: stews, mash, root vegetables, fatty cuts of meat. And then a few cheese rolls because the bread and cheese out here is just too good to pass up.
"And what do you eat for breakfast and dinner? A lot less, I take it?"
"Er, well, for dinner, I eat roughly the same. Usually some kind of meat of egg dish with loads of potatoes or grains. Breakfast is either muesli or, now that it's got colder, porridge."
"Jesus christ, that's a lot of food."
*
"So Brian, your job for this afternoon. We're doing this Christmas diet special. We've worked out the recipes so that our readers eat 250 calories per meal, three meals a day. They're allowed an extra 250 calories' worth of Christmas treats - you've got to work out what they can eat for 250 calories. You know, Lebkuchen, apple strudel, cinamon snaps..."
"You mean you're asking our readers to survive on 1000 calories a day?"
"Yep."
"That's mental. I know they're all women, but don't they need, like, 2000 calories a day normally?"
"Yep. But they want to lose weight. That's the point."
"Hmm. If you asked me to live on 1000, even on 2000 calories a day, I'd tell you to stick it. They'll be in a terrible mood, the poor things. We could be ruining people's Christmases here!"
"Yeah but... whaddya gonna do? Anyway, just how many calories do you eat a day?"
"Don't know. Never counted, but I'd say I'm comfortably above the recommended 2500 for men. Probably over 3000."
"Well why don't you use our computer program to find out?"
*
"3830 calories?! Wow! That's astonishing? What do you eat...?"
"Porridge with honey and full fat milk, an apple, coffee. More coffee mid-morning, then a plate of stew with bread and a couple of cheese rolls. Then a tea mid-afternoon, and then dinner. As an example I used fried fish with potatoes, celeriac puree and cabbage and bacon with one beer and a small square of dark chocolate afterwards. Of course, I sometimes get talked into eating a slice or two of cake - although that's usually when I'm out and about all weekend - and sometimes drink more than just one beer, or than just one glass of wine."
"Well then, you should take a look at the Christmas menu we're publishing next week. There are more than 4000 calories available there..."
"Well, I was planning to, yes. Why, do you want some?"
"No, not at all. I only asked because of the sheer quantity."
I take a look at my corner of the table. There's a steaming bowl of stew, a large hunk of bread and two cheese rolls with salad. It doesn't look like all that much to me; but then again, Petra is quite thin, and shorter than me. Everything is relative.
"Do you eat like that every day, then?" Since it's winter, I kind of do: stews, mash, root vegetables, fatty cuts of meat. And then a few cheese rolls because the bread and cheese out here is just too good to pass up.
"And what do you eat for breakfast and dinner? A lot less, I take it?"
"Er, well, for dinner, I eat roughly the same. Usually some kind of meat of egg dish with loads of potatoes or grains. Breakfast is either muesli or, now that it's got colder, porridge."
"Jesus christ, that's a lot of food."
*
"So Brian, your job for this afternoon. We're doing this Christmas diet special. We've worked out the recipes so that our readers eat 250 calories per meal, three meals a day. They're allowed an extra 250 calories' worth of Christmas treats - you've got to work out what they can eat for 250 calories. You know, Lebkuchen, apple strudel, cinamon snaps..."
"You mean you're asking our readers to survive on 1000 calories a day?"
"Yep."
"That's mental. I know they're all women, but don't they need, like, 2000 calories a day normally?"
"Yep. But they want to lose weight. That's the point."
"Hmm. If you asked me to live on 1000, even on 2000 calories a day, I'd tell you to stick it. They'll be in a terrible mood, the poor things. We could be ruining people's Christmases here!"
"Yeah but... whaddya gonna do? Anyway, just how many calories do you eat a day?"
"Don't know. Never counted, but I'd say I'm comfortably above the recommended 2500 for men. Probably over 3000."
"Well why don't you use our computer program to find out?"
*
"3830 calories?! Wow! That's astonishing? What do you eat...?"
"Porridge with honey and full fat milk, an apple, coffee. More coffee mid-morning, then a plate of stew with bread and a couple of cheese rolls. Then a tea mid-afternoon, and then dinner. As an example I used fried fish with potatoes, celeriac puree and cabbage and bacon with one beer and a small square of dark chocolate afterwards. Of course, I sometimes get talked into eating a slice or two of cake - although that's usually when I'm out and about all weekend - and sometimes drink more than just one beer, or than just one glass of wine."
"Well then, you should take a look at the Christmas menu we're publishing next week. There are more than 4000 calories available there..."
Tuesday, 18 November 2008
... I'd find it a flat
1. October 2003: My room in London - first room in Oxford
2. December 2003: Oxford - London
3. January 2004: London - Oxford
4. March 2004: Oxford - London
5. April 2004: London - Oxford
6. June 2004: Oxford - London
7. October 2004: London - second room in Oxford
8. December 2004: Oxford - London
9. January 2005: London - Oxford
10. March 2005: Oxford - London
11. April 2005: London - Oxford
12. June 2005: Oxford - London
13. June 2005: London - Paris
14. December 2005: Paris - London
15. January 2006: London - first room in Hamburg
16. June 2006: Hamburg - Marseille
17. September 2006: Marseille - London
18. October 2006: My room in London - third room in Oxford
19. December 2006: Oxford - London
20. January 2007: London - Oxford
21. March 2007: Oxford - London
22. April 2007: London - Oxford
23. June 2007: Oxford - London
24. January 2008: London - Dortmund
25. February 2008: Dortmund - Münster
26. April 2008: Münster - Düsseldorf
27. September 2008: Düsseldorf - second room in Hamburg
28. November 2008: second room in Hamburg to third room in Hamburg.
5 years, 2 months - or 60 months - and 28 moves. That's little more than two months stay in any one place on average.
And now I have a huge room with a balcony and view over Hamburg in a cool flatshare in a cool part of town. And I don't have to move out any time soon.
I might conceivably be here for more than a year, might experience an entire cycle of sunrises and sunsets, of leaves unfurling, rusting and falling, of root vegetables, fruits and squashes in one place. Might be able to acquire things that I don't actually need without wondering how I'm going to ship them.
It's like breathing out after a long, long time holding your breath. Like reaching the end of a 25 meter swimming pool after swimming under water.
Not that I didn't enjoy the swimming, not that my lungs didn't prickle and burn with life and power.
But it will be nice to breath easily again. For who knows how long.
2. December 2003: Oxford - London
3. January 2004: London - Oxford
4. March 2004: Oxford - London
5. April 2004: London - Oxford
6. June 2004: Oxford - London
7. October 2004: London - second room in Oxford
8. December 2004: Oxford - London
9. January 2005: London - Oxford
10. March 2005: Oxford - London
11. April 2005: London - Oxford
12. June 2005: Oxford - London
13. June 2005: London - Paris
14. December 2005: Paris - London
15. January 2006: London - first room in Hamburg
16. June 2006: Hamburg - Marseille
17. September 2006: Marseille - London
18. October 2006: My room in London - third room in Oxford
19. December 2006: Oxford - London
20. January 2007: London - Oxford
21. March 2007: Oxford - London
22. April 2007: London - Oxford
23. June 2007: Oxford - London
24. January 2008: London - Dortmund
25. February 2008: Dortmund - Münster
26. April 2008: Münster - Düsseldorf
27. September 2008: Düsseldorf - second room in Hamburg
28. November 2008: second room in Hamburg to third room in Hamburg.
5 years, 2 months - or 60 months - and 28 moves. That's little more than two months stay in any one place on average.
And now I have a huge room with a balcony and view over Hamburg in a cool flatshare in a cool part of town. And I don't have to move out any time soon.
I might conceivably be here for more than a year, might experience an entire cycle of sunrises and sunsets, of leaves unfurling, rusting and falling, of root vegetables, fruits and squashes in one place. Might be able to acquire things that I don't actually need without wondering how I'm going to ship them.
It's like breathing out after a long, long time holding your breath. Like reaching the end of a 25 meter swimming pool after swimming under water.
Not that I didn't enjoy the swimming, not that my lungs didn't prickle and burn with life and power.
But it will be nice to breath easily again. For who knows how long.
Wednesday, 12 November 2008
... I'd sell it in America
"For years, journalists and other economic worrywarts have been predicting a serious slump in consumer spending, and it did not happen. 'Never underestimate the American consumer,' as a Wall Street cliché puts it. Like most clichés, this one has some truth to it. Even before its recent housing-fueled boom, consumer spending was a bigger part of the American economy than of, say, the French or German economy. Americans like to buy things, and they also don’t tend to stay pessimistic for long."
There was me feeling constant long-term guilt for relying in my thinking on sweeping assumptions about American consumer society.
Well, now we have it confirmed from the New York Times, people. Stereotype to your hearts' content!
There was me feeling constant long-term guilt for relying in my thinking on sweeping assumptions about American consumer society.
Well, now we have it confirmed from the New York Times, people. Stereotype to your hearts' content!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
