Further On

Inner Geek Less than Gruntled by Amazon

2010-07-14T23:20:00.009+01:00

So, if you hadn't heard or otherwise ascertained, my own little pet obsession lies in the vein of vintage farm tractors. I have over 100 1/16 scale die cast models, and a whole smattering of 1/32, 1/43, and 1/64, just to round out the collection. Every 2 weeks I receive a magazine on farming history that comes with a 1/43 (figure, 3" long) replica of the model concerned within the covers.

Agrogeek is the term I have penned.

And I have accepted this. I inherited the disease from my mother's father, who, like me, would have a different vintage tractor to drive for every day of the year, if funds allowed. That not being the case for either of us, we collect die cast replicas. I haven't seen him in about a year and a half, having been overseas, but on one of the last occasions that we shared a Mountain Dew (which, dadblastit, ain't for sale in the UK) on the front porch, we jointly lamented the amount of literature available to such agrogeeks as ourselves. (Though, at the time, the term didn't exist)

The problem, as he put it, was finding a book on tractors that didn't know less than ourselves. To clarify: I had recently purchased a book entitled "The Complete History of Farm Tractors" by Merco de Cet. By the time I gave up reading it, not even halfway through, I had managed to fill every inch of blank space inside both covers with information he'd left out: models, brands, dates, facts, et cetera. I was incensed. While the casual, less acquainted non-agrogeek can be placated with any of the coffee table offerings for sale at your local international literary retail chain, goofballs like me need encyclopaedias of facts, libraries at our finger tips, enough photographs to wallpaper a barn.

So, imagine my joy when I learned that there was a book published in '04 (pronounced ot-four, just for the fun of it) entitled "The BIG Book of Massey Tractors: The Complete History of Massey-Harris and Massey-Ferguson Tractors... Plus Collectibles, Sales Memorabilia, and Brochures"!!

Incidentally, I DO know that this is my most boring blog ever. Bear with me, the rant begins shortly.

Now, aforementioned book only had one printing run, and as such is hard to come by. On Amazon, it tends to run over $130. So, when I saw a used hardback copy for about 40 bucks, I bought it. Here, for those who haven't navigated elsewhere, is what I expected to see when I opened the package that duly arrived 3 weeks later from (ostensibly) the Atlanta Book Company:

Imagine, then, if you naively think that you possibly can, the inner turmoil and betrayal I felt when I opened a package from Auburn Books of Auburn, Washington to find this paperback:

Now, as it happens, I used to be quite the Coca-Cola enthusiast. Somewhere, in some barn or shed in Northwest Arkansas, are stacks of boxes full of my Coca-Cola collection. I will read the book, but EGAD! Surely you can see the lack of similarities between the 2 books. I can see three words in common: the, history, and collectibles. And, as my purchase went thru on Amazon.co.uk, using the name 'Atlanta' on one's international shop front rather convinces the party of the second part that your company is located in Georgia. How in the world some company in Washington cottoned on to the idea of sending me a paperback on Coca-Cola in lieu of the hardback on Massey Harris that I expected to arrive from Georgia is enough to make me blog in a blind fury.

Welcome to my world.

2 Years On

2010-06-09T20:49:00.008+01:00

Howdy.

Been awhile, ain't it? In the blip between this post and the one below it, my wife and I have gotten pregnant twice, and now have 2 healthy, amply-lunged children. Perhaps you can ascertain why I've been a bit retiscent.

But professionals don't apologize, so, preparatorially aspirational, I'll not either.

Instead, merely as a matter of getting the old literary cogs oiled again, I'll tell you about my favourite bandana. If I had the time and skill, I'd scan it in as a photo and utilise it for the wallpaper of this particular bit of text. I have neither, but, again, not apologizing. We all have to learn to cope sometimes, and sometimes coping means lowering expectations. Remind me sometime to tell you the joys and benefits of lowered expectations.

My favourite bandana is red (tho, of course, it so easily could've been blue) and paisley-patterned. It looks like most of the other ones I've got crammed in the bandana basket, until you unfold it and see the oilstains obtained while doing emergency maintenance on my 78 Volkswagen Rabbit.

You'd have to check with my navigating Hobbit as to when this was; it could've been during KFH in June '06, which seems most likely, but,being June, was a bit early on in the year. I say this because I know the next time I saw the rag was when, at the late-August demolition derby of whatever year is in question, the Hobbit and I were sharing a barbecued turkey leg (to be followed by a funnel cake, obviously), and his reply to the query ,"Where'd you get the bandana you've wrapped this here turkey leg in?" was "Out of the rabbit's trunk, in that upside-down frisbee." If it had been washed, I certainly hadn't done it.

It has, of course, been washed now, frequently even, but the turkey fat and valvoline synthetic still shine dully proud.

Any rate, Ill be in touch.

A Bit of Sense, Unexpectedly...

2008-03-16T18:19:00.003Z

I have, you may or may not know, an absurd affinity for tractors. Especially old ones. Particularly old ones with the name 'Massey' on them. When I was a kid, my grandfather had two tractors. A 1963 Massey Ferguson 35 Diesel, and a late 70s Massey Ferguson 265. My first hat was red mesh with an 'MF' logo patch on the front that he'd been given when he bought the 265. Somewhere there is, or was, in existence a polaroid snapshot of me, two years old and shirtless, sitting on the driver's seat of that tractor, wearing massive plastic sunglasses, because it was 1984 and I was 2 and such seemed cool to me, and a blue bandana around my neck because I had a slight drooling problem. I remember riding on the 265's rear fenders, flying down the road from our house to the cattle pasture, much to my mother's consternation.

For a few years, my grandfather owned a late '40s John Deere Model A Tricycle (tricycle referring to the front wheel set up, not the size of the machine). My uncle Moe had a 1970s John Deere. The 265 was eventually traded for a big 1594 Case made in the mid-80s, the 35 sold on and replaced by a Massey Ferguson 245. It was this one that I always worked with around the farm. The Case, in its turn, was traded for a John Deere 5300, which he still has, along with the 245, another 1963 MF 35 (bought together with the previous one, this was his dad's, my great-grandfather's, and my wife and I left our marriage blessing riding this machine a few months ago). Just for fun, my grandfather's also bought a 1956 John Deere 320, and a 1959 JD 630.

Between the 2 of us, we've given up on buying books about tractors (they are available, and regular sellers at all the best book shops, don't laugh), because we tend to have compounded more knowledge than even the books that are erroneously titled as 'complete.' We like tractors. He has a model collection of about 50 1/16 scale tractors; I have about 80.

That's because I went to work for John Deere, and all of a sudden, model collecting got easier. Consequently, most of mine are green, and I can quote John Deere company history as if it were my own. Yes, I agree, it is sick.

When I interviewed for the position at our local John Deere Dealership, the man who went on to become my boss said, "Well, you're certainly qualified, but I've got to ask, Why do you WANT the job?" Because, at the time, I'd just completed my Bachelor's Degree in Creative Writing. I want to be an author, after all. Going to work selling repair parts for broken down John Deere tractors and implements isn't particularly en route to publication.

You wouldn't think.

Such was the conversation my wife and I were having about 6 weeks ago, as I was reading one of my monthly tractor magazines (there are more published than you might expect.) Her exact words were, "It's too bad you can't find a position writing about tractors. That would sort everything out." Indeed it would, but I'd already tried contacting my favourite publications, and no one was hiring. I am actually, because I'm anal, proofreading, post-publication, an alleged 'Complete Encyclopedia of Farm Tractors,' because it isn't. So far, I've found 19 brands that have been left out, and the wording throughout is horrendous. I'm correcting it in red pen and posting it back to the publisher. I know, I know, I'm sick.

When, lo and behold, jumped off the page an advertisement for this year’s Guild of Agricultural Journalists/John Deere Training Award-- a week-long, intensive Journalism Course run by a company I'm quite familiar with, training and qualifying only 10 souls per year for the hitherto unattainable table land of farming publication. I duly applied, and was notified last week of my acceptance to the course, much to mine and Katie's elation. I'll take the train down to Nottingham, of all places, in just under 2 weeks, where I'll spend the first half of the course, before being sent out over the latter half on an actual assignment. This means, theoretically, that in less than a month, I should actually be a published writer.

So, why Should an aspiring author apply for a job selling tractor parts? I've no idea. It's just what I wanted to do. All roads have their strange winds and bends...

Recommendations for Restless Feet

2008-03-01T22:35:00.000Z

Well, it seemed strange to carry on a dialogue with ol' JW in the comments page on the previous post, in the event we either of us said something serendipitous that anyone else might benefit from, so, here's the answer I was going to give him:

Thuggery. Two G's.

But, more importantly, as to wherever to wander and wherever to roam, be it elegant or humble, as you're searching for home...

I love the UK. Scotland, obviously, has won me over (due in part to the efforts and emotions of one particular soul), but there's still enough black porter in my blood to feel a commonality whenever I hear genuine Irish music, or see a camera pan across the cliffs and fields of Eirann. The British Isles truly are gorgeous. If you ever find yourself on the northern side of the big one, call me...

I once hiked through the Austrian Alps from Innsbruck, heading towards Brenner Pass/Brenero, Italia. I didn't make it. I got 40% of the way there and crashed at a little place that I'm not even going to mention the name of, lest enough people read this to make it a tourist spot and ruin its gentle beauty. You can ask how to get there, and if I think you'll value the place enough, I'll tell ye. Alternately, look at a map of central Europe. Find Innsbruck, Austria (near the Swiss and Italian borders), then find Brenner Pass/Brenero, ON the Italian border, and draw a little arc through any of the places about 2/5 of the way from Innsbruck heading south. Any of them should be fine. Let me know which you pick.

The Balkan States, southeastern Europe, are gorgeous, and generally warmer than my locale. Montenegro, the Jewel of the Adriatic, is still near the top of my list of places to discover. Slovakia, though all I saw of it was Bratislava-- ignore the movie Hostel entirely-- was a genuinely friendly place, and realllllly cheap, as of a year and a half ago. Most of southeastern Europe has not adopted the Euro yet, and the exchange rates are phenomenal. All of a sudden, eating out became an affordable option again. There's a little cafe in Budapest, Hungary that I still have a receipt for that do a red lentil and pork shoulder stew that could make the trip worthwhile on its own.

If you've done Europe, try Thailand. I read in the paper about 3 years ago (so, figure in demand and inflation) that for about 50 bucks (£25), an elephant could be hired for a private tour of the jungles of Northern Thailand. For three days you just meander through, eating with the villagers and forest nomads that don't belong to any particular nation, merely the soil and the trees you'll find them amongst. Take some stomach capsules along, just in case.

If you're in North America, there's already enough to see. At this point, I've only been to 30 US states- all of those east of the Mississippi save Wisconsin and Michigan. The Canadian Rockies, particularly the Banff area, north of Montana, I believe, is apparently gorgeous beyond description. Be that as it may, I prefer the Appalachians, and the eastern side of the continent. This past summer I finally got to fulfill the dream of taking a road trip thru the Adirondacks, and it was everything I could've hoped for. I only wish I'd had more time. The same can be said for Maine, but if you're thinking of going there, contact SOMEONE in the state first and ask what pest season they're in the middle of, before you go. On that same trip, I passed through Boston about Breakfast time, and, wanting to support the local economy, was in search of a good mom-and-pop shop to dine in, but couldn't find one. As I was stuck in traffic, I just looked for a truck that appeared to belong to a working man-- the kind of feller that pours concrete, builds cabinets, or demolishes things. I found one almost immediately, and hollered thru our open windows and four lanes of traffic what I was after, and he responded, "Get in behind me by the next light-- I'll take you exactly where you want to go, and it'll be right near the interstate when you're done." It was a meandering path to find the place, but sure enough, there was a little cafe that still looked like it did when it was built during Prohibition, run by an immigrant Greek and his wife, who were some of the friendliest folk I've met, save the chap that introduced me to them. I wanted, on that trip, to cross over into Canada and see Prince Edward Island-- also top of the list-- but alas, as always, there wasn't enough time.

I still recommend the Great American Road Trip as one of the greatest adventures to be had. Pick some obscure festival or occurrence and take the most extensive, least time-efficient route to get there. (Katie and I went to the National Farm Toy Show in Iowa last November, and turned a 9 hour drive each way into about 30 hours driving. We recommend Traer, Iowa for those looking for the quintessential American small town, and the Pizza Ranch in Independence, Iowa. Have 'The Prairie'.)

Drive the Blue Ridge Parkway, particularly around Boone, NC. I think that's about mile marker 300, give or take a dozen. Be sure and drive over the Linnville Falls (or Gorge?) Viaduct around Grandfather Mountain. Go to the visitors' center and be impressed by the magnitude over what technology just allowed you to do.

Find a local swimming hole and go skinny dipping at sunset. Heck, this is March. It's windy. Fly a kite. Eat local. Join a harvesting circuit. I still wish I'd done that when I had the chance.

Go outside and do something. On purpose.
Jake, come visit.
Love y'all.
Jeffro

Reflections of a Restless Mind

2008-02-27T04:46:00.000Z

I can go to the pub of an evening and have 2 pints (that's a quart, one quarter of a gallon) of 5.5% alcohol content Cider, beautiful cider, and not feel remotely tipsy.

Should I choose to drink something a bit more refined, 2 glasses of red wine, quaffed quickly enough, will make me smile more than normal, from about halfway through the second glass. To be fair, the only time this has happened, Katie and I were out with her folks, and I'd been drinking too slowly and had to take down the second glass lightning quick as we were heading out.

I had 12 ounces (12 freaking ounces! that's 3/4 of a pint) of coffee, with milk, at 3.30 yesterday afternoon. 12.5 hours later, it's 5 a.m. and I haven't yet been to sleep, save for maybe 2 or 3 imperceptible dozes.

Freaking Crap.

While we're on the subject of my wonderful metabolic processes, we had orange sweet peppers (capsicums) in our dinner tonite. I love the taste of peppers. Fried, grilled, with onions and meat or on their own with other veg, I love peppers. My stomach and I disagree harshly on this point. Sometime late, late today, a fair 24 hours after eating them, the lower half of my torso will raise its angry little argument. 24 hours.

If I go for an exhausting bike ride, or go work out at the gym (don't laugh, there was a time), at any point on any given day, I will feel fine the next day. Not a trace of soreness. I feel it the day after the day after though, and usually with accrued interest.

And, to top it all off, ridiculous me, I can be happier than any one person has right to be, and say nothing about it, but give me 30 seconds of discomfort, and I'll feel a desperately urgent need to broadcast it to the masses...

Y'all have a great day.
Multiple drowsy smiles,
Jeffro

This is this post's Second Title

2008-01-17T20:54:00.000Z

I write a poem every December. It's not a conscious thing, or it hadn't been up till now-- I'd given up on poetry while at the University of Arkansas, in the Creative Writing program, upon the advice of one of my instructors that pursuing poetry might deprive my significantly stronger prose talents from due attention. I wasn't going to make it as a poet, in other words. Not that I'm claiming any fortune from any other sort of writing...

Any rate, I tend to get random bursts of poetic inspiration here and there, but it seems that I only ever write any worth repeating, or even completing, in the month of December. So, having not written poetry in over 2 years, I wrote a bit of verse of near epic proportions (by my own standards) in December of '05 about my travelling companions with Topdeck Tours, mostly Australian, whom I travelled most of western Europe with in the course of 3 weeks. I repeated the feat to a lesser degree in December of '06 after skipping around the Republic of Ireland for a week with a different busload of Aussies, and I think I posted this one last year. Imagine my surprise then when I felt an undeniable urge for verse about 6 weeks ago. I should've posted this then, when it was still fresh, but...well...didn't. I'm like that, unfortunately.

*as yet untitled* (because everything I come up with sounds pretentious)

There's a closet where I like to sit
a place of calm and spectral visits.
Once inside, on one to three I wait,
depending on the opening of the gate.
David Bowie's always the first,
and looking 30 years younger, none-the-worst--
Robert Deniro stretches in relaxation;
They're surprisingly jovial in our visitations.
But lastly, thirdly, sometimes, a small jock
whose brushed up talent and bedeckled smock
enable entirely all my mingled sensations.

We talk of geography, travel, effects of beer--
whether that's the new cinnamon candle I hear,
(at which, frowning, the young boy's doubts are said-
he whose war stories hang forever overhead).
Avoiding the storm, the litte black dour dowager
weaves past thistles and into the shower.
I stand, satisfied, from our far-flung debate,
and pass my own way out of the gate.
But there they three stay until I return
and we resume the object that has been adjourned
to gladly unsling any unwanted weight.

******

If you're looking for sense, you'll probably come up dry. Katie knows what I'm writing about, and my cousin Cody might, by accident, without realising it...

Y'all have a great day.
-and rememember-
Life is enjoyed most when you're laughing. Laugh hard, laugh often, and think of me.

PS- I never claimed to be a GOOD poet...

Public Service Announcement

2008-01-13T20:18:00.000Z

First, a couple of pictures:

This was taken just after our marriage ceremony at the Lothian Chamber (government office in Edinburgh), walking down the Royal Mile, the old high street of Edinburgh, towards the John Knox house and Scottish Storytelling Museum, wherein we had our reception. You may not be able to see too well, but Katie's boots are of the same tartan as my kilt: the Galbraith, that of her mother's family.

And this is us at home a day or so later, recovering.

Any rate, as hinted above, your Public Service Announcement for 13 January, 2008:

The United Kingdom Highway Code Number 206 states:

Drive carefully and slowly when [among other things] turning at road junctions; GIVE WAY TO PEDESTRIANS WHO ARE ALREADY CROSSING THE ROAD INTO WHICH YOU ARE TURNING [emphasis mine].

I offer up this bit of British legalia in response to an occasion underwent this evening by my self and spouse.

After an evening out with some friends, my poorly sighted self was escorting home my legally documented visually impaired, registered partly-sighted wife, when we were ignored crossing a road junction by first a middle-aged man in a large, dark blue or green estate (station wagon), and then quite nearly taken out by his daughter, following along in her silver Renault. She may've indicated she was turning into the lane we were currently navigating the exact middle of, but as her speed had not been decreased for the maneuver, we didn't have time to notice. I'd assumed she would stop and give us the right of way, and was quite surprised when I realised she had no inclination of the sort. Katie didn't see her until the car's headlights were reflecting off my glasses and the neat little nylon bits on my shoes, at which point, the vehicle was so close, that I swung the bag I was carrying out of the way, and kicked my forward leg up as a very meager means of defense. Even my enormous shoes wouldn't've stood up to the momentum hurtling towards us.

We were missed, but only just, and the look of angry incredulity on part of the driver was almost laughable. I was still in something akin to shock, having never been mown down by a Renault Clio 1.8 before, a block later, when a vaguely familiar estate wagon pulled in front of us blowing his horn. I asked if we could help, and he immediately launched into an attack of my assault on the car that had been following him (no relationship mentioned as yet). At this point, I let Katie, who has memorised statute 206, take over. He argued his point, saying it was WE who needed to go home and read the highway codes, and eventually drove off in a self-righteous, lower class huff. We'd scarcely recovered that disagreement when the silver Clio pulled up and demanded "Did my dad stop and talk to you? Am I going to get an apology?" which brought a laugh out of myself, leading her to recant her version of her father's irate and insulted, if somehow less intelligent, argument. Katie again assumed control of the inquest, stating clearly from 206. This was met by an ill-chosen expletive, which we laughed at, far worsening the mood of our automotive assailant, who drove off in a similar rage.

So, lest you have any similar incidents, let me state once more, British Highway Code 206: Drive carefully and slowly when turning at road junctions; GIVE WAY TO PEDESTRIANS WHO ARE ALREADY CROSSING THE ROAD INTO WHICH YOU ARE TURNING [emphasis, again, mine].

On lighter notes:

My wife asks I issue a further statement related to the anecdote recorded above, that all Scottish women are not so ill-bred as to hurl expletives thru lowered car windows at wronged and innocent pedestrians. Quite a lot of them, my favourite one included, are outstanding, honourable members of society.

Even lighterly, a specific howdy to my buddy WillieJake- d'ye know that it was 2 years ago today, if not yesterday, that we met in a hostel in Barcelona? You're response to "Where're y'all from?" ("Florrrrda") is still one of the sweetest greetings my ears've ever heard.

The other night, Katie and I were watching a recorded live set by one of our favourite English comedians, Bill Bailey (standard guest on "Never Mind the Buzzcocks", starred as 'Manny' in the BBC comedy series 'Black Books.). One of his bits included picking on books and television shows with titles along the lines of "1,000 Things or Places to See or Do Before You Die"... not so much as while you're alive, but certainly BEFORE you die. His point was that perhaps we're telling time in the wrong direction.

Which, as you might suspect of me with my soapbox blogging style, got me to thinking...

Great things tend to happen, it seems to me, while you're purposely living, not so much as when in the expectation of demise. You'll be happier when you're trying to be, than when you're worrying about your personal stopwatch.

One of the greatest memories of our married life thus far for Katie and I occurred at our wedding reception, about 7 hours into marital bliss. The meal had been eaten, a great many of the guests had already left, and those still present were clumped in small groups exchanging memories and exaggerations, or playing dominoes. We had an iPod linked into the cafe's sound system, and the song currently playing dawned on the whole group in the sort of way that 19 or 20 people would all notice a fresh breeze-- not simultaneous, but nearly. And, one by one, almost the entire room began singing together to Roger Miller's "King of the Road." Roger was my grandmother's cousin, so it's always been a favourite of my family, it's certainly a favourite of Katie and hers, and was apparently known to all but about 4% of our wedding party. What was more startling was the way we all reacted to the sight of each other singing unashamedly outloud-- we kept on. This shall remain one of the greatest moments of my life.

Ever read Thoreaus's 'Walden'?
"I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived. I did not wish to live what was not life, living is so dear..." It's most well known quote is his conclusion that "The mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation. "

The general, compliant public tend to be resigned (Thoreau also expounds against resignation in the above passage) to whatever is, and however they perceive it, and such is as reality shall definitely be. Thoreau's great fear is that he, or anyone else, might try to eke out an existence, without a life being involved. That we might die oblivious to anything greater than the immediate, and immediately satisfactory. Think, do, experience. (To tie this vein, albeit weakly, to the original gripe of this post, If you don't take the time to learn the law, you'll convince yourself what it ought to be and absolve yourself of any mistakes).

So, to conclue this inadverent sermon: don't worry about what you have to do BEFORE You DIE, I encourage you to seek out ways to prove you are living. I do not have a comprehensive list, either for myself or anyone else, but I will offer a few meager suggestions:

Adopt, don't buy, an animal. Eat exotically. Tickle, or be tickled, senseless. Sing outloud. Loudly. Endulge in sensual pleasures. (Katie's perpetual resolution) Read a book, watch a documentary, learn something. Ride a bike, celebrate an anniversary (of any sort you can conceive), do something.

Y'all have a great week.
Jeffro

Incidentally, if anyone knows how I can widen the text margins, decreasing the girth of the blue columns here ----->
and
<---- over here, so that the body of my post isn't 9 and a half old English furlongs in length, I'd be most grateful.

Post about a sunset without an accompanying photograph...

2007-11-19T16:31:00.000Z

Hello from Edinburgh, Scotland, where I now reside, with my wife of 2 months, Katie. It's November here (and presumably wherever you are as well), and that means that the days are particularly short. It's 4.30 just now, and if it weren't cloudy and raining, the last pink cries of daylight would be showing over the Georgian roof across the back garden, over my left shoulder. The weather's cold, and damp, so normal, but I understand that it has, in recent days, been warmer than Arkansas. We're getting settled in, finally, and have pretty well unpacked and packed away accordingly all that we brought home with us a week ago. A house that I'd never seen less than a year ago now contains 9 toy tractors-- one of my strange little hobbies-- and four of them are promenading left around the vase of roses here on the desk. I bought a new dress shirt recently with a paisley pattern, to match the textiles about the flat featuring that particular pattern-- Katie's favourite. The kitchen cabinets are chocked full of fresh fruit and veg, peanut butter and jam, and enough chocolate calories to run any electrical needs we could accrue by Christmas. There's a road map of Arkansas in the bathroom, sharing wallspace with a framed collection of Katie's dad's pictures from his service during WWII. We both had eclectic blends to start with, but with the two of us living together, things have only grown more intriguing, from the moment you enter the house...

More later...Happy belated birthday, by the way, to my Dad, and his buddy Dale

Cheers for now
Jeffro

And....We're Back...

2007-04-26T04:48:00.000+01:00

It’s been over 2 weeks since I posted last. In case you weren’t counting, but were vaguely curious. No excuses.

It’s not that I haven’t had enough on the brain that might’ve been worth sharing, it’s a matter of figuring out how the devil to express myself, and filtering down to what’s actually worth expressing…

Mom’s best friend, every so often, will ask her for another ‘Jeff story.’ Mom takes it as a compliment, as do I, as I’m sure it’s intended. I’m quirky enough, and forever into something uncommonly sufficient, for retelling. I try to be. As the quote on my posted picture way back in September states, Life is too short to remain unnoticed. (Salvador Dali). I truly believe this. Or, I have in times past. ‘Believe’ means, literally, by life. Whatever you ‘believe’ should be painfully obvious, statements unnecessary, by your life. The way I carry myself daily should indicate that I’m certain my life doesn’t have enough spare time for mundaneity. I prefer to be quirky. I like being strange. Sticking out like a healthy thumb on a sore hand…

Or so I say… I don’t feel that I’ve been upholding my own standards so well in recent weeks. To be fair, though, how many of y’all have camped out in a Chick-Fil-A parking lot?

I have a few different lives. Farmer Brown honestly exists only in memory now. I don’t expect Professor Brown, who was at one point pursuing a Masters in Literature, to resurface again any time soon. Parson Brown has been laid to rest, save for the occasional ranting sermon on here. Jeffro The American Billy Bob John Deere the Backpacker, the Hippy Within, is all but suffocating here in Northwest Arkansas. I’m having multiple identity crises. I went from eating every other meal as and with a vegetarian to residing once again in the Deep [Fried] South. Accustomed as I’d become to walking and taking public transit, and doing my best, transportation wise, for the environment, I’m now once again driving a fire-breathing dragon with an 8.1 litre engine. I’m still living in a backpack, though I’ve been on the same couch nearly a month. The same couch, mind you, that I spent 7 months on in ’06, and 2 months on at an earlier stint this year. I’m awfully stationary for a drifter. I like being able to collect all the worldly possessions I care to keep into a 40-pound maximum weight pack, but I’m vicariously enjoying joint custody of a china tea service housed in Edinburgh, Scotland.

To use a Britishism, I’m a complete nutter.

In Europe, I quite obviously didn't fit any particular theme, fashion or otherwise, beyond 'trekker.' The only thing I felt the need to conceal was my telling accent. I wanted to be a local, and if you've never heard my voice, I've been told that I have a very distinct vocal quality. I never wanted to stick out too much, to be easily labeled-- here or anywhere else. Now, I'm back in the world in which not only clothes make the man, but the vehicle he drives as well. I'm uncomfortable with outward signals, but those I'm already swathed in are precise in their statements about me. The wardrobe I kept in Europe, and prefer at all times, is highly non-committal about my station in life, even my home continent. Every moment of my day today that was spent outside of my parents' house screamed precisely of class definition-- the store I made a few purchases within, the vehicle I showed up to work in, the job itself that I was working at, the clothes I was wearing. Everything spoke volumes.

Tomorrow, I could dress differently, drive the other car, and make a few bucks elsewhere, and be an entirely different person. The day afterwards, I could trade the truck off for a Jeep, throw away all of my non-open-toed shoes, and start from scratch yet again. Now, granted, there are some very precise definitions attached to anyone carrying an orange backpack through the average European train station, but I am pretty comfortable with all of them that I'm familiar with-- good, bad, or otherwise. The classification I receive at home, however, doesn't sit so well, and I doubt it ever will, in any circumstance-- whether I work in a cubicle, atop a tractor, beneath a car jack, in front of a computer, behind a parts counter-- I DO NOT want to be so easily qualified as a ________. It doesn't matter what shape the hole is, I'm one peg that simply didn't come off the lathe so well.

I was described, as a ten year old, as someone who 'marches to his own drummer.' Thank you, Mrs. Crouch. At just under a quarter century, I'm still proving you right.

Further On.

The Eternal Geek

2007-04-10T13:55:00.000+01:00

Well, I'd promised something special for Easter, but every time I got started, I felt too heretical, and backed down. Once my thoughts are collected better, I'll put them down as a chapter within a book, or as a book itself, entitled 'Growing Up Baptist'. Keep your eyes open to the NY Times Bestseller list for that one...

Just a quick blurb because it's been over a week...

If I ever realise, as I'm waking up, that I'm dreaming, I do my best to direct all of my foggy mental capacities at storing the dream to write it down once I'm functional enough for that occupation. Today would've been a good day, but just as I realised what tricks my mind was playing, the phone rang, and I was snatched out of a thrilling bit of brain play, and it's a shame, because I was really interested in the final outcome of this morning's dream.

I was doing a crossword...
And it was really tough. I couldn't figure it out for the life of me. But I'm certain that if I'd had another 10 minutes of semi-consciousness, I could've at least gotten the stumping clues written down...

Total geek...

Just a Few Pictures...

2007-03-31T15:28:00.000+01:00

Bit of advertising for myself, first...

This was taken in the Victorian Era Skittle alley (bowling lanes)in back of the Sheep's Heid pub in Duddingston, outside Edinburgh. It is Edinburgh's oldest surviving pub, and possibly the oldest in all of Scotland. I had a pint of the house brew (Sheep's Heid), and it was probably the most bitter beer I'd ever tasted. Fortunately, I had some scones in my pack from Katie's mom that I used to diffuse the taste... To my knowledge, no one saw my little advert that I chalked up on the score board and subsequently visited the page... O well...

This is the newest addition to Canterbury cathedral. On site of the oldest diocese in all of the British Isles, Canterbury has been one of the most important religious institutions north of the English Channel for a millenia and a half. The Archbishop of Canterbury alone has the power to crown the British royals. In 1994, an Anglican congress was held there, and to mark the occasion, this medallion was commissioned. I'd forgotten the translation, but fortunately, I got online this morning and found Lilian, my Greek friend, was on, and she informed me that it says "The Truth Will Set You Free." If you don't know, that's taken from the New Testament, the book of John, Chapter 8, verse 32.

And this is my luggage, Stateside. The smaller, yellow bag is pretty well as it was when I got off the plane. The guitar is in its case. Everything else you see was in that orange bag, including, though not limited to: 1 jar raspberry jam, 1 pewter tea service, 6 pint glasses (one from the oldest pub in Scotland, one from the oldest pub in England- thanks to Alex for the help on that), all 5 t-shirts, extra pair of trousers (corduroy), 8 pair of wool socks (mostly wrapped around pint glasses), full set of James Herriott's "All Creatures Great and Small", encyclopaedia of British Folklore, 4 quaichs (traditional Gaelic cup of welcome and departure), 1 ship in a bottle, from the first shop in the world (Thanks, Yeny), and the autobiography of Christopher (Robin) Milne.

Greetings, All

2007-03-28T15:33:00.000+01:00

And hello from Northwest Arkansas, where I've been reresiding over the last 24 hours. Just a note to say that all of my flights did in fact arrive, even the ones I wasn't on, seemingly, as well as the ones I was on but wasn't supposed to be... more on that later, and pictures to follow...

O ya, Tim, Allen, Adam, anyone else in resident in Springdale who didn't know I was back already- sorry for the smoke and mirrors-- just a matter of wanting to sneak home under the radar and sleep a few days. No harm intended. And, it saves the hassle of explaining why I am a day late and not on the flight I'd booked if no one knows when the original flight is supposed to be...

cheers for now...

Just in Passing

2007-03-20T23:45:00.000Z

A view from the east of Edinburgh, looking at the hill known as Arthur's Seat, from the Megabus between Edinburgh and Sheffield.

Today I spent 9 hours, give or take, in transit. At one point, my bus arrived into the town wherein I was to switch buses, but there was no driver for the next leg of the journey. That miniscule detail got overlooked by the company's logistical staff...

Any rate, by the time I got into Sheffield, I was absolutely ragged out. I'd had a few digestive biscuits (wholemeal cookies) with nutella on them for breakfast, and a sip from my water bottle here and there all day, but otherwise I was completely undernourished, and given that I'm about to leave the UK again, I'm under a bit of emotional duress. I got my bag and guitar onto the train and stowed away and dropped down into a seat that faced another pair of seats across a table. Sitting directly across from me was a blonde girl that I would guess to be in her late teens, and between her and the window, a brunette girl somewhere between mine and the blonde's ages. The younger, the blonde, was on the phone with one or the other of her parents, explaining that she'd lost her rail card, and might be getting fined for travelling without a ticket. When she hung up, exasperated with the situation, she and I compared notes: further destinations, travel complications up to that point, current funds available, hunger pains... She then got on the phone with her other parent, and I simply continued the conversation with the brunette, whom we'll call Teresa to protect the innocent.

Teresa, it turned out, had no previous acquaintance with the bubbly young girl next to her, hadn't spoken much with her in the intervening time on the train with her, but was changing at the next stop to head into Nottingham, like myself. I carry a pad of genuine John Deere post-it notes in my backpack, and as we pulled in to Derby, where Teresa and I were alighting, I scribbled a note reading 'Better Luck...Jeff' and put this here web address down, and stuck it on the table in front of the young blonde. We smiled, I grabbed my things, and left the coach.

Teresa and I made it onto our final train, located an empty pair of seats with ample baggage storage, and settled in. 'Oh,' she said, 'before I forget- after you left, the other girl gave me this for you...' I was expecting a note reading 'thanks', but instead, found 3 pound coins in my hand. 'She said it was so you could get a sandwich.' I don't even know this girls name, hadn't actually introduced myself, but I'd mentioned I was hungry, and had all of 75 pence on me. She was very nearly equally broke, and facing a potential fine of well more than the average train ticket, but managed to find enough money to buy me a sandwich.

When I was in France, my friend Celine and I watched the Bill Murray movie 'Broken Flowers', and we both hated it. The only redeeming scene was when Bill's character meets who he thinks might be his son, and tries to non-chalantly buy him a meal. The boy asks why and Murray's answer is classic, and as a backpacker, I really appreciate it: 'I'm just a guy that can tell when a guy looks like he needs a sandwich.'

I was touched, this evening, by this tiny act of overwhelming generosity from a girl who only knows my name because I scribbled it on a sticky note. I don't know your name, but if you happen to be reading this, Thank You.

And Thank You, Teresa, as well. I know I said so on the train, but I really appreciate your open ears and honest prayer(s). Rarely do you meet someone only in passing who genuinely takes an interest in your well-being. You salvaged my day. Thanks.

Biggest Dang Leprechaun This Side of Kilkenny...

2007-03-18T15:37:00.000Z

When I brush my teeth in the mirror, I look at myself and think 'Ahh, the beard still looks allright...' Then I see pictures of myself and debate my judgment. The hat was earned, for what it's worth, during the local St. Patrick's Day celebrations here in Nottingham. Our celebrating began at noon, when we hit our first pub. After the purchase (and theoretic imbibement) of 4 pints of Guinness, patrons were presented with the hat and the pin on my T'shirt reading 'Ask for me at the bar...' Alex's read 'Tall, Dark and Handsome'. Thus our early start...

This is the greater portion of the 'we' I've been referring to. Left to right are Carlos, Samuel, Ulysses, myself, Alex, Griselda, and Alexis. By this time (9 pm), Juan, Marcos, Melissa, Ana y Pete had all gone home. We left the festivities in the city centre, where the Market Square was specially reopened for the first time since reparations started 18 months ago (though, for all that, the fountain leaks like a sieve...), at about 6, and went to Alexis' (my old house at number 49) and played Uno until we were all too tired to stay awake any longer. Roughly 9 pm, that is...

I was so dogged at this point because I was up at dawn to head down to Beeston to see my friend James off on the early train, then I walked back along the canal to the house, and left for Beeston again 20 minutes later with Juan, Alex, Griselda, and Tung, my Malaysian friend who moved into my old room at number 49, to have breakfast at the Boathouse Cafe at Beeston Marina. We each had a full English breakfast for 4 pounds, and liked it so much, that we (minus Juan) went back again this morning... well... lunch. Any one in or around Nottingham, I'd advise a similar dining experience. Just catch the number 18 bus, or number 20 on Sundays, to the Jolly Anglers pub, then walk south to where Appleton Road takes off to the right, and follow that street to its end at the canal, turn right, and follow the canal past the locks to the marina. Tony, a full-time fitness trainer, runs the place, and is certain to give you a warm welcome.

Any rate... Nottingham today has been a blend of sun, snow, wind, rain, shine, and clouds. I was watching M*A*S*H this morning (Marathon of season 3 on BBC-umpteen), and as the commercials broke, I looked outside to see that the sky was blackened by the clouds carried in on the coming gale, and snow and ice were attacking the house like there was no tomorrow. I checked outside again as the show recommenced, not 6 minutes later, the sky was entirely cloudless. Funny place, this.

It's Mother's Day here in England today, so here's to me mum... Love you, see you in a few weeks...

London, lately

2007-03-08T01:03:00.000Z

Well, the last post had little response, and I wasn't too impressed with it myself, so it's due time to supersede it, but I have nothing profound to say... Then again, perhaps you don't expect me to, and are just as glad for me to temporarily curtail my efforts...

Any rate, as you may've gathered from the last post, I've headed south (ish)from Edinburgh, to Nottingham, and for the first bit of this week, I went on down again to olde London town for another few days with my friends there. Yeny, from Colombia, is heading out for Dallas next week, and we thought we should play the tourist game around the olde city again before we both take our indeterminate leave of the United Kingdom. I was there for all of 48 hours, and managed to have 2 nice dinners out, passed through the Tate Museum of Modern Art, the UK's tallest escalator, in Angel underground station, climbed the 311 step Monument, and straddled the Prime Meridian, in Greenwich. There were other things (It was a regular whirlwind), but those were some of the big ones, which I plan to illustrate just below...

Y'all have a great week.
jeffro

From Left: Yeny, Basak (From Turkey. This was her going away party, as she flew out a matter of hours later...), Michela and Demis, from Italy, Saida from France, and Angelica, mi solita o solicita o solecita (mi español es muy mal), from Colombia.

Me, after a long day, descending the escalator to the Jubilee line at Angel Underground Station.

The escalator at Angel again, but rotated over 90 degrees. I like the way the lines, light, and reflections look in this shot. The escalator bears its passengers up 30 metres (about 100 feet)!

Yeny and her German friend, Dorothee, working their way down the spiral staircase within the monument that commemorates the 1666 London Fire, that started 202 feet from the Monument's location (interestingly enough, that's how they determined what height to make the Monument. Whether they liked the number 202 and located it at this distance from the origin accordingly, or this just happened to be the only free bit of optional landscaping, I don't know.) They are about a dozen steps down, so there's only another 299 more to go...

I like doing reflection pictures. This is me taking a picture of Yeny and myself in the glass window out of which looks the telescope that defines the Prime Meridian. I am thus standing equally east and west, globally speaking. The gentleman over my left shoulder was apparently quite curious...

It is now 1.50 am, Greenwich Mean Time (so named for the London suburb wherein the above photograph was snapped), and though I would love to be only breathing, and nothing more phsysically, my head cradled in the arm of the couch at the house belonging to Juan, Giuliana, Alex, and Griselda here in Dunkirk, a cleanly sleeved duvet maintaining my body heat, the little, rat-like pet that Juan is hampster-sitting (who has also taken up residence, cage and all, in the sitting room)has gotten up for his daily calisthenics. He's surely rolled out a good mile and a half thus far on that blasted wheel, so the meat should be nice and lean, when I eat him in about another three and a half minutes, or after the next hundred yard dash, depending on how soon the oven's ready...

Dad-dratted, noisy little bugger.

Mmmmmmmmm, hampster...

Perceptions of a Pink Shirt-Wearing, Haircut-needing, Nasty beard-face showing, No Home-Having, Goofball, Son of a Gun...

2007-03-04T10:14:00.000Z

This picture was taken by Katie recently as she made fun of my dining habits. I'm used to that, get it from Adam and Tim every so often, but at least they don't take pictures of me... Just wanted you to have an idea of who is saying all of the following. That way, in the event I say something disagreeable, you can look at the picture and think, 'Ya well... look at the poor guy...'

I have been told, quite often by Aussies, that I make a good ambassador for my country. 'Jeff, you are the only American I have ever liked.' 'Hella nice guy. Wish there were more fellas like you around.' 'Prost!'

And I have said, more than once since first hearing phrases of this nature, that while abroad, it is my chief ambition to be the one American that everybody likes. Those of you back home, take it easy, don't get heated, but some people simply do not like Americans. I am doing what I can to alleviate that, albeit in small increments. I prefer to be liked anyway, I suppose we all do, but it is important to me to show what percentage of the rest of the globe I come in contact with that Americans are not all arrogant warmongers who despise anything south of the Rio Grande, north of the Great Lakes, or beyond an ocean. This is, unfortunately, the sort of reputation we've earned ourselves.

And I am guilty. It took a bit of adjusting when I first came to England a year and a half ago before I figured out what I could say and how I could act. I remember getting called out at a dinner party for improper fork usage. (I do NOT apologise for that, by the way. Yes, in America we might've oversimplified some traditions--in my house, we had only one fork, one spoon, and one knife apiece, and we DID eat with out hands-- but why overcomplicate something so elemental as transporting food to one's mouth?) I think one of the reasons I got on so well with some of the Australians I met was that they had low expectations of me. What Yanks they had met left them far underimpressed, and, like us, they prefer to cut out unnecessary falderal. I was able to be myself.

And I suppose the Australian angle is the best to address the next point from-- that it truly is a shame that what most Americans know of the rest of the world we have learned from Hollywood, and an industry that survives by sensationalism. I was doing my best impersonation of an Australian accent once, and a girl from Melbourne said, 'Oi! (Or the Aussie equivalent of that Britishism) That's pretty good! Where'd ya pick that up?' I responded that I spent a lot of time in my younger days watching the Crocodile Dundee films, and she was nearly offended. 'That is NOT what Australia is like. There might be a few blokes still around like that, but Australia is not just some big wilderness full of simpletons.'

Fair enough. The movies left me with only a desire to see the continent myself, and most of the folks I've met from there have only fueled the sentiment, but having met some of the locals, and having now seen the third installment, released only about 5 years ago, I can understand why they might be offended. In Crocodile Dundee 3, Mick and his best mate are living in LA, and are amazed, in awe, and aghast at this revolutionary restaurant known as Wendy's. (Those not familiar, this is a very cheap fast food restaurant, with a drive-thru window open till 2 a.m.) Apparently, the blokes from down under have never seen such as this.

Note to Hollywood: Australia does not exist only in the extinct time frame that was the setting of 'The Man from Snowy River' and 'Five Mile Creek.' Ever seen a picture of the Sydney Opera House? Big, crazy, conch shell looking critter? What's LA got? A bridge? Oh, really? Think the rest of the world's never seen one of those?

Pardon me... the soap box expanded without my intentions...

The movie 'Hostel' came out in the States while I was travelling around Europe about a year or so ago, and my friends back home were scared to death that I was going to be hacked to death in my sleep by some non-English speaking native. Set in Bratislava, the capital city of Slovakia, the premise of the movie seemed to be that beautiful Eastern European women seduced young American males, and then relieved them of their vital organs, or some other such unpleasantry, for both their own pleasure and monetary gain. One guy said, 'Man, I will NEVER sleep in a hostel!'

Alternately, you could just avoid prostitutes.

I spent a few days in Bratislava this past fall. It was one of the friendliest cities I've seen. The food and lodgings were affordable, the local Slavic women were in fact, on the whole, gorgeous, and most folks my age were students at the University, studying English, and were, as a rule, very eager to practice their vocabulary with me in the street, and didn't try to lure me into dodgy circumstances.

My Colombian friends get nearly hostile when it comes to Hollywood. Contrary to American, and other nations', film theory, more goes on in Colombia than just the harvest of illegal substances. Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie's movie 'Mr. and Mrs. Smith' allegedly started out in Bogota, but anyone familiar with the locale (I am not, but have been informed), would know that Bogota is in the mountains, has damp and grey weather, and does not, as a rule, feature explosives randomly sounding off. I'm afraid to ask how 'Romancing the Stone' (Which featured an exactly opposite background) was accepted.

It just seems that we are very good at delineating the world: us and them. I remember when studying literature that a basic necessity for any story, perhaps more than the protagonist, the hero, is the antagonist, the force of evil, the metaphorical wall, the plot's chief agent, an 'other' to point fingers at. While I do think this is necessary for a storyline, I would suggest that we be less drastic in our choice of 'others.'

I was thinking about all of this this morning while washing dishes for the housefull of Mexican amigos y amigas that I've come back down to Nottingham to visit. All of their dishes are from the local IKEA-- a retail chain, if you haven't heard of it, that originated in Scandinavia. Denmark, perhaps. Every product they sell comes, seemingly, from crafters in all different corners of the globe, and not merely high output factories in southeast Asia. The drinking glasses are from Italy, the plateware from Turkey. They sell furniture made of real wood, designed, cut, and packaged in and around Northern Europe. Every country is represented, and the products are of a very high quality. And, like Target back home, in a University setting such as this, nearly everyone I know shops at IKEA for something. You can go into almost anyone's house and find something that you're familiar with. Triangulation: immediately, you've got a common point to converse over.

Rather than simply trying to turn the highest profit(though, perhaps they are, I don't know. I am just impressed with what I've seen thus far), IKEA is inadvertently creating links between people. Instead of pointing fingers across theaters and in front of cameras criticizing the differences between cultures, and perhaps shortchanging the person at the end of the barrel, they're doling out fashionable items that everyone can enjoy, at affordable prices.

No, I don't think world peace begins in a department store, and I realise this was both oversimplified and underthought, but thanks for reading anyways.

Today's moral:
...is convoluded, and I didn't plan well enough ahead to know how to stop this flow of thought...

And also, if I sound vain, and proud of myself, as if I actually think I am America's best representative, I apologise. I'm not, I don't, and I spend far too much time with my foot in my mouth, or eating crow, or just generally not thinking of what I might be saying. You may have already come to terms with this fact. I'm trying my best, I promise. Learning through, and despite of, my own semi-latent idiocy, that's me.

Have a great weekend, though. I hope you're well, wherever you got out of bed, or rolled off the couch, this morning. Nottingham has, up until dawn today, been gorgeous. This is my friend Alex, as we were walking around the lake at Wollaton park yesterday.

Photography

2007-02-22T10:55:00.000Z

Yes. So. Edinburgh, if you'd missed that. I've tried to filter thru my camera and find some of the best shots I had to post along your way. I haven't actually taken all that many-- I get too distracted with looking at things to stop and take their pictures. That, and most of the things I'd want to take pictures of are tedious and fleeting and are best enjoyed by actually witnessing them. Some things simply don't suffer being photographed. On the other hand, it turns out I've got a pretty good camera (thanks again to Officer Obie), and a lot of the time it will pick up slack unexpectedly.

For instance...

The following picture of Edinburgh castle, taken from The Meadows below, has some incredible colour to it. The castle, in the centre of Old Edinburgh, is perched at the highest end of a massive volcanic chunk-- the plug, actually, to a once-active volanic cone. The road leading downhill from the castle, towards the Royal Palace, and looking towards the Forth of Firth (or Firth of Forth...truly sorry, but I forget. I've actually heard people say both, tho I know one is wrong.) is known as the Royal Mile, and is itself also a geologic feature. Apparently, in one of the previous Ice Ages, a glacier slid down the top of this volcanic cone and perfectly smoothed off a stretch almost exactly one mile in length. All of this happened off of the left side of the picture. On the near side, and indeed around every other angle but that which the Royal Mile occupies, the castle appears to be a completely impregnable fortress. I've yet to tour the castle (pricey), so I don't know whether this appearance translated to actuality or not. Nor do I know precisely how many different castles and forts have perched themselves on the vacant foundations of others' past, but this is certainly just the newest in a long line of edifices erected on this precipice.

The next picture is taken (on an AMAZING day by any nation's standards) of the structure known as Edinburgh's Disgrace. Wanting to make his city the pride of the North, an overzealous Grecophile attempted to copy Athen's Parthenon atop a hill overlooking the Forth (harbour, essentially). As you can see, he successfully completed the front steps, 12 columns, and a cap to keep them from swaying. There is nothing beyond what you see. I like it, myself. Sure, it's a shame the project was budgeted and carried out so poorly, but it's got so much more character than an exact replica would've had. Katie says that this is the prime place to watch fireworks from, because they fire them off just behind where I was standing to take the photo, as well as multiple other places throughout the city and surrounding hills, all of which this porch commands a view of.

And here's one of Katie, seated atop the steps of the Porch (as I've decided to call it, the Disgrace just seeming like such a slight and insult to an otherwise beautiful monument--finished or no). The street you're looking down just beyond her is Prince's, the main high street. If you can't read the clock, this was taken at about 2.37, last Wednesday, I believe it must've been. Obviously, the film colour confuses things, but the sky was just as blue and magnificient as in the previous photo.

And here's some legendary Scottish fare. Birthed in Glasgow, about 75 miles (give or take, completely guesstimating here) to the west of the capital (Edinburgh), this culinary delight is one of those that you either love or hate. Now, I do enjoy a bit of the local diet. Haggis is, despite its reputation, marvellous, when prepared well. Steak or mince (beef) pies, particularly Katie's mother's, could sustain the average man for days, I suspect. Nips, tatties, scones, and whisky I can take down with the best of them. However, I opted to pass on this one, without even a trial sample. Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeesh.

Welcome to Lent, by the way. I happened to spend Fat Tuesday (Mardi Gras in French, or Shrove Tuesday in traditional English-- the day you do everything you'll be confessing and renouncing to the Shreve at mass the next day-- Ash Wednesday) out at Katie's parents' house, outside the city, in the village of Lasswade. Now, by gosh, Katie's mother can cook. We had mince (ground beef) pies, topped with fluffy, flaky pastry; vegetable soup thick enough to float a spoon on; 4 different veggies; potatoes, both roasted and mashed; scones; sponge cake with cream; apple pie with cream; and I don't know what all, and I put on a half a stone (seven pounds) in food weight alone. I know because I put myself on the scales both before and after dining. I should feel guilty, but my stomach was hurting enough with the strain of streching to go to the trouble of cramping over such a thing as gluttony.

So, in penance, and out of budget and health considerations, Katie and I decided to have a chip and dip night last night, Ash Wednesday, at her flat. Now, her kitchen is roughly the size of the computer you're currently sitting at, but somehow, the 2 of us were able to conduct some sort of culinary dance and only stomp toes (mine) once in the course of the hour we spent in there, making 5 different dips. There was no need for such excess-- you'd've thought there was a housefull expected, not just the two of us, but we were having a really good time, being creative and all that. Here's what we learned last nite: surprising tho it may be, garlic and pineapple are a phenomenal combination; when making salsa, blacken your main ingredients-- peppers, tomatoes, pineapple, onions-- without oil in a cast iron skillet, then dice them (cheers to my uncle Mark for that tip). Beautiful flavour. Also, coriander suits any dip. Period. Following, you'll see the finished products, after we'd eaten our fill. Working round anticlockwise (to the left) from the bowl of lime-laced tortilla chips (the big, nearly empty bowl, actually), we have: hummus (diced, ground, and otherwise mutilated chick peas. I don't know what else she put in it, but it had a great kick. This is an Old dish. Greek, I believe.), a yogurt and mustard combo with a whoooole lot of whang to it, guacamole (also Katie. My guacamolean standards are pretty high, due to the familiarity and amassed years of expereience my mother's family has in concocting this variant of avocado salad, and I had to admit that Katie far exceeded what I expected anyone not related to my grandmother to be capable of.), pineapple salsa (with garlic, coriander, and green chiles in sunflower seed oil. Should've blackened the pineapple, and left out some of the onion.), and finally, tomato salsa (made with cherry tomatoes from the mustgo bin, blackened capsicums (green peppers), and a whole slew of other herbs that have my mouth watering now.)

Believe I'll go have lunch now. Katie's mom sent me leftovers.

Yahoooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Piggly Wiggly It Ain't

2007-02-19T12:59:00.000Z

I love grocery shopping. This is primarily due to the fact that I love food, and a grocery store is nearly always your guaranteed best bet for purchasing food. Secondly, if you're in a new place, grocery shopping allows you to observe the locals in a natural habitat, finding out what they eat, how they dress, what sorts of folks are out at what particular hours during the day, and what all schools of thought frequent different grocerial institutions. It allows and necessitates rediscovering how to shop, live, and sustain oneself. A regular adventure in modern existence.

When I lived out in North Carolina for 6 months, I loved shopping at the Blowing Rock Food Lion. A chain based primarily in the American southeast, Food Lion is one of those particular grocers that thinks that issuing a 'membership card' will inspire customer loyalty. Not true. It will nearly guarantee that regular customers will purchase the sale items weekly, but it also allows one to assume, as a professional grocer, that these same sale-fickle customers have similar, if not identical gossamer contracts with the competition. In the town of Boone, North Carolina (population: roughly 20,000; 36,000 during university terms-- GO APP STATE!) there is a Food Lion, a Lowe's Foods, a Winn Dixie, and not one, but TWO Harris Teeter's. All four of these chains offer incentive programs, wherein a customer fills out an 'application,' are given a 'membership card' and then receive routine discounts that non-members do not. Since every store has different sales every week, many customers will shop under all four different marquees. But, as a customer, you can feel good about yourself, because you belong. I know always felt good flashing out my Food Lion card. I forget the logo on it, but I remember that the Harris Teeter cards were little triangle-shaped key chains that read 'VIP' (Very Important Person) (or Value Induced Purchaser) (or, Variable Infidelity Policy) (or, Variously Intrigued Patronage). But Food Lion loyal was I. I had my pride. (GET IT??? LIONS? PRIDE? BWAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!)

When I moved to Nottingham, England, my Mexican housemates, Juan y Alexis, got me hooked on Sainsbury's. There were two of them, roughly equidistant from my home in Dunkirk. I typically went to the one in Beeston, because there were quite a few other shops worth visiting on the Beeston High Street, but changed my preferences when I realised that I could walk along the canal (The Beeston Cut of the Trent River) the entire length from my home to the store at Castle Marina, which was bigger than its small town cousin, with a better selection. There was a Tesco in the Nottingham city centre, but that involved purchasing a bus ticket (unnecessary, given that I could walk for free to Sainsbury's, and that I couldn't fit enough groceries in my share of the kitchen to render walking difficult), and, since then, some of the corporate practices of that chain have really put me off. Beeston also boasted a Farm Foods, an Iceland, any numer of Spars (German chain--small, convenient, expensive), a Somerfield, and there may've even been a Lidl somewhere around. In Wales and Yorkshire, the store with the most presence seemed to be Morrison's (Who love giving you more reasons to shop at Morrison's), and here and there could be found Asda, the UK equivalent of Wal-Mart (and also therefore on my list of less-than-ethical businesses), but I pretty well tried to keep with Sainsbury's. Their quality and selection simply rates. Unless you're trying out their allegedly American-style root beer...

However, here I am now in Edinburgh, Scotland for a few weeks. Food still being high on my priority list, I've had a mosey around my temporary headquarters and discovered two MidScot supermarkets, the local derivative of the national COOP chain. COOP's OK-- I gave them a bit of patronage in Yorkshire, back in October, but my friend and personal local, Katie, absolutely swears by them. They are competitively priced (their only competition here in Stockbridge is a pair of Margiottas-- seemingly Italian versions of Spar.), and many of their products are supplied by Fair Trade--an organisation that helps to ensure just treatment and market value for the (Quite often) third world producers of their various offered goods. COOP's store brand chocolate, for that matter, is a Fair Trade product. And I do love my chocolate. It's nice to know that my personal indulgences can do the world some good. I've already aligned my allegiance to one particular of the two local COOPs: the larger one, nearest me, has what I and Mama (my grandmother Brown) would term a shelf for mustgoes. As in, it Must Go today, or it Must Go to the bin. When products near their expiration date, the management chops their price in half, or more, and moves it to the clearance rack. There's almost always some meat or cheese, nice breads and pastries-- at the very least, enough food to last a day, which is about as long as I'm concerned about, currently. Best yet, my first day in the country, there were 3 dozen buffalo wings on said shelf. They were amazing. I didn't realise the Brits could do spicy so well.

What they can't do well, unfortunately, is Peanut Butter. I am the All-American Kid, in that I can live on Peanut Butter and Jam sandwiches (PBJs) for weeks at a time. My European, British, and Antipodian acquaintances think I'm nuts, and I suppose if all they have to go on is Peanut Butter of a type such as the COOP sells, then I can understand why. Jif and Skippy it ain't. What they have here is good, it turns out, if you add it to mushroom soup. Don't gag. Bear in mind, I'm not talking about American Peanut Butter. The stuff here is much more of a paste, it's bland, and just vaguely salty. As such, it goes a long way as far as thickening up an otherwise over-liquefied soup, and adds a more well-rounded effect to the flavour than ordinary table salt would, with the added bonus of not simply upping the sodium count. As far as making PBJs, though, it leaves a bit to be desired.

No, it may not come in a big red tub bearing the brandname "Peter Pan," but, then again, I didn't buy it at the Piggly Wiggly.

*Pictures forthcoming*

Hoots, Mon!

2007-02-14T23:22:00.000Z

And greetings all, from sunny Scotland! No! Really! Tis gorgeous here. Have spent the past 2 days walking along the water of Leith, both directions as it flows out of Edinburgh.

Didn't know I was tripping off American soil again, so soon? Feel no harm or shame, I beg you. I kept this one under wraps as much as I was able. I do have pictures to post to you, already, but, as always when in Europe, internet time is limited. Look for them in a few days.

Happy Valentine's Day to you all! I celebrated by making an intercontinental prank call to a certain John Deere dealership and making a request that ended hotly with one of us suggesting the other swallow a few nuts and bolts and create our own parts... Howdy to Todd, on that one... And also by presenting a toy tractor (and what better Valentine Gift?) to a certain someone...

Hope y'all's was equally enjoyable.
cheers for now
jeffro

--
Life is enjoyed most when you're laughing. Laugh hard, laugh often, and think of me.

Aussie! Aussie! Aussie!

2007-01-26T15:22:00.000Z

*To which, for the uninformed, the proper response is:

"Oi! Oi! Oi!"

And then the ceremonial tipping back of the beer. And today there will be plenty of that going on, particularly in London (or Northern Australia, as it is translated on most Antipodian maps...)

Those of y'all from the Land Down Under, I hope wherever ye are today, be it Aus itself, the US, Banff Canada, or gosh knows where in Europe, you're able to hear enough of your own music to remind you of the warmth your missing, but not so much as to drive you batty and embarass you.

So, to the Aussies:

Happy Australia Day in general (don't go trying to fry an egg over the eternal flame neath the Arc d'Triumph in Paris, either-- they'll be expecting that, you know)

Dean O'Bailey- Happy belated Birthday!

Lisa- Happy Birthday in advance. Today 1 year ago, we were in Lisbon, I'd been in a horrendous mood, and went out and did something shocking and quite out of character... Then we went to Porto for your birthday, and I think that must've been one of my favourite stops last year. The free Port wine certainly helped... I hope you're well.

Beau- Y'all think about it...

And to the rest of y'all, tip one for the Aussies today. But if you do, don't be the typical Podian and think you're all cool drinking a Foster's. They hate the stuff Down Under...

Cheers!

Expensive Dang Dessert...

2007-01-23T17:20:00.000Z

My FAVOURITE book as a child was entitled "The Blueberry Pie Elf." It was written in the mid 1950s by Jane Thayer, illustrated by a gentleman who used only blue ink (in true, mid-century children's book monochromatic fashion), about an elf who simply cannot get enough blueberry pie to satiate himself, and begins leaving subtle hints to the family whose house he secretly cohabits that they might consider baking that particular delight a bit more often.

Strangest thing was, I didn't even like blueberries. Even now, I only eat them in muffins, or in conjunction with red berries. But the book now, the book...

My mom and I wore the only local copy out. I bet she checked it out of the Springdale Public Library every other week. I honestly don't think anyone else ever had a chance. I also suppose it must've been my fault, therefore, that the book got to such a state that the library either threw it away or sold it on. In either case, the book disappeared from my fragile life at a young age, and I've dreamt for years untold about holding it again.

There's not a used book store I've ever passed that I haven't inquired within as to their having the book for sale. Never have I met success. So, today, in desperation, and boredom at work, I consulted google. I found a reproduction recently released and for sale via amazon, but it's got full colour pictures, and is paperback. I prefer the red hardback with blue ink.

There is ONE for sale on ebay. It's the red hardback, with blue ink, and it even still has the tell-tale Dewey Decimal sticker on the spine indicating that it shared the same early fate as what was nearly my personal copy. The auction ends in 8 hours, there are no bids, and the cost is ONE HUNDRED DOLLARS. For a book that sold for all of 85 cents new. I love the book, and would deeply enjoy having it again, but egad man. That's a hella price to put on regaining childhood bliss...

I've found the keys to paradise, but they're in a glass-fronted soda pop machine and I'm out of change...

I Gave A Pig A Pancake...

2007-01-18T16:29:00.000Z

The other day, because I have a conscience that won't let me do otherwise, I stopped to help someone with automobile troubles. I didn't want to. Honestly. Quite often, I don't want to, but I almost always stop to help folks whom I think I could. Call it paying it forward, or preventative karma- beating fate at its own game. I do, truly, like helping folks when I can, but it's so often an inconvenience. I have 'more important things' to consider.

But how important would I think someone else's priorities really were if I were the one carrying the tell-tale red 1-gallon gas can down the side of the road when the temperature's below freezing with the wind whipping through my threads? But I was busy. But you've been stranded before. But I'm late for work. Since when did you want to be there that badly?

This whole debate took about 4 and a half seconds before I turned around to give Daniel and Kara, as their names turned out to be, a lift to the gas station and back. I felt good about the decision the whole time, until we got back and the car had been run so dry that it wouldn't start. This was a relatively new car, with fuel injection, so there was no hope of simply dousing the carburetor with fuel until the engine fired. Either it would start, or it wouldn't.

It was at this point that I remembered the children's book entitled "If You Give a Pig a Pancake," which is the latest in a series begun with "If You Give a Mouse a Cookie." The tales are lively and funny, and run through the potential predicament you could land yourself in by sugaring up lesserly evolved mammals who cannot do their own supermarket shopping. If you give a pancake, he'll want syrup, and eventually will end up in your pajamas, in your bed, while you get up early to cook more pancakes. Not the exact plotline, but you get the idea. Nothing is so simple as its appearance.

Daniel's car wouldn't start, and this meant that either I could wish them luck and wave goodbye (as other folks might have done once retrieving them to the car-- once I was this involved, I felt compelled to see them on their way), and be a jerk, or I could offer them yet another ride...somewhere. As it turned out, the car did finally start, but not before I knew fully the threat of filling vermin with chocolate chips.

Applying the book, then, to real life, just makes me more leary-- I like to be helpful, but apparently my generosity has its stretches. This is harsh and selfish, even for me. Six weeks ago I was staying in the house of someone who met me on a bus and thought I looked like I could use a warm bed and a homecooked meal. How quickly we forget...

Loving, in any capacity, is rarely convenient. We are, by nature, self-serving and self-preserving, and putting the needs and concerns of anyone else ahead of ourselves, so far as I've seen, isn't always the easiest, nor most pleasant task. But someone took a risk on me, and I like to think I left them feeling justified and fulfilled by the occasion.

Strangely enough, Jesus advises us: "Don't give your pearls to pigs, and don't give dogs what is sacred, lest they turn upon you and turn you to pieces." (CAUTION: that's the JBLTV- Jeffro Brown loosely translated version- I'll try and get an exact quote when I get home, unless Lori or Tim can beat me to it...) Love then, but evaluate your recipient, I suppose. Of course, then, there's that new Sean Been movie, where he poses as a hitchhiker caught in a rainstorm and then proceeds to destroy the existence of the generous folks who have pity on him.

Blast, but it's a hanged confusing planet we inhabit. I've gone and confused myself from my original point, which, stated simply, was:

Give a Pig a Pancake.

Posts, Points, and Borders

2007-01-11T03:54:00.000Z

I'm finally back to something that feels like home should. I've spent the past 2 days rebuilding the barbed-wire fence that is the northernmost border of what remains of my grandfather's farm. I may be lacking in any number of skills and talents, but by gosh I can build a fence.

I've no idea whether it excites any of y'all or not, but I had to tear down and salvage as much of the old fence as possible, and in doing so doubled my at-hand amount of t-posts (the sort of post you build a barbed-wire fence with), and coiled up nearly a mile of wire suitable for reuse into what looked like galvanised Christmas wreaths for some sort of sadistic Yuletide dinner. Then I hand-drove about 50 of the aformentioned posts into the ground over a stretch of about 200 yards/metres, give or take, and stretched 5 new strands of wire along them. The first 3 wires were from the existing, painfully coiled wreaths, and as such, were unrolled and spliced in one at a time, with mimimal effort. The last 2 had to be unrolled from a new, multi-mile coil of wire on the back of the tractor, near the far post. This was done by wrapping my elkhide gloves in a coil or two of the new wire, and walking away from the tractor at about a 45 degree angle to the earth's crust. It was something like playing tug of war with an octopus, yet winning (by degrees). My entire body is wracked and sore.

On the other hand, my entire body is wracked and sore. I like knowing that I've worked. That I've earned my daily allotment of sleep and oxygen. And the pork chops in homemade gravy with brown-beans-and-ham and homemade cornbread, followed by a yellow cake with a caramel and coffee icing that my grandmother made to sustain me thru the lunchtime hours.

Yes, it's been a grand week. I'll sleep sooooooo well tonite.

Hippy New Year!!

2007-01-04T19:03:00.000Z

Well, as I said last time: when the rest of the world declares a holiday or other general hullabaloo, we make for the woods...

I went with a different crowd, and with different aims this time, though. I spent New Years' Eve, Hugmanae, back down at Devil's Den State Park, near West Fork, Arkansas. (So named because it's situated upon the west fork of the White River).

Present were my friends Tim and Genessa, with a string of Christmas lights across the front of their '67 yellow Split window VW, Adam and Kara, in their '78 tie-dyed, hand painted VW Westphalia edition with a string of white lights along the tent, and John and Amber in their mid-70s microbus standard.

Have I mentioned that I want a VW Camper? They haunt my dreams...

Here's a better shot of Tim's bus... He's proud of it.

Tim's in the process of fabricating a replica of an original Westphalia interior for it. Thus far he's got a nearly complete bed and the guts of a refrigerator. Within 2 weeks, he'll be an expert on the matter. So, anyone with questions about refitting split window buses with original style interiors can direct their questions to him here

WHOOOHOOO! Did that work? Did I include a link? Freaking YEAH!
Y'all have a happy Friday.

Cliches in Abundance

2006-12-29T22:10:00.000Z

The day after Thanksgiving, the American Holiday, is known as Black Friday. It is the biggest shopping day of the year, and those brave or dumb enough to risk public appearances, anywhere from shopping malls to coffee shops to the average traffic light quickly understand why the epithet has been attached. The past 2 years, I've been out of the country.

The day after Christmas is probably the second biggest shopping day: after Christmas sales, end of year events, returns, and gift cards all tempt the otherwise debatably sensible masses out of the peace and warmth of a day at home with American football and leftovers (We don't celebrate Boxing Day, in name at least). Last year, I spent this evil day travelling between Roma and Venezia, Italia.

This year, I did the smartest thing I could imagine, and followed my best friend Brandon out of town. He spends the hectic days in the woods. This seemed like the best solution to me, and a few others, as well, so we loaded up the Red Dragon (my petroleum fed pickup truck) with my old 18 foot trailer laden with 5 fourwheelers, pitched in enough food and sleeping apparati into the cargo box. And Brandon, his younger brother Vinny (my sister's boyfriend, conveniently enough), and our friends Cody (whom we call Younger, to avoid confusion between himself and my cousin Cody- who's older than Younger), and Ryan called Tucker, and myself, made our way down the off the Ozark Plateau towards that area of the Boston Mountains known as Devil's Den.

I was nearing sick, and am not improved after a nite out of doors, but I don't regret it. Let the rest of the world run to the commercial centers, we prefer the safety and calm of the wilderness. We were certainly fulfilling every notion of rednceck America, particularly Arkansas, all bedecked in camouflage and Carhartts, making chili over an open fire, drinking root beer, riding four wheelers, and spitting a lot.

I borrowed my grandfather's 20 year old Honda for the occasion, and am still impressed at how well it still performed after having set for 5 months without starting. If you're in the market, Honda gets my vote.

PS- Be sure and scroll on down, I posted twice otherwise today.
Cheers! and Happy New Years'!

My Ring

2006-12-29T21:16:00.000Z

As near as I can tell, there was no country in the western world not somewhat affected by the American stock market crash of Black Thursday, October 24, 1929 . America itself plunged into the Great Depression, a vile, ominous period that sought dominance over the previous champion, the Pretty Good Depression of 1867, and its weaker cousin, the Slump, a few years later. (Pardon, please, my irreverant treatment of these dark days of modern history. Laugh to keep from crying.)

The Great Depression hit northwest Arkansas with a vengeance. After half a century of unsustainable agricultural practices in what had been a deciduous forest for centuries untold, the topsoil of mid-America was left dried and without minerals and water, and began, after a 7-year drought begun in the late 20s, to simply blow away. Northwest Arkansas, along with northeas Oklahoma, southwest Missouri, and areas further afield, became known as The Dust Bowl. Airborne silt filtered its way into automobile engine compartments, shut and drawn windows, and eventually, the diet of the locals. Quite a few people left for sunny California, America's Promise Land.

Mine didn't. On the one side, they were too poor to move. On the other, they held jobs in town, with the school and Post Office, and managed to subsist, barely. This was my dad's family, the Browns. My grandfather, Marion Edison (Marion, Ed, M.E., or 'B' as I like to call him), was born in '24, and remembers the poverty of his developing years with striking keenness. He had few, if any, 'bought' toys. The man can by gosh make a kite tho-- he had a decade of practice, collecting old newspapers and twigs, binding them together with glue made from flour or cornmeal. By the time he'd saved long enough to buy string, he would've had a dozen kites awaiting.

He listened to a radio serial once a week, the name of which escapes us both. It featured some super hero, one of dozens of men that were beyond the constraints of their modern world and its financial difficulties and natural disasters, and like a continent full of boys his age, he never missed an episode. At one point, the breakfast cereal company that sponsored the show put out a promotion, whereby, if you sent in the proper order form, the tops of 10 of their boxes, and 25 cents shipping, they would send you a tin replica of the superhero's ring. As an 8 year old, young Ed simply couldn't continue living without one. Unfortunately, he had to, as his family either couldn't afford that much cereal, or by the time they did, the offer had ended, or they couldn't spare the 25 cents. Any road, my grandfather didn't get his ring, and like all of the other little defeats suffered in his early years, he filed it away for future justification.

30 years later, when he had built up a bit of savings for the purpose, he went to a jeweler, either with the original promotion ad from the cereal box, if he'd tucked it away and saved it that long, or simply an image in his mind, and had the jeweler make up the most impressive duplicate of this ring possible. B wore the ring for nearly 50 years, until it ceased to fit in old age, and retired it to a box in his dresser. There it stayed until I mentioned it in passing during a conversation about his Dad, Emerson Leslie Brown. He looked surprised that I'd taken interest in the band, as the rest of the family thought it a might garish, and said it was still around, would I like it? Of course I did, and there've been less than a dozen days in the previous 2 years since he gave it to me that I haven't worn it myself, through nearly 20 different countries, and half a dozen US states.

The [Photographic] Christmas Card I really wanted to send...

2006-12-29T21:09:00.000Z

For those who'd forgotten my quirky sense of humor.

The Christmas Card

2006-12-23T21:25:00.000Z

Well, here it is, my annual, much awaited Christmas card. Much more belated than usual, at that... I hope you're not all too underwhelmed. This is actually last year's card, but as not everyone I know has read it, and since I got such positive feedback, I use it again. There was to be a picture included this year, but once again, blasted dial-up internet and cantankerous home computer have willed otherwise.

Any rate, I hope that on this holiday we call Christ's Mass your hearts and souls may be filled with love for one another. Bear in mind, that even though Jesus, called Christ, was actually born sometime far earlier in the year than December, and not in a cozy, clean, tidy little stable like a more traditional Christmas card might lead you to believe, he did in fact come as a gift of love to you and every other person on the planet, whether you love Him or them or not. May you give out of love yourself, may your Christmas be merry, may you survive unscathed the intense marketing and commercial schemes that have been threatening your sanity for the last few months, may you value what you have not as much as you ought to value what you do in fact have.

To those of you not Christians, I apologize for the mess and confusion that our most publicized holy day may inflict upon you. I won't say that Christmas isn't about gifts or some jolly old man in a red suit giving presents to children, because it is. Christ was a gift to the lost souls of this planet, a cure for the spiritually diseased and undeserving. England's Father Christmas, Saint Nicholas of days of yore, took it upon himself to give out of his own pocket to those in need just as God had given to him. You don't have to believe in Santa Claus, speaking to all faiths now; you can blame his myth for ruining what some people count a myth anyways, but don't discredit either of the men that are the definition of our modern idea of Christmas. Christmas is a time of setting ourselves aside to focus on the needs of others, and giving to them from our hearts. Dr. Marshall Edwards, currently of Blowing Rock, North Carolina, once said that Jesus exemplified the perfect gift. He reflected both the supreme needs of the recipient, as well as the ultimate desire within the heart of the Giver. Give this Christmas because it is in your heart to do so. Don't do it not to feel guilty, don't do it because tradition mandates you must. Give because you love and you can't not do either.

Love someone this Christmas, and let them know that you love them. Know that you wouldn't be reading this now if I wasn't at least moderately fond of you. ;)
At any rate, I'll step down from my pulpit now, with apologies. It's December 23rd, and tonite we're having Spaghetti Arkansanese at my Grandmother's new house atop the hill. We'll return there tomorrow evening for gifts and our more 'traditional' Christmas dinner. Christmas dinner around our place isn't Christmas dinner until at least 6 people have been addressed with someone else's name, till my grandmother has brought out the traditional ham and spinach quiche (a perennial rural Arkansas favourite... ô¿ô...), homemade guacamole, and a ruthless dosage of sarcasm. I do love our family recipes. Northwest Arkansas boasts North America's oldest Italian Immigrant settlement, Tontitown (where I work, actually), and as such we have a strong Italian cuisine bent, but it's not Italian food as you'd find in the motherland. Usually, our spaghetti comes with a massive heap of deep fried chicken atop it. We are the only family I know of whose Christmas dinner primarily features a quiche. I am proud of that. My aunt's husband smokes up an amazing briscuit, my uncle brings the most amazing, heart-burning pico de gallo (salsa) you can imagine, my mom makes guacamole, and my grandmother dices up chicken for chicken salad sandwiches. My apologies to the vegetarians and vegans among you, but I am now drooling, and am off to dinner.

Happy Christmas!

Lathered

2006-12-22T18:18:00.000Z

As my time in Europe was winding down, most everyone would ask what I missed most about the States, and was looking forward to returning to. My standard answer was 'the people. Same as I miss most about Europe when in the States, and what I look forward to when I finally make it south to Australia-- the people I know there. Places don't vary all that much. Cities are cities, and John Deere dealerships abound globally, and you can pretty well assume that a grocery store will have all of the same wares as any other grocery store. But it's the people that make a place.'

I still feel that way, but at some point or another while in England, I did realise one thing that I am now very glad to have returned stateside to: American-sized showers. I can actually wash my feet and back again.

I still don't know where home is (back on momma's sofa again, hopefully for a much shorter duration than last time...), but I look forward to the day where I am some place of my own that I'm able to walk around barefoot, dance naked, and sing or make other strange vocal broadcasts to suit myself. Locale isn't the most pertinent question, though. Location will follow other qualifications, such as why, and who with.

So what do I miss most about Europe? Other than the folks? The way English house windows are made, local accents, doner kebabs, public transit, smart cars, German Christmas markets, wall mount hot water heaters. Last year, I missed the smell of Imperial Leather soap. This year, I brought home half a dozen bars and a bottle of shower gel. I started in on the latter last nite, and it is phenomenal. That's one problem solved then... now if I could just import some One...

There are other things that it's good to get back to, and I've been trying to list them, but I can't quite recall them all. American sized trucks join the ranks with our gargantuan showers. We got a new trio of trucks in here at the shop and there's an incredibly sexy Ford F-250 3/4 ton 4x4 out in the parking lot that's been distracting me from my daily duties for hours now...

It's nice to be back where I know my way around. I can once again give directions that include such phrases as "next to where such-and-such usedtowas..." or "down past the old McKim place" and "this side of the 68 east intersection" or "Well, you know where my uncle Larry's place is..."

I'm certain there's other things (Root Beer, little hole-in-the-wall Mexican joints-Taquerias-, and my dog, Cotton), but as I'm actually clocked in and supposed to be working--

Ham Sandwich Mentality

2006-12-21T19:36:00.000Z

*Pictures forthcoming...dang stinking dial-up connection at home isn't doing so well... it's a might sick. I'd post some pictures now, but I'm at work (back at John Deere, temporarily, doing end-of-year inventory), and posting in a hurry.

Just a passing thought.

I don't know whatever became of Blake Pianalto. It seems he'd been dating one of the Isaac twins and was perhaps slated to marry her, but I never heard for certain. In either case, Blake was a good dude, but we weren't exceptionally close. The only thing I really remember about him was a short speech he made one day in our Bowling Class. (Yep, that's right, in Grade 12, I took a semester long class on bowling. Twas grand.) He'd recently broken up with his girlfriend, and when we asked why, he gave us the same excuse he'd given her. To wit:

"It's not that I don't like her. It's just that I've had enough of her. I like ham sandwiches, but if I ate one every day out of 30, I wouldn't want any more."

Profound. I would, of course, hate to be on the receiving end of that argument, and I'm certain she was far from mollified, but it got him out of a relationship.

I've never felt the need to attach this philosophy to any particular person whom I've had a relationship with, but the principle makes a great deal of sense to me, and my supervisor Todd, out here at John Deere. The job at this dealership that I perform isn't exceptionally tough. The negative side of that is that it's not always exceptionally challenging. Sometimes that's nice, at others it's tedious. I do enjoy it, to some extent (this IS, after all, the third different time I've been employed here.) I just get bored. But that goes for most anything in my life: I get too satisfied. I need a constant inflow of something different, new, changing: fresh water in the pond, so to speak.

I burn out quickly. I can get excited about most anything, and put all my energy into it-- the last week back here at the Deere Dealership has been fun, but I know it'll wear off-- but few things have sticking power. As my profile says, 'ever dissatisfied, seeking, and searching.'

I actually ate only ham sandwiches my first few months back in the States this year: I was on the nearest thing to a health food kick as I've ever experienced (and low on cash) so for lunch every day I made sandwiches of whole grain bread, lettuce, tomatoes, onions, organic cheese and sliced meat. Every day. For months. I've now not eaten a sandwich in about 5 months.

It's a bit of a joke with Todd and I, that I'll just stick around and do whatever until I'm bored, then I'll race off for whatever excitement I can conceive of, till that or my wallet wears thin, then I'll start over. And yeah, it's kind of funny, and it makes for a good story, but... At times it feels less like life but verisimilitude of it...

Any rate, the quest continues. Further On.

Ground Regained

2006-12-15T03:05:00.000Z

Howdy howdy from old Northwest Arkansas. I've thought endlessly over the last 3 days of what all brilliant thoughts I was going to plop onto here at the first instant, but I'm going to have to wait for the second instant... short on time as of yet, no pictures loaded, people to catch up with...

Any rate, just had to get on and let everyone know that, regardless of the low oil pressure reading on the 767 (why the CRAP they felt the need to tell us this as we left the ground embarking on a 10 HOUR TRANSATLANTIC flight, I cannot fathom, but thanks...), we did manage to drop out of the sky only on schedule and towards a proper landing strip.

If you're not currently in NWA, be you in Edinburgh, Dubai, or Houston, I miss you.

Lines from the Second-to-last house in Greenock

2006-12-09T10:15:00.000Z

For those of you infamiliar with the second-to-last house in Greenock, it is the home of my friend Lori from the U of Ark days, and her husband Scott. (For further investigation, see www.scottandlori.co.uk -- sorry, I still haven't figured out this dadblasted link thing) I've been in Scotland now for about 60 hours, and the weather, and locals, have been phenomenal. For those concerned, though I did spend a full 48 hours in Edinburgh, I missed the castle. Too much else to do, too much to gain the gate, monetarily. I did get my own private tour about the old city, from my new friend Katie. She's a volunteer at the Royal Scotland Museum, was doing a survey of museum visitors, and we struck up a conversation. One geek finds another...

But, as to the time at hand, I am in Greenock now, which is west of Glasgow a wee bit, where Lori and Scott have organised a house party for the evening, and I have voluntarily stepped forward to cook all of their Scottish friends a good ol' pot of chili con carne (and what else would I?). I think I've averaged about a pot every 10 days, but as I've yet to make it for the exact same group twice, all's well. Lori has described me to the locals here whom I'll meet in the next day or two as her 'chicken farming friend from home in Arkansas,' and I believe it's caused her some angst and warying concern to discover that that qualificaion is one I no longer hold. I do still like to introduce myself as Farmer Brown, but no, I don't raise chickens by the thousand any longer. That train has sailed...

Tomorrow, after church (during which, I've been told, Lori has already volunteered my services as a secondary Sunday school teacher) we're going to Scott's folks for lunch. Haggis.

So any rate, I'm here thru Monday, then down to Nottingham for the Frisbee team Christmas social monday night, German Christmas market on Tuesday (it began November 25, the day after I left for Bath. Consequently, I've already missed out on 2+ weeks of potential bratwurst consumption... arrrrgh.), then we'll have a Chrismtas party at either 49 Claude (my former residence in Notts), or 100A Montpelier (Juan, Giuliana, and Alex' current abode in the same), featuring a simmering pot of Ye Olde Classic Jeffro Chili con Carne.

And here's today's bit of wisdom, as was penned round about a month ago, the day Celine and I went to Cannes while in Cote d'Azur:

Monday, November 13th
For as much as things change between continents, it truly is fascinating how much they stay the same- particularly if you pay attention to the children. The day of the harvest festival in Navis, Austria, I saw a bunch of 8 year old boys running, with a bucket, determined delight, and anticipation, over to the fountain in the town centre. I never saw who they soaked with it, but I'm certain it was one of them's sister. Boys and their mischeif are simply universal, insuppressive, and indisguisable. It was the sort of thing Matt Lockard, Adam Cole, and I would've plotted against Adam's older sisters. Or Kathy Shilling.

I was on a beach in Cannes France today. It wasn't a nude beach, though plenty of people who shouldn't've been were near enough. I did see a pair of naked children, probably aged 3 and 4, run down to the water's edge in unbridled glee. The younger one, the boy, in front, ran in up to just over his ankles, stopped, put his hands on his hips, and considered. He was going to stand there and pee in That Water, Outside, in Public, and he was Looking Forward To It.

That was me, twenty years ago. Or, twenty minutes previous, had I not found a public toilet when I did. No, things aren't all that different. Latitude and longitude are, after all, creations of man. Language, infrastructure, and mealtimes are as well, and thus distinctively fabricated, but the species that came up with them isn't quite so diverse. Not, at least, when we're standing naked on the sea shore.

--
Life is enjoyed most when you're laughing. Laugh hard, laugh often, and think of me.

For the Shamrockers...

2006-12-02T18:22:00.001Z

I checked into a Temple Bar hostel in Dublin
only to discover that the toilet floor was bubblin,'
the kitchen hall was crap, all the plates in need of scrubbin,'
and when they told me they had no lockers,
I began to fret of having chosen Shamrockers.

But then I met Tim, and he's a hella nice guy,
and Jana, whose mind works better when dry,
Curly-headed Katie- who's on the hunt for local guys.
And her partner in crime is a girl named Maree,
who can't pick up when her hairs gone curly.

They sit in the back with a cutie named Hayley
and crack jokes on Dean's consumption of Bailey's.
And Lauren hops off the bus (what's this one? a Healy?)
in the stormy, soggy, home of Paddy,
snapping pictures with Rohan and Matty.

And I sit here and smile when I survey your faces
and wish you the best when you get to your places.
I hope in your memories I've left my own traces
and perhaps if some song ever tickles your ear,
you'll remember Shamrocking with old Jeff John Deere.

'Cause I'd hate if Amy forget that first cider,
or the spectacular sights we all witnessed beside her.
And Jess, who's perhaps the tours' quietmost rider
will somewhere in her mental files save
fond memories of Erin, Becca and Dave.

And don't forget Tricia, who's hell on the clutch,
who for all the banter, don't hate ye too much.
And Karen's good for the local histories, and such,
while Brad and Mick are up for a walk and a beer,
be it in Sydney, Helvetia, Glasgow, or here.

Forget ye not Kathryn, who causes no stir
reading her book with Helena predictably sitting next to her.
Sandie, by the way, has a great sense of humour;
Avery's one who's gifted for song,
And I'm dang awful glad you've all come along.

But as I stand in my spotlight and guess at your thoughts
I worry if I've behaved every day as I ought,
and wonder if we'll ever meet again elsewhere, or not.
I can only hope that if you're ever around,
you'd kindly drop in and stay with ol' Jeffro Brown.

Cheers to ye all. And here's one last pub tune...
And since it falls into my lot, that I should rise and you should not
I gently rise and softly call, "Goodnight and joy be to you all!"
So fill to me the Parting Glass and drink a health whate'er befall,
then gently rise and softly call, "Goodnight and joy be to you all!!"

I wish you all well, and I certainly hope to hear from you in future. My sincerest apologies if I misspelled your names, or if you didn't want your "What-happens-on-Shamrocker-stays-on-Shamrocker" reputations put in internationally accessible text.
Ooops. ;)

Those of you whom I wasn't able to properly say good-bye to this morning, I sincerely apologise. It was all a bit flustering, and if you haven't realised already, when you're trekking round with a pack, it feels like you spend more time saying good-bye than actually enjoying other people's company. Rest completely satisfied that I've enjoyed yours this week, and wish I could've had both more time with you, and more time to say fareyewell. I say that birds of a feather do not, in fact, flock together. They collide in midair. That being the case, I look forward to seeing you next time my head's in the clouds... Meanwhile, Further On.

All my love,
jeff

Shamrockin'

2006-11-26T00:27:00.000Z

Well, howdy from Bath, southwest England. I and my friend Harp have come down from Nottingham to visit our friend Angela for the weekend, and tomorrow I fly over to Dublin, Ireland, where I'm taking a tour for the next week. I know that Irish blokes probably don't actually all sit around in pubs of an evening and sing all the great Irish pubtunes like 'Wearing of the Green,' 'Black Velvet Band,' and 'Johnny I hardly Knew Ye,' but I'm hoping anyways...

Next Sunday, I'll head towards the north coast to Londonderry, stay a night and head out to the Giant's Causeway, then spend the next 2 nites in Belfast, flying to Edinburgh, Scotland on the Wednesday of that week, staying there 2 nites before taking the train to Glasgow and meeting up with my friend Lori from the University of Arkansas, and her Scottish husband, Scott.

I'll be back in Nottinghamshire on Monday the 11th, just in time for the frisbee Christmas social, spending that night and the following with my friends Juan, Giuliana, and Alexis again, then flying home to Arkansas that Wednesday.

I say all of this because I don't know when I'll be able to post next, and the previous entry was after all a downer.

Any rate, drop me a line...
jeffro

--
Life is enjoyed most when you're laughing. Laugh hard, laugh often, and think of me.

Penance

2006-11-21T13:18:00.000Z

°For a viewer and reader friendly version, skip to the last 4 lines. I know I can be too wordy for some people at times...°

I mention in the column at right (--->) that through self-reflection and the helpful criticism of others, that I have become aware of my worrisome case of self-absorption.

In the 3 months since I typed that into my profile, I haven't improved much. Hence the following paragraphs.

If I've hurt you, I'm sorry. If it were by words or actions or a combination of both, I apologise. I've been told from multiple angles, multiple sources, and in multiple states of emotional concern, that something I have said or done has led to your unwanted sadness.

I offer no excuses, and I do not intend to list my sins here in this format, but I do know that some of my behavior towards others is perhaps inexcusable, and that for someone who professes to love people so much as I do, I've done little to prove it.

I do realise that the few people I wish most to see this public confession of guilt have already reached a point that they no longer prefer to read or hear a word from me, and that those of you reading this perhaps have no idea what I'm talking about. That being the case, I'll not continue this saddened reflection of my actions.

Just believe that my posting these words here is intended to express my concern over the damages I have caused, and know that I am willing to make repairs as needed.

Or, to say all of that a little less like myself, and more easily understandable:
I've been a jerk. I know it. I'm sorry, and I want more than anything else, to make things right.

Heroes in a Half Shell...

2006-11-18T19:51:00.000Z

Well, Friday night saw the annual house party at 236 Queens Road, Beeston, home of my friend James King (JK, Jake) and his housemate Fergus (here pictured as Raphael and Leonardo, respectively). The fourth of our bunch, Michaelangelo, was portrayed by Fergus' sister, Amelia (Amy).

The theme for the evening was cartoon characters (quite often, British parties seem to feature fancy dress costumes, and are usually themed), and the best costume present was a guy who created his own costume of Mr. Incredible, from the recent Pixar (I believe) feature length film.

The evening featured funnels, a yard glass, frisbee vodka jelly races, and a barbecue manned by yours truly. I spent teh earlier part of the day creating some homemade barbecue sauces for the occasion, which were well received.

Any rate, it's been a fun week in Nottingham, and I hope your respective corners of the world have been equally enjoyable for you lately.

Cheers for now. Remember, life is enjoyed most when you're laughing. Laugh hard, laugh often, and think of me.

A light Peppering of Pictures...

2006-11-15T09:02:00.000Z

Well, I got up this morning to discover that I cannot put off that haircut any longer...

But then again, at least I don't look like these ridiculous Italian dudes who are apparently very in fashion... Note the mullets, the bad glasses, and the MATCHING trousers and nearly identical shoes... Ye gods...

I saw those Italian teenagers while hanging out with my friend Charlie in Reggio Ermelia, Italia, near to Parma. Her flat overlooked the city park, in the centre of which was one of the most amazing trees I've ever seen. It's the one that claimed the life of my British mobile phone...

When I was in Yorkshire 3 weeks ago, I did manage to talk a local farmer into letting me check out the antique tractors in his barn. This is probably my favourite picture, though not my favourite of his particular examples of aging British iron. He had a Fordson Major, which weren't sold in America, that I loved. This is a 1968 Massey-Ferguson 135. Or, the nose of one.

While in France with Celine over the last 2 weeks, we did some hiking through the southernmost stretches of the Alps, and we dropped off of one peak into the valley containing Le Sac du St. Croix- the Lake of the Holy Cross. I think they call it that to make themselves feel better for having buried the original village church beneath 600 metres of water when they dammed and flooded the valley 35 years ago, but that's just my opinion... In either case, the valley and lake were beautiful. There was a massive float plane that kept circling round and loading water into itself- it seems there was a fire a few ridges away- so we sat down on the water's edge to watch the process of the plane filling its belly, and presently this catamaran came skirting across the surface, and I went all but blind trying to get this shot. He was etching his way back and forth across my line of vision making for the far end of the lake, so I took 5 or 6 pictures like the one following. This seems to be the best.

At any rate, I'm back in Nottingham, and glad of it. I tore my backpack strap yesterday, so I'm going to hike down the road to Beeston City Centre where there's a shoe repair place right next to a barber's on the high street, go have a coffee at Cafe Nero, where my friend Giuliana (Juan's wife) works, and then there's both frisbee practice and a social later in the day.

Hope y'all have a wonderful day yourselves...
cheers for now,
jeffro

England once more...

2006-11-15T01:10:00.000Z

I left Nice this morning at roughly 10 am, where the temperature was a balmy 20 degrees Celsius, or about 70 Fahrenheit, sunny, and promisingly as amazing as the previous 2, during which I'd combed the beaches of San Raphael, Cannes, and Antibes barefoot and shirtless. England, as expected, is cold, damp, and rainy. And I love it. Perhaps I like England so much because somewhere deep in my fibres is a need for something to gripe about, and if nothing else, there's the weather...

Or perhaps it's because England, particularly Holmfirth, Yorkshire, can give rise to pictures like the latter 2 following. The first is from San Tropez, France. The ocean just doesn't do all that much for me, though the Mediterranean is my favourite, and that shows in my pictures. I simply cannot get good shots of the sea. Put me in the mountains in inclement weather, though...

Blue Shores

2006-11-11T17:36:00.000Z

Howdy howdy again from Côte d'Azur, the southern French region that borders the Meditteranean near Italy. The weather here the last 10 days has been fabulous, with the sun dominating all of its hours above the horizons. It hasn't rained once, but the clouds present around the sun's rising and setting make for some breathtaking scenery. I've hiked along the shore, through the gorges and peaks of the southmost stretches of the Alps, and through half a dozen towns I can neither spell nor pronounce.

I've finally spent some time writing, as I've had ample opportunities. I will stay here 14 nights, which will be more than all the compiled nights in any other locale by the time I leave for the States in December. I'm headed back north to Nottingham on Tuesday, and am certainly looking forward to it, bleak tho the weather might be upon my arrival.

I promise that within the week I'll post something significant-- one of the things I penned while relaxing along the Mediterranean coast...

Cheers for nowm hope the weather's at least tolerable in your respective necks of the woods....

Just In Passing

2006-11-04T12:03:00.000Z

To ease all minds counting the days since any news last issued forth, I am now on the French Riviera. I spent the last part of last week and the weekend in Yorkshire, a region I highly recommend to anyone, and then headed for London Monday, flying to France on Tuesday. The weather in England was beautiful, and it was a shame to leave when things are so nice, but I had the chance to spend some time in France rent-free, so here I am. The weather is fabulous, the Meditteranean a shade of blue more usually associated with a mountain stream.

Happy belated Halloween, All Saints Day, and Dia de los Muertos to you all.

Ciao!
jeff

The Frozen Underwear Story

2006-10-26T11:26:00.000+01:00

As I've said more than once in recent years, I grew up with a pretty dynamic circle of friends. This is why most of my stories revolve around Adam Cole, Brandon King, and Tim Newberry. There's always something good to tell; be it leaving Adam behind kissing his girlfriend goodnight at her house on top of a hill so that he had to chase me down if he didn't want to walk home, or listening to Brandon try to purchase a "ba' geiss" (Bag of ice) from a gas station attendant in Delaware, or Tim headbutting me to give me the only scar on my person, there's no end to the anecdotes I could rattle off around these, and others, of my friends back home in Arkansas.

When I was 15 or 16, about a dozen of us guys from the church we attended in Springdale went on an overnight trip to Tulsa, Oklahoma (famous internationally for being where Chandler Bing worked...) with our youth minister, Brian. We'd checked into a sort of hotel suite, with multiple beds, a kitchenette, and a divided bathroom (sink and vanity through one door, toilet and shower through a further). I cannot sleep until I'm clean, so while the rest, I though, were watching a movie, I hopped in to clean off the daily grime. While I was out of hearing, however, Tim removed the laces from my shoes and tied the bathroom door (which opened inwards) to the vanity sink, so that I couldn't get out. This was a common prank, originated from Brian, our youth minister. The coup de grace came when, at church camp one year, we tied a dozen dorm doors, occupied by another church group, all together with one stretch of rope, effectively locking about 50 dudes in their rooms. I managed to yank the door enough to stretch the lace sufficiently to push the blade of my pocketknife through the small opening thus afforded and cut myself out.

This was, of course, not the worst of the matter. While I'd been fighting my way out of the shower, someone else, probably at Tim's direction, had gotten into my bag, which I should've know to carry in with me, and removed my jocks/skivvies/undershorts/briefs/whitey-tighties. These they took into the kitchen and submerged in a bowl of water, and placed the whole affair in the freezer. I couldn't for the life of me figure out what all the snickering was as I rummaged over and over through my belongings in search of some clean underwear. Finally, the room erupted in heart-felt guffaws, and I was informed as to my clothing's location. Ohhhhh, I was beside myself. I opened the freezer and saw, sure enough to my further rage, that I was now effectively without a clean pair of jocks.

Tim, conniver that he is and knower of personalities and weaknesses, told me that they'd all agreed to buy me breakfast in the morning, as a recompense, providing I could remove my shorts from the freezer (come breakfast-time), extract them from the bowl, and put them on. Now, you'd simply have to know that I'm a sucker for a free meal, and as my whiteys were already nearly on the rocks, I took the bait, and slept in my swimming trunks.

The blow didn't really fall till the next morning, when I dutifully chipped my underwear out of a solid block of ice with a fork, pried them apart, and experienced the coldest sensation of all my born days. It was then, as I scurried off to reheat myself, amid a roomful of hecklers splitting their sides agape, that I was informed that it was a continental breakfast.

In America, 'continental' means free.

And I've always wondered how that particular name had been chosen for a free breakfast. Now, having travelled Europe both through England and on the continent, I've assessed the mystery. A traditional English breakfast, or a great fry-up as the locals would say, consists of fried tomatoes, baked beans, fried mushrooms, white English sausage links (savoury, but much drier than sausage in the States), and fried bacon (which is more akin to thinly sliced ham, where I'm from), toast, cereal, orange juice, tea and coffee. Breakfast on the continent, however, is far less impressive, as a rule. Usually, it consists of cereal and a bread of some sort, with jam and butter, perhaps some fruit, and tea or coffee. Unless, of course, you're staying at the Hortnagl House in Navis, Austria, where breakfast is a glorious melee of sliced meats and cheeses, breads, coffee, cocoa, and honey fresh from the comb just out the back door.

A continental breakfast, then, is a term attached by European travellers at some point in the vaguely recent past to indicate that one should not expect the hot meal associated with breakfast in England. Speaking of which, the inspiration here expounded came about this morning, as I broke fast in the west Yorkshire town of Holmfirth, famously the set for the 30-year running British comedy series "Last of the Summer Wine." It's a lovely little locale, and I plan to do some much anticipated hiking and touristing this afternoon.

Y'all have a fabulous day.
jeff

Damme Herre Slamme Fayre

2006-10-23T10:54:00.001+01:00

Well, That's probably spelled wrong, but the title enscribed above was the frisbee tournament I played in yesterday, with my old teammates from the University of Nottingham's Ultimate Society, Random Fling. It was wonderful flipping a disc around with the crew again.

I am back in Nottingham again, after my last trip to East Dulwich, South London, to visit my Colombian Friend Yeny. I like London, but as the saying goes, it's a lovely place to visit, but I'd hate to live there. I don't know if I've ever managed to convey the respect I have for Yeny and her housemates and the thousands of others I don't know who've moved to another country, learned a new language, and are putting themselves through university by working as near full time as the government allows. I usually feel quite guilty after conversing with any of the residents of her townhouse, and hearing the intensity of their daily work and study schedules-- me and all my wandering, unencumbered gypsy tendencies...

At any rate, London was nice, but when I got up to leave first thing Friday morning, it was raining, which was perfectly suitable. I've realised that I have left nearly every city or town I've been to on this trip when the rain comes. Every town, that is, but Nottingham. I expected it to rain here, and rain it has. But it was raining when I left Bergamo, Innsbruck, and Milano. When the rain comes, it's time to leave. So it was fitting that my last call on south London ended in thunder and puddles. The city is wonderful, the variation of people in residence is unrivalled, and the parks and history inescapably unavoidable, but in the midst of a torrential downpour, it's hard to see any redeeming qualities.

It rained so hard in England Friday morning that a good portion of the M1 between Mansfield and London was flooded, causing multiple wrecks, resulting in the closing of said motorway, and stranding the bus that was to pick me up and whisk me out of the damp cold of London was an hour late. By the time I did arrive, I'd managed to move beyond angry or put out, after all, we all know I have no real appointments to keep, and was simply in a serenely unemotional mood, ready only for escape. I boarded the bus, popped in my earbuds, and immediately fell to sleep as the driver did his best to navigate us out of the traffic, construction, and flood barricades and off towards the North. I came to when I realised the bus was no longer lurching among other vehicles, but had eased into the hum of overdrive. I saw the last far-flung semblances of city and modernity pass across the horizon, as the clouds broke, and all at once my vision was filled only with the inimitable green of English grasslands. I turned off the music and shook myself to full wakefulness, and lost myself in the scenery. There was one small pasture in particular that's still in my mind. It was hemmed in by the classic rural English stone wall, broken here and there by the growth of trees, and the field itself was filled only with lush grass, save a solitary tree out towards the middle. It was noon, but this far north on the globe, the autumnal sun never rises more than about 40 degrees off of the southern horizon, so that even high noon has an appearance of what reminds me of 4 in the afternoon at home. So, after a long and, comparably, distressing morning, noon though it was, as I passed by that picturesque 12 acre plot, the shadow cast by the tree had an effect of the last hours before sunset, and the hectic psychological constraints of the city died all at once as I remembered why I truly love England.

Or, for that matter, Arkansas, or bits here and there all over the parts of the planet I've seen thus far. Trees, stones, and the greenery of nature in general. England, nor indeed Northwest Arkansas, can truly claim any longer to be an agrarian, rural locale. The ways of life that suit and require such surroundings are quickly dying, and my favourite source of serenity along with them. As Allen commented a few posts back, quoting some classic American lighter rock: "Don't it always seem to go that you don't know what you've got till it's gone. They pave paradise and put up a parking lot."

Take stock of where you find peace, and what you know is worth loving, and enjoy it soon. If not today, this week,or when you're able in the not-so-distant future. If it's London, New York City, or Spring, Texas, or the Snake River, Sahara Dessert, or Puppy Creek, get there sometime soon. Myself, I hope to get to either northeast or southwest England in the next month-- either Yorkshire, or Somerset and Dorset. If I can, I'll hire a bike and ride along some canal towpaths.

What speaks serenity to you?

This Ever-Shrinking Terrasphere

2006-10-18T22:50:00.000+01:00

I returned to Yeny's house in East Dulwich, South London, this evening, and heard an American voice upstairs. When I finally managed to get up to the living room to see who all was in residence, I encountered a girl in a University of Virginia hoodie, who introduced herself as Jodi. We exchanged pleasantries for awhile, and she eventually asked where I was from. I started with the usual thread I save for Americans: "Near Fayetteville, where the University is... Spingdale is actually my hometown, between Fayetteville and Bentonville, where Wal-mart's headquartered." But she stopped me: "I've heard of Springdale...we have relatives there... Yes that's right, I've seen it on our Christmas Cards. My cousins are the Bogers." Kelly and Cody. For those of you in NWA, the Bogers are the family on the corner of Cowface Road, on the way to Hickory Creek Marina on Beaver Lake, with a pasture full of buffalo. I actually talked to Kelly over the phone a week or two before leaving the US, trying to line him up to haul some dirt.

We had a good laugh over the coincidence, if you could call it that. I don't particularly believe in coincidences...

Trying to Stay on Top of this Updating Thing

2006-10-18T12:31:00.000+01:00

Well, so Tuesday saw me sleeping in late, as the aftereffects (washing up et al.) of the Monday evening dinner party had me up well past midnight. I left 49 Claude just in time to catch the last possible bus that would get me to Nottingham's Broadmarsh Coach Station before the 450 National Express to London pulled out without me. I love the drive from Notts to London, down the M1. It's not what you'd call remarkable: tarmac is tarmac and asphalt is asphalt, regardless of continent. A road is an obviously blighting streak across otherwise pure and unfettered nature or idyllic farmland, no matter the latitudal and longitudinal lines it crosses, but for all that, I love a road. Given that it will probably be asphalt that finally claims the last scrapings of the little bit of geography my family's called home for a century and a half, I derive a sense of peace from a well-paved highway. If you know my road-tripping tendencies, this won't surprise you.

The M1 to London from Nottingham, via Milton Keynes, is certainly the main British road I'm most familiar with. I've lost count of the number of coaches I've ticked past the miles in down said stretch, but I've grown well familiar. I usually try to stay awake the whole trip, but I was beat this time, so I popped in the ear buds and drifted in and out of Jimmy Buffett, the Fray, and Sister Hazel.

That was just as well, as I received a text message from my Australian buddy Davo, whom I met in Spain last year, inviting me out to the Frog and Forget-Me-Not pub for a pint and a spot on his quiz team. Pub quizzes are big affairs here in England, and particularly England. One of the prizes last night was an entire case of beers. Our team, "The-number-of-times-will-we-have-to-play-before-we-win-this-quiz-is" featured returning contenders Ed, of English persuasion; Davo and his girlfriend Natalie, both from Australia; Myself and Yeny (Colombian, if you forget); and her newest to housemates, Demis and Michaela, an Italian couple. There were 3 rounds of 30+ questions in multiple categories. We all had our strengths, but I was able to prove myself by identifying Ray Charles "Georgia on My Mind", among other tunes, and anagramming 'Excitation' into 'intoxicate.' All of our combined knowledge pooled together, unfortunately, landed us only in 4th or 5th place, out of 40+. Our score of 104 simply didn't measure up to the two 106's and the title-taking 109 scored by our competition.

Win or lose, we did have a smashing time, which is an awful good thing, as when my tab came round, the ONE pint of Magner's Irish Cider I'd washed down cost me 4 pounds. It's a wonder the poverty level in London isn't frequented by more of the locals, given the price of alcohol, grog and booze in the imbibing establishments. Quite fortunately, I'm not an alcoholic. If I'd known the levy I'd be laid with for 1 solitary refreshment, I'd've nicked a pint glass bearing the pub or brand name...

Any rate, Happy Wednesday. Hope the weather's fair where you're at. London is mostly cloudy, as per usual, and not raining. As Yeny's at work, I'll probably hit a park or museum for the first part of the afternoon.

Do some stretches. Your body'll appreciate it.
jeff

Big Weekend

2006-10-17T00:04:00.000+01:00

Welllll...

I took a bus from London to Nottingham Thursday, so that I could practice with the frisbee team Thursday evening. I spent Friday doing... nothing...that I recall, and kicked off the weekend Friday night with my friend Sophia, whom I met in Vienna (if you haven't heard that tale, we'll get there eventually). Her boyfriends 25th birthday was one day last week, and they were celebrating Friday night. I went along, and as they're both medical students, met about 40 other meds, and ended up conversing most of the night away with a girl named Katrina.

Saturday was nice, by Nottingham standards; it wasn't raining. So, Katrina and I went for a walk through Wollaton Park, the ancestral grounds of either the Wollaton or Willoughby family, or both. We also went down to the Nottingham Canal and Castle Marina to check out some of my beloved narrowboats. Found one for sale for a mere 80,000 pounds... Went out for a pint with Dave from Fling at the Happy Return that evening, then to a house party at our friend Helen's house. Helen is also known as Fish, but that's another story I'm infamiliar with.

Sunday...I spent a greater portion of the day posting, as I recall, till about 2 pm, when I headed off for frisbee practice and some track training afterwards. My body is still sore in places I'd forgotten existed. Came home and showered, then went back to Dave's to grab him, his housemate and our fellow flinger Rod, and Dave's guitar, and headed down to open mic nite at the Happy Return, once more, to meet up with James and Harp, also from Fling. We got there about 8.30, and after a few sips of Kingston's Press Cider to start the evening, I took to the stage and played for about an hour... everything from my standard "Can't You See" by the Marshall Tucker Band, to Kenny Chesney, Jimmy Buffett, and the Generic Love Song. Eventually played a duet of "Sweet Home Alabama" with a phenomenal British piano-playing chap, who actually played the entertainer from underneath the piano... Left the HR at midnight, and went to the Fanoose takeaway for a Kebab, which I got for half price after playing the cook a Jimmy Buffett's "He Went to Paris". At least, I think that's what I was playing... I'll go ask him tomorrow: he recorded me.

Today, my friend Danisha and I went walking round; again to the canal, but west to Beeston marina. I really love those narrow boats. I promise I'll get some pictures up soon as I'm able. We walked goodness knows how many miles, ending up in Beeston city centre, the long way, and hitting the Sainsbury's grocery store, where I bought all the ingredients necessary for a good pot of chili and a batch of brownies, and we feasted at my old house tonight: myself, Danisha, Sophia, Katrina, James, Juan, Giuliana, Alexis, Tung, and Alejandro. I made so much, though, that Tung will be eating the stuff through the weekend. He seemed to like it, fortunately. We sat around after dinner for nearly 3 hours, laughing hysterically about one thing or another. Which was good, as we'd all eaten too much and severely needed to burn a few calories. It would seem that everyone enjoyed themselves and the meal. Even Sophia, who's highly critical... ;) James did, for what it's worth, eat half of the entire [double] batch of peanut butter brownies. Take it all around, we all went our separate ways satisfied.

Tomorrow, it's back to London for a few days for Yeny's birthday. Beyond that, I'm uncertain.

So, to recap: Tex-Mex dinner done Arkansas style with English available ingredients, peanut butter brownies a la Carol Brown. In attendance: 2 English, 1 American, 1 Mauritian, 1 Anglicised Greco-Barbadian, 3 Mexicans, 1 Malaysian, 1 Peruvian. It's a cosmopolitan world, allright. This is why I love England, and Nottingham in particular, so much.

Any rate, have a fabulous week. Eat Thai.
jeffro

Second Post in 12 hours...don't miss the first...

2006-10-15T10:13:00.000+01:00

Howdy, all. It's about 10 am Sunday morning in Nottingham GMT, so 4 am in Arkansas, and late evening in Western Australia (I've got so many numbers in my head-- translating temperatures from centigrade to Fahrenheit, miles to metres, pounds to euros to crowns to dollars, that I've forgotten the time swap to further locales than the ones I'm typically concerned with). I've got a few hours free before I head to frisbee practice, and as I've got access to a free computer with internet, thought I'd take some time to get you fully caught up on what the devil I've been up to the last few weeks.

I reckon I'll just start with the day I left Northwest Arkansas. I've been gone a month now, so rather than write an elongated dissertation on the previous four and a half weeks, I'll only give you the first week now, and post more later.

Tuesday, September 12: Breakfast with my folks and best friend Brandon at my grandparents Sharp's house, flight to Atlanta, Georgia, four hour layover, overnight flight to London Gatwick. While boarding the plane, I met a brother and sister heading home to, of all places, Nottingham. Their names were Alan and Elena, and had been visiting their grandparents in Colombia. I do not know what my magnetism is for meeting Colombians in Atlanta, but that's two for two. Alan had recognised my University of Nottingham T-shirt, and I spent an hour or two talking with his sister as we made our way over the north Atlantic.

Wednesday, September 13: Arrived into the city of London around 9 am, met up with my Colombian friend Yeny (whom I met in the Atlanta airport one year previous when we were both heading for England). I spent the better part of the day fighting off jetlag, we walked the city a bit, and called it an early night.

Thursday, September 14: Late brunch, early afternoon train to Nottingham. Went round to my old digs at number 49, Claude Street in Dunkirk, where I found my old housemates Juan, Giuliana, and Alexis in conference with Tung, my replacement 9 months ago, settling up final accounts, as Juan and Giuliana were moving house, just around the corner. Juan, Giuliana, Alexis and myself went out for Kebabs at the Beeston Charcoal Grill, and then I met up with my frisbee flinging mate, Dave, for a pint or two of Kingston's Press Cider.

Friday, September 15: Met up with my friend James, from Fling, late morning to chuck a disc around and catch up a bit, then made my way from main campus to Jubilee campus, the satellite location of the University of Nottingham, where my Greek friend Lilian had lived for the last year, to help her pack for her flight home the next day. Walked around with her for a bit, met her friend Andriani, who for all of her being Greek, could be Angelina Jolie's sister, and then went back to Juan and Giuliana's to celebrate Mexican Independence Day with the two of them and their friends Marcos and Melissa. Then, around 9.30, I made my way back to Lilian's and we went out to a club with Andriani and her boyfriend Demetri, for Lilian's last night in Nottingham.

Saturday, September 16: Left Notts at the crack of dawn, up with sparrows, to help Lilian haul all of her stuff down to London Heathrow. I realised at some point in that 3 hour bus trip that I was probably never going to see this amazing friend again, and it was an incredibly bitter, tearful ride. Perhaps one of the worst days I can recall. After I left her at the airport, I had to find a little out of the way corner to hide in and recuperate, before I headed back into the city to meet up with Yeny again. We walked through Soho, Leicester Square, and Covent Garden, where there was a phenomenal guitarrist entertaining the other tourists. It was nice, but it was a day that simply couldn't end soon enough for me.

Sunday, September 17: Sunday was relaxing. We all got up late, and I made French Toast for Yeny and her roommate Angelica. Just the doing of that is enough to lift my spirits from any point. Learning to make French toast is one of the rites of passage for the males in my family. My grandfather Brown, 'B' I call him, is an absolute master and can turn out heaps of the stuff quicker than my 4 cousins, their combined families, and myself (totalling a good baker's dozen worth of ravenous mouths) can put it away. My dad is pretty good too. French toast for breakfast was always a big occasion growing up. Knowing that I'm now capable of the feat is a very satisfying realisation. I've fixed it for Yeny before, and know she likes it, but it was nicely comforting to see Angelica's enjoyment for the first time. They spent the day studying, I read Oliver Twist out in the back garden, and then after our dinner of Chinese takeaway, spent the evening in conversation with their Turkish housemate, Basak.

Monday, September 18: Got up early (-ier) and made my way south to Gatwick airport, where I flew out to Budapest to meet up with my French friend, Celine, whom I met in Spain back in January while traveling with my Australian friend Lisa. While in queue (waiting line) in airport security, I noticed that the girl in front of me was absolutely awash in tears. She'd caught the attention of a few other passengers-to-be, and after a moment of following her eyes through the crowd, we all saw what we expected: a young man with an equal amount of saline streaks and rosy cheeks, well out of the queue, with no luggage, obviously waving goodbye. Unfortunately, the poor girl was fairly short and her vision kept getting blocked by the hundreds of people between, so I tapped her shoulder, and told her to clench her fists and hold her arms straight down tightly. This done, I grabbed hold of her tiny hands and lifted her up as high as I could, to the amusement and applause of those around us, about 2 and a half heads higher than my own, so that she could get a last glimpse of her beau. Of course, then I realised that she couldn't wave at him.

That notwithstanding, I could see by his smile that he was as appreciative as she for the last light-hearted parting shot, and he turned to go as I let her down. She introduced herself as Andi (her boyfriend, I found out later was an Englishman named Robert), she was Romanian, heading home to Transylvania via Hungary. We sat together on the flight, talking of I don't even remember what all, and then she helped me to find Celine upon arrival, and then helped both of us into the city centre towards our hostel, as Andi spoke the local tongue (among about 4 others, fluantly) while we did not. We parted ways at the station and I haven't heard from her since.

Celine and I made our way to the hostel, then went out for a walk through the newer half, Pest, of the Hungarian capital, and had dinner in a quiet little locally flavoured restaurant, where I feasted on a dinner of pork roast and lentil stew.

So, to recap that first week lest there be any confusion, that was Arkansas, London, Nottingham, London, Budapest. In order of appearance were: Mom, Dad, Brandon, Jay, and Nana (from Northwest Arkansas), Alan and Elena (from my Transatlantic flight, from Colombia, Nottingham, and London, variously), Yeny (from last years's eastbound Atlantic flight, from Colombia, in London), Juan (former housemate, from Mexico), Giuliana (former housemate, wife of Juan, from Peru), Alexis (former housemate, from Mexico. He's in Wales for the weekend with the University of Nottingham Caving Society, and I'm using his room and computer in his absense), Tung (my replacement at 49 Claude, from Malaysia, I believe), Dave (from Stoke-on-Trent, Frisbee teammate), James (from Petersfield, also from the frisbee team), Lilian (from my [unfinished] English Literature program here, Greek, the best friend I had in Nottingham, and perhaps a broader area even), Andriani (Greek, friend of Lilian), Marcos (Mexican, friend of Juan), Melissa (Mexican, girlfriend of Marcos), Demetri(Greek, boyfriend of Andriani), Angelica (Colombian, housemate of Yeny), 'B' (grandfather Brown, northwest Arkansas, former Postmaster, gave me the ring you might've seen me wearing), Basak (Turkish girl, housemate of Yeny), Celine (French, met in Spain while travelling with...), Lisa (Australian, met while travelling Europe with Topdeck Tours last year), Andi (distraught Transylvanian from my flight to Budapest), Robert (whom I've only waved at, distraught English boyfriend of Andi).

There we are, hope you've all got that filed away into memory, as some of these names, if you've not bored out of your ever loving skull, will repeat in chapter 2. Cheers for now.
jeff

Every town has its ups and downs...

2006-10-15T00:47:00.000+01:00

And I'm in Nottingham, again. I've really been trying to cope with the implications of the term 'old haunts' over the last 24+ hours. An old haunt rather implies that the places I am traversing now I once visited before as a haunter, if you will, a ghost. But that's not the case. When I was here before, this was my life. I actually lived in Nottingham less than 90 days (in fact, I may not've truly reached that total yet, so far as nights slept here are concerned), but it became home. When I first came round here again 4 weeks ago, I turned onto my old street and stopped dead in my tracks as my eyes adjusted and my brain registered one word: 'Home.'

But this isn't home, it couldn't be-- I don't think. This is a University town. This is the sort of place that really isn't home to anyone. People come here only on temporary bases. It's when they come back, as I am now, that they truly haunt the place. I float around, remembering a life that was, the friends who've already moved away again, seeing the houses that I used to know the residents of, and I know that my time here is well done, but I cannot leave, I cannot put this place, the life I had here, to rest, and I merely hover at the fringe...

But it's not like that, really. Yes, there's so much different: people gone, doors no longer open, no real purpose of being here. But quite a few of my friends are here, I've already made more friends, thanks to and starting with Sophia, the thoroughly Anglicised Greco-Barbadian girl I met in Vienna. She's a medical student here in Nottingham, and I went out with her and I think 80 of her peers last night. The gents from the frisbee team are just as fun to be around as I recall, Juan, Giuliana, and Alexis are still the noble friends I remember them being. The air smells the same, the canal and its longboats still drifts idly along the southwestern side of town, from Beeston, past Dunkirk, and through Nottingham's city centre on its way to the Trent River. A doner kebab (Turkish version of a burrito or pita sandwich, made with lamb doner (sausage, essentially) still has that magical taste that only really fatty meat with garlic mayonnaise could provide. The streets I walked, the shops I frequented, the color of the grass and the scents on the air-- they're all what I remember of Nottingham. But still...something is missing...

I may go and participate at open mic night at the Happy Return, a pub in the village of Lenton, 15 or 20 minutes walk from here (my old residence), tomorrow night. I'll be sure and let y'all know how that turns out.

Cheers for now, from your favourite spectre...
jeffro

Repetitive Ignorance

2006-10-13T00:01:00.000+01:00

Let's assume, for both the sake of argument and my own self-respect, that everyone does something, every so often, moderately unintelligent. You have something, surely. Some act you commit, phrase you use, turn you take, regularly, that routinely turns around to bite you. You know that you cannot wear white shirts because you stain the pits in a matter of minutes. You don't chew gum because it braids your braces together. Or at least, you ought not, but do anways. Somehow, you just can't remember the effects of poor decisions.

Mine's eating raw chicken. I don't know how I manage to pull this off, but if there is an option, be it in my own fridge at home or at the deli counter in a London grocery store, to pick out and consume either well cooked, perfectly stapf and salmonella free poultry, or a raw, theoretically bacterially infested version, I'll take the unsanitary course, invariably. I don't know how. I did it today. Hence the presence of such a strange vein in the forefront of my mind. I was mildly hungry, had gone out for some household cleaner and a KitKat (They have a DARK chocolate version out here in the UK), and decided to pop round the deli and bakery corner for a mouthful of something toothsome. Asian food is currently, and has been for some time, the most popular culinary genre in Britain, save for Kentucky Fried Chicken and all its clones. So, I decided to try a few different pastries than what I'd normally be able to find back home. I'm not sure if the assortment I got were mostly Turkish, Indian, Bengali, or something else, but I did have some sort of fried onion pancake, a vegetable spring roll, some delectable little triangles filled with both vegetables or chicken and potatoes, and had saved for last a chicken and chili roll. When I got my bag of goodies, I noted that they were cold, but as the typical pasty or pastry has usually been precooked, I presumed that these little trifles had merely been in the fridge since their prep time had ended.

I was wrong. I was halfway through the 7th, and last, morsel, that chicken and chili roll that had me drooling the moment I read the placard in front of it, when I realised that the meat was a might gummy, and harder to chew than should've been expected. I'm OK so far, and it has been 10 hours, so either I have the stomach of a goat, that could digest a tin can, or I have the digestive duration of a cow, and will wake up next Tuesday in severe cramping pain.

Today's Moral: Always ask if food needs further preparation, particularly if you can be reasonably certain that the person behind the counter speaks the same language as yourself.

Oh, and in case your wondering, as a precautionary measure, I went back to the grocery store and bought a package of Digestive Biscuits (with chocolate). For those of you, most of you, not resident of, nor familiar with the grocery habits and selections of, the UK, Digestive Biscuits are merely blandly sweet cookie type crackers, high in fiber. Something akin to a ginger snap or oatmeal cookie, and quite nice, particularly with tea.

Geographical Pronunciations...

2006-10-12T08:25:00.000+01:00

In English, I would tell you that I, over 2 different weeks in 2 different years, I've been to Florence, Rome, Orvieto, Venice, Brenner, and Verona, Italy. After 10 days there this year, I flew back to London.

However, if I were still in Italy, my listeners would have no idea where I'd been. In the local tongue, I was in Firenze, Roma, Orvieto, Venezia, Brenero, and Verona, Italia, then flew to Londra.

And I have to wonder why it is that different languages have different titles for locales not their own. Tokyo, for what it's worth, is Tokyo in every language that uses the Phoenician alphabet. We call the larger country inhabiting the Iberian peninsula 'Spain,' and don't even have the tilde-capped letter 'n' that the proper spelling of Espana requires on our keyboards. Pronunciations are one thing-- it can be difficult to wrap your tongue around the Spanish usage of the letter 'c', and English dipthongs are a bane to nearly all inhabitants of South America.

Any thoughts or opinions...such as "Yeah, language sucks," or, "Well, historically, the difference between Latinate and Germanic dialects have led to..." or, "Give up on introspective profundity, dude."

Anyhow, London is beautiful today. I saw Yeny to the train station just after dawn and went for a walk through the early morning cool, watching the multitudes of London jumping into everyday life. London is a fun little city, in that not-at-all-so-little way, but I'm afraid the people who live here aren't able to see it. The city moves at such a sprint that few folks take the time to watch others, or stroll through any of the city's magnificient parks. I may head north to Nottingham today, otherwise, I'll probably go out to either Hyde or Battersea Park.

Take a five minute walk today. Just five minutes, to appreciate where you are. Pick up an acorn and toss it to yourself, throw rocks in a creek or pond. Pet a dog.

Greetings Again

2006-10-11T23:14:00.000+01:00

Well... (Pretend you can hear me saying that aloud... 'Wayelle...')

I am back in London, but it's a wonder. They didn't particularly want to let me back in the country. Too many stamps on my passport, all out of order. The checker at the port security point thought that I had been in England for over a year, and not a student, which would put me at cross purposes with the laws of the land. I finally managed to assure her otherwise; it's a good thing I'm a talker, and used to telling anyone interested what the devil I've been up to over the last year.

I flew with Ryanair from Parma, in northern Italia, to Stansted airport, north of London, today. As I checked in, I noticed that the poster advertising individual passengers' luggage restrictions had emblazoned across the bottom "Ryanair: The ON-TIME Airline." Twas a reassuring little note, until you read its counterpart, posted immediately next to it: "Ryanair takes no responsibility for connections missed due to delayed flights, queues, or other causes. Ryanair advises you NOT (emphasis mine) to plan connections... 'Ryanair: the LOW-FARE Airline'" I laughed, somewhat bitterly, and took consolation from the flyer that said that Ryanair has the lowest percentage of delayed flights, when compared to other European airlines, such as Lufthansa, Alitalia, and EasyJet. They are very proud of that.

My flight LEFT Parma ONE HOUR LATE.

Consequently, I met my train from Stansted to Nottingham, where I planned to surprise my old teammates from Random Fling, the University of Nottingham Ultimate Frisbee Society, at their first social of the year. No luck. Well, it's not all bad though. Yeny, my friend from Colombia, still lives here, so I made my way to her flat, and then made up a pan of cornbread (soulfood- rough day...) and bought a pack of Strongbows at the store, so tonight I'm kicking back and relaxing in a city that I've passed through so much it feels like home. It's nice pulling into London on a bus or train after travelling all over Europe, where all of a sudden I'm familiar again, and know my way around. Though, being able to read every sign around takes a lot of the excitement out of travelling. Guesswork is a key ingredient in international travel.

Any rate, I plan to do some heavy duty blogging in the next few days to catch y'all up a little better on the various footfalls I've dropped over the last few weeks.

Cheers for now, y'all...

Stupid Crowded Boot

2006-10-07T19:49:00.000+01:00

Well, then, I have been in Italy for 5 days, and seen that many cities. I left Verona yesterday, merely on principle, as it was time to be moving on. I fly from Parma to London on Wednesday, an event I am sincerely looking forward to, and plan to stay around north-central Italy until then.

In that vein, I took a train yesterday to Bergamo, upon the advice of someone who'd already been there, and soon realised it was a mistake. The details will follow later, once I have more time to type, but the long and short of it is that the ONLY hostel in town had a bed for only one night, and that I had to leave today.

This I did, as soon as I was up, as it was raining and nasty and there was no sense in staying. All I saw of Bergamo was the hostel, a pizza restaurant, and the 4 miles I put down getting between the three.

I went to Milano. Not because I especially wanted to, but because I thought that I'd might as well, as it's just one of those places. This, also, was a mistake. The town was equally soggy, looked miserable, was expensive, and offered NO hostels. The cheapest hotel wasn't, so I got back on the train and went south to Parma, where I'm flying from this coming week. There were 2 hostels in Parma, the woman at the Information desk told me, though one was showed on none of the printed maps of the city, as it was miles away. The other was booked full. I got BACK on the train, and went 13 miles down the track to some city whose name I don't even know, but the Parman information clerk booked me a room in.

Here I am now. The location is tolerable, and I'm sharing a room with a Japanese gent named Akiro. He's great. We played frisbee for awhile, had a beer, talked a bit, and he'll head to Venezia tomorrow. Finding and losing, that's the way of it.

I've met a few Asian folks this time around: 2 South Korean guys(Morrie and Moon), and a guy(Akiro) and girl (Miho) from Japan. I've discovered something about Asians: if you ask them if they speak English, and they say "Ahhh...leetle." What they mean is that they are fully conversant. If you ask the standard European the same, expect the same response, be they a public service employee, retail salesperson, or random person on the street. What THEY mean, however, is that they plan on answering your next question with "No" whether you ask them if you can brush their teeth, or what the sum of 3 and 5 is.

Any rate, the past few days theme song has been Moby's "Natural Blues."

For what it's worth, Tim Newberry (pretend this is a link to www.seeyabye.blogspot.com) will be eating at my favourite American pizza parlour this weekend. He'll be in Atlanta, and is supposed to be finding one of the local Mellow Mushroom Pizza Companies there. Best of luck to him...

Happy Belated Birthday to Vinnie King...

And Ciao to the rest of y'all...

Buon giorno da Italia!

2006-10-03T09:46:00.000+01:00

Greetings all from Verona, Italy. Local time here (GMT + 1) is 10.45 am, Tuesday, October 9. That's 9.45 am in London, 3.45 am in NWA, and something like 4.45 pm in Western Australia.

I left Navis. Not because I wanted to, but because I'd been there 4 nights, and my standard limit is 3. So, I checked out of what Rob, Nick and I affectionately, and deservingly, titled the Ritz Navis' Rose Room, hopped a bus (a school bus at that... the passengers were myself and 30 6-10 year old Austrian kids... whose only English was "HI!!" and "Head and shoulders, knees and toes, knees and toes, knees and toes...," followed the bus with a train from Matrei, Austria to Brenero, Italy, and a train from there to Verona, where I checked into the equivalent of a YMCA. Missing Austria alllllllready... but Verona does look promising.

I'm in an internet shop at the moment trying to plan my next stage... but I've no idea where it will lead. I'd like to bump into someone with an actual idea about things, and follow them again, but I've noticed that when you amble along with no sort of direction or ambitions, people in similar state are hard to find. Most other folks have very determined agendas, and I don't tend to fit the contexts... Any rate, not so much to report at this point. I'm going to see some Roman ruins and an archaeological museum, and apparently Bruce Springsteen is in concert here Thursday in the old Roman arena, third oldest in the world, at nearly 2000 years.

Hope life is stably, dependably satisfying to you. Living in hopes and hopping trains can be quite psychologically challenging.

Listen to some CCR.
jeffro

Gooooood Morning

2006-09-30T08:27:00.000+01:00

Well, I've realised that the detriment to keeping a daily paper-and-ink diary as well as a weblog is that one is always about 4 steps ahead of the other. Consequently, the current theme or undercurrent of my notebook is a bit more upbeat than that of the blog. My sincerest apologies. I forget sometimes that, often as you might get online, you are not truly able to keep up with the turn of events as quickly as they pass through my mind.

Unfortunately, I still do not want to interrupt the chronological flow of thoughts as I have them written down, so for now I'm going to simply diverge from the main body of content and offer a bit of light-hearted relief from the other half of myself that's forever trying to prove itself profound...

In a desperate attempt to encourage slumber last night, I tried, for the second time in my life, counting sheep. They were hopping over a bi-railed log fence (Who in the world thought of this?) and I'd seen the first sixteen gently lope across when number seventeen didn't get high enough off of the ground and stumbled through the upper spar, leaving it on the ground, and allowing the next dozen and a half to come through in pairs. But thirty.six and thirty-seven collided in mid-air, crashed down onto and shattered the bottom spar, and took off in opposite directions at a dead run. I managed to count up to forty-five before the flood of fluffz white tufts became indiscernible, and doyens poured through before the last trotted gaily through over the splintered rails and trodden turf.

At this point, the analytical, get-on-with-the-obvious farmer part of me took over, and I began repairing the fence. I was apparently still in Austria, judging by the deportment and outfit of the local who came ambling along just as I finished. I ws relaxing against one of the uprights, having just scooped up and downed a few handfuls of the dependably cold and pure Alpine spring water near-to-hand, and he came and rested himself against the section of fence immediately next to that which I'd just repaired.

'Say,' he began, in surprisingly good English. Unless, that is, I'd learned German since lying down, which is, of course, far more likely in Morpheus' realm. 'Have you met the Mustang girl yet?'

I knew I hadn't, as horses aren't all that common her, save for the two small ponies I saw one middle-aged farmer leading along in a village a few doyen metres up the mountain, so I replied in the negative.

'Ahh,' he replied heavily, 'You should seek her out. As an American, you'd certainly appreciate her. All seven of her dental fillings are made of some part of a melted down Ford Mustang. Her first was from a 1965 standard coupe, and she followed with one casdt from the window crank of a '66 convertible, then various parts from a '67 Fastback, a '68 GT350, a '69 GT500, a '70 Boss 302, and a '71 Mach I.'

At this point, I came fully to with a jolt, and thought, once again, 'Who the CRAP came UP with this?'

I hope your dreams are as entertaining, though perhaps easier to understand...

As I've been writing this, the landlady's 8 year old daughter and I have been teaching one another our native tongues with the aid of the website www.leo.org. I've just been told that she and her cousin operate a small library in the attic, and she's gone to fetch me a book. I am the only guest currently occupying this cozy little bed and breakfast, and have decided to stay two more nights, as tomorrow is the annual harvest festival. It seems that I may be the only non-native to the hamlet at the affair, but the family who operates the B&B, die familie Hörtnagl, have said that I can attend Mass with them in the morning, and presumably, I'll just follow them to the celebration, which is to include the fruits of the harvest, brot und käse (Bread and cheese). I wonder if they need an English teacher here...

Rob and Nick, wherever you are, safe I hope, you really ought to have stuck around longer. I wish you the best for the upcoming school year, and I pray you're made as warm and welcome wherever you find yourselves as we were here in Navis.

OH!! And to show that I do read and appreciate your comments:
Thanks Tim for encouraging me to bring the iPod (I actually bought a new one, a 'shuffle.' For what it's worth, an Altoids tin makes an ideal travel case for an iShuffle, earbuds, and lanyard to wear said iShuffle, as well as an extra camera chip or two...or it does until you forget that said tin is propping open a window and you cram the window shut, forever crimping aforementioned tin beyond usefulness...) I've found that my selection of 131 songs has definitely been more encouraging than detrimental to my situation.

Allen...never did care for the Cure, though I seem to recall that you did. Don't remember you in black eyeliner... Do have plenty of U2, though. I might write up my music list at a later date.

Brad: have taken plenty of pictures, have lost camera-to-computer cable. Drat.

Larry and Raysha: glad to see someone gave y'all the address. Did you make the reunion last weekend?

Next stops: Verona and possibly Milan, Italy. Hoorah.

Gratitude...

2006-09-29T12:46:00.000+01:00

Thanks, by the way, to all who posted or emailed after my fit of self-pity...

Things are looking up from that last post a few days ago, and I look forward to filling y'all in on all the little details you've missed...

Update

2006-09-29T12:22:00.000+01:00

OK...trying to cover a lot of ground in a short time:

Adam, Brad, and Vince, y'all would be proud...I've done some crazy hiking through and over portions of the Alpine foothills over the past few days. Things I would not have done under normal circumstances I've managed to negotiate while strapped to a 45 pound (19kg) pack. It was more like bouldering than hiking...

Any rate, am currently holed up in a regular Tirolean paradise; little town of Navis. Have been writing in ye olde travel logge for hours, but don't have time to transcribe everything onto here. In lieu of brilliant thoughts from me, here are a few of the quotes that have been on my mind for the past few daysÖ

First, for Cody Canup:
Architecture and war are not incompatible. Architecture is war. War is architecture. I am at war with mz time, with history, with all authority that resides in fixed and frightened forms. I am one of millions who do not fit in, who have no home, no family, no doctrine, no firm place to call mz own, no known beginning or end, no 'sacred and primordial sight.' I declare war on all icons and finalities, on all histories that would chain me with mz own falseness, mz own pitiful fears. I know only moments, and lifetimes that are as moments, and forms that appear with infinite strength, then 'melt into air.' I am an architect, a constructor of worlds, a sensualist who worships the flesh, the melody, a silhouette against a darkening sky. I cannot know your name, nor can you know mine. Tomorrow we begin together the construction of a city.

- Manifesto of Lebbeus Woods, Austrian educated at Purdue Universitz School of Engineering. I do not totally agree with all he says, but some of it is most certainly eloquent and right on with my own sentiments. On to the lighter blips...

One of my favourite bands is a group called Satellite Soul. They have a song called 'Love is all we own.' The second verse ends as follows: The sunsets by the barnyard, and the dark means day is done, but the night can't last much longer than it took to hide the sun. If I could just go back there, in time much more than space; to hear my mother's laughter and to touch my father's face...' Europe's fine, but it's hard to find home in a sea of constantly passing friends and strangers, in a world altogether different from what has been familiar.

Coming down off the mountain yesterday, and knowing I was desperately satisfied to be doing so, I kept singing to myself the beginning lyrics to The Band's 'Cripple Creek:' 'When I get off of this mountain, you know where I want to go: straight down the Mississippi River to the Gulf of Mexico...' I didn't want a change of scenery that drastic, but I was well prepared to get off of the rocks and out of the wind.

Then, while writing today, The Travelling Wilbury's 'End of the Line# came through my ear buds, and a few of the refrains seemed particularly pertinent: 'Even if thez say you're wrong, sometimes you got to be strong, long as you got somewhere to lay (It's allright...)... Riding around on the breeze, (It's all right) If you live the life that you please...'

And so I am. I hope you find peace, love and fulfillment where you are and when you lay your head down tonight.

OK for Pete's Freakin' Sakes

2006-09-26T09:27:00.000+01:00

I was going to put up a little quiz with hints as to where I am now, but as I cannot get online all that often, it would take too long.

Hello from Innsbruck, Austria, the most innaccessible and expensive city I have ever seen. I cannot afford to do anything, including leave.

So seriously, since I'm stuck, I got online to see if anyone had responded to my posts or sent me an email. I had ONE email, and no posts on the blog. Now really, y'all, is it THAT big a deal? Freaking respond! My goodness! I am wandering around Europe alone, hoping to make friends to travel with, but having no luck, discovering that everything I want to do is impossible (or so the bitter, unhelpful woman at the tourist information center would have me believe) and when I get online (at roughly 3 US dollars an hour) it would be NICE to see that someone is taking some interest in what I've got to say. If I'm just blathering information that no one other than the 3 people who will actually post (Thank you, Tara, Allen and Brad) is interested in, I'll stop, and save the money.

Show some stinking love here.

Sunday Evening, and I was too late for Church

2006-09-24T18:49:00.000+01:00

I really did want to go in and hear the church service in the local tongue this evening, but they'd already started when I got by. I got rather tired of churches while touring last year, but haven't reached that stage yet. After awhile, they all seem quite a bit the same. I did go in one today that was exquisite as all get out, and I went to my first synagogue last week, but I'm pacing myself. It's easy to get churched out and, as I said, eventually, like cities, they're all the same.

Any rate, I'll not tell you where I am just yet, as that will upset the chronological flow I hope to preserve. Be satisfied that I'm OK and having a blast.

I don't have time for a large section of ye olde travel log today, so I'll just pepper the usual format with a bit of light humour. I figure that way my short spurts of profundity will be all the more rattling upon arrival.

Got in from the pub where I'd been playing duets for 2 hours with a Jewish Aussie (Adi, who's an amazing jazz pianist) at about midnight last night and realised that I'd left my soap in the previous town. So, according to one of my travel mantras, I collected an empty Coke bottle (I've been carrying 3, full of water, daily) and went to the bathroom to fill it up. Unfortunately, there was no liquid soap dispenser. So, I reached a dramatic crossroads. I'd played frisbee all afternoon with a Spaniard named Alex and a Polish dude named Jacob (Yakub in his tongue), so I was in dire need of a shower. Either I could rub down with toothpaste (I mean, it's got baking soda and flouride, right?) and then rinse off, or rinse off only and then simply rub deodorant in all the places that usually need the most cleaning after a day of strenuous activity. I won't disgust you further with any details as to the final decision, but as today was Sunday, there were no shops open, and I was unable to purchase any soap or shampoo or anything of that nature, so my problem has only waxed despairingly. Knowing that my hostel would still have none to offer, I was a bit concerned.

Trekkers are easy folks to spot. We're the ones with the massive packs on both front and back, arms outstretched with a map, turning it in multiple directions, looking at street signs, and alternately consulting brightly coloured hostel leaflets that, without fail, have poor directions. On the way back to the hostel this evening, I happened across an obvious pair, and asked if they spoke English. They did, and were from California. I asked the name of the hostel and discovered that they were looking for a place a street over from me. There are about 6 where I'm at, so the odds were good. I said I was heading that direction and would see them there. That duly accomplished, I went inside with them, as I was helping with a bag or two, and nonchalantly slid into the bathroom to discover that there was no soap there either, so I poked around till I found the kitchen and nicked some dish soap from a hostel I'm not even staying at.

You know you're an accomplished backpacker when your options are a toothpasting, extra located deodorant, or antibacterial thievery.

Any rate, I am now headed to take a nice hot, pine-scented shower. Fortunately, that axe body spray is some strong stuff.

Y'all be good.

More on Budapest...

2006-09-22T23:05:00.000+01:00

1- Continuation of an already long rant on impressions gleaned from time spent in Budapest...
2- What we DID see...
3- International public bathing...
4- Beyond the city's walls...
5- I'm WHERE???
6- Money well spent...
7- Diamond in the rough...
8- Out of the line of fire...

It takes all kinds.. I finally came to realise the expanse of truth beneath those words while travelling with a random lot of Australians last winter. And on that note, if you're reading this, Beau, you worthless son of a Mandurahn soul-chomping 2-bit career facility, I miss you, brother. Europe's just not as lively with you on the exact opposite face of the globe. And I find more and more, that when you see the world, no matter where or how much of it, as a tourist, Paul Kelly's right: Every stinking city is just the same. Budapest certainly has its elements that are indigenous, but it also has McDonald's, they play Shania Twain in the local restaurants, and a second class train ticket buys the same seat no matter the destination. So, as Beau, Sean, Sharon, and I discovered, eat at the restaurants without English names or menu (preferably, you'd ought to learn a few elemental dietary terms in the local dialect first. I did figure out that 'szalt' is Hungarian for cheese, and 'szendvich' is pretty obvious); spend some time in a park, watching the locals, ride the metro/tube/subway to the end of the line. Celine and I spent nearly all of our time trying to find teh recommendations in her 2005/6 Routard Guide (Chakun sa Router-- "Find your own way"). Unfortunately, it's already outdated. Prices have changed (For the betterment of the host nation only apparently), construction has moved, obliterated, or otherwise masked necessary landmarks, and the Art Deco exhibit at the Decorative Arts Museum that we were really excited to see has been replaced by the temporary Hungarian "Collectors and Treasures" exhibit. The TUrkish baths were twice the price we were prepared for, and thus out of our price range, and we spent teh better part of 2 days hoofing it nowhere.

The Dohany Synagogue was quite nice. Pronounced 'Do-hein' (and named for the street it's situated upon, itself named in turn for a type of Turkish tobacco), it's the largest in the world by constituents, second largest in size (after Messiah in New York). An otherwise sunny Wednesday turned sour with a sudden, unforeseen rainstorm that left us soaked and dampened, but it soon cleared again and the resultant muggy, humid steam left us vaguely dry from the heat fighting to escape our drenched persons. We ended the day having seen an Orthodox church housed within a cave on the older city's side of the Danube, the synagogue in Pest, and countless thousand of footsteps placed variously through the Hungarian urbanity.

We re-crossed the Danube on a bridge whose middle-most support was laid upon Margit Island, the local mecca for joggers. Dusk as it was, there were quite a few out, as it seems that Hungary is full of people concerned about their health and appearance. This was obvious at the Turkish bath we did finally partake in on Thursday, though most of the other patrons were octogenarians. Though the Ottoman Turks ruled what the Romans in their turn had called Pannonia, Hungary has ben under Christian, or at least non-Islamic, rule for a good three-hundred years, whereas the Baths within the city park are no more than one-hundred and forty years old at best. But the Ottoman empire and its ruling sultans still hold a reputation for opulence and luxury. We took my own advice our last day in Budapest, and rode one of the metro lines to its terminus at Mexikoi Ter (Mexico Station, I suppose), in the city park. This public green space contains the aviation museum, the agricultural museum, a lake, a carnival with rides, a zoo, and the aforementioned baths. We were so far from the typical backpacker's and tourister's centre that we heard no English for hours, but the hot mineral waters within the Moorish and neo-Classical structure wer certainly a relief from the harsh embrace of a backpack. It was only after a wrong-turn down a random corridor as we were trying to leave that we spotted the outdoor baths-- two of more acres of thermally enhanced aqual delight in open exposure to the still-warm September sun... And we were already running late... Ah, well. C'est la vie, ganas no ganas.

It was in the city park that I truly began to value Budapest in and of itself. And as the train carried us out of the city, making its way upriver to Bratislava, the tracks followed the course of the Danube through a chain of low-lying, green clad mountains, and my appreciation for Hungary increased all the more. The countryside was magnificient, and further enforced the tickling notion in back of my mind that if I really want an appreciative assessment of Europe, I'm going to have to escape the urban scene and find a locale more akin to what I've been accustomed.

Well, it's about 12.30 Saturday morning as I'm typing this, and perhaps you've picked up on some important words over the past few paragraphs, to wit: 'last day in Budapest,' 'Thursday,' 'train,' 'Bratislava;' all words that hold a great deal of weight. Those familiar with my original plans might recall that I was to've flown from Budapest to Greece on Thursday evening. That fell through, and by the time I got to looking for a flight back to England, the price was well past outrageous. I couldn't fly out any earlier than Friday, and flights got no cheaper before next Friday, which meant that I could fly immediately, or stay in the same hostel for a week and then fly cheaper, and the price would be pretty well equal. Well, Budapest was nice, but I saw no sense in staying, and am too cheap to go wasting money on a flight when I have no deadline, so I just opted to follow Celine back to Slovakia, where she's doing some cultural research for Rotary Club of France. We boarded the [wrong] train at 4.15 pm in Budapest on Thursday, still dripping from our recent time in a sauna, were kindly, and quickly, assisted by some charitable locals to the correct coach, and found ourselves in Bratislava at around 8 pm.

Celine, having already been in Slovakia for 2 weeks, had a contact to stay with. Her contact picked her up at the station, and I was left to my own devices. I went and got a few thousand crown from the cashpoint (by the way, Eastern Europe is highly affordable, no matter what currency your exchanging. You can get 30 crown for a dollar. 30 crown (koruni), in Bratislava, will buy you a ticket to the clock museum, a pint of beer, 2 McDonald's cheeseburgers, or 3 scoops of gelati. 90 crown will get you into a ballet...

Any rate, local money well pocketed, I stepped out of the station to see if I could make use of some suggestory directions from Celine for a cheap bed, but had no luck, so stepped back to the safe light of the station, and was met by a local chap who runs a guest house. I was afraid he was a bit shady, but bottom line was that I was tired, in need of food and company, and a cheap bunk, and he offered all for the best price I saw advertised. Yuray turned out to be a genuine good local soul, and his guest house, a converted block of flats, already contained, when I arrived, 3 North Ireland blokes, a couple from Spain, a Japanese girl, and half a dozen Germans. Laundry and internet are free, and overall, it's been a good experience.

Oh, and yes, for all who were worried, you did hear correct, there were some fairly intense riots in Budapest while I was there. I had no idea of their occurrence until they were well over and dealt with, and I felt no repercussions nor even negative vibes resultant during my entire stay. Thanks for your prayers, sorry you were worried, but you actually knew what was going on before I did.

Any rate, hope I've said something enjoyable. Currently, the Weblog is about 48 hours behind the spiral notebook, but I'll do my best to keep y'all informed. I hope you're well.

Love someone today.

Part 2 of the Budapest miniseries

2006-09-21T23:13:00.000+01:00

Per suggestion of an Australian mate (whom I hope has received his parcel of fishing equipment, refridgerator magnets, and raisinets), I'm going to employ a new device in today's blog: My random stream of consciousness style will be consciously divided into vaguely cohesive sections, and each section will have a heading, to be listed at the beginning of the email. Per positive feedback, said devices will become permanent.

1- 20th Century Hungarian Political History
2- Museum Pieces
3- English as a second language
4- Closing Statements

Hungary is, for all its modernity, still a bit hard to access from Western Europe. Flights are expensive, rail travel extensive, and seemingly rivalled for touristic incovenience in these areas only by Slovakia, immediately next-door. Hungary was at one piont part of the USSR, but was one of the westernmost bloc nations, both in geography and political theory. There'd been a Bolshevik revolution in the 1920s, but it went horribly wrong (for its sponsoring party) and the resultant fear of Communism drove Hungary's government, much as the various Allied powers, to choose the lesser of two evils when choosing their camp in World War II. It seems, or so the Hungarian National Museum puts forth, that the Hungarians were no more favourable to Germany and Hitler than they were Stalin's Russia, but geography (close proximity to Hitler, existant ties to Austria, standard eastern-European suspicion of Russia) helped to determine the solution. It was geography that further allowed Russia to reach Hungary before the other Allied forces, and hold political sway over the Hugns and Magyars for the better part of the 20th Century. However, the Hungarians' inherent notion of independence, and their distance from the Kremlin, allowed them a great deal more political freedom than other bloc nations. Hungary contains a significantly lesser amount of the concrete, cubicle infrastructure normally associated with Communism (say, as in the Czech Republic, for instance) and a great deal of their pre-WW II, and even pre-WW I, architecture is still predominately visible.

I am travelling, after all, with someone doing tourism research (Celine, from France), so I've had to be more necessarily touristic than I normally prefer, but I have gotten to see some wonderful sights. Tuesday we went to the Hungarian National Museum, where we ended up being more like one of the displays than overservers of. There was a batch of second or third graders there, and one, Alex, heard me speaking about something or other in the Imperial Roman room, and duly spent the rest of his duration there introducing himself and his peers. "Hi! My name is Alex!" I heard countless times. Eventually, his limited English grew tired of merely saying names, so, ornery little cuss, took to introducing his friends by their traits. "Hi, my name is Barbie" he said of a skinny, long, blonde-headed girl; "Hi, my name is Papo," he laughed, pointing to a portly fellow who was obviously his best chum. I took it, correctly it seems, that 'papo' is 'fat.'

Alex did show me a first glimpse of what I'm finding to be true-- most Hungarians are vaguely familiar with English. It's written on signs in public places, it's taught in schools, most folks under 30 seem to have a rudimentary command of the tongue, and even the elderly folks appear to understand a few words. The bottom line, impressibly enough, is that no one seems put out if you only speak English yourself. The girl at the metro-line ticket booth, the older gent at the rail depot, the guy my age in the rail car, all of them and countless others seemed genuinely happy to exercise their English skills. Nearly all of the Hungarians I attempted to speak to--in the pastry shop, at the gelati counter (she'd spent 3 years in Arizona, I believe it was, and spoke as if she'd been raised there), the random, entirely non-English speaking rail employees who managed to convey that we were on the wrong train and saved us a small fortuen in corrective travel-- were as helpful and genuinely amicable as you could never hope to find. The hostel employees, the waitress at the Hungarian restaurant we patroened twice, and the international rail ticket merchant were far more typical. Save for their dialogue, they could've been American or British-- they were only helping us in so much as that, in its driest, most basic extenses, paid their bills. But, that's how it goes all over the globe-- be it in China's Forbidden City, Cosmopolitan London, or the back roads of Springdale, Arkansas; it takes all kinds to make a world.

Well, that's about 40% of what I'd planned to write tonight, but I'm tired, as I'm sure you are as well, at this point, so I'm going to wrap it up there. Sorry to end on a bit of a down-note (Minimum wage employees in the US and UK are all surly), but that's just where we've ended up, isn't it. Reparations will be made when we pick up tomorrow morning (New hostel- free internet!) with "It takes all kinds..."

Good On Ye...

Being Budapest-ered

2006-09-19T19:06:00.000+01:00

Ya, ya sorry... I hate bad puns too. Any rate, lot of ground to cover, here we go:

Egad! I knew deep down that travelling, as I've said, requires an entirely different frame of mind from stable, steady, everyday life, but I hadn't realised how much I'd forgotten. I've rather reimmersed myself with a bit of a fire baptism by jumping straight into Eastern Europe without much of a warm-up to that other philosophy that I'm having to live by as a Euro-trekker, but I'm getting by. I have recalled some other handy travel tips for you, though:

1) Most European hostels seem to have liquid-soap dispensers near the bathroom sinks. So, for all you cheapskates, keep an empty coke bottle handy, and hack the top off with that Swisss-Army knife you bought in Interlaken, Lucerne, or Bern, and squeeze a few shots of this freely provided hand cleaner. Renders carrying bars of soap to the bathroom unnecessary. Further point: DO NOT attempt to carry said bottle from one hostel to the next-- I imagine you'd have a heck of a mess in ye olde backpack. Coke bottles and hand soap can be found in multiple places.

2) Learn some of the local dialogue BEFORE you get to your destination. Your handiest phrases will be "Do you speak English?" (Though, this can be said IN English, the local you're addressing will appreciate being spoken to with some effort at their own language) Also, especially regarding previous question, know the word for 'No.' Similarly handy expressions are "Rail Station" "Metro" (Universal for 'subway' or 'tube.') "Airport" "How do I find 'x' Street?" Don't ask for an automatic bank machine, in the event you're questioning a local of ill repute.

3) A hostel may or may not have a kitchen that allows you to store, cook, and eat food you've purchased yourself, and they may or may not offer a breakfast. Look for one that has an open kitchen, and if they've got a free breakfast to boot, book them. If they offer breakfast for a small price, don't bank on it being just real flash. Yes, it's relatively cheap, and easily had, but not necessarily impressive. Celine's croissant came out of a bag and a microwave, with Hershey's chocolate inside (a dire insult to anyone French), and the milk on my cornflakes was room temperature 'shelf' milk, that due to its chemical content, doesn't require refrigeration.

4) If you DO order the breakfast at a hostel in Eastern Europe, and they have 2 options, one which includes sausage, eggs, ham, a roll, and mustard or ketchup, or an option which is only eggs, ham, a roll, and jam, DO NOT presume to ask for the first with jam instead of the listed condiments. Substitutions, subervions, or any other derailments from the written law is still, wall and bloc or no wall and bloc, unthinkable. You get strange looks if you try to press the matter, and if you're not careful, ejected and expelled from said establishment.

So, any rate, I am in Budapest. The local language is Hungarian, which I believe to be a combination of the tongues of a few German tribes, especially the Huns, and the Magyars. I have yet to see a word that I could recognise any sort of letter pattern within. In western Europe, where most languages owe a great deal to Latin, or German in the North, I can at least see familiar combinations of an alphabet similar to my own. No such luck here. We spent most of today in the Hungarian National Museum, where I was quite surprised that I was able to decipher all of the Imperial Roman-era tombstones on display. Turns out I've got some handy basic Latin back there on reserve. Tomorrow we hope to hit the Turkish baths.

Oh, yes... "WE..." I'm here with my French friend Celine, whom I met in Granada, Spain last year while travelling with Lisa, from Australia, whom I met while travelling with Topdeck Tours. And, speaking of Celine, those of you who've spoken with my mother in the last 48 hours, Celine apologises for causing any frightening disturbances for those of you who heard that I was apparently not at the airport. As it turns out, Budapest has 2 airports: same name, different terminals, miles apart. Be ready for that sort of thing when you go continent hopping.

The food here has been quite good...though we've only had one actual Hungarian meal. Today's tea-time saw us at a Subway restaurant (I hated the notion, but we just needed a quick, healthy bite.) and then we've had some Gelati (WOOOHOOO!!! Yes, by gosh, Budapest knows how to cater to tourists, particularly Anglo-descended ice cream lovers.)

We shared a room in the hostel last night with 4 Swedish blokes, who were quite nice. The 2 who did most of the talking were just slightly taller than me, with dark blonde hair down to their shoulders, one baby-faced, one bearded... And I so wish I were that good-looking. Their appearance bespoke what had to be royal bloodlines. They were quite nice, and talkative, and killers at Texas Hold 'Em (fortunately I have a standing rule against gambling). You almost wonder how the Vikings of a thousand years ago could sire, though over a few centuries, the Scandivanians of the modern world. All that I have met, and have heard from other travellers, have been the most congenial, helpful, genuinely friendly folks I've met. They certainly don't give the impression that anywhere in their genes is one for rapine and pillaging...

Any rate, they recommended an Italian place round the corner, in the quite obviously touristy district along the Danube, but we (wrongly) cut down a side street and found a nice little local place (with English menus-- once again, they know their market here), and sat down to a lovely, quiet, dry dinner. (Dry: by the way, it's been raining off and on since we got here.) The restaurant looked more like a pub than an eating establishment, with warm woodwork round the walls and candle-lit tables, but the chalkboard listing specials attested to the presence of food...all of which sounded quite nice. Uncertain of the currency exchange, I opted for the least expensive yet still appetizing offer: lentil vegetable stew with roast pork knuckle. Now, I dang ol' LIKE pork knuckles-- I had an entire one to myself in Munich last year...mmmmmmmmm pooooork knuuuuucklllllles.... However, when the ragout came out, there were only 2 slices of the pig laid across the top of the broth, but they were generous portions. I still couldn't give you a determined answer as to what lentils are, but the soup had a texture and taste similar to beans that was quite good. Celine ordered chicken and chips (french fries, not potato crisps). I tried a bit, and it was good, but chicken is pretty well chicken unless you do some severe doctoring (I recommend British yellow mustard and honey as a baste), and as the traditional Hungarian sauce seemed to be little more than red peppers and a few other herbs in olive oil, or something akin, I wasn't overly impressed. Something about raising and seeing slaughtered roughly 1 million chickens of your own really diminishes your desire and enjoyment as far as eating it. But as that's an entirely different thread most of you are familiar with, I won't press the point.

In the 'concerns' department: Celine JUST heard (38 seconds ago) that a relative of her mothers who was diagnosed with cancer a month ago died yesterday.

We went walking this afternoon along the Danube, and it appears that the castle fortifications of Obuda (The original city. Pest was its own locale before the technology to bridge the local waterway allowed for mass transit between the two, or created the need for a single governing body.) are carved from the very cliffs along the river. I took a picture or two around dusk, there was no visible sun to set, and would love to share them with you, but have left my camera's USB cable back at the hostel.

Any rate, best of luck to y'all responsible folks: I'll continue with my gypsy ways yet, and let you know how it works out...

Do me a favor, and listen to Cake's "Love You Madly," if you're able... it's the one song, as yet, that I forgot to load on ye olde Ipodde.

Cheers! and Stay real.
jeffro

Lonfreakingdon

2006-09-13T11:37:00.000+01:00

Howdy Howdy Howdy.

Yup, I've reached Lonsdale, the city of Lud, capital of England, Londontown. And by gosh am I happy about it. I rolled across the tarmac at Gatwick air at 7.05am GMT, 1.05am CST US, and 2.05pm West. Aus. My Nottingham Ultimate T'shirt attracted the attention of a travelling brother/sister pair, who'd grown up in that delightful town. They were heading back to University in London after having spent the past 3 months with their mother's family in Bogota, Colombia. Just to prove how much this terrasphere we call home shrinks daily: Alan and Elena (the brother and sister) were raised in one of my second homes, are studying in the same city as my friend Yeny, herself from Colombia. 7 degrees of separation my foot. The world gets this much smaller every day...

Any rate, Handy International Travel Tip # 1: Your best bet for top rate currency exchange is using a debit card in an ATM, and simply drawing cash. Your bank might charge you a dollar or two, but it beats the middle man fee of Western Union and other similar organisations. So there you are, don't worry about exchanging money before leaving home, just take care of it yourself with your pocket plastic at the first cash point you see.

Handy International Travel Tip # 2: BEFORE leaving home, be COMPLETELY CERTAIN that your bank has your debit/ATM/credit cards authorized to work PROPERLY! I was not in the mood after 18 hours of travel, with only $3.28 cents to my name for this sort of rot. Fortunately, the train company would take my credit card, even if the automated machines wouldn't. Bothered? A BIT.

And, in an effort to seek to be slightly less self-absorbed, here's some of the more important affairs of folks I know elsewhere on the globe:

Sarah Felts is to become Mrs. Bill (...?....) on Saturday. Best wishes there...sorry I don't know you're fiance's last name, love...

Jay Phipps will be home from school down in Conway this weekend. If you see him, tell him hi for me. Tell him to play you some Skynyrd.

Joy Ward has been in India for about a month, working with the Billy Graham Association, taking the gospel of Jesus Christ to the Hindus.

Juan y Giuliana Hernandez have successfully moved house in Nottingham, and I look forward to seeing them tomorrow.

Allen and Tim Newberry will be having their birthdays in about 2 weeks, on the 26th, and 27th, respectively.

Any rate, as you hadn't asked for the piddling bits of random strangers lives, I won't take any more of your time to gossip, but in the event you feel left out, email me any news you'd like included...

Cheers for now...

--
Life is enjoyed most when you're laughing. Laugh hard, laugh often, and think of me.

Luggage looking less lugubrious...

2006-09-12T06:40:00.000+01:00

Greetings, all. It is currently 12:35 AM in Springdale, Arkansas. We're Central Standard US Time, or GMT-6. GMT means Greenwich Mean Time, and consequently, you can now deduce that it is 6:35 AM in London, Great Britain; 1:35 in Perth, Western Australia; and 8:35 in Athens, Greece. Perhaps I should install some sort of International Atomic Clock on this critter...

In 12 hours, I'll be a few miles above Memphis, Tennessee, which is also one of the main time trial check points for most of my East-bound US road trips. I'm packed. Overpacked, as per usual. I'm lugging gifts that will be distributed in the next few weeks to the various folks I'll be staying with, so my load will lessen with time, but I'm a might nervous about ye olde baggage check when I get to XNA (Northwest Arkansas Regional Airport) in the morning. My last Arkansan destination will be my Grandmother Sharp's house, up on top of the hill, where I'll have a breakfast sendoff. My best friend Brandon and I started this tradition years ago, where we always have our last meal together before either of us embarks on a trip of any size. Our black reasoning is that travel is, after all, hazardous, and Who knows if we'll ever eat another meal together on this planet. On the lighter side of the rationale, my grandmother's one dang good cook, and it gives Brandon an excuse to not work tomorrow morning.

Today's been the typical, pre-trip, harried fiasco... Actually, no, everything's gone quite smooth (which means I've forgotten something HUGE), and I'm pretty well ready to go. I took my friend Tim's advice and packed my Ipod, so I've been updating it. I paid all of my insurance for the next 6 months, paid off my credit card debt, watched Monday Night Football with my Grandparents Brown, finalised some rendezvous points upon arrival in Europe, and stocked up on some medication. I've been vaguely sick for about 2 weeks-- everything from sinuses and allergies to fevers, coughs, and a bubbly, rumbly, causing trouble down inside me tummy. I've 'bout got her whooped, though, and might ride out allright if she don't jump...

Anyrate, anyone with access to Australian movies, I highly recommend "The Castle" and "Crackerjack;" newly arrived, and watched, today from my great friend Beau of Western Australia. The musical recommendation at my time of departure is the London Philharmonic Orchestra doing Led Zeppelin, the book is, as always "The Wind in the Willows," and as long as I'm telling you my opinions for great products I'll be doing without for 3 months, Welch's White Grape Juice, or Sam's Choice Cranberry Apple are where it's at.

Props to those of you who came out of the woodwork rattling your pitchforks and torches in defense of my elongated emails. I'll probably stick to posting the novellas here on ye olde weblogge, but I will be keeping up with email if you want to get more personal.

Anyrate, those of you of the praying sort, keep me and my gypsy ways in mind...

Cheers for now, and remember: Life is enjoyed most when you're laughing. Laugh hard, laugh often, and think of me!

JEFFRO

3 Posts in <24 Hours!!

2006-09-09T00:54:00.000+01:00

So I've been told that pictures are good...

And, I figure that blogging is just a sort of outlet for personal vanities...

So here's a picture of my quirky self in Switzerland last year, shortly before I took a jog in my jocks at 40 below. Hopefully the quality is good enough that you can read another of my mantras. If not, it's a quote from Salvador Dali: "Life is too short to remain unnoticed."

If I'd managed to figure out how the devil to include hyperlinks there'd be one *Here* for Salvador Dali. I haven't. He was an artist. Google him. Show some initiative.

Experimentations

2006-09-08T15:08:00.000+01:00

So I've wasted...ermm.. spent the morning trying to learn how to blog. I might have a picture in my profile, and I might have figured out how to post via email. If you're reading this now, then I have...

Useful, reader worthy text will be forthcoming..

--
Life is enjoyed most when you're laughing. Laugh hard, laugh often, and think of me.

So I gave in....I blog now..

2006-09-08T05:44:00.000+01:00

Welcome aboard...

I'll just jump in medias res, in the middle of things.

I leave for England SOON. Departure at T- 108 hours. Even at that, it's nearly too late. I think I've emotionally been in Europe for at least 2 weeks. I'm all but worthless here any more; can't concentrate on a thing... such as firing up this new site I've been threatening to for a month or more.

It's good to be leaving, now. September just never goes well for me. My allergies flare up, the weather starts cooling down, and the Sun's angle as it heads southward again leaves the world lit like an undying afternoon for all the daylight hours, just reminding me that short nights and freezing temperatures are on the way.

August, on the other hand, now August is different. Bloody well hot, but so much goes on in August. It seems that every activities coordinator in Northwest Arkansas realises that time is running short, so that there is forever something to do. I started out this past August with a visit to the Tontitown Grape Festival, in its 106th reincarnation. Then there was the Demolition Derby, a must for late summer NWA. I realise that some of my International acquaintances may not be familiar with this brilliant past time, but illuminating the confusion is quite easy. A bunch of guys with stronger nerves than myself purchase antiquated automobiles destined for the scrap yard, get them running again, remove all glass, seats, and anything else unnecessary for individual operations. They meet at a predetermined, publicly available location, and brutally batter one another's vehicles. As a VW-driving, vaguely environmentally conscious citizen, I should not condone such unecological behavior, as the whole event is nothing but an oil-burning, shrapnel inducing affair, but dangit it's fun to watch. Then there was the Washington County fair, and some other outdoor event. I'm not sure what it was, but I know that I ate 4 funnel cakes in the last 6 weeks, so there must've been something else... A funnel cake is a heart attack, served on a paper plate. A pastry dough is squeezed through a funnel (AHA!) into a vat of cooking oil, quickly deep fried, then plopped onto a paper plate and coated in powdered sugar. And somehow, after 4 in one month, I am capable of ventricular activity.

The culmination of every August is, of course, the annual Eureka Springs, Arkansas Volkswagen Show. I went this year in a mini-caravan of 3 antique VW's to the little 'Swiss Village of the Ozark Mountains,' about a 45 minute drive from my hometown of Springdale. I own a 1978 Rabbit, turd brown in color, all original, and near showroom quality. It's a wonderful little car, if you're not in a hurry. Driving this car after having been a pickup truck man all my driving life required a severe shift in philosophy, and I think I've come through all right. I get a lot less hurried, riled, and worked up these days. I'll get there when I get there, and I'll worry about the problem at hand when I see it... The other vehicles in the parade over were my friend Adam's '77 Tie-dyed Westphalia, Lucy, and Tim's '67 yellow Kombi, unnamed as of yet. The ride home included John and Amber in their '79 Westphalia, and I'm sorry, I forget her name.

Any rate, seems I had more to mention, but I forget what. My next trick will be attaching a photo or 2... wish me luck...