Cliches in Abundance

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

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...

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

The Christmas Card

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

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

*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

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

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...

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'

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

°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...

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...

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...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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