The Truffle Warren

Pesto in Portovènere

2011-05-08T09:52:00.000-07:00

Portovènere is pretty much the epitome of Ligurian resorts, meaning that there's nothing on the Med that can top it, only a few places that can even equal it. It's got a row of pastel houses facing its cove, the requisite handful of old churches, some ruined fortresses, a sign commemorating Lord Byron's visit, one small beach, two or three mussel farms, a few great seaside restos, a swank strip of shops, a regular ferry to Cinque Terre, and the world's best pesto.

I don't see anything missing. Do you?

Bridge to a secret garden across the street.

I forgot to include insouciant seagulls on my list above, but they were indeed present.

The last Tuscan republic

2011-05-06T09:19:00.000-07:00

We arrived today in Livorno, Italy, which is generally known as the port of Florence. Instead of taking the 1.5-hour shuttle to Florence, however, we went to Lucca, which was the only city republic in Tuscany that was never conquered by Florence. It's a charming walled city about 4 km in diameter, making it eminently walkable. Great shops, fantastic cafés, and fragrant restaurants compete for your attention in the streets, while every piazza has a polychrome church or palace facade that flirts with the photographer in you.

No one knows shop windows like the Italians.

Greetings, Mamma!

That's not paint. Really.

Preserved in part by its city walls, Lucca boasts nearly perfectly preserved Medieval streets that box you in, even from above.

The cornices snip the sky like a stencil.

And you never know what you might see when you turn a corner.

Count your blessings; this tower has has a bad hair century.

Calvi, Corsica

2011-05-04T06:17:00.000-07:00

Another island caught between France and Italy, Corsica is a physically spectacular amalgam of white sand beaches, sun-sipping mountain peaks, olive tree orchards, terraced vineyards, and easy-going poverty. There are least two ski-slopes where you can see white sand beaches as you ski. It must feel like you can ski right into the ocean.

The port of Calvi, as seen from any village in the valley.

The low-walled roads wind through the mountains, careless and sure-footed. Atop the spine of the mountain chain that divides the island into halves, the pure Mediterranean sky invents clouds spontaneously, suddenly veiling the villages that cling to every rocky outcropping. There really does seem to be a village on every promontory, each with a humble church, a picturesque cafe, a vineyard or an olive grove, and a few sloping staircases that knit the city to the hill beneath it.

The village of San'Antonino, perched atop its crag.

It is an island of striking geographical contrasts and broad, but gentle poverty. It may be that only the tourists have money here, but it may be that the natives have purchased something close to peace with their poverty, which is perhaps an exchange that needs further consideration in our have-it-all culture.

The clouds sweeping in suddenly to occlude the view.

Where Napolean bided his time

2011-05-03T06:52:00.000-07:00

Today was supposed to be a "marina day": the ship has a floating marina that folds into a storage bay near the engine. They anchor the ship, unfold the marina, and host a floating water-skiing and swimming party. But it was cancelled since the winds were too stiff and the waters too rough. Just as well, since the Med is still rather cold at this time of year.

And here I thought foldout couches were pretty cool.

Instead, the captain made arrangements to put in at Portoferraio on Elba Island--the infamous village to which Napolean was exiled when he first fell from the throne, and from which he led his inimitable march back to Paris (and to power). Everything was closed, but it hardly matters: all sunny days are good days in Italy.

Is it hard to believe that people who live here feel like life is easy?

The halfway point between Moscow and Waterloo.

Portofino, Italy

2011-05-02T04:59:00.000-07:00

It may be true that the whole of the Italian riviera has only two looks: there are picturesque ex-farming villages perched atop bluffs overlooking the sea and there are quaint ex-fishing villages nestled in the tiny inlets between mountains. And that's about it. But that's enough, isn't it?

Not bad for a view from a seat at one of the cafés on the central square, eh?

You say nice, I say niece

2011-05-01T02:41:00.000-07:00

Nice, France: capital of the riviera:

OK, fine. I'll make the pun. It really is nice.

Naturally there's a gorgeous outdoor market, in which you can find the most amazing things.

Don't you know we're loco?

And of course there's the obligatory, over-touristy, but incredibly charming old quarter, which is what a late medieval city was like--minus the plague and plus a bunch of chi-chi restos.

Nothing like the Mediterranean sun to bring out everything's true colors.

The Decline and Fall of Montréal's Caffé Art Java

2011-01-06T14:40:00.000-08:00

Caffé Art Java on Mont-Royal in Montréal was, when it first opened, our favorite cafe in the whole world. Great location; sleek, but inviting, ambiance; decent food; and mind-blowing lattés. What wasn't to like? We were steady-going regulars for years.

We were concerned when we learned the founders had sold the place, but we hoped the new owners would leave everything more or less untouched. And they mostly did. But things still started to slide. The new owners started advertising their menu using grainy photos--appropriate for late-night Chinese take-out, but not an upscale cafe. The kitchen and barista staff turned over almost immediately--to be replaced, we think, by the owners. And so the food became barely adequate and the coffee, frankly, went to hell.

We eventually stopped being regulars, but we still went every now and then because the ambiance was still great. Tonight was the final visit, though.

One of the owners just forced me to pay for a tisane that I never received. Several weeks ago, I ordered a tisane that never arrived at my table. I got so engrossed in my work that I didn't really notice; in fact, I only noticed that it hadn't arrived when it was time for me to pack it up and go. So I left, slightly miffed that I never got my tisane. Annoying, but mostly harmless and certainly innocent. It's the kind of brain fart that can happen to any server.

When I left this evening, however, the owner who was working the register presented me with two bills: one for this evening's tisane, and one for the tisane I never received. I protested, saying that I had never received the tisane. The owner insisted that she distinctly and specifically remembered preparing this tisane, which I never received. This went back and forth several times until I thought it had been made clear that if she made me pay for something I never received, I would never come back. The owner insisted, so I paid both tickets.

The owner's decision to push the issue over my strong protests (no matter what she does or doesn't remember) says everything that needs saying about the new management at Art Java. Maybe she thought she was being tough or something, but did she really think I was trying to wriggle out from paying $3? Does she not realize that she's basically calling me a liar and a thief? In any case, $3 is apparently more than my good opinion (which, at bottom, equates to all of the business they might ever get from me) is worth to them.

So, do you think people willing to squeeze regular customers for three whole dollars might be willing to cut corners? Think they really care whether everything is fresh, clean, and of the best quality? Think they'll believe you if your drink or meal doesn't come out the way you ordered it? At Art Java, every penny counts--but every customer, not so much.

Recommended Consultant for Senior Living Options

2011-01-01T08:02:00.000-08:00

If you're a little overwhelmed by all the options available for senior living, and you're looking to retire in the US Northeast, give Perfect Placement Solutions a call. They're savvy, sympathetic, and they have a ton of experience in senior living.

http://perfectplacementsolutions.com/

(Full disclosure: our sister-in-law is one of the founding partners. We know these people well, and we recommend them highly.)

Serious snow removal

2010-02-04T07:18:00.000-08:00

When it comes to winter, probably the only countries that have anything on Canada are Greenland and Russia. And that's only a maybe. I'm sure you think your winters are tough, but allow me to show you what snow removal looks like in Montréal (remember that Canada goes much, much further north than Montréal):

That's a tractor equipped with a snowblower the size of a sofa. A big sofa.

First, they plow the snow. Then they remove the snow. Because it won't melt (much) and there's so much of it things would get seriously disrupted after the second or third storm.

They fill hundreds of these trucks. Hundreds. Each snowfall.

And did I mention that I have to walk to school uphill both ways? ;)

Avoid Toqué! in Montreal

2009-08-12T05:50:00.000-07:00

Executive Summary
While the service and wines at Toqué! in Montreal were excellent and the ambiance inoffensive, the food was for the most part pretentious, awkward, and poorly executed. Definitely not worth the price or the fuss. Your money will be better spent and your appetite better sated elsewhere. More specifically, we suffered from amateurish dish conception, improperly cooked beef, and a pair of unrepented choke-bones. We essentially laid out a few hundred dollars for several glassfuls of good wine, several platefuls of frustration, and the sure knowledge that chef de cuisine Normand Laprise and his staff--notwithstanding their talent, training, and untrammeled access to high-quality ingredients--do not give a damn about your experience, your good opinion, or your second visit.

Overview
(My dining companion and I ordered the tasting menu with wine. I have detailed notes for each course below. The courses are numbered according to the order in which they made their appearance. I have rated each course individually on a scale of one to five; the rating key is at the bottom of this post.)

Although I had heard about Toqué! years ago, I postponed my first encounter with Montreal's most highly reputed eatery for an appropriately special occasion. Opportunity presented itself in the form of a cross-continent visit from my brother, who is a professional cook in the San Francisco Bay areal. To my chagrin, our overpriced and over-hyped meal at Toqué! served as his introduction to Montreal's fine dining scene.

I visited the restaurant's website as a prelude to our dinner, and I found there a promise that chef de cuisine Normand Laprise will deliver "surprise after surprise to your table" during the seven-course tasting menu. While M. Laprise certainly did surprise us, I am sad to report that few of the surprises were pleasant ones. Take, for example, the choke-bones we found in the charcuterie plate (#4). Surprising, certainly; pleasant, not so much. Now, bones are not supposed to leave the kitchen, but it can happen. You generally let the kitchen know about it in the spirit of helping them prevent it from happening again. And the chef (or sous-chef) generally apologizes in a spirit of contrition. We found two bones: I found one in my stewed rabbit, and my brother found one in his pancetta. Our server apologized perfunctorily, but we never heard anything from the kitchen or from management. Nothing. Not even a word. Thus the most unexpected surprise delivered to our table that evening turned out to be a crucial truth about Toqué!: M. Laprise and his staff may have talent, training, and high-quality ingredients, but they could care less about your experience, your good opinion, or your second visit.

Meal Notes
Overall, M. Laprise's food is long on presentation, but short on grace, empathy, and (unforgivably) flavor. Chefs like to say that you eat with your eyes first, but M. Laprise has apparently forgotten that this is merely a figure of speech. Most of the dishes on the tasting menu were self-indulgent spectacles of fastidious preparation that simply didn't taste all that good. There were highlights, but tellingly, the two tastiest dishes in our meal (#0, #2) were the plainest visually.

The quality of the food was wildly inconsistent, and M. Laprise and his team put on a impressive spectacle, making just about every mistake it's possible to make in a professional kitchen at least once during the meal. Two dishes were under-salted (#1, #3), yet one was over-salted (#5), meaning that these problems are not simply a difference of taste. One dish was over-peppered (#1). One dish defied the law of noncontradiction by being simultaneously over- and under-cooked (#5). Several of the dishes were poorly conceived, making them unpleasantly difficult to eat. One dish challenged the eater's dexterity and composure (#1) and two dishes comprised such a bewildering farrago of components that it was impossible to know how the chef meant them to be eaten (#3, #4). And so perhaps the most damning thing that can be said of M. Laprise is that he is not idle.

(#0) Amuse-bouche: sweet corn and celery-rabe mousse. {****} The amuse was served as a soup: several mouthfuls of foamy liquid that had to be spooned out of a large bowl. It was thus much larger than the single bite one expects as an amuse. Also, it wasn't at all acidic, which is usually best for kicking off a meal. These criticisms were rendered largely irrelevant by the single, simple fact that it was wonderfully tasty. Topped with a daub of melted butter, the amuse was essentially several spoonfuls of liquid, salty, delicately creamy-sweet popcorn.

(#1) Tuna-wrapped crostini with lime mayonnaise. {*} The first course was a single crostini wrapped with paper-thin strips of beautifully marbled fatty tuna, which was then dusted with chili powder and pepper. The crostini arrived at the table in a small bowl, leaning its hip against the inside edge. At the bottom of the bowl was a layer of lime-infused mayonnaise topped with some fresh arugula sprouts. This dish was a big disappointment: the chili and pepper overwhelmed the tuna, and the dish tasted under-seasoned despite the presence of what should have been a happy marriage of flavors because there just wasn't enough salt. Using a prosciutto instead of tuna may have been more predictable, but it certainly would have tasted better. This dish was also difficult and a little embarrassing to eat, because it's impossible to snip tuna fat with your teeth. Each bite engendered a tug-of-war between the crositini and my mouth, with the fish strung out between. We were left with the ugly impression that the chef had never simply tried to eat this dish in its finished form.

(#2) Scallop, cheese, and bacon tartelette. {*****} There's a grizzled old culinary rule that one should never combine seafood and cheese. We were delighted to discover that M. Laprise had broken it. This is dish was a thoughtful, playful, and scrumptious reinterpretation an an Alsatian classic. Potatoes replace the crust in this tartelette, which is then filled with in a bacon, cheese, and scallops. The potatoes, astonishingly, add air and lightness. Despite its innocuous appearance, this was a impressively accomplished and satisfying dish. High cuisine at its very best.

(#3) Mackerel and summer vegetables. {*} The slender half-fillet of mackerel arrived on a capacious plate, dressed with an understated sweet soy sauce, and surrounded by a carnival of seasonal fruits and vegetables. We counted not less than 14 (!) distinctly prepared and presented components on the plate, not including two pinches of different chili powders and what we believe was a smear of pesto. Of all the dishes we were served, this was the most infuriating. Everything on the plate was well cooked, but it was impossible to grasp how the chef thought the dish should be eaten. It was as though the chef had made a trip to Jean-Talon Market, purchased a bit of everything, and then asked us to decide how it ought to be eaten. Are the chili powders and the pesto for the fish or the vegetables? Which seasoning with which vegetable? Are the vegetables to be eaten with the fish or with each other? It's unsurprising that anyone should be dazzled by Montreal's local produce (I know I am), but it's flat out amateurish simply to serve a plate of bewildering options to your patrons.

(#4) Charcuterie plate with sausage, stewed rabbit, pancetta, and black trumpet mushrooms. {**} This plate was another visual and gustatory train-wreck, with too many components creating too many options. The stewed rabbit was adequate, the pancetta was... well, it was bacon, and the black trumpets were inexplicable. The small portion of sausage, however, dressed with what we think was a strawberry and balsamic reduction, was divine; those two bites of sausage were two of the most transcendentally perfect mouthfuls I've ever had. (This dish gets one star for each bite of that sausage.) I'd really like the chef to explain why he chose to dilute transcendent perfection. Everything else on the plate just got in the way. Especially the bones; both my brother and I found bones in our meat. I found one in my rabbit, and my brother one in his pancetta. Now, bones are not supposed to leave the kitchen, but it can happen. You generally let the kitchen know about it in the spirit of helping them prevent it from happening again. And the chef (or sous-chef) generally apologizes in a spirit of contrition. We found two of them. Our server apologized perfunctorily, but we never heard anything from the kitchen or from management. Nothing. Not even a simple request for our forbearance. M. Laprise and his staff may have talent, training, and fabulous ingredients, but they evidently do not care about your experience, your good opinion, or your second visit.

(#5) Seared Kobe beef with a baby leek. {*} This was the first dish ever served to me at a fine dining establishment that I actually sent back to the kitchen unfinished. (My brother sent his back as well.) Amazingly, even after the choke-bones from the previous course, sending back a half-eaten cut of Kobe beef provoked no response from the kitchen. Continuing with the tour de force of sauces, the steak and leek were dressed with an excellent veal-stock reduction featuring (we think) blueberries and beets. The baby leek was so forgettable I already can't remember it. The beef was improperly cooked: excessively charred on the outside so that it tasted strongly of charcoal (not just a hint--strongly) and underdone on the inside (I like my steak bloody, but this meat was so raw it was stringy). The steak was also inexcusably over-salted. To add insult to injury, this ultra-rare steak was served without a steak knife, forcing me to hack and saw at it with my butter knife.

(#6) Lightly melted cheese over summer vegetables. {***} A simple, tasty cheese course: sweet yellow tomatoes and summer squash covered with a blanket of slightly melted cheese, dressed with fresh herbs and blueberry vinegar. Unremarkable except for the blueberry vinegar, which was utterly extraordinary. Another instance in which the best item on the plate got lost in the effort to impress the diner with packaging.

(#7) Dessert: Raspberry tart and blackberry sorbet. {**} The simple tart comprised some fresh raspberries, whipped cream, and pancake crisps, all of which were stacked together to form a little tower. The scoop of blackberry sorbet at the other end of the long plate was well made, perfectly shaped, and rather dull. One welcome surprise was the presence of tiny clippings of fresh, fragrant herbs beneath and over the whipped cream, each of which provided a startling little burst of flavor in an otherwise relatively bland dish. While the presentation was pleasantly whimsical, the dessert amounted to little more than fresh berries with a few accompaniments. Not that I don't like fresh berries, but I expect a great chef to use his skills to improve his ingredients--not simply to re-label them.

Rating Key:
{*****} Superlative: inspired, astonishing, and just plain delicious.
{****} Good: creative, fun, and tasty.
{***} Acceptable: competent, but I wouldn't order it again.
{**} Fails to suck: inoffensively forgettable.
{*} Sucks: never should have left the kitchen.

Vive le Quebec!

2009-06-24T18:44:00.000-07:00

I love a parade. Ever since my childhood in the days when the local floats and firetrucks would throw candy to the children (before we worried that the candy might be tainted), I have loved watching bands, cheerleaders, and random assemblies of uniformed individuals march past. So you may naturally be surprised that in my four years in Quebec, I have never gone to the parade for St. Jean Baptiste... until today.

But first, a little history... The festival for St. Jean Baptiste is also known as the Fete Nationale du Quebec. Even those of you not fluent in French may be wondering... the National Holiday of Quebec? I thought Quebec was only a province, not a nation? Well, according to our fair Prime Minister Stephen Harper among others, Quebec is a great nation within a united Canada. As far as I'm concerned, if this language makes the separatists feel better, so be it.

Even though I'm not a big flag waver, I am a big fan of this province where I live, so I dressed MGP for the occassion.

Papa looks on as Mitch kicks around wearing his "Fait au Quebec" (made in Quebec) bib.

Then off we went to watch the festivities. We saw large effigies of some of Quebec's best known leaders.

That's a 30-foot effigy of Rene Levesque on the right - and probably the only time he's been seen without a cigarette.

But then Mitch got a bit overheated, so we needed to head into the shade and take in some cool breezes:

"Mama, I'm hot. And I don't just mean good looking..."

And finally, after gazing at such a handsome baby all afternoon, I saw Quebec nationalism looking for a place on the "don't wear this" section of the style page:

Quebec pride meets Cat in the Hat.

Trending green

2009-01-12T07:05:00.000-08:00

On a recent trip to IKEA, J and I noticed that our favorite Swedish retailer maintains their policy of charging for plastic bags. In this morning, I was tickled to note that one of our favorite Canadian grocers is doing the same, and will charge five cents per plastic bag. While Loblaws is making a preemptive strike before the by-laws of the City of Toronto are amended, I'm still delighted by the change. J and I shop regularly at Provigo, which is part of the Loblaws company, and we've finally mastered the Canadian pronunciation with the emphasis on the first syllable as opposed to the second. It only took us three years!

If you want to see what bébé Powers probably looks like this week, check this out. I can definitely confirm that we have a very active little one!

Supremely smart or supremely silly?

2008-11-20T10:21:00.000-08:00

As many of you will have noticed, J and I love posting about nuances that highlight the differences between Canada and the U.S. Some days I'm delighted by the differences, other days I shake my head in dismay. Today, I have had both reactions to two separate rulings by the Supreme Court of Canada.

In one ruling, they have declared that people who are "functionally disabled by obesity" have the right to two seats on an airplane. In this case, I'm decidedly pro-business - if you need two seats, you should purchase two seats.

In the other ruling, they have declared that businesses are accountable to their communities for the environmental damage they cause, even if the damage is within legal limits. This level of accountability ensures that the limits for what damages are acceptable are dynamic (rather than being slowly updated by public boards) and that corporations are directly responsible to their communities. Bravo! (Or should I say Brava! to our female Chief Justice?)

What do you think? Should obese people be entitled to two airline seats? And should companies be held to an environmental standard that is beyond the letter of the law?

Yet another reason to live north of the border

2008-11-13T16:49:00.000-08:00

Some of dear readers in the good old U.S. of A. are probably grateful that their bank deposits are insured. In Canada, we have no such fear.

Not Canada.

And have we mentioned Quebec's paternity benefits program?

Another introduction

2008-11-09T16:04:00.000-08:00

When considering starting a family, many couples get a cat or a dog to try out the responsibility of having a dependent. After the past summer of taking care of Fiorella, J and I have begun the journey toward having more responsibility together...

Profile shot

Check out those big, beautiful lips

A couple more photos can be found on our Flickr account, which we'll be updating shortly with some more photos of us.

After getting opinions from many friends, we decided to leave the sex of the baby a surprise. Since J and I have had names picked out since we were dating, we're enjoying the mystery of not knowing whether we're having a boy or a girl. We're also getting a big kick out of signing the little one up on daycare waitlists under the nom de plume, "Bébé Powers." Go ahead and say it with a French accent - I bet that it will make you giggle, too.

Have a guess for the baby's birthdate and sex? We'll find a suitable prize for the person who leaves a comment with the correct guess for gender and the closest guess for birth date and time. (Bébé Powers is scheduled to arrive on 28 February.)

Introducing Fiorella

2008-07-09T17:24:00.001-07:00

Goodness, are there people that still read this blog? Thank you for not giving up on us.

While J has been gallivanting around Europe, I've been tooling around Montreal more fashionably than ever.

Introducing Fiorella.

Fiorella is a dragon red Vespa LX 50. She gets up to about 55 kmph going downhill, a gazillion kilometers to the liter, and lots of looks and stares as we drive through Montreal. I bought her from a delightful woman in Toronto who had won her in a contest and wasn't interested in keeping her. After the big adventure of getting her back to Montreal with me, it was time to name her. She needed have an Italian name, and Fiorella (which means little flower) won.

And, if Fio isn't cute enough for you, J and I even got matching helmets...

Don't make me hit the horn. You won't like the sound of my horn.

We have two helmets, so that you can take a spin with us when you come to visit. Just make sure to work on your obligatory shoulder shimmies in advance...

Play it. You know you want to.

Don't mess with Canada

2008-02-28T17:19:00.000-08:00

U.S. Democratic presidential hopefuls Clinton and Obama have been sparring about NAFTA lately as they each try to gain ground in Ohio. Both parties have suggested the possibility of "renegotiating NAFTA" to a greater or lesser extent. Sometimes US elected officials, like all USians, I suppose, seem to forget that the rest of the world has ears. And newspapers. And oil.

Wouldn't you know it? The US's largest supplier of oil isn't Saudi Arabia--it's Canada. Care to guess what kind of import taxes we levy in Canadian oil? That's right: zero. Care to guess why? That's right: NAFTA. If the US starts messing with NAFTA, don't be surprised if Canada starts talking about China's virtues as a trading partner.

Oh, and incidentally, every time you fill up your tank, you contribute to the scourging of Canada. Calgary may get richer for a while off this stuff, but the sheer scale of the environmental catastrophe unfolding in Alberta's oil patch beggars the imagination.

Each truck: 3369.99 hp, 380 ton capacity, 47' x 30' x 21': roughly the size of 1-bedroom apartment.

Maple syrup nation

2008-02-09T14:32:00.000-08:00

Being somewhat more travel-prone than your average bloggers, we TruffleWarreners absolutely love maps.

Old maps of Montréal.

Taoist maps of the human body.

Silly maps of the internet.

Give us an adjective, we've got a map to match. Try us. We dare you. And if you think we aren't ready for you, just chew on this: we've even got a maple syrup map. Well, actually it's a food traditions map, but, well... just look for yourself:

The maple syrup nation self-evidently has a manifest destiny to engulf the continent.

In all honesty, I had never really thought of maple syrup as the basis of a food culture. H assures me that it is--but then, H argues with some earnest that maple syrup qualifies as its own food group. Moi, je suis sceptique. After all, the same authority from which we're deriving the very concept of the maple syrup nation also indicates the existence of a clambake nation and a pinyon nut nation. So count me skeptical... but tickled.

Super Tuesday

2008-02-05T05:54:00.001-08:00

For better or for worse, J and I aren't the greatest about timely blog posting. If anything, we pre-date a number of posts to fit properly in within our adventure calendar. But I read a very interesting thing in the Montreal Gazette today:

Most Canadians would back Hillary Clinton in this year's United States presidential race, and nearly one in six would forfeit their right to vote in the next federal election for a chance to sway the result across the border, polls indicated yesterday.

There are approximately 30 million Canadians, so that is 5 million Canadians who would rather vote in this U.S. election than vote for Stephen Harper's successor. When I mentioned this to J, he said it was like Americans wanting to vote in China because of their size and growing global influence. But then, there are Chinese that are voting in the U.S., too, and they need a bit of help to get the candidate's names right.

Most Canadians would opt for "Tired Forest," while I would support "Profound Horse."

May the best woman, man, or horse win!

Carpe diem, travellers!

2008-02-02T16:44:00.001-08:00

H and I know that most of you out there are daring and imaginative adventurers. Sometimes, though, even the daring and imaginative among us needs a little inspiration. If the travel bug is nibbling you, but you're quite sure exactly where to go to scratch that itch, try browsing 1000 Places to See Before You Die. (Apparently, the website represents an adjunct to the book of the same title, which started the whole 1000-before-you-die phenomenon.)

To be completely honest, I've never even heard of the book, let alone the "phenomenon," but the website contains scads of great travel ideas. Talk about spectacular destinations... You're sure to find inspiration--if not a complete itinerary--here.

We humbly submit that a sojourn in Alsace , dividing your time between Strasbourg and the route du vin, is worthy of before-you-die attention.

And you're just kidding yourself if Prague isn't on your list.

I'm a little embarrassed (on their behalf) to have to report that they're still working up the whole user interactivity thing. If I'm behind on travel book trends, at least I'm not suffering from severe lag when it comes to internet trends. But, even if your own suggestions as to which places are visiting before you die won't get screen time, you can at least still profit from theirs.

The city's hall speaks

2008-01-26T11:17:00.000-08:00

Contemporary North American city dwellers, though we have more than enough to feed our stomachs, have precious little upon which to feast our eyes. Generally accustomed to the banal concrete, glass, and steel designs which constitute the unintended legacy the Bauhaus's so-called "International Style," we have limited experience with cityscapes which evoke simple delight and honest pleasure.

Which is reason number 24 gazillion why we're lucky to live in Montréal. Certainly the city has its share of BSSs; it also its share of the good stuff. Imagine, if you will, that this is your City Hall.

Now, if that doesn't say "Cradle of Liberty," I don't know what does.

Whoops! Sorry! That's Boston's City Hall. Not exactly what I was intending, but while the photo's up there, I might as well make use of it. Officially, Boston's City Hall is in the brutalist style (yes, there really is an architectural style called brutalism--technically derived from the French for concrete: béton brute). Personally, however, I've always thought that a more accurate description of the building's style would be man-the-battlements-the-citizens-are-approaching!--but maybe that's a bit bombastic. Whatever we call it, doesn't it just make your inner architect swoon? (On the other hand, maybe your inner architect is just suffering from another bout of who-the-hell-authorizes-this-stuff. Your mileage may vary.)

But back to Montréal. As I was saying: Imagine, if you will, that this is your City Hall.

I'll concede that it resembles Vincent Price if you'll concede that there are worse architectural muses.

Not that it's perfect, but it would be hard to argue that Montréal's Hôtel de Ville isn't impressive, dramatic, and even beautiful in its overwrought way. Basically, then, H and I moved from a city where the municipal government hunkers in a brutalist fortress with Soviet overtones to a city where the municipal government cavorts in a Second Empire wedding cake with drama-queen lighting. It's not like this is the only domain in which Montréal surpasses Boston, but it's definitely one of the most spectacular.

Hours of superpowers

2008-01-21T22:12:00.000-08:00

H and I believe--good optimists that we are--that every person possesses at least one superpower. Our friends JD and JB, for example, are able to throw epic parties at will. Our friend CE bakes the world's best bread--without a recipe. Even I have a superpower: I can seduce women more superpowerful than myself at will. I can even get them to marry me.

Of all H's superpowers--and I assure you that she has many--my favorite is unusual in that it seems to require study. Not that H isn't innately talented, but I caught her reading up on how to enhance her already impressive abilities during our weekly trip to the library.

It won't be long before companies start paying her to use their products.

Watch out Hetty Green!

Cultures, colors, and cross-coordination

2008-01-20T12:05:00.000-08:00

The Basilique Notre-Dame is not only one of Montréal's architectural jewels, it's a venerable bastion of Québecois Catholicism.

Talk about an unexpected place for a blue-light special...

It therefore came as little surprise to see that its keepers have chosen the official colors of Québec for the church's lighting scheme. "What are the official colors of Québec?" you ask.

A pleasant, if somewhat unoriginal, color combination.

So, when actually stop and reflect upon it for a moment, the whole blue light thing makes sense. But to be completely honest, "Vive le Québec!" wasn't exactly the first thing that popped into our minds when we we first set eyes upon the Basilique's lighting scheme. I mean, think about it for a second. Blue and white holiday lights adorning a religious building in the winter time...

Yep. That's right.

Yes, you too can be the life of every Hanukkah party you attend with your very own menorah hat (only $24.95 plus S&H).

I guess you could say our first thought was something like, "Happy Hanukkah, Montréal!" Not what the decorators intended, I suppose, but still a seasonal sentiment. Nothing like cultural cross-pollination for a good chuckle.

Bonne Nouvelle Année !

2008-01-01T00:01:00.000-08:00

Happy New Year, one and all! Our warmest wishes to all of you, our dear readers. May 2008 see you happy, healthy, and hearty. Indeed, may this year be the one in which your wildest dreams come true... except maybe for that one where you showed up at school naked.

Wow. Impressively wild. So... where do you carry your trig homework in that getup?

H and I are enjoying a quiet evening together, watching a few good films and reminiscing a little. Despite all the adventure, we're not all that sorry to see 2007 recede into the past. We look forward with great hope and intense anticipation to 2008. May it be our--and your--most adventuresome year yet!

Joyeux Noël !

2007-12-25T01:14:00.000-08:00

A Merry Christmas to one and all! We're down in Cape Cod for a few days, enjoying the company of some of our dearest Boston-area friends. We'll let you know if we happen to see any Real Bearded Santas in our neighborhood--and you should keep a lookout chez vous. They've been known to congregate in unexpected places...

Would you believe me if I told you this photo was not taken at the North Pole?

Give it an inch...

2007-12-19T13:19:00.000-08:00

H and I were delighted when snow finally arrived here in Montréal. Since we don't own a car, we were entirely unintimidated to learn that we were living through a record-breaking snowstorm. Heck, we even giggled with giddiness, watching it all come down. It's hard to faze Canadians with snow--even 40+ centimeters of it.

Even the potted plants in Montréal just shrugged and got on with it.

At the end, though, we had so much snow that the politicians started talking about how much it would cost to remove all of it. Care to guess how much? Nope. More. Nope. Even more. Try...

"I will keep your city snowbound unless you give me...

...$20 million Canadian dollars."

Yup. And that was just the first of the December storms. It's since snowed again. And we've heard tell that it will snow at least once more before 2007 ends. We also hear, however, that things may warm up, so we're probably looking at peak snow accumulation here--and let me tell you, if Tom Thumb were a ski-freak, he'd be in heaven in our jardin.

In Canada, it sometimes snows so damn hard you lose your chair.

Having paid my share of the $20 million it took to clear the streets, I'm just wondering how much the city's economy loses per snow day. Is it really worth it to remove all that snow absolutely ASAP?

Google to the rescue. Montréal apparently manages to produce a paltry CAD $96 billion or so of rough economic value per year (that's the 2006 figure). Since there are approximately 250 business days in a calendar year, we can estimate that each of those days is worth about CAD $384 million of rough-and-ready productivity. Now, some of that value doesn't depend on the weather (web-based, residential utilities, etc.), but plenty does. So, I suppose it is worth it.

Even though I checked my math thrice (and H checked it after that), I could hardly believe that Montréal produces CAD $384 million per day. It just seemed like too much. But... Canada's 2006 GDP clocked in at CAD $1.4 trillion. Their 2001 census claims 14,695,130 workers (excluding unemployed) in the country. That divides out to an average annual productivity of CAD $95,270 per worker. (The equivalent figure in the US is USD $91,389.) Bottom line: if you're working and making less than $90k a year (in whatever currency), you're not even making the average. So, I suppose Montréal's numbers make sense after all, given the relative (in)justice of our current economic system. Perfect sense.

Even Canada is becoming wary

2007-12-11T07:42:00.000-08:00

It's not often that the New York Times publishes an article which defends (however grudgingly) Canada when it disparages the US. Usually, even the most cosmopolitan Americans chalk up Canadian grousing to Canada's supposed inferiority complex. Sometimes it's enough to make you think that maybe the chip is on the southern shoulder.

Evidently, the various policies of Our Glorious Leader (and I'm assuming you know the ones I mean) have now been in effect long enough that the tissue of international agreements which forms the legal foundation of our fast-globalizing society is beginning to fray at the edges. And I'm not talking about maybe-more-important but definitely-more-fuzzy issues of perception and trust. I mean real, current legal decisions are being taken which are changing the rules by which the game of global political-economy is being played. And there's a definite trend to these decisions--a trend which suggests that American children can look forward to a tougher future than the one we've enjoyed. Welcome to life as a rogue nation.

I'll admit that Canada has its quirks, but somehow the air just seems fresher up here. Weirder, sometimes. But fresher. (And on second thought, maybe not that weird after all...)

One of these men is an eccentric yokel; the other is petting a moose.

Welcome, snow!

2007-12-04T11:42:00.000-08:00

H and I are enjoying the snowstorm today. Neither of us particularly minds the cold, but long winters aren't much fun without snow. They're predicting 35cm for this storm. Yay!

In Canada, it sometimes snows so damn hard that even the snow has to sit down to take a breather.

If the snow looks perhaps a bit too comfortable in that photo, don't worry. We couldn't be snugger--not even if we were bugs in a rug.

Dining in the dark

2007-11-11T14:17:00.000-08:00

It's long after my birthday--nearly a month in fact--but we finally made it out to my birthday dinner. This year, instead of going with predictably scrumptious (say, L'Express, or Au Pied de Cochon, or Toqué), I decided to go with damn, that's novel. O.Noir ("It's better in the dark!") offers diners the novel experience of dining in utter darkness.

The b-day dinner crew gets ready to raise a ruckus.

When you enter the restaurant, you find yourself in a small foyer, where you read the menu, place your order, and wait for your waiter to guide your party to your table. The menu always features a "surprise" dish for each course. Your waiter--the entire service staff is blind--leads you to your table, and then... it gets interesting.

I wrote a review of the experience for my friend EP, which I think pretty well captures the experience of the evening:

O.Noir was at once a thrilling and a disappointing experience. Our party included me, two MBAs (my wife being one of them), two architects, and a psychologist. We talked a great deal about the design of the space, the design of the experience, and the experience's business proposition.

The bottom line (at least for this particular dine-in-the-dark restaurant--there are others): the food was completely unremarkable in both taste and texture. We had hoped for intense odors, unexpected shapes and textures, and so forth. The design of the space was disappointing in that it didn't seem to harbor any serious ambitions to capitalize on the fact that we couldn't see. Why not playful changes in flooring and wall textures. And the design of the objects we used (plates, glasses, forks, chairs, etc.) was also dull, dull, dull. The flatware could have been shaped differently; the glasses heavier in the base to prevent spills; the chairs at different heights; etc. etc. It was also very, very loud. High ceilings, hard surfaces, and no sound mitigation strategies.

BUT... the possibilities were extremely exciting. Our culture is so focused on vision that we often forget the importance of our other senses. During dinner, we talked about how thoughtful, creative design could have provided a magnificently rich experience. Someone--I can't remember who--suggested "eating gloves," which would be a fantastic design challenge.

As it was, cutting food was ridiculously difficult, so most of us ended up eating with our hands. We speculated that applying the east Asian principle of knifeless eating (all cutting done in the kitchen) might have been appropriate. We talked about adopting a culinary approach more sensitive to senses other than sight: using more aromatic seasonings (e.g., lavender, cumin, and mint), ingredients and dishes which have a auditory component (fizzy water, breads that need tearing, crunchy appetizers, etc.), and texturally engaging finger foods. Out impression was that management wasn't fully engaging the possibilities--for the interior designers and the chef, it was basically just a gimmick.

In all, we essentially paid $55 a head to eat mediocre food during a power outage. A novel experience which provides great grist for a stimulating conversation about innovation and design, but not somewhere I'd spend money a second time.

Hope your birthday dinner causes as much thinking as mine did!

She made it!

2007-11-09T21:52:00.000-08:00

Ladies and gentlemen, by the power invested in McGill University by the province of Québec, I now announce that HLMP is officially a Master of Business Administration!

Hide your business plans! Lock away your financial statements!

H loves few things as much as a good ceremony, especially when there's a bagpiper involved. (She is Scottish, after all.)

Yep. There he is. Second from the right in the first row. Can't miss the kilt.

And of course, it's always more fun to do these sorts of things as a group. There really is nothing like a crowd for generating a little energy and excitement. Especially afterwards, when you get to speculate as to where your new wings might take you.

H and friend ML prepare for takeoff.

Congrats, H. You really did earn your wings. We can't wait to see you soar.

The wonder of Stevie

2007-10-25T16:25:00.000-07:00

You may not have known, but H's favorite musical artist is Joni Mitchell. Well, to be perfectly accurate, it's Joni Mitchell except for when it's Stevie Wonder. And Stevie Wonder it is tonight, for H has secured orchestra-level seating for the Stevie Wonder concert tonight.

Tix to the hottest show en ville, and I got them at 75% of list price. You may kiss me now.

Rest assured: the concert will rock. And we will be there to rock with it.

UPDATE (26 Oct. 2007): Stevie rocked, we rocked. Assurance rested.

Lookah at the Hookah!

2007-09-15T23:59:00.001-07:00

To celebrate the occasion of my acceptance of an excellent job offer, J and I were accompanied by our friends JPhB and AP to a local shisha bar, Cafe Gitano. I admit that I had been eying the lovely pipes in the window since we moved to Montreal, but had never ventured in. The time had come for some deliciously flavoured tobacco shared amongst friends.

JPhB and AP savour every last trickle of Double Apple smoke.

Apparently, the up-tick in hookah bars is not just a local phenomenon, and is being reported by one of the U.S.'s trashiest broadsheets. The hookah (Hindi), also known as a shisha (Arabic), is a water pipe device for smoking, and originated in India but has gained a great deal of popularity in the Arab world. Unsurprising then that there are a number of shisha bars in Montreal, since roughly 2% of Montreal's population is Arabic. According to a very friendly taxi driver of ours, Arabic is the third most spoken language in Montreal (after French and English, of course).

But let's get back to our celebration. I have been a rather vehement non-smoker since, at the age of five, I convinced my mother to stop smoking. However, I have turned a blind-eye to the fact that smoking shisha is indeed smoking. It's tasty, and it's fun...

J on sensory overload from the delicious apple-y magic.

I can stop whenever I want. Really. I can.

Better living through tomatoes

2007-09-09T17:23:00.000-07:00

If you've been paying any attention to what you've been eating during the past few decades, you've probably noticed what we have: the US's relationship with what and how it eats is unhealthy--and it's getting worse. Stressed by foolish management practices, soil quality in the US has been declining, meaning that the nutritional punch of crops grown in the US has been declining apace. Perhaps as part of a confused attempt to compensate for this decline, agribussinesses have laced the US food supply with a broad spectrum of literally thousands of additives, pesticides, and other toxins. Also, most of what you eat likely contains ingredients which have been genetically modified in a lab. It's become harder and harder to find good food Stateside.

Despite the fact that American food isn't much good, we eat too damned much of it.

When you say, "Super size me!" to a MacDonald's employee, you just might get what you ask for.

And on top of all that somatic nastiness, the collective psychic relationship with food in the US ain't none too good neither. All in all, it's not easy to eat well in the US if you can't afford The French Laundry (often called the best restaurant in the US; currently priced at USD $240 per head per meal).

But here in Montréal, it's different. How different? Very different. With 1.9 million inhabitants and some 12,000 eateries, Montréal can boast the extraordinary per capita restaurant density of 1 eating establishment for every 158 residents. If that seems really dense, it is. Chicago offers a restaurant for every 359 residents; and Paris, surprisingly (since they can claim credit for inventing restaurants in first place) provides only one restaurant for every 742 residents. At the other end of the spectrum, Tokyo offers its 12.8 million residents an almost unbelievable 190,000 restaurants--which yields a mind-boggling per capita density of 67. Few cities of comparable size offer a better per capita restaurant density than Montréal--certainly none in North America do.

But the restaurants are really only an indicator of the culture's interest in and concern for excellent food. The gems in Montréal's culinary crown are its fabulous open air markets, from which the restaurants receive their ingredients. Can't make good food without good ingredients. The market closest to H and me (there are officially four such markets in the city) is the marché Jean-Talon, located near the Jean-Talon metro station.

Nothing pictured here traveled more than 100km to reach you, except maybe the furniture.

J-T (as H and I have nicknamed it) is open year-round, but its late summer offerings are second to none. I'd put its produce up against anything else I've ever seen. Not Paris's--nay, not even Strasbourg's markets can top it. To help you picture it all, I've prepared a little photo tour, a brief exercise pamphlet for your salivary glands, if you will. And remember that the city's master chefs have yet to get their hands onto this stuff. As astonishing as it seems, everything you see here will actually taste even better once they're done with it.

If you can't think of what you could possibly do with all those berries, you're one more victim of supermarkets and agribusiness.

Ever wonder what it might feel like to palpate a rainbow?

You might even learn a little fractal math--if you don't eat it first.

J-T's coup de grace: tomatoes. Lots and lots of tomatoes.

Yes, even the tomatoes come in a rainbow of flavors.

Half-sunny? Half-shady? Who cares, 'cuz it's all tasty.

John, Wayne, and the Cape

2007-09-08T11:20:00.000-07:00

There's probably a good quote somewhere on the value of friends who throw fabulous parties, but I'm not familiar with it. And don't give me that reproachful look, either. I know how to use a search engine. Google let me down on this one: number one spot for a search for "quote friends fabulous parties" didn't even land me on the right planet. And it's not like the rest of the list was much good either.

In any case... H and I are lucky in our friends, and we have one pair of friends in particular, JD and JB, who possess the enviable superpower of throwing hugely overambitious, vastly entertaining, sublimely convivial, and wild-but-not-fratboy-wild parties. I don't care whether or not wikipedia's "official" list recognizes the ability to envision, orchestrate, and inspire an epic party as a superpower; I submit that it is.

Superpower: able to strike any camera colorblind at will.

Certainly, I don't know anyone else capable of the same level of mad planning. So when, several weeks ago, JD and JB invited us to their Cape Cod-based, week-long, once-every-five-years birthday party in honor of John Wayne, we didn't think twice. To be honest, we didn't even think once. OK, to be completely honest, we didn't think at all--we just just said, "Hell, yeah!"

On our way down the Cape, we stopped off in Boston to visit friends RM and NH.

Did you bring us goodies from Montréal? Feed us teh goodies!

As all Bostonians known, there's nothing like a late summer stroll through Boston Common to get you in the mood for a party. I mean with all the dancing girls (and boy), we were beginning to wonder if maybe the party hadn't already started without us.

When we asked about the John Wayne birthday party, we were subjected to several Turkish tests for drunkenness, which made everyone feel awkward.

After indulging in an appropriate amount of strolling and loitering downtown, we were finally able to tear ourselves away from Beantown and make our way down to the Cape. In true party superhero fashion, our hosts had landed a spectacular setting for our festivities.

The inlet's still water holds the sky as a bowl holds water.

And what seaside setting would be complete without an Escher-esque dock with a dismaying habit of swaying when you walk on it? Our hosts thought of everything.

Look, ma! No hands!

But of course, this seaside isn't just any seaside. It's Cape Cod. Which naturally means that there's plenty of minigolf nearby. H even won a free game by getting a hole-in-one on the 18th hole. No horsepucky.

J watches in horror as H clinches the win with style.

Still, as with so many grownup affairs--and certainly all affairs in which we're closely involved--it was the the food which crowned the event. Some of JB's sailing friends, who hail from Maine, hauled down an army barrack's worth of fresh oysters, fresh Maine lobsters, and fresh steamer clams for our delectation. And let tell me you, that's an impressive spread of fresh.

The raw oyster: an entire ocean distilled to a single, slippery sip.

Ever see James Cameron's Aliens? Yeah. Serious creature carnage.

Traditional Zen koan: Is bowl full or empty? (Answer: Depend on size of nearby sailor's appetite.)

Probably you've been wondering why it's called the "John Wayne Party." Well, John and Wayne are two of the attendees (yes, two different people), whose birthdays fall close enough together that it constitutes an excuse to throw a single mondo party as opposed to two wee parties. Too, the "real" John Wayne (he was born Marion Robert Morrison, didn't you know?) was born 100 years ago this year. And seeing as his birthday's in May... well that's close enough to count as yet one more reason to throw a mondo party. Not--as you might imagine--that we need much of an excuse. But it has a nice ring to it, doesn't it?

Oh, and one very important lesson we learned during the party, which we delightedly pass on to you, our dear readers:

Everything--and we do mean everything--is a hat.

Happy trails! (Yes, yes. We're perfectly aware that John Wayne never said that. Close enough.)

Only in Québec

2007-08-27T07:57:00.000-07:00

For all its old-world charm, Montréal often feels a lot like North America. Wide, straight boulevards. Rectilinear street grid. Ridiculous steel and glass skyscrapers clustered in a downtown core. But sometimes the fact that you're living in Québec is suddenly thrust upon you in the form of some inimitable sign. No, not that kind of sign. This kind.

"Don't you touch 'Bill 101.'"

You're wondering, perhaps, what Bill 101 is. And perhaps also you want a little background, which would help explain why all of these people seem so motivated to protect it. That's what those links are for. And if you're still confused, try imagining the USA--just as a thought experiment--attempting to manage an analogous situation (this last article is extremely helpful for Americans).

As a general rule, H and I don't worry too much about the French language thing. We assume that both French and English are necessary, and the more completely we master both, the better life will be for us here. But living in two languages isn't always easy. When people ask us about language difficulties vis-a-vis McGill, for example, we have to explain that the whole situation is rather a long way from cut and dry. You see, McGill is an English-speaking university in a bilingual city in a French-speaking province in an English-speaking country.

Let me assure you that there is no English Now movement in Montreal.

There are those who, evidently, believe that the whole situation should simply be rationalized. If everyone would just learn English, for example, things would sure be easier for your average American tourist. Then again, if all those Anglophones would just speak French the way God intended, this whole mess would just blow over.

Ever get the feeling that some of your neighbors have a HUGE chip on their shoulders?

There's more behind the history of Bill 101 than meets the eye. It's never been simply a language thing. There are interrelated histories of cultural dominance and exploitation, economic power, wealth, and political power. Still, H and I believe that bilingualism represents the sanest and surest way forward. As any young montréalais will tell you, and as we're verified through our own experience, two languages are most certainly better than one.

Le mort par chocolat

2007-08-26T15:10:00.000-07:00

Many of our readers are probably familiar with Lasse Hallström's 2000 film, Chocolat, in which Juliette Binoche uses chocolate and sass to open hearts in a small French town. Not a bad chick flick.

We in Montréal, however, have no need of Ms. Binoche, because we have our own Juliette, who makes the most amazing chocolate [en français] you will ever drink. Ever. The dark hot chocolate fait à l'ancien ("made in the old way") ought to be renamed "sin in a cup" for how deliciously naughty you feel as you let the amazing stuff carry you to cocoa-magic Shangi-La. If the servers teased you by wafting a cup of Juliette's liquid ambrosia under your nose, then told you flat out that even a sip was death to any mortal, you'd order a double and chug it, just to make sure you get to taste the last drop before the gods exacted their revenge.

J plays it cool while facing triple chocolate overload, while H risks brain freeze on top of the injured vanity of the chocolate gods.

Next time you make it up to Montréal, you have only to ask and we can deliver at least the perceived risk of death by chocolate.

A-maize-ing

2007-08-13T12:23:00.000-07:00

This past Saturday, our good friends JPB and AP called us up--a bit out of the blue--and asked us if we might be interested in accompanying them on a Sunday daytrip to visit a labyrinthe de maize just outside of Montréal. Let's see here, that would mean a corn maze? Yes, a corn maze. (Maize--also sometimes written maïs--is one of the French words for corn, not for maze; all further puns are fully intentional.) A maize maze, if you will. Hah!

Regular readers know that H and I are almost always game for these sorts of adventures, and JPB and AP are fantastic company, so of course we said we'd go.

In case you didn't know what you were getting into.

Mid-August is fairly late in the growing season for corn in Québec, so the corn was astonishingly tall. We took a few random turns and immediately found ourselves... not exactly lost. But not exactly found either.

"Hold on. Did we turn left or right at the last intersection? Hey, those two look like they know where they're going. Follow them!"

Well, at least we a map. (And yes, they really do plant the corn in this pattern. No mowing. Pretty cool, eh?) Looking at it, perhaps you're wondering what all those little clearings are. We wondered the same thing. Turns out the maze was full of surprises--"a maze to amaze!" Hah! Of course, some of the surprises were hardly surprising.

If you happen upon a beautiful woman eating corn in the heart a corn maze, you're not exactly astounded, are you? Especially if you brought the beautiful woman with you.

But then, other discoveries were less predictable.

It's not every day you chance upon a toadstool princess wielding a quarterstaff.

Turns out that the corn maze is organized as a quest. There are little "stations" set up all over the labyrinth, and at each little station you watch a minimalist performance which contains a bit of crucial information. At the end, you meet the Black Knight, who tests your knowledge with Sphinx-like riddles. (On the order of, "What color were the caps on the witch's toadstools?" Sphinx-like. Oh, yeah.) Wait a second. A Black Knight?

If Elvira and Paddington Bear met for a single, searing night of unprotected passion...

Yes, a Black Knight. And if you "defeat" him by answering his riddles, he gives you directions to the exit. Just imagine how these young Quebeckers are going to treat US tourists when they grow up. "The nearest border crossing, eh? Can you first tell me the number of fleurs de lys there are on the Québec flag?"

On your way out from the Black Knight, though, you are treated to a small wonder.

Each "leaf" is a wish, if I understood correctly.

There is nothing so humble that it cannot inspire wonder, if only our hearts are ready to receive it. Even a wishing tree in a corn maze. Yes, even that.

Birds is the Word

2007-08-09T10:38:00.000-07:00

With H up in Trois-Pistoles for five whole weeks, I decided to I needed to find ways to keep busy. Oh sure, for the first few days--weeks, even--it was all about unpacking. But then what? So when my mom invited me to come to St. Louis for a week-long visit, I leaped at the chance.

Needless to say, I didn't get up to anything good. Or at least, not too good. For example, I postponed my return to Montréal for one day so that I could take advantage of an extremely cool invitation. My cousins (and good friends) SR and AS had finagled access to one of the snazzy new luxury suites at the recently rebuilt Busch Stadium for a St. Louis Cardinals game. And they invited me! Me! Can you believe it? (Can you imagine what a dork I must have been in middle school?)

Well, that evening was the only evening I thought to take out my camera, so that's whats I gots fer yuns. Before the game, I got to hang out with one of my favorite little people, RVS. (Apologies for the time-date stamps...)

The droolmaster demonstrates an advanced technique.

Then I got to hang out with some of my favorite big people.

I ask you: What could be better than this?

The mini-fridges come stocked with (gasp!) Anheuser-Busch products. They serve a little buffet of sports food (nachos, wings, burgers, etc.). All in all, the accommodations were strikingly generous. My cousins, it seems, have read Machiavelli:

Rulers either spend their own wealth and that of their subjects, or that of other peoples. Those who spend their own and their subjects’ wealth should be abstemious; those who spend the wealth of others should seize every opportunity to be generous. (Ch. 16)

Mmm... other people's money.

Those who know me well know that baseball used to be my life. When asked what I wanted to be when I grew up, I was equally likely to answer "Ozzie Smith" or "Willie McGee." When people told me I could be whatever I wanted, I believed them: I was determined to grow up to be a base-stealing, switch-hitting, golden-gloved black man. It didn't work out that way, but it was a good dream while it lasted.

I've since soured on the sport--actually, on all professional sports and most college ones as well--because of the money. Money spoils everything, even when there are no profits, and baseball is no exception. But going to the park on a muggy summer's evening, watching grown men at least pretend to play with sticks and balls in the dirt... not all of the magic is gone. No, indeed. Not all.

The Redbirds at play.

Tout à coup

2007-07-22T19:28:00.000-07:00

Tout à coup, I’ve found myself back in high school. Every morning, I ride my bike to school, hurry in to be before the bell…

The photos get better from here on out, I promise.

After a short pause for lunch, I return to school for afternoon activities. At least once a week, I venture into the countryside courtesy of my chariot, a yellow school bus.

Les pneus sur le autobus go round and round…

Welcome to my world in Trois Pistoles. Thanks to the Canadian government, I have the chance to spend five weeks immersed in the French language in the middle of scenic Quebec. It’s hard to be distracted from my studies here when the attractions include a Dollarama and a poutine hut. However, the school works hard to keep us very busy with activities morning, noon, noon and night. One of the highlights has been the three tasty-if-slightly-overabundant meals a day for me and six other hungry students, served up by a lovely Quebecoise woman and her husband.

The beautiful table where we dine whilst we stumble over our French, 21 times per week.

Due to the overabundant meals, I eagerly signed up for a 20km ramble in the woods during my first weekend here, which afforded some beautiful views.

My feet were protected from lots of rushing water with lovely bridges, old and new.

I’ve just returned from a weekend in lovely Quebec City, which might have been even more enchanting than I remember now that I have some idea of how to penetrate the thick tourist crust that the city has created.

Chateau Frontenac on the hill, as seen by the blossoms.

It’s French-language only here, and if they catch you speaking another language three times, you are invited to take the next train home. However since not much English is escaping my lips these days, I’ll leave you with this photo to remember me by until I return to my anglo-franco-life in Montreal in mid-August.

I asked my friend DS to take a photo of the bright green bug on my finger, but she took this photo of me instead. Go figure.

Separate ways

2007-07-09T05:37:00.000-07:00

Greetings from our fair city of Montréal! As H noted in her last post, we've returned from our half-year adventure across the pond. We enjoyed the fika, the wine, and the tramwejs, but really, we're very glad to be home at last.

First things first: the best latte / mocha in the world, courtesy of Caffé Art Java.

H didn't get to enjoy Montréal too long, though. Just this past Friday, she zipped up to Trois Pistoles in order to begin her now second annual five-week French immersion course. The good news: it's really heartening to spend part of one's summer on something both fun and edifying. The really good news: the Canadian government will be picking up the tab. Did I mention that finding really incredible bargains is one of H's secret superpowers?

As for me, I was planning to take a French immersion class at McGill, but after taking the placement test I was informed that my level was "too high." Um, d'ya think maybe it's that the levels of your courses are "too low?" So now I'm surveying the rather vast possibilities of how to spend my time productively. I'm sure I'll come up with something... For the moment, I'm just organizing the house after our move-in and enjoying the city.

Surrounding skyscrapers reflect the spire of lovely Christ Church Cathedral.

More to follow...

Home at last!

2007-07-03T05:43:00.000-07:00

A quick post to let anyone who has been faithful to checking our untimely postings know that we have returned to Montreal and are happily settling back into chez nous.

Hey Mikey, he likes it!

2007-06-19T02:04:00.000-07:00

I must admit that I was a bit nervous about bringing J to Prague. I love it here, but I have history here, and I was worried that the same magic mightn't have bewitched J. I need not have worried, though, J and his camera have been oogling their way through virtually every city street. In J's awe of Prague's beauty, he has even compared it favorably with Paris.

Yo, H, I thought you were talking about Prague here?

No, no, we haven't been to Paris; this is Prague's own Petrin Tower on top of a hillside park adjacent to the city.

There are so many little details within this city that I've been excited about showing to J, and I'm glad that he's sharing my excitement.

J has been enjoying Czech wooden toys...

... Prague's beautiful buildings, and...

... small statues representing Czech peasant traditions, which continue to this day.

There are plenty of photos already on Flickr, and we've still got 10 days to go here. Czech back for more.

How many geraniums would your town have?

2007-06-16T16:12:00.000-07:00

One of the many delights of traveling through Alsace was appreciating their flowery towns.

That's an awfully "fleuri" ruin you're standing next to, H.

For those of you who think this is a lovely display of flowers, you've got a good eye. The French government would agree with you. Yes, you read correctly - the French government has an entire department devoted to determining which French villages are the "floweriest." According to their website, the floweriest villages are a societal phenomenon in France. Wow-ee! What delighted me most were the signs:

No, ladies and gentlemen, this isn't just any town. This is a four geranium town.

Every year, over 12,000 villages and towns from all across France enter the national competition of floweriness. Now, once the official flowery folk come to your town, they submit a ranking. Over three thousand towns and villages receive a rank of at least one geranium, while only 202 towns and villages have the status that every French gardeners surely aspires to: a four geranium ranking.

J and I had the pleasure of traveling through not one, not two, but three towns that achieved the status of four geraniums. Bergheim, Itterswiller, and last but certainly not least, Ribeauville. My favorite flowery moment was this one:

Please, come into my flowery home.

But I really should leave you with a photo from Ribeauville, which not only was a four-geranium town, but won the national prize for floweriness.

Check out the size of those pink geraniums.

Should a representative of the French government read this blog, I humbly submit my candidacy for being an evaluator of the 2008 competition.

La route du vin

2007-06-15T00:59:00.000-07:00

As I mentioned before, H and I were kicking around the idea of doing the too-charming-for-words route du vin. Well, we did it, and we did it à vélo ("by bicycle"). You can view all of our route du vin photos on our Flickr account.

Did I mention that June is summer storm month in Alsace?

We had planned to rent bicycles at the tourism office in Selestat, but they rent bicycles only durng the "summer." Their website defines "summer" as May-October, so we figured no problem, but their onsite staff defines "summer" as July-October. Guess which definition trumps.

The woman behind the counter was nevertheless quite helpful. She phoned a bike rental company in the region and got a great deal for us: 10€/bike/day with free delivery and one day free. It was so typically French. Nothing worked the way you'd expect from reading the literature, but everything got taken care of anyway.

As soon as the bikes arrived, we became closely acquainted with the obvious disadvantage of travel by bicycle, which, as we learned early on during our trip, can be summed up in one word: weather. Just as we got ready to depart, the clouds crashed and the skies opened. Naturally. We spent two hours in the tourism office, waiting out the storm and enduring the gentle taunts of the staff, "You're going to do the wine road by bicycle, eh? Ha ha!" H slept. I read inane travel lit.

It was already 4pm by the time we finally got on the road. Selestat lies on the Alsatian plain, east of the foothills of the Vosges mountains, where they grow all the wine grapes. (Alsace as a region is bordered by the Rhine to the east and the Vosges to the west.) We made our way west and quickly found the route du vin, thanks to my expert leadership. And then we immediately took a wrong turn. After spending around 45 minutes circling a suburb which had only a single entrace/exit, we began to eye the western horizon with trepidation as a second thunderstorm rolled in. So of course I made a second wrong turn, which put us squarely in the middle of a cornfield. Thank goodness my wife has such a well-developed sense of adventure. And a forgiving heart.

"Um, J--you did say that there's a route du vin, didn't you?"

As we slogged through the crops, the temperature dropped, the skies darkened, and it began to drizzle. So there we are, getting rained on in the middle of an Alsatian corn field, when H pops out with, "I think I saw where we could take shelter with some cows a bit back there."

At first, I was skeptical, bu then it began to rain in earnest. So I thought to myself, "Let us not stoop at this moist crossroads to any ill-conceived prejudice against our bovine bretheren. Lead on, brave and observant cowmaiden!" Or something to that effect. And let me tell you: whatever their drawbacks--and I'll allow that they probably have some--cows make great company when it's raining and they've got a roof and you've got nothing but Gore-tex.

The cows were very generous. We didn't even have to tip.

After waiting out the second storm with the cows, everything smoothed out. The rain even helped along the fruits of the season; as it happened, we were lucky enough to be abroad during cherry season.

Grocery stores which spritz their produce with water in order to make it look more appetizing have got a long way to go before they can compete with this.

Despite a week's worth of lugubrious forecasts, the weather cooperated for the remaining duration of our trip, and we were able to enjoy the bicycle's openness to the elements as a singular advantage over travel by car or train. When you travel by bicycle, you're really in the landscape--as opposed to travel by car, which conducts you through the landscape. And what a landscape! For charm, beauty, gentility, and sheer glory, Alsatian wine country stands head and shoulders above most landscapes I've encountered...

The road wraps the vine-laden hills like a silver ribbon.

Old Rhine castles cling to the mountainsides and crouch among the vines.

Every 2 or 3 km yields another charming village or lovely city.

The cities and villages actually compete with one another for the best floral displays.

There's even a sorcerer's tower or two... (that's me doing my best Harry Potter).

I don't care what Disney says. There's no vacation more magical than this.

Corks and storks

2007-06-10T00:22:00.000-07:00

We began our all-too-short stay chez my good friends DP and CF with a little visit to DP's favorite winemaker, Klein aux Vieux Remparts in St-Hippolyte.

As Homer Simpson might say, ¨Mmm... vins d'Alsace."

Jean-Marie et Françoise Klein, dynamic oeneological duo that they are, produce dry, subtle wines which represent Alsace's wine heritage (German varietals produced in a French style) unusually well. Although DP loves their wines to pieces, I find them a bit dry and tangy for my taste. Their 2005 Gewurztraminer and 2002 Muscat are worth the trip if you find yourself in Alsace, though; and don't neglect to taste the famed rouge de St-Hippolyte while you're there.

H and DP practice swishing the wine across their palates.

After wining and dining for a day or two, we collected DP's and CF's two sweet boys, and headed out to visit Alsace's Ecomuseum. The Ecomuseum gathers together old Alsatian houses, farm buildings, and production buildings into a kind of small town, where traditional craftsmen, including farmers, beekeepers, distillers, coopers, and blacksmiths, show off their know-how to visitors. H especially enjoyed her visit with a queen bee.

The beekeeper explained that the hives are numbered in order to help each bee find the correct hive after a long day's work in the fields.

Oh, yes. And H also enjoyed her first taste of milk only 10 seconds out of the cow.

At first, we were surprised that our sips of superfresh milk weren't cold. Then we thought about it for a second.

And, of course, what fun would a visit to Alsace be without a stork sighting? ¨Storks?¨ you ask.

One must realize that storks are the symbol of happiness and fidelity. As everyone knows, it is the stork which brings babies wrapped in bundles, firmly held in their beaks. Alsatian custom says that when a child wanted a younger brother or sister, he would place a piece of sugar on the window sill to attract the stork, in hopes that it would leave the precious bundle in exchange.

...As everyone knows. The French are a little pompous even in translation. In any case, the Ecomususm provides plenty of stork nests, so we got to see more than our share.

You've seen the bees. I represent the birds part of the equation.

Triumphant return, no. 1

2007-06-08T11:19:00.000-07:00

Although blogging has been light lately, that doesn't mean we've been lazy. On the contrary, we've busied ourselves to the point of exhaustion. It would make a long story--and those who phone us once we're back in Canada in a few weeks can get all the juicy details--but since pictures are sometimes worth, if not 1,000 words, at least more than one of them, I've posted all of our pictures from France on our Flickr account. If you're interested, you can click through directly in order to view our Strasbourg photos as a slideshow. (Other posts will follow with links to other photos...)

Strasbourg is even more charming and lovely than I remember, which is saying something. For those who have never been to Strasbourg, the city looks a bit like this:

No kidding. It really is this charming.

And there's a bit of this:

Seriously.

And this:

No, I won't stop. It really is unutterably lovely.

And of course, one shouldn't neglect to mention the cathedral. Strasbourg's cathedral, interestingly enough, was the first building to be identified as "gothic." Goethe more or less introduced "gothic" as an architectural term in 1773.

Eat your heart out, Paris.

Again, you can view all our Strasbourg photos as a slideshow. If you'd rather consume the images according to your own lights, they're all of them posted on our Flickr account.

Kicking it on the Continent

2007-06-04T03:30:00.000-07:00

Apologies for the lack of regular updates recently. H and I have been perparing for our (now already realized departure) from Stockholm. We passed one full day in London--my first trip to the British Isles, if you can believe it. And now I'm typing this post sipping a French-style lemonade (sparkling water with lemon-flavored syrup) in Strasbourg, France. Photos to come... For those who aren't as familiar with my history, I lived in Strasbourg from September of 1999 until July of 2001. It was a transformative experience for me, and I'm delighted to be able to share the first city with which I fell in love with H.

We'll be in Alsace for two weeks, during which, if the weather cooperates, we'll visit a bit of the too-charming-for-words Routes des vins. In any event, we'll enjoy the wine. And the cheese. And, well, everything. After two delicious weeks in France, we head to Prague, Czech Republic, where H lived from August of 1997 until June of 2001. Yes, that's one whole month in two of the most magical cities in the world. You may envy us now.

No more teachers, no more books...

2007-05-25T10:09:00.000-07:00

Now that I am officially done with coursework, I have now stepped from the mildly respectable position of student, to the slightly shunned position of unemployed. Don't worry too much about me, though, I'll be putting lots of thoughtful consideration into other things...

After much careful deliberation...

I emerge... Victorious!

Holy crosswalk

2007-05-23T13:53:00.000-07:00

It's been awhile, but rest assured, J and I are still alive and kicking, despite the blatant discrimination against us at our local crosswalk. Clearly, the Swedes get pretty specific about which individuals are more righted-of-way than the others.

Monks crossing? Hmm...

Bikes by Stockholm, bike racks by Clear Channel

2007-05-04T08:49:00.000-07:00

The city of Stockholm (rather unsurprisingly) maintains a fleet of bicycles, which are deployed during the warmer months for use by residents and visitors alike. In what seems to curious brand mismatch, the city has farmed out the operation of Stockholm City Bikes to... Clear Channel.

Wait. Did he just say "Clear Channel?" As in that media "company of conservative values" which has "expressed [those values] in very vocal ways, many times to the detriment of its public image?" Yup. That's the one. Stockholm's municipal bicycle service--which sounds downright socialist when you put it that way--is operated by a US-based "conservative values" corporation. Go figure.

None of this figures much in H's calculus for what's worth researching in Stockholm. She's already got the per-ride cost figured and her application filled out. Spring really is in the air.

Giddyup thar!

A Red Hat riddle

2007-05-03T01:49:00.000-07:00

Winning second place is, as they say, like kissing your sister. Since I don't have any sisters, I've never really been able to verify this empirically... but I still get the point. So then here's a question for you: What's it like when you win second place, except the first place team gets disqualified due to an eligibility issue, so you get first place anyway? No, seriously. Look what I found in my inbox this morning:

Due to an eligibility issue, Red Hat has unfortunately had to disqualify the first place team in the Red Hat Challenge. As a result, your team has moved up one place in the overall competition rankings.

Drat! They want me to do math first thing in the morning?! Let's see here... second place plus one place equals third... No. That's not right. Um... second place up one place (yes, yes, up is a mathematical operation, but only in the morning) equals first place. Wait? First place? As in: GRAND PRIZE WINNER?! But wait! Don't pop the champagne yet! We're only winning because the first place winners were disqualified. So it's kind of like... kissing your sister... except that she's not your sister anymore since those other guys got disqualified. So... she's your... sister's friend. Yeah. That's it. Your sister's hot--no, really hot--friend. Who's got $20k and a ticket to the Red Hat Summit--with backstage passes. (JC, our Montreal-based team member, will attend the conference.)

While it could have been better--nothing's sweeter than an outright win--it's definitely worth savoring. Just wanted to share the news!

Friend opens gallery in SF Bay Area

2007-05-03T01:16:00.000-07:00

If you're into Brazilian art--and you know who you are out there--you might be interested to know that a very good friend of mine, GK, has just announced the official opening of his new art gallery, Atelier do Brasil, situated in Forest Knolls, California (due west of San Rafael). Visits are by appointment only--check the website for contact details. Writes GK about the gallery:

Since returning from Brazil last summer, where my life was changed by my encounter with Brazilian art and culture, I have been working to create a venue to share the beauty of Bahian culture with Americans. Now, thank God, we have officially begun. We are starting out by presenting the work of two remarkable Brasilian artists- Chico Liberato and Gabriel Arcanjo- and myself. It is my hope that this work touches your heart.

These images are courtesy of Atelier do Brasil LLC. Unauthorized reproduction is strictly prohibited.

If you're feeling unlucky that you don't live in the Bay Area (and you should), there is a consolation prize. GK has graced the gallery with a blog as well, which of course anyone, anywhere can enjoy. So enjoy!

An echo from the great abyss

2007-04-25T01:54:00.000-07:00

Anyone that's in the process of applying for jobs knows that sending off resumes and cover letters is a lesson in frustration. Yet, there does seem to be life in the great abyss that accepts all job applications. I just received an email from a potential employer in Montreal inquiring as to when I will return. It's many steps away from actual employment, but I'm reveling in the small bit of human attention, and I wanted to share the good news.

Healthy and Sweaty

2007-04-23T06:27:00.002-07:00

The one request that J and I have received for content was from my Mom (thanks, Mom!), who requested more postings on our everyday life. It's not exactly everyday, but we do try to go to the gym on a regular basis. There's really very little excuse since it's just around the corner and between our apartment and school.

H's feeling friskis (healthy) and svettis (sweaty) after her workout!

I particularly like their advertising, which tells you a bit about how they see themselves, and about how I see myself.

Not that I go around grabbing guys' boobs...

J has made working out tougher these days by making friends at the gym. He's recently befriended a confessed workout sadist whom I will undoubtedly be cursing tomorrow morning!

Hotels which break the mold

2007-04-22T08:55:00.000-07:00

Say you're sick of hotels. Budget hotels, luxury hotels, kitschy motels, character hotels, boutique hotels, big-brand hotels, youth hostels, friends' couches... whatever. You want something different, something special, something--dare I say--unique?

To ask is to receive: 20 hotels which break the mold.

What's that you say? 20 ain't enough? Fine. How about a whole website dedicated to unusual hotels of the world? With a "wow factor" rating system and everything. Snap!

Gives new meaning to the expression, "In through the out door," doesn't it?

Yes, yes. It's true. I admit that H indubitably IS the travelmaster (for which admission I've earned the right to call myself the blogkeeper). Together, we are one heck of a snazzy travel-blog team!

Danish wedding traditions

2007-04-22T06:13:00.000-07:00

H and I spent some time in Copenhagen, Denmark over Easter weekend. It was, understandably, a rather quiet visit. While there, I met with a new professional contact, UE. We got on well enough that U was kind enough to invite H and me to the reception for his impending wedding in Århus, Denmark. Danish wedding traditions being what they are, we're extremely excited. For example:

Adding to the interest of mealtime are the kissing traditions. Whenever the groom leaves the room, all the men in the room rush over and queue up to kiss the bride. Whenever the bride leaves the room, all the women rush over to kiss the groom. The use of tongue is discouraged.

The wedding we're attending will be between two men, so we're not exactly sure how to manage this particular tradition. H says that this means she can kiss anyone she wants, but that seems backwards. It seems clear that I'll be the one able to kiss anyone I want. In any case, we feel confident that we can manage if we just do as the Århusians are doing.

The wedding will be next Saturday, but I'll be heading over to Århus early. I've managed to finagle myself a spot as a guest interviewer for the incoming class at the KaosPilot school. Details are a bit sketchy at this point, but I intend to enjoy myself pretty much no matter what. Once I've finished, I'll post reflections and commentary over at my professional blog. Don't miss it!

You've got questions

2007-04-20T20:37:00.000-07:00

We've got answers. Wat pho? Pho evvy-ting!

Existential angst is no match for our trained masseurs!

How not to order your steak

2007-04-18T09:49:00.000-07:00

It's all too easy to let your imagination run away with you when confronted with a language all-too-closely-related to English. At first glance, it would appear that Jensen's House of Bof, brazenly advertising its wares in shameless red neon, has located itself in the wrong district.

When asked how you would like your bof, a strategic answer is "tender."

But then, learning that the sign in the above photo translates verbatim to Jensen's Beefhouse doesn't much improve things. Imagine what it's like being a waiter there: "Welcome to our beefhouse! How pink would you like your meat?" How many times can one dine there before indulging in at least one or two vulgar puns? And then how many lowbrow double entendres can one waiter endure before giving in to despair? There's a verbal reckoning coming soon at Jensen's, and I for one don't want to be there when it arrives.

Remember Estonia

2007-04-17T03:21:00.000-07:00

Loyal readers will remember that H was able secure free cruise tickets to Tallin, Estonia for us back in March. I finally got my act together and posted on the trip. Enjoy!

B&J's Free Cone Day!

2007-04-16T16:13:00.000-07:00

Just a quick reminder that 17 April is this year's Free Cone Day at Ben & Jerry's shops the world over. Wherever you are, look up the nearest B&J's to get your free cone.

If you're in Sweden, we've located the Swedish version of the announcement. But, of course, it's all to little avail unless you can find your local Swedish B&J's. As it turns out, there's one in Malmö at the Hansagallerian, and we think there's one in Stockholm on Kungsholmen at the Västermalmsgallerian (Corner of S:t Eriksgatan and Fleminggatan; T-stop: Fridhemsplan). Count on us being there in the early afternoon, savoring our free Phish Food.

Where "economists" rule

2007-04-15T12:27:00.000-07:00

As many of our loyal readers know, H is currently attending the Stockholm School of Economics on exchange. The main building for the school lies in between our apartment and the Stockholm City Library, which (as we've mentioned) lies only half a block away from us. That puts the SSE practically next door.

Like so many Stockholmian buildings, the SSE evinces a rather ponderous and solemn aspect. But at least it isn't one the grotesqueries which sometimes pass for university buildings these days.

Fee fie fo fum. I hear knocking a tiny someone...

Our apartment is only a bit off to the "left" in the above photos. And speaking of those photos, who is that tiny-seeming someone before the massive doors which admit only the economically initiate?

Bwa hah hah! It is all mine!

It's amazing how big architecture makes you feel small. And that's no mean feat when it comes to my big, bold, beautiful wife. Even in this photo, the massiveness of the building fails entirely in preventing H from owning the place. And who's gonna' stop her? Certainly not me, certainly not the architecture--and I seriously doubt any SSE student would represent more than a speedbump on her path to global dominion.

Incidentally, if you ask really nicely in the comments, I bet y'all could convince H to explain the "Female Economist of the Year" award. Worth a try.

Red Hats off to the winners

2007-04-12T08:56:00.000-07:00

Complete results have been published on the Red Hat Challenge website.

We are pleased to report--as you'll notice--that we made second on that list! Following our victory at the Innovation Challenge last November, a second win was perhaps a bit too much to ask. But we figured what the heck--and so we tried to squeeze another hash into the "Win" column when the karmic accountants weren't paying attention.

Thanks to everyone who sent us their support and well wishes!

Göteborg's finest

2007-04-12T04:01:00.000-07:00

H and I have finally finished putting together all our posts on Göteborg.

While we hope most of you will remember the lipstick episode (and who could forget that?!), we've also added more material on the urban design and architecture of Göteborg, including a riotous post covering their church devoted to fish. Yes, fish. And shellfish. And mayonnaise. And fish. Yum. And did we mention that it's a church? (OK, so it's not really a church; but they do call it the Feskekörke, which means the fish church.)

If you'd rather skip the serious stuff, you can jump directly to our (always hilarious) commentary on the city and its culture, including the Göteborgeois's potentially unhealthy obsession with mobile homes, xenophilia, highly trustworthy law firms, and overdeveloped sense of direction. We also learned a bit about the demise of the Swedish plan for their own basketball "dream team."

Oh, yes. Almost forgot. Watch out for those mad trams!

Back among our Stockhomies

2007-04-11T07:53:00.000-07:00

Yes, you read right. It's apparently not Stockholmians (as we first thought), but Stockhomies. And we are back among them, enjoying the lengthening days and expensive coffee.

Some readers have asked for a few posts on H's and my immediate neighborhood. Happy to oblige. (There will be a few more posts forthcoming on the subject, so stay tuned!)

Notwithstanding Modern architecture's all-too-numerous utter and unassailable stupidities, it also lays claim to a few flashes of genius. Since Modern architecture was pretty much the first global architectural "style," one finds it everywhere. Stockholm as a city is perhaps unfortunate in that it seems to have acquired more than its fair share of Modern crap, but we're lucky in that one of the best early Modern designs lives about half a block from our apartment.

Half Prussian fortress and half wedding cake, the Stockholm public library inhabits the middle ground between civic authority and geometric whimsy.

Erik Gunnar Asplund's forward-looking design for Stockholm's city library

marks an architectural turning point, the more traditional classicism of the early sketches giving way to increasing simplification. The ornamentation was gradually pared down to a few pictorial friezes in bas relief. In the simple, glazed shopfront base completed in 1928, functionalism has already made its entrance.

Apart from the building's historical import, it's extremely convenient to have it so close. H and I constantly raid the library's surprisingly substantial English language section, trawling for fun classics and the better best-sellers. (We've set up our own little "A-Store" on Amazon.com, so you can browse H's recent reads, J's faves, and other recommendations by clicking on the appropriate links over on the right sidebar.) While the inside of the library isn't up to the same standard as the outside (too much fluorescent lighting... blech!), the building still makes for a wonderful backdrop for our urban adventures.

Red Hat Challenge complete!

2007-04-10T12:22:00.000-07:00

Well, we've finally finished with the Red Hat Challenge. We had a great time doing it, but we're also glad that it's over, as it had been absorbing a great deal of our time and mental energy over the past several days. Our apologies for the dearth of posts recently. We'll now be spending some time filling in all the blanks we've accumulated over the past few weeks.

In the meantime, H would like to me to broadcast a message from from her to all you loyal readers out there--coming right at you from Copenhagen, Denmark:

Whom do I superlove? That's right! It's you!

UPDATE (11 April 2007): We've been promised that we'll have the Red Hat Challenge results by the end of the week (13 April 2007). Believe us--when we know, you'll know!

We're not in Kansas anymore

2007-04-09T09:47:00.000-07:00

No, indeed! We're in Malmö, Sweden. "Where's Malmö?" you ask. Well, it's polite of you to try and draw me into conversation with your questions, but you don't have to pretend to ignorance on my account. Everyone knows that everyone knows where Malmö is.

Here. Malmö is right here. As everyone knows.

And a good thing, too, that everyone (including us!) knows where Malmö is, since we had rather a disorienting experience recently. We were actually enjoying ourselves immensely in Copenhagen when a great tornado swept down out of the Nordic sky and transported us non-stop to Sweden's third largest city.

The "Turning Torso" has become one of Malmö's signature buildings (read: BSS).

OK, OK, so we actually planned the trip to Malmö. As it turns out, H has an internet friend of hers, GS--an Australian man with whom she's played online Scrabble (watch out--it's a really weird site) for years, but had never met in person--who lives here with his lovely wife SN and adorable baby girl C. On our way back to Stockholm from Copenhagen, we joined them for GS's birthday/Easter brunch this past Sunday and had ourselves a raucous good time. Well, in all honesty we weren't all that raucous, but we did eat a lot of bacon.

H and I have rarely met a warmer group of people. And they're Swedes. So much for stereotypes.

The weather has become rainy, so we don't expect to get out much today or tomorrow. Hopefully, though, we'll be able to see at least a little of this compact city. All the natives seem to love it, and there are few better recommendations.

Nice shades!

2007-04-08T16:42:00.000-07:00

Hey, H! How many dollars did you pay for those sunnies?

How hip can you get for the mere price of one movie rental?

Damn! That lady can shop!

Classy or sassy?

2007-04-06T13:07:00.000-07:00

Seen in a Copenhagen bar:

I'll bet you 5 kroner that this Carlsberg is probably the best beer in town.

Well, I don't really have an opinion about whether Carlsberg is or isn't the best beer. But someone--and I mean someone who has money to spend--clearly isn't 100% certain on the quality of Carlsberg. I mean, in the US, every frickin' thing is "the world's best" or "Number 1" or "Unbeaten in its class" or whatever. The Danes, by contrast, are so... unassuming. (Click to enlarge...)

Jens, Ulf, Niels, and I have been talking, and we're pretty close to 70% sure that København doesn't yet have any beer superior to Carlsberg.

To be honest, I have no idea which beer is in the glass. It's the other thing in the glass which motivated me to snap this photo. Look more closely:

Honey, please stop blowing bubbles in your beer. There are enough in there already.

Who drinks beer with a straw? I mean, is this a bar or a soda fountain? We really liked this bar, so we'd like to think that it isn't the fault of the owner--it's just that the Danes prefer slurping to sipping when it comes to beer. On the other hand, it may simply be that this guy is really fond of straws. Another mystery left unsolved in Denmark.

Stopping to smell the flowers

2007-04-05T19:31:00.000-07:00

J takes a moment to appreciate the ironwork outside the European Environment Agency's offices, located in Copenhagen, Denmark.

I shall deesteell zee odeur und makes a nuw fragrahnce--und zees fragrahnce shall be called "La Nature en Fer!"

Goings on in Denmark

2007-04-04T07:04:00.000-07:00

Blogging may be a bit light for the next few days, as H and I will be traveling first to København (Copenhagen), Denmark and then to Malmö, Sweden. We're scheduled to depart early Thursday 5 April 2007 and we plan to return late Tuesday 10 April 2007. If we have time and internet access, we'll try to post a little bit, but no promises--we're not likely to have too much time, anyway. Reports on the Danish and Southern Swedes for sure when we return!

Breaking News!

2007-04-03T13:07:00.000-07:00

This has nothing to do with Swedish people and their ways, architecture, cake, or coffee. We wanted to share the news that J and I just found out that we and our team were selected as one of the five finalists in the Red Hat Challenge. The Red Hat Challenge is an innovation competition where we gave our strategic suggestions to the CEO of Red Hat, Inc., "the world's most trusted provider of Linux and open source technology." Those who know us well know that we were on the profitable end of the Innovation Challenge at the end of 2006, and we had a great time doing it. Now, we get to present our wacky idea to Red Hat's top executives. We can't wait!

Of palaces and princesses

2007-04-02T17:33:00.000-07:00

This past Sunday (1 April 2007), our friends AB and GM took H and me to visit Drottingholm Palace, the official residence of the Swedish Royal Family. One wing is open to the public as a museum, while the other continues to serve as the royal family's living quarters. (Celebrity news note: the youngest princess, Madeleine, has been entertainingly trying to ditch her reputation as the Swedish Paris Hilton; no denying she's pretty--as is her sister, Crown Princess Victoria--but I think they both seem rather too sensible to aspire to the awe-inspiring embarrassingness that is Paris Hilton. Besides, I think PH dips herself in ugly two or three times a week.) Architecturally, both the building and its French-style gardens are obviously inspired by, if not out-and-out copies of, the Chateau de Versailles.

Excuse me, you two. You're blocking my view of the palace. OK, thanks.

In perusing the museum--which contains several notable paintings and craft objects--H was most impressed by the number of portraits of women in which the content and composition both suggested that the women depicted not only held nominally but exercised practically real power. Women with architectural plans splayed before them or with scepters in their hands. I most enjoyed the ceiling frescoes in the grand stair, which contained a few really excellent examples of anamorphosis. (No photos were permitted indoors.)

We also visited the Chinese Pavilion, a collection of buildings on

the majestic grounds of Drottningholm.
King Adolf Fredrik surprised Queen Lovisa Ulrika on her birthday in 1753 with a small Chinese pleasure palace in the Drottningholm Palace park. It was a highly appreciated birthday present as chinoiserie was all the rage in Europe at the time.
The original wooden building was replaced in the 1760s by a more permanent one, which today contains one of the finest European rococo interiors with chinoiserie.

Recipe for architectural whimsy: (1) Visit China. (2) See Chinese architecture. (3) Take notes. (4) Give notes to Swedish workmen. (5) Instruct Swedish workmen to build "authentic" Chinese pavilion. (6) Enjoy.

One of the smaller buildings was apparently also used by the royal couple as a kind of dinner pavilion. The kitchen (now a café which bustles on the weekends) is in the basement, and the section of the floor upon which the dinner table sits actually moves up and down like an elevator. The king and queen were thereby able to have a full-service meal without any servants hovering about. Very clever.

Notice the dark line around the feet of the table...

We had another delightful afternoon with AB and GM, we learned a bit about Swedish history and culture, and the weather was glorious. What more can one ask of a Sunday afternoon?

There is a spring!

2007-03-30T16:50:00.000-07:00

At the distant end of the Stygian Scandinavian winter, there buds a promise of spring.

No, you're not dreaming. And I swear on my camera: no Photoshop.

We've had five straight days of blue sky, sun, and mild temps. I even saw a few Swedes actually smile at each other for no reason. Spring really is in the air.

Hunker in the bunker

2007-03-29T17:06:00.000-07:00

Cultures always vary in surprising ways. That's one of the reasons we started this blog: to track those variances in a way which both entertains and edifies. And so we've looked at transportation, security, boobs--I mean advertising, chairs, dancing meatballs, and Santa Claus. Heck, we've even looked at thermodynamics. But there's one place we haven't taken you yet, and that's to la toilette.

Now, don't worry. I just want to show you the outside of a Swedish public toilette, because it's rather a funny design. In Scandinavia (not just Sweden--we've seen this same design in Estonia, too), you design public toilettes basically by crossing a circa 1950s US-government-recommended backyard fallout shelter...

Um, excuse me. I'm trying to wait out a nuclear attack, here. Sheesh!

...with the Musée D'Orsay.

Because barrel vaults and half-moon windows obviously reflect good taste.

At the business end of our Swedish architectural sausage machine, we get this:

A tasteful place to answer nature's call during a nuclear attack.

But I really shouldn't pick too much on Sweden. After all, it's not like this is the most unusual toilette in the world or anything. (Don't take my word for it--click the link and see for yourself...) And let's face it, toilettes are pretty funny no matter how you design them.

How much would you pay for this... icon?

2007-03-28T17:49:00.000-07:00

I'd like to know, in all seriousness, what was going through the decider's mind when the decision was made to endorse this design:

Is that an honest-to-God Greek tholos at the--uh... tip?

I'd also like to know what this BSS cost. What is up with architecture today?

1st class internet travel

2007-03-27T08:43:00.000-07:00

And I don't mean booking real travel. I mean surfing the web in style.

Using Google is all well and good when you're searching for something relatively specific. If you're looking for something very specific, you run into problems. (There's a fortune to be made if you can solve them.) And if you're truly interested in browsing the quirkier corners of the web (as opposed to the ad-drenched dreck which frequents Google's top 20 hits in just about every search), you need something different. You need StumbleUpon.

Don't trip me!

I've already plugged this product, but I'm enjoying it so much that I'm plugging it again.

Official description of the product:

What is StumbleUpon?
StumbleUpon helps you discover and share great websites. As you click [the Stumble! icon], we deliver high-quality pages matched to your personal preferences. These pages have been explicitly recommended by your friends or one of 2,061,111 other websurfers with interests similar to you. Rating these sites you like automatically shares them with like-minded people – and helps you discover great sites your friends recommend.

How Does it Work?
StumbleUpon uses [up/down] ratings to form collaborative opinions on website quality. When you stumble, you will only see pages which friends and like-minded stumblers have recommended. This helps you discover great content you probably wouldn't find using a search engine.

You can take a look at my SU profile if you want to get an idea of the kind of stuff you'll stumble upon (get it?). Give it a shot, and let me know what you think in comments. I'd love to build a network of fellow stumblers...

Baltic segue

2007-03-25T02:07:00.000-07:00

As previously reported, H managed to score us a pair of free tickets to Tallin, Estonia. Not ones to miss the opportunity for nearly-free travel (one still has to pay for food and incidentals), we made our way to the docks on Saturday afternoon to board the ship. Of course, having had a bit of experience with cruises originating from Sweden, we were mildly apprehensive.

Fewer empty suitcases aimed at the onboard duty free... a good sign.

We shouldn't have worried so much. The M/S Victoria is a much better appointed and maintained vessel than the M/S Cinderella. AND they have free wifi (via satellite) in most of the public spaces--which turned out to be a godsend, since we were hard at work on our submission for the Red Hat Challenge (deadline: 23:59 EST on Sunday). So there we were, writing away, IMing with our third, Montréal-based, team member... via satellite... while afloat on the Baltic Sea. World is a crazy place, n'est-ce pas?

We arrived in Tallinn in the late morning on Sunday, equipped with only our feet, our eyes, a camera, and our debit cards. We withdrew a wee bit of cash and started exploring. Our overwhelming impression was that Tallinn--apparently representative of the Baltics in this regard--teeters a bit precariously between its history and its eagerness to make up for the Soviet years. Despite having become a tourist trap, however, the old city persists in exuding a sturdy charm.

Cobblestoned rambles, cloistered ascents, and onion domes. Hard to get more Baltic--or more charming.

The old city cultivates an enticing variety of street vibes: expansive avenues, quirky corners, daring slopes, stirring vistas, and broad plazas. Tallinn gives the feeling not exactly of hiding something, but of being a bit coy. Whispers Tallinn, "There are many things to discover within me. Things not everyone knows about. Not secrets. Just... small treasures." Unfortunately, that means that most of the big, obvious parts of Tallinn have become calloused, as must happen to all cities which rely on tourism.

Given its complex character, it's little surprise that the old city evinces little fear at having a bit of fun--even at its own expense.

Knock, knock! Who's there? Big stone pigeon. Big stone pigeon who?

Notwithstanding the old city's often delightful urbanity, its relationship with the new city just beyond its gates remains uneasy.

Barricade the gates! Man the walls! The BSSs are attacking!

In general, the aggressive mixing of the old and the new results in some of the most exciting, potentially explosive, and unpredictable cultural alloys. Although Tallinn clearly had energy to spare for growth, to our ears and eyes its enthusiasm rang somehow hollow. The spanking new mall right across the park from the old city's gates (at the foot of the BSS pictured above) adds little to the city's character or quality of life... though I suppose it almost certainly helps the municipality's commercial tax base, a virtue not to be taken lightly. Tallinn seems determined to catch up with the rest of Western Europe as quickly as possible, without really having come to terms with what's happening to their lovely city.

H and I had been thinking quite seriously about a week-long jaunt through the Baltics, but our experience in Tallinn has shaken our determination on that front. While Tallinn's old city possesses a residue of character, its new city--so forceful in both aspect and pathos--has little to speak of. Who wants to see another old city overrun by its zeal for the "future?" I've seen enough of that in North America and in the rest of Europe. I can appreciate the Estonians wanting to put the Soviet experience behind them. It's just that that I believe that there must be better ways than to rush headlong into the soulless monotony of suburbia and an urban core of concrete, glass, and cash.

Gratis tix to Tallinn

2007-03-20T06:48:00.000-07:00

As many of our faithful readers know, H is the scion of a family which boasts a long line of Scottish accountants. Which is another way of saying that H is drawn to good deals the way that hungry bunnies are drawn to lettuce. So when she received an email earlier this week, offering a free round trip to Tallinn, Estonia (aboard the Tallink Cruise Line's M/S Victoria, which turned out to be much nicer than Viking Line's M/S Cinderella) if only we would act as ticket couriers for some SSE classmates on a trip to Russia, H hesitated just long enough to ask, "J, would you be satisfied with a single day in Tallinn, so long as the cruise tickets cost us nothing?" To which I gamely replied, "Where's Tallinn?"

Have I mentioned that my mother is an outstanding travel agent?

I wish I could blame my ignorance on someone else, but really, I have no excuse. Until last week I was calling the body of water which separates Sweden and the Baltics, "the North Sea." Which makes sense only if you are either (a) a bit on the slow side when it comes to making the whole Baltic States<->Baltic Sea connection or (b) geographically hopeless. Not that I want to be in either category, but I still choose (a), since I desperately want to believe that I'm not like the schmucks in this clip.

I've watched this clip at least 10 times now, and I am stilled awed by the... Good God! Are these people aware of what they're saying?! (Don't answer that.)

UPDATE (22 March 2007): We're confirmed for our free cruise to Tallinn! Details on our Baltic adventure to follow! Stay tuned!

Another design committee WTF

2007-03-18T17:26:00.000-07:00

Maybe it's nothing more nefarious than the pernicious influence of Frank Gehry, Daniel Libeskind, and their ilk, but it sure seems like a lot of iconic architectural projects--or at least, what people clearly intend to be iconic architectural projects--are alike principally in that they share the following three characteristics:

Shiny

Silly

BSS, for short. Perhaps driven to live up to its growing reputation as a global city, Barcelona advances its candidate for biggest, shiniest, silliest building: the Agbar Tower.

Sometimes a big shiny tower is just a big shiny tower.

They aren't sitting on their laurels with Gaudí. I guess you've got to roll B-S-S if you wanna' be like us...

It's St. Patrick's Day every day in Stockholm

2007-03-17T15:53:00.000-07:00

Most of us run around with a great deal of incorrect information sloshing around in our memories. That's why it's so wonderful when a private company makes an effort to correct common misconceptions. For example, I'm betting that most our dear readers have heard of the famous explorer, Marco Polo. You probably learned--you may even have read--that Marco Polo grew up in and, in his travels, acted as a representative of, Venezia (Venice). That would mean, obviously, that Mr. Polo was a Venetian. But we've been deceived!

Now, as we all know, everyone is Irish on St. Patrick's Day. Well, Irish enough to drink green beer and dress up as leprechauns. Which is Irish enough for pretty much everyone except the Irish themselves, so it pretty much works out.

In researching this whole Marco-Polo-wasn't-Venetian thesis, I searched the internet for rules regarding the rule about everyone being Irish on St. Patrick's Day, and the most unexpected thing I learned is that

"even leprechauns need colonoscopies."

Good to know. Well, good to know if you're a leprechaun with a family history of colon cancer. Which puts most of us squarely in the didn't-need-to-know-that category.

Since I couldn't find any exceptions, I am forced to conclude that Marco Polo was indeed Irish on at least one day per year. Whether he made mention of it--or indeed, whether he knew it at all--is beside the point. What's not beside the point is that we all know that you can't start a whole line of clothing stores working only one day per year on it. Ergo, Marco Polo was, in fact, Marc O'Polo.

Aye know yer tinkin' dat Aye'm Venetian, but really Aye'm eye-rrish--'n' so arr me clothes.

I've got a big, fat O-apostrophe to give first person who can prove that, in one of those grand, Christopher-Columbus-style miscalculations which seem to turn up in history all too often, Mr. Polo ended up Ireland, but simply reported that he had been to China. Who wants to be the very first O'al-Mubarak or O'Rousseau or O'Goldstein?

Sex in the City: Part Deux

2007-03-16T13:57:00.000-07:00

Babies and their strollers abound in Stockholm. At first, I thought I might just be hyper-sensitive to them because J's Law of Swedish Entropy often applies to pedestrians on Swedish sidewalks. Then, I wondered if I might be sensitive because my friends are having adorable children like it's going out of style. But then, my friends started talking about it. Women with strollers, men with strollers, a veritable stroller parking lot just next to one of our favorite cafes... And we're not just talking about any stroller here--most of them are the BMW of strollers.

What gives? The name of a shop in Barcelona seemed to hold the explanation.

No, no, Moms, we don't have any good news for you... I'm just hamming it up for the camera.

Oh, ooookay--SJP and her cronies have moved onto their next phase of life and given into their maternal cravings. Don't you love it when one of life's little mysteries is solved, particularly during an afternoon of retail therapy?

If you like theme parks

2007-03-16T03:24:00.000-07:00

You should probably think twice about opening a theme park in Barcelona, no matter how much you like them. The Barcelonans have a message for all would-be theme park entrepreneurs, and the message has been posted.

I know you tink Euro Disney... but really, you're noro Disney.

Fun in the sun

2007-03-15T17:41:00.000-07:00

Although I've been to Barcelona before, it was a long time ago--nearly a decade. I had forgotten how sunny it is. And clear-skied. And bright. Especially during the long hours during which the sun is out.

So for our first day, H decided that all she really wanted was to dip her toe in the Mediterranean ~~ocean~~ Sea (Thanks, ML; one of the dangers of posting at 3AM...). Enchanted as we were with the city--and it is positively a city to fall in love with--we simply decided to head toward the water using the biggest and easiest route possible, which of course means Las Ramblas. Now, in addition to being the "heart and soul" of Barcelona, Las Ramblas is one of the pickpocket capitals of the universe. But that didn't deter us. After all, H may well be a kind soul, but she can look pretty darn intimidating when she wants to.

At close to 2m, H almost literally wades through the crowd of sketchy pet vendors, mildly talented buskers, and jittery tourists.

Now, Barcelona has several beaches, but we didn't make it to them. Once we saw the water, set against the liquid Mediterranean sky, we just walked over, sat down, and sighed.

Um, H... you've got something on your face. No, a little more to your left. Oh. It's just sunlight. No wonder I didn't recognize it.

Drunk on vitamin D, we stumbled home and fell into a vaguely euphoric doze, waiting for the legendary Barcelona night to begin.

This building has a nickname

2007-03-13T16:23:00.000-07:00

Our apologies for the lack of steady posting recently. H has been finishing up her final papers/ exams, and I've been working on several projects--all of which seem to have had deadlines this week. Not to mention the fact that we leave for Barcelona (yay!) at 3:20 AM this morning (nay...). It's been a rough week.

So anyways, H and I visited Sweden's second largest city, Göteborg (pronounced something like, "Yuh-tuh-borrg"), the first weekend in March. We absolutely loved it, and we'll have more material forthcoming about the trip. Before rushing off to the Mediterranean, though, I wanted to get at least something up about it.

Among all of Göteborg's iconic buildings--and the city boasts quite a number of them--there's one which has one of the best nicknames for any building of which I've heard.

It's the... um... wait a minute. The, uh... "Redroof Dalek" building?

No, dah-link. It's not the "Redroof Dalek" building. Nor is it the "Edna Mode" building. But those are good guesses.

What if H and her rosebud lips help us with a little... context (as it were)?

Yup. It's the "läppstift" building.

Just one question. So at what point, when the design committee was looking at the concept drawings for this project, did someone not say, "I don't care what you say, Jurgen. It still looks lipstick to me?"

UPDATE (2 April 2007): We've pretty much finished our posting about Göteborg. Check in the archives for posts in the 1-7 March 2007 range.

Germans and their sausages

2007-03-12T17:05:00.000-07:00

Some of our German-speaking dormmates got together on Sunday and cooked us all a warm, German meal of sausage. With a side of sausage. And a bit of sausage to wash it down.

Hey! Who's the funny guy who put bread on my plate?

OK, OK. We did have beer, too. But who can complain? It was delicious, and there was more than enough to go around. Therefore: a great success!

Why "Truffle Warren?"

2007-03-10T17:47:00.000-08:00

Some of our dearest readers have asked us, quite understandably I think, "Of all the possible combinations of words out there, why in particular did you choose to entitle your blog, The Truffle Warren?" An excellent question, to which we have decided to reply by way of a coquettish smirk and the mildly infuriating answer: "Guess!"

Blog authors can't divulge all of their secrets--or at least, not right away...

Fika-ing all over Sweden

2007-03-08T09:59:00.000-08:00

Faithful readers will recall that my first-ever blog post was devoted to admiring the Swedish tradition of fika. Since then, J's love of words led him to discover that fika is just the syllables for ca-fé inverted. Ca-fé becomes fi-ka! (Apparently it was fashionable in the 19th century to reverse the order of syllables in to create slang words--contemporary French actually has its own version of this kind of slang, called verlan.)

We've done quite a bit of fika-ing since then, in all parts of Stockholm and even on both coasts of Sweden. If you scroll down to the right, you'll see a little link to our Flikr site--just click on the photo badge to access it--with photos of us fika-ing here, there, and everywhere. Each photo includes a caption noting the location of that particular fika along with a bit of J's pithy prose.

We'll keep updating it, so check back for photos of me, J, and a variety of tasty baked goods. If you want to have some real fun, we've also linked directly to the official H&J fika slideshow.

The hearths of Stockholm

2007-03-07T07:09:00.000-08:00

Stockholmians, who are probably representative of the Swedish population in general in this respect, have a special relationship with fire. Urban Swedes (H and I haven't spent much time in the countryside, so we can't really say) use fire to signal welcome to passersby. Sconces for large, outdoor candles appear everywhere in the city.

Doesn't work quite as well as salt for deicing the sidewalk.

One finds such devices everywhere in Stockholm, especially in and right outside of restaurants, cafes, bars, clubs, and other nightlife spots.

Even the quirky cowboy bars use fire to say, "Hej!"

Of course, "nightlife" becomes a rather ironic term in the subarctic heart of a Swedish winter, since December and January witness the transformation of most Stockholmian life into nightlife. After all, during the deep winter, all the day's light becomes concentrated into a mere five hours.

While five hours of sun isn't quite as intense an experience as the true polar night one gets in, say, Kiruna, it still manages to mess with your circadian rhythms. And in Kiruna, naturally, one finds that the Swedish fascination with fire intensifies. Of course, in a city as large as Stockholm, there's always someone willing to take a charming custom too far (this outdoor structure consists of nothing but heat lamps and canvas).

Ever wonder what fast food feels like while waiting for you to show up?

The outdoor sconces are one of the most visible--because nearly ubiquitous--symptoms of the Swede's pyrophilia, but it also shows up in other ways. You can count on finding candles, for example, on every table of every cafe, bar, restaurant, nightclub, etc. in which you find yourself.

It can be a bit like having a sappy-song-rock-concert moment at every café.

Most home furnishing stores in Stockholm sell a surprisingly wide variety of tea-light sconces, ranging in style from classic to hip to... miscellaneous.

Flat-headed maidens, pinup girls, and Sikhs--there are evidently few limits when it comes to stylin' candle holders.

Additionally, I never really noticed it before, but I now agree with H that one way that mega-retailer Ikea stays in touch with its roots is to keep a special place in its heart for candles and candle-related gewgaws.

Students of architectural theory will recognize in Swedes' conflation of fire and welcome an oblique link to the history of architecture. Marcus Vitruvius Pollio (ca. 80/70 BC - ca. 25 BC), known colloquially as Vitruvius, wrote what scholars believe to be the ~~first~~ earliest extant (thanks to AM for correcting me) treatise specifically treating of architecture--his so-called Ten Books on Architecture. In the first two paragraphs of Book II, Chapter 1 of his Ten Books, Vitruvius offers a mythological account of the origin of architecture (thanks to LC for the reference). I've added some emphasis to draw attention to the salient points:

THE men of old were born like the wild beasts, in woods, caves, and groves, and lived on savage fare. As time went on, the thickly crowded trees in a certain place, tossed by storms and winds, and rubbing their branches against one another, caught fire, and so the inhabitants of the place were put to flight, being terrified by the furious flame. After it subsided, they drew near, and observing that they were very comfortable standing before the warm fire, they put on logs and, while thus keeping it alive, brought up other people to it, showing them by signs how much comfort they got from it. In that gathering of men, at a time when utterance of sound was purely individual, from daily habits they fixed upon articulate words just as these had happened to come; then, from indicating by name things in common use, the result was that in this chance way they began to talk, and thus originated conversation with one another.

Therefore it was the discovery of fire that originally gave rise to the coming together of men, to the deliberative assembly, and to social intercourse. And so, as they kept coming together in greater numbers into one place, finding themselves naturally gifted beyond the other animals in not being obliged to walk with faces to the ground, but upright and gazing upon the splendour of the starry firmament, and also in being able to do with ease whatever they chose with their hands and fingers, they began in that first assembly to construct shelters. Some made them of green boughs, others dug caves on mountain sides, and some, in imitation of the nests of swallows and the way they built, made places of refuge out of mud and twigs. Next, by observing the shelters of others and adding new details to their own inceptions, they constructed better and better kinds of huts as time went on.

According to Vitruvius, fire--and more specifically, the hearth--lies at the origin not only of language and political discourse, but also architecture. Humans do not build, on this account, by themselves, but as groups, as communities. Architecture is not an art in the sense that painting or music are, but is rather the original complement of conversation. Humans converse and they build--and this is what defines them as human. And at the heart of the original human community is... fire.

While the Stockholmian sconces are certainly fun, there's also something profound about them. Virtuvius's myth suggests that the human fascination with fire derives not from our animal nature, but rather from that part of our nature related to our political (in the sense of social) and linguistic capacities.

If I don't move, no one will notice me among these lion sconces.

Persevering through the long nights of the Swedish winter requires of people that they exert themselves in being sociable. The entire city relies upon its warmth of heart, as well as its central heating, to survive the winter. The outdoor sconces promise hearths--which is to say, friends and conversation--within, and the table candles are little hearths, around which friends gather and conversation happens. While all cities are in some sense nothing more than oversized hearths, Stockholm celebrates this derivation brightly and openly. It's one of those revealing instances where a seemingly local custom reveals a universal human condition.

Waiter, bring me your finest herring!

2007-03-06T17:33:00.000-08:00

While J does a wonderful job of praising my travel planning, I also think he does a great job of humoring my sometimes overly-effervescent enthusiasm. While planning our trip to Gothenburg, I focussed J's attention on the culinary delights to be found in this fine city. He looked at the link and said "looks good," so I further focussed our attention on Fiskekrogen for their generous lunch buffet.

Paying homage to their sea-faring roots, Fiskekrogen does herring 6 ways, many salmons, and all things tasty.

We serendipitously arrived there (I thought I was leading us toward another recommended resto), fresh from the train station and backpack in tow, to enjoy a late lunch. Thank goodness for coat check, which allowed us to toss off our travel packs and step into the dining room unencumbered.

Schnazzy place... too bad they have a thing for chandelier asphyxiation.

Always looking for a bargain, the lunch special with a main dish was only a few crowns more than the buffet alone, so we both opted to enjoy the chef's suggested main course.

This is tasty, but I'd rather be eating the cod balls from the buffet!

We both discovered that we quite like herring in its many forms - my favorite is herring in a creamy garlic sauce, while J's favorite is flavored with a sweet vinegar dressing. In order to ensure that our love extended to all of these tasty little fish, and not just those prepared in fancy restaurants, we ventured a couple of days later to the legendary Feskekörke (translation: the fish church).

I hope these photos have pre-empted your question, "Why is it called the Fish Church?"

Several tasty morsels called out to us--especially the one on the right, which said, "Come to Pappa..."

After roaming up and down past the vendors, we chose one and purchased all sorts of herring and crayfish (oh, don't forget those succulent little crustaceans which were shelled and soaked in a delicious flavored oil). The sun was shining on us that day (literally), so we proceeded immediately to the park bench outdoors to soak in some Vitamin D. J thought things might get messy when I tussled with the herring containers for a bit...

Little herring, little herring, let me IN!

... but we eventually found our way in and enjoyed a delightful lunch along Göteborg's canal. I know that the French are famous for their sauces, but let me tell you, these Swedes certainly know how to dress their herring.

Hilltops and water routes

2007-03-06T17:25:00.000-08:00

H and I don't travel the way most of our peers do. Because H boasts mad skillz as an amateur travel planner, we only occasionly end up going where the guides (be they paper or virtual) recommend. Usually, H finds one or two things for us to see or do, often based on advice from friends and/or family, and we then leave ourselves the rest of our time to roam the streets, poke around in shops and cafés, and in general grok the vibe of the city.

Göteborg has much to grok. It was founded in 1621 by King Gustavus Adolphus (Gustaf II Adolf), who hired a bunch of Dutch engineers and builders to come to Sweden, drain some marshlands, dig some canals, and construct fortifications. The city... but why am I telling you this here? This is the internet; you can go and read the Wikipedia article if you want more info.

Where I was going with my little historical rundown was to note that Göteborg has some intriguing buildings and a very particular urban shape, texture, and structure. One of the most peculiar buildings is the Skansen Kronan, an octagonal fort overlooking the entire city. We discovered to our astonishment you can host your wedding reception at the SK, but only if you enjoy hanging out with canons while you nosh on cocktail wieners.

Enjoy our reception! Enjoy the view! Enjoy our celebratory bombardment of the harbor!

But the view is extraordinary--even given the furtive clouds which dogged our visit.

H demonstrates the ancient Scandinavian ritual of "pumping it up"; while J drinks in the prospect of west coast fika.

In addition to its fortifications, Göteborg also enjoys the blessings of Dutch engineering for its wonderful canals. I've heard Stockholm referred to as the "Venice of the north," a cognomen which is apparently a point of some international controversy, since Amsterdam and St. Petersburg also lay claim to the moniker. For Stockholm, the Venice comparison derives not from its canals, of which it has comparatively few, but from its archipelago geography. Göteborg, in addition to being quite a smaller city, showcases the canals it does have (and it has kilometers of them) quite prominently. (An interesting footnote: Sweden has a larger canal--the Göta Canal--which connects the east and west coasts. Not quite Stockholm to Göteborg, but close. These days you can cruise the Göta, if you so desire.)

There is no magic like water magic when it comes to creating wonder in cities.

H and I found Göteborg big enough to be quirky, small enough to be friendly, and delightfully open. While we're lucky enough not to have to make a choice, all other things being equal, I think we'd chose Göteborg over Stockholm for either visiting or living. Can't recommend it highly enough.

Can I get off now?

2007-03-05T16:46:00.000-08:00

I don't know about you, but if this train pulled up at my stop, I'd think twice about getting on.

I think you have to ask yourself, "Do I really want to go there?"

Must be difficult on uninitiated visitors:

"So, where you headed?"

"Angered."

"Whoa! Slow down there! I'm just tryin' to help!"

Also, it's probably a moot question, since the train has already stopped at Irked and Upset, but I'd still like to know where this line originates. Irritable? Dyspeptic?

Niche market

2007-03-04T17:33:00.000-08:00

A segment of the Göteborg market has been completely captured by one cake designer. Clearly, everyone living on planet Earth, even aliens (they live among us?) want wedding cakes. And following that, sometimes, you have a perfect occasion for a cake to show you and your family riding in your very own spacemobile. And J and I now know just the place to go to get the alien cake of your dreams. It's just down the street from the Trailer Trash store...

Yes, those are pointy ears, slanted eyes, and little naked alien bodies that you see. If they do live among us, they should at least put some clothes on!

Walkup or workout?

2007-03-04T03:34:00.000-08:00

It surprises many to hear it, but Paris is more than 5 times as dense as Boston. This has mostly to do with the fact that Paris is almost uniformly 3-5 stories high over its entire area, while Boston, by contrast, has some pretty amazing skyscrapers, but plenty of low-density residential areas as well. Why only 3-5 stories in Paris, you ask? Because most of contemporary Paris was built before the elevator, and 4 flights of stairs is pretty much the upper limit for a walkup. (The world's first real skyscraper, designed by Louis Sullivan and built in 1891, still stands in St. Louis, MO, USA.) Housing in high-density urban areas--in the 20th century at least--has therefore tended toward either 3-5 stories walkups (upper limit for trudging up flights of stairs) or Corbusian towers (equipped with elevators).

Interestingly Göteborg's housing comprises buildings which, though built around the turn of the 19th century, are neither towers nor 3-5 stories tall. Instead, they're 5-7 stories.

I'd hate to have a stairmaster competition with someone who lives in the penthouse in one of those buildings.

The housing is beautiful, and it's given Göteborg the opportunity to have much wider avenues than I would have expected from a city its age. Despite the wide avenues, which are wonderfully roomy, the city isn't terribly car friendly. Take, for example, the Kungsportsavenyn (the most famous street in Sweden, generally shorted to just Avenyn--the Avenue):

Eat your heart out, Champs d'Elysées.

In the US, this street would be 8 lanes of traffic with 3-foot sidewalks on either side. Just past the first turn here, the Avenyn, though it remains just as broad, has just 2 lanes of car traffic. The whole mood and texture of the city is like that: fine-grained old world charm and roomy, new world. Of all the cities I've visited, Montréal probably comes closest, but even it falls short of Göteborg's magic new-old balance. Definitely a winner.

A name you can trust

2007-03-03T16:52:00.000-08:00

I don't know if Swedish lawyers set the curve when it comes to character. To be completely honest, I don't even know if Sweden has lawyers. (Apparently, I had better learn how to use Google, because whoever's adding the links to this post clearly has it in for me.) I do know, however, that Sweden--Göteborg, to be exact--has some likely candidates for the "World's Most Unlikely Name for a Law Firm" contest.

Does anyone else smell desperation?

Of course, you could always name your firm something a bit less... righteous.

No. I don't believe you. There's absolutely no way that's a real law firm.

OK, I admit it. This window does not belong to a real law firm. But it is a real window--overlooking Harvard Square, no less. And it is a real firm--just not a law firm. In fact, it just so happens to belong to two of the U.S.'s most beloved radio personalities. Scout's honor.

Identity crisis

2007-03-03T08:21:00.000-08:00

While in general the Göteborgeois are warmer and more demonstrative than their Stockholmian cousins, H and I did find some evidence of an incipient identity crisis in our favorite Swedish city.

For reasons which appear obvious upon reflection, the Swedes evince no fear of tornadoes.

I'm not sure who shops here. I'm not sure who's supposed to shop here. I'm not even sure that this place really is a shop. All I know is that when urban hipsters ape rural rednecks, someone needs to call the fashion police, and damn quick, too.

Which way did he go?

2007-03-02T14:42:00.000-08:00

Not that Göteborg is that big or anything, but we were wandering through the university grounds rather aimlessly, when we came upon a sign.

Overheard in the dean's office: "Now that the new sign is set up, campus maps will no longer be necessary."

Needless to say, we were impressed with the... exhaustiveness of the information provided. But we were also somewhat at a loss as to how to use our new resource. I mean, many of the little arrows point at buildings in the vicinity, but seem to indicate a distance beyond the building immediately visible. And while one of the arrows indicates the left side of a street which gives onto the intersection where the sign is located, another arrow indicates the right side. Or maybe it's just trying to say that "education" (pedagogen) is over that way. It's all a bit... confused.

I think it's over there, on the left. No, no. Your other left.

Why the Swedes are bad at basketball

2007-03-02T07:47:00.000-08:00

The Swedes have a reputation for being among the tallest people in the world, but it hasn't done much for their men's Olympic basketball performance. (They last qualified in 1980--and even then, they didn't do so well). While the basketball woes of Swedish men certainly stem from the confluence of a variety of factors, I believe I've discovered evidence in Göteborg which reveals the fundamental defect in the Swedish basketball training program.

Beach volleyball, yes. Beach basketball, not so much.

Ever try to dribble a basketball on sand? Me neither. Pretty much explains it, I think.

Who's Bad?

2007-02-28T07:18:00.000-08:00

It's a great thing speaking a language which uses an alphabet used by some 42 other distinct languages. Lots of room for unexpected, and often entertaining, mixups.

Wait a minute. Which door should you use if you've been good?

One thousand Rhode Islands

2007-02-27T15:51:00.000-08:00

And here we thought that the State of Rhode Island was being euphemistic--quaint, even--in calling itself an island. But it turns out that the whole island thing is true (sort of). In any case, H and I discovered that the thousand islands (of salad dressing fame) and Rhode Island have a little competition going on that most of us in North America have been blissfully unaware of...

Poor, poor, confused Swedes. Providence is a place--not something that happens to your salad.

Incidentally, that is indeed the real recipe for Swedish Rhodeisland dressing. The guy behind the counter at the cafe where we saw this pot was positively adamant that I write down the ingredients. Not that they're weird or anything--the ingredients, I mean.

In any case, I did my best to doll up the recipe card a bit, but let's face it, my recipe cards have nothing on the real deal. (You absolutely must click that link. When H and I first found that site we laughed so hard our abs hurt for two days. Humor as workout.) Weight Watchers has evidently evidently been the reigning champion of bizzaro diet plans for decades, though North Beach is definitely giving them a run for their money.

Time-travel updates

2007-02-24T14:42:00.000-08:00

J has been writing a lot of pre-dated material recently, since we want this blog to serve not only as an entertaining update for our readers, but as a record of our adventures for ourselves. We therefore attempt to date our posts not according to when we write them, but according to when the subject matter happened. For much of our material, of course, it doesn't much matter, but for some it does.

So you don't miss a single exciting word, we've prepared a little summary of the pre-dated material that J's been working on. Organized in chronological order:

(1) During January, J attended the wedding of a college roommate in Long Beach, CA. There, he amused himself photographing the real bearded Santas who had gathered for a convention.

(2) You may remember that upon his arrival, J bestowed upon Sweden a prestigious award for the Most Apt Method for Dispensing Soap--a method perhaps better known as "soap dispenser as teat." We now have a photo of this breakthrough Swedish soap delivery system.

(3) During the first weekend in February, H & J went on an overnight Swedish booze cruise. Surreal? If you have to ask, you obviously haven't read about what happened to us.

(4) On Valentine's Day, H & J attended a dinner at the Stockholm Stadshuset (City Hall), hosted by the Mayor of Stockholm. We learned more than we expected about the state of the art in Swedish livestock management.

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