Entries from April 2009

2009

A night on the Cape of Good Hope

It would seem the southern tip of Africa has two faces, one purely geographic and the other popularly romantic. Technically, the actual southernmost point is located some 200 km to the southeast of Cape Town and called Cape Agulhas. An extension of Africa’s gigantic landmass, that cape is wide and rather boring looking - on a map at least since I haven’t been there.

But if like me, you are a dreamer and cherish fractured memories of the adventures of Tintin et les cigares du Pharaon or those stories of the Flying Dutchman, you’ll ignore
the previous coldly geographical truth and let yourself believe that in fact, the more famous Cape of Good Hope is as far south as one can venture in Africa without dropping off into the ocean.

Hanging from the bottom of the Cape Peninsula, the Cape of Good Hope is much sexier than Cape Agulhas. Slender or even narrow, cliffy, dominated by a white lighthouse, inhabited by herds of antelopes and part of the Table Mountain National Park, the Cape is so close to Cape Town it can easily be visited in a half-day excursion. It isn’t truly the southern tip of the continent and if one could see that far, the landmass of Cape Agulhas would loom in the distance to the east and the south but since it’s out of sight, it’s also out of mind.

The biodiversity on the Cape Peninsula is extraordinary, so much so that the Cape Floral Kingdom - one of six kingdoms worldwide to define geographical flower arrangements, so to speak - is the smallest but richest of all six. One big flower bouquet at the foot of Africa.

Table Mountain National Park is a very popular tourist destination, as one could imagine, and even away from Table Mountain, the road going through the southern part towards Cape Point and the Cape of Good Hope is a rather busy artery winding through a large plateau covered with fynbos and inhabited by baboons, ostriches, bokkies and mountain zebras.

Much less visited and almost forgotten by even the locals, however, is the road that branches off to the west and leads to Olifantsbos. All the way at the end of that road, away from the crowds and buses, a small sandy beach is home to a few families of baboons. And even further, beyond a locked gate and around a corner that makes it invisible to the civilized world, hides a wonderful cottage rented out nightly as self catering unit by the park administration.

This is where Marie’s parents had very kindly decided to take us for our last outing in South Africa. The following night would be our last in Constantia and then we were flying back home to North America. The four of us drove there in a howling southeaster that left Henri very worried about his early morning bike ride. He was bringing his bicycle in the back of the Kombi hoping to get a training ride done in preparation for the March 100 km Argus bicycle race which, at 75, he still rides every year.

We picked up the cottage keys at the Park Headquarters on the main road and backtracked to the junction that marks the entrance to peace, quiet and magic. From there the nicely paved road stretches for kilometers in a straight, slightly descending line to a deep blue ocean. There are sometimes herds of ostriches and bokkies - bonteboks, elands, and hartebees - grazing on each side. The road then curves left and south, reaching the final parking lot next to a beautiful cove where we had a picnic last year. But we now had the key to a padlock guarding the gate to further privacy, a gate we left open for Marijke joining us later.

Waves were still crashing madly a few dozen meters away and the walk of a few braves along the beach turned into a challenge, sand flying horizontally and hitting one’s face with the loving softness of coarse sandpaper.

The cottage soon appeared, nested between a huge outcropping of limestone rising right behind it and the ocean, dark, foamy and insanely agitated by the gale force wind. We took possession of our new domain with pleasure and relief, careful not to let the doors slam. The interior was very nicely done and our room perfectly cozy. There was a smell, though, that instantly reminded Marie and me of our first trip to the area where a seal had been decomposing on the beach. It turned out to be a poor lizard that had managed to get squashed between the sliding window and its frame. The dead lizard removed, everything was peachy.

The wind was abating slowly and Marijke having finally arrived, we went for a walk up on the hill. Our map mentioned a WW2 submarine watch station which I wanted to investigate. On our way up, we found strangely shattered pieces of turtle shell on the path. Our only explanation was for birds of prey to have broken them by dropping them from up high. Who knows?

The fynbos here was as nice as everywhere else and the girls soon got distracted. I left them behind momentarily to visit the watch station on the edge of the cliff and when I came back just a few minutes later, they had disappeared. Trying hard to suppress childhood memories of a spooky movie I’d seen about kids vanishing on an excursion around Ayers Rock, I looked for them for quite a while. Then I decided to head back down, following footprints I’d recognized on the semi-sandy footpath. The darlings were already back at the cottage, having decided I was nowhere in sight and could take care of myself. Women! I made a mental note to brief Marie better for our Everest attempt next year. Or the following.

Dinner prep was launched. I’ve forgotten what else we ate because there were boerwoers and those alone require my full attention. The gale weakened during the night and when I woke up bright and early to go on a run, the sun was shining merrily and turning the day into a complete opposite of what the previous had been. Henri had already left on his bike ride.

I put my running shoes on and decided to carry the G10 along, hoping for some game to be around that early. The heat took me by surprise. Not a whisper of wind and already, no later than 7:00 or 8:00 am, I was sweating profusely. I ran slowly and took pictures here and there. I had been right about the game, they were everywhere! I saw a huge herd of elands in the distance, losing my count over 40. Bokkies were crossing the road ahead of me, transiting to the beach. They never let me get very close, obviously much more wary of a runner than a car. I must have looked like a fearsome cheetah.

I could not have ran more than 4 km before I had to turn back with a side ache. I generally do well if I pick up a steady pace and don’t ever stop but taking pictures and getting excited every time I spotted an animal was quite exhausting. Still, what a wonderful, exhilarating run. 8km in the middle of nowhere, or rather the middle of the Cape of Good Hope, completely alone with the wildlife, with no other humans around for miles apart for the sleepy loved ones I’d left at the cottage - it was heaven. The air smelled of ocean spray and flowers were everywhere. Ostriches could have raced me and won, but my ego didn’t suffer. They are, after all, the fastest running birds on Earth.

Breakfast soon followed my return, then a walk on the transformed beach. Turquoise water, calm oily surface, white sand and the cry of seabirds. It was perfect. We all reflected on how extraordinary it had been to see both weather faces of the place, in such a short interval.

At last, we had to vacate the cottage. We drove all the way down the tourist lane to the actual Cape and its lighthouse and had lunch in a restaurant overlooking the bay, far above the water. The weather was pristine, so was the ocean. Lobster fishing boats crawled way down on the scintillating surface. The world appeared endless and immensely magical. We were standing on the Cape of Good Hope. There was, in the end and at the end, a lot of it. Hope, that is.

Posted at 12:54 AM in Always: & On the road: & South Africa: 2 Comments » Toggle display • Reply

2009

New York-Montreal on a tow truck

Storytelling, as anybody who’s ever attempted it knows so well, is much like painting your house - a matter of love and hate. A painful task if I ever knew one, long hours of applying multiple layers, each producing a new and often unexpected effect and many, many rough patches that seem to defy the paintbrush. And later, when it has all dried up, you realize you’ve missed critical spots and have to start all over again or live with it forever.

Then there’s the challenge of memory and time. While the latter passes, stories evolve in our minds like as many flowers in bloom but the former soon fails to recall details and eventually, the flowers change color and threaten to die. To prevent this, we add and embellish and improvise.

But a story is often just that, a story. It’s doesn’t necessarily have to be a precise biographical account nor does it always seek to record sacred historical facts. It might be a pure invention as much as it could be based on actual events, I don’t think it matters. What does, in the end, is the style.

So although the story I’m about to tell actually happened, that was many, many years in a long gone past and I am aware that the fine details must have eroded or shifted in my head. Take no offense. Since this was all over long ago, the only realities that remain today are those that exist in the mind of everyone involved. I wish I could tap into the others’. Here’s mine...

"Once upon a time, when I still lived in Montreal, I got a call from Pascal. He was a friend from my sister’s diving circle who worked part-time for a towing company, helping to recover submerged vehicles. He told me he was going down to New York to pick-up and tow back a smashed mini-van and wanted some company - slash help - for the road.

This was on a Friday. We’d be leaving the next morning. I was getting on a plane to a Club Med diving assignment the following Monday early. The drive down to New York took roughly 8 hours, we could get there and back in a long day. I said yes.

We left in the middle of the night to arrive in Queens before noon. The drive down was uneventful; we talked about diving, traffic was light, the tow truck relatively comfortable. In Queens, Pascal had gotten decent directions and we managed to find our address. It was all sorted out quickly and we hooked up the min-van, lifting up the front wheels with the hydraulic arm, and got under way towards Quebec at a slower pace.

No sooner had we joined the highway, though, than the truck’s engine began acting up. If I remember well, it was overheating. We eventually had to pull over to the side, which is a grave offense on US highways, passable of a $650,000 fine, 45 years imprisonment, or both. Pascal was much more mechanically savvy then me back then and he popped the hood open to deal with our issue. To this day, I carry this vivid vision of him perched on the bumper and leaning under the hood, armed with a heavy hammer, his arm swinging up and down at the poor broken engine in a deafening clash of metal against metal.

His hot fix was not working. A highway patrol cruiser stopped by to see what the trouble was and it was explained we could not stay there, or else. We agreed. Managing to get the engine started, we barely made it to the next exit and it died for good. I seem to remember that a belt had gone.

It was then that genius struck. The mini-van we were towing had had a front end collision, but it was a rear-wheel drive and the engine was intact. The van still hooked up, we would use the two remaining wheels to push the tow truck to a garage. Pascal jumped in the truck to steer and I sat behind in the van, turned the engine on, shifted to Drive, and did the only bit of driving I’ve ever done without having to touch the wheel. I’d watch his tail lights and break when he was. Then he’d give me a thumbs up and we’d accelerate slowly.

Of course, the tow truck was 2 or 3 times heavier than the mini-van, and soon my engine began overheating too. Our bad luck was escalating and we were getting desperate, headed away from the highway on a very small road towards a hypothetical garage on a Sunday. But against all odds we found the place open and I stopped us in front of the gas pump so that Pascal could go inquire about the possibility of a mechanic being on site. While he was out, the van’s engine stalled and would not restart. Pascal came back; there wasn’t a mechanic here, we’d have to drive down to the dealer some 10 miles down the road.

The owner was getting very annoyed to have us blocking two of his pumps. He wanted us gone. Out of desperation, I cranked the starter once more and the engine finally - if reluctantly - came to life. I pushed us forward and unto our next leg. Within a few kilometers, the poor van was overheating again and we had to stop to let it cool off.

We were now in the countryside and pulled up at a small rest area next to an isolated little lake. Only one car was parked there and a couple were standing next to it, peering at the lake through binoculars. They looked at us with perplexed eyes when they realized the car was pushing the tow truck but got back to their watch.

Following their gaze, I noticed a small row-boat on the far end of the lake with a silhouette in it leaning overboard. A closer look then revealed another shape in the water next to the boat, bobbling up and down in an occasional splash of water and arm movements. It looked rather strange and we went over to the people with the binoculars to inquire.

To our shocked surprise, it turned out the person in the water was trying very hard - but unsuccessfully - to drown. The boat’s occupant was attempting a rescue and coaxing the suicidal swimmer back on the boat, unsuccessfully too. The swimmer was probably naturally buoyant and his attempts were comically impeded by Archimede’s principle. He would submerge himself for a few seconds but then pop up again out of control, his legs and arms wildly trashing around as he tried to pull himself underwater. He’d then stop for a while, exhausted, and later try again. It was all completely surreal; Pascal and I looked at each other in disbelief.

Could we help? we asked. No, they said, someone had already gone for help. (In those days, cell phones had not yet become an epidemic. I’m not actually sure they were even invented.) We nodded and decided to move on. Time was passing and the day was shrinking fast.

The mini-van had recovered and accepted to start again. We made it to the dealership. They were still open and luckily had the part we needed in stock. It was bought and installed in no time and we got back on the road again, keeping a careful eye on the tow truck’s gauges.

Back then, driving through Us-Canada customs was easy as pie and a driver’s license might not even had been needed. Arriving in Montreal late at night, I got a few hours of sleep and got up again to fly off to the Caribbean. Those were the sunny, salty, shinny years. But that’s another story.

Nowadays, New York has become very dear to me. It’s still 8 hours away - cheap direct flights are rather rare. And when I get there, I always wish I could stay. Some day I will."

Posted at 4:26 PM in ICMOL: 6 Comments » Toggle display • Reply

1 - Marie says:

« That’s such a funny story. Can’t help laughing...

x »
Date of comment: 2009-04-29 22:48 • Reply
1.1 - Vince answers:

« You’re very kind to laugh, you’d heard it before... »
Date of comment: 2009-04-29 23:45 • Reply
2 - dinahmow says:

« It could be from a Jacques Tati film. I’m emailing the link to a writing friend. »
Date of comment: 2009-04-29 23:31 • Reply
2.1 - Vince answers:

« Woah! I am totally impressed. Tati is to me what Presley was to many Americans (No, not dead! The King. )

But really, Mr. Hulot would have frowned at the lake incident, tapped his pipe on his shoe to empty it and forgotten about it all instantly. Not one to be too affected by drama, he was... Oh and I can imagine him scratching his head, slightly bent forward, his pants barely reaching his socks high above the ankles, looking at the tow truck pushed by the smaller car... »
Date of comment: 2009-04-29 23:55 • Reply
3 - Sigrid says:

« You’re wrong, M. Hulot was a very helpful man, full of good will. He would definitely have tried to help the man in the water, and mayhem would have followed. I can quite picture it.

Excellent story the trashed car pushing the tow truck. »
Date of comment: 2009-04-30 09:03 • Reply
3.1 - Vince answers:

« LOL, yes, maybe... »
Date of comment: 2009-04-30 14:44 • Reply

2009

The pandemic is still academic. Let's not panic. Yet.

Yup... And the brand new Convention Centre I was glorifying a few days ago just had a major ceiling water leak and subsequent flooding, three weeks form opening. Murphy’s Law in action, or just fatality and maths (as in large new building = large chance of mishaps early on)?

Hey, this is Vancouver; expect water to fall one way or another!

Here’s from a recent email of our industry friend Doug regarding tourism - or the lack thereof - in Vancouver:

Gulf War #1
Dot com bust
9/11
SARS
Gulf War #2
Wall Street Meltdown
Housing Meltdown
Winter from Hell
Cruiseships leaving*
Swine Flu
New Convention Centre leaking

Bring it on baby!
Keep Calm and Carry On.

* Note to foreigners: the cruise ships leaving issue is actually a very serious one as some of the major cruise lines have elected not to come back to Vancouver next year and divert to Seattle instead, which represents millions of tourist-dollars gone south.

Posted at 9:14 PM in Vancouver: 2 Comments » Toggle display • Reply

2009

A run around the new Vancouver Convention Centre

As the new Vancouver Convention Centre finally opens its doors and stands proudly next to Canada Place in the most urban-ly futuristic part of our downtown core, the Seawall regains an uninterrupted length of thirty-something kilometers from the east side of Canada Place, along Coal Harbour, around Stanley Park, down into False Creek to Science World, past the Olympic Village, through Granville Island and on towards Kitsilano and Point Grey.

A few days ago, I rerouted my run away from Stanley Park and towards the new Centre for a first run-around, G10 camera in its pouch and eyes very much alive. I must say that the new complex is extremely impressive outside as well as inside. I haven’t had my official guided tour yet but attended the Clef d’Or - Tourism Vancouver Showcase on Thursday and was blown away by the main exhibition hall and its gigantic glass wall opening unto Burrard Inlet and the North Shore.

With 473,532 sq.ft. of usable space, the Vancouver Convention Centre positions itself strategically and offers one of the most incredible settings worldwide. Sustainability was at the core of design for the new West Building. It features a six-acre living roof housing indigenous plants and recovering rain water for irrigation, sea water heating and cooling, a water treatment plant, and fish habitats have been built into the foundations since most of the building stands on stills above the water.

In other words, I like it.

Posted at 11:42 AM in Photoblogs: & Vancouver: 5 Comments » Toggle display • Reply

1 - Marie says:

« And I like visiting you via Firefox. IE does not show your night skin...and I don’t think it shows your new menu. I’m going back to check now.

Nice cool blue pics... »
Date of comment: 2009-04-26 13:07 • Reply
2 - Marie says:

« Yeah. I’m now visting you from IE - and the new menu does not show up, and posts are still white with green blog title - but I came to you from my blog...I’ll see what happens if I arrive another way. »
Date of comment: 2009-04-26 13:09 • Reply
3 - Estorbo says:

« Damn. Arribed frorm nabigation bar and the menu ees not there, plos ole’ skeen. Enternet Explorer sheet...

xxxxxxx »
Date of comment: 2009-04-26 13:11 • Reply
4 - Vince says:

« He-he, maybe that was just a plot of mine to force you both to adopt Firefox.

No seriously. Firefox is b-e-t-t-e-r. Or chose Chrome, if you don’t like the fox. But Firefox for now has the advantage of a million add-ons available.

Ok, seriously. I’ve removed the option to change the skin, which was probably messing you up in IE. Do me a favour: clear your cache (you don’t have to erase all your passwords and cookies, just select [i]temp internet files and offline files[\i]) and refresh and let me know if it shows up right this time... »
Date of comment: 2009-04-26 14:33 • Reply
5 - dinahmow says:

« Between this site and that of my friend in Delta, I manage to get a steady fix of Vancouver
Love the approach to the design - see, world! It can be done! »
Date of comment: 2009-04-26 22:22 • Reply

2009

Polishing the template

While the option for the visitor (you!) to change this blog’s skin remains, said visitor (still you) might have noticed that I’ve pushed the drop-down box that allows this all the way down to the bottom of the right sidebar. In effect, this means I will soon commit the current template as my standard - and only - look for this blog. (I’d be happy to keep alternate skins but it means that every time I make a change to this template’s functionality, I have to multiply the work times the number of available templates. Tiring.)

Speaking of which, you might also have noticed the disappearance of the upper right « Welcome » box. It was too flashy and distracting for my taste. In comes the unobstrusive Menu. Located at the top the way it used to be eons ago, it loads in a semi-open state and once activated, the option remains to collapse it with a simple hover of the « Toggle Menu ». Hope this will be helpful. The basic info that inhabited the « Welcome » side box has migrated to the Menu.

That’s all for now. Just playing with my toys attempting to grant you the best possible experience while you’re here.

Update: The skin is now final, other choices removed.

Posted at 12:29 AM in Web site news: 1 Comment » Toggle display • Reply

2009

Web winks

Introducing a new entry category (ya’ know, those categories we assign to each post, usually listed at the bottom of an entry and which mostly make us look like we are organized and thorough? Someone I know who is really witty calls them « pigeon holes »), re-morphed from the initial « Cool » which now only applies to things real and tangible. Web winks, to be pronounced with a foreign accent that would mistakenly turn an « L » into a « W », will address all web-related finds, focusing on what out there is new, interesting, funny, outrageous, amazing, geeky or just plain and simple there.

Today’s snippets are rather simple. A couple of quotes from TOP, which were part of a much longer series of posts reviewing and ranking modern cameras but work surprisingly well out of context and manage to make me smile at a much needed time.

« ... The obsessive study of camera equipment is the very best way I know to completely avoid committing acts of photography... »

« ... And, contra to what I just said two paragraphs ago, when you want to take pictures, having a camera with you is infinitely better than not having a camera with you... »

And then there’s the following classic. I feel almost embarrassed to post it here because it’s been around for a long time and I can’t even attribute it, not knowing where it came from. But again, it still serves its purpose and makes me smile. A great achievement if you ask me.

evolution

Posted at 2:35 PM in Web winks: 4 Comments » Toggle display • Reply

2009

Stanley Park, First and Last and Always

There is much that comes to mind when pondering Vancouver’s exceptional charm, but Stanley Park was, is and will remain in my heart the flagship of our city’s uniqueness.

I have written about it quite a lot and will keep doing so, but every once in a while, it’s fun to simply post a few silent ordinary pictures, snapshots and glimpses of a day now gone by, for the pleasure of sharing daily beauty with faraway eyes.

Spring arrived incredibly lazily this year and cherry blossoms are only now rising to full bloom.

The lady swan has moved back into last year’s nest right next to Lost Lagoon’s northern path and again this year, been protected by ugly plastic fencing and the watchful eye of volunteers. 7 eggs are in the nest and since it would seem the poor raccoons have been decimated by a specie-specific epidemic, there is good hope that all 7 will hatch.

A stone’s throw from the pond shores, warming up on rounded rocks in the timid sun, rows of turtles are seemingly contemplating the meaning of life.

And then, finally, I found the hiding place of all those starfish I had read about on another Vancouver blog. It’s simple, they are almost under the Lions Gate Bridge. Why there? I assume that’s the only place around the Seawall where depth increases significantly very close to shore, and also maybe the only location with substantial current. This is the First Narrows and even though there is only a max of 60 feet in the middle of the waterway (which challenges large ships with a serious draft), the conditions must be well suited for starfish.

In any case, the secret is to be there at extremely low tide. The day I shot these I was running and could not stop for too long - and hence did not climb down to the waterline for close-ups - but I will some day soon. In the meantime, here are some shots of a hungry seagull preying on starfish. Man, these things must be chewy! I had to smile. I could almost hear it repeating in a nasal voice « Mine. Mine. »

So since I had my mp3 player and Vancouver is so literate, here’s my adaptation of the single-word language of Finding Nemo’s seagulls, for Canadian birds this time:

First and last and always, ‘til the end of time
First and last and always, Mine

The Sisters of Mercy - First and Last and Always

Posted at 9:50 PM in Photoblogs: & Vancouver: 3 Comments » Toggle display • Reply

2009

Costa Rica's postal mess: it's still jungle law

We live in a world of precision and ours is a life of numbers and data. Things have to be by-the-book, there are methods and guidelines for just about everything and formatting, more than ever, rules. The postal system as we know it, is no exception. It’s common knowledge that if one wants a letter to arrive, one follows very a strict recipe, arguably tinted by national habits but nevertheless rather rigid and border-proof. Name first. Title. Company. Apartment. Civic number. Street name. City. Postal Code. Country. Planet. Etc.

And then there’s Costa Rica. Believe it or not, until a couple of years ago, Costa Rica hadn’t yet embraced the otherwise worldwide convention of assigning to houses a street number and an address. Not even in most of the Capital San Jose - and I saw this with my own eyes, or rather I failed to see it because there were neither street names nor numbers! The result? One did not live at 123 SomeStreet but rather at SomeStreet, 30 meters West and 65 meters South of SomeAvenue. That’s right, they labeled their addresses with a reference - in distance - to a landmark!

Now it would seem that a reform is under way; the national postal service, Correos de Costa Rica, has ambitiously begun assigning alphanumeric addresses to the Capital’s houses and Costa Rican address style buildings. As a result, one now lives at something like Av8-Ca15-#15. Yeah, I can hear a few fingers scratching as many heads. It’s definitely not the easiest way to convert a country to progress. What the above really means is that you live on 8th Ave, 15 meters from the closest lowest intersection which is 15th Street... Gulp. I think the Switzerland of Central America has a long way to go...

Any way, this new system hasn’t reached the outskirts yet and the letter I received today from el muy estimado Señor Andres González Suárez, a Costarricense student in tourism very courageously asking me for a job, was labeled creatively without a postal code, but it’s the return address that poured sunshine in my day. I’ll translate for those of you who don’t espeaka’ eSpanish - bare with me, Don Estorbo:

50 meters North and 100 meters East
of the Heredia Cemetery, Last
House left-hand side.
Costa Rica.

Now is that poetic or what?

By the way, I don’t have a job for Andres but if you own a business in Canada and are willing to legally hire a Tico on a temporary work permit, drop him a note. Your letter might even reach him. The cemetery isn’t going anywhere soon.

Posted at 12:40 AM in ICMOL: & On the road: 7 Comments » Toggle display • Reply

1 - Marie says:

« It’s almost nice to think that somewhere someone lives metres from this and metres from that, and trusts that a letter will find him. »
Date of comment: 2009-04-21 12:22 • Reply
1.1 - Vince answers:

« Yes, except that when you are the visitor with directions to find, it’s pure hell. I mean I can see how that would work down in Puerto Viejo or Manzanillo on the Caribbean coast right next to the Panamanian border. There’s not much there and time flows at a different pace. You could even write your address according to bugs.

100 meters north from the red poison arrow and 75 west from the hornet’s nest, right next to the stagnant water pond infected with all kinds of entrepreneurial lice and creepy microbes...

But in San Jose? »
Date of comment: 2009-04-21 12:54 • Reply
2 - Elo says:

« It’s the same thing in Mauritius, where they don’t even have postal codes. If places in the capital do have street numbers most places don’t. You have to trust the postman to know everyone in the vicinity, which, remarkably, is the case. These recent years, people have taken to giving names to their houses, usually pompous names like « Villa les Oiseaux » when the villa is in fact a shack To get around, you usually have to rely on landmarks such as the the big mango tree on the left, next to the tamarind tree...usually, it allows only locals to get around, foreigners will need a taxi driver to figure out where they’re going »
Date of comment: 2009-04-21 14:03 • Reply
2.1 - Vince answers:

« You think the Postal Service is in bed with the National Association of Taxi Drivers? »
Date of comment: 2009-04-21 17:31 • Reply
2.1.1 - Elo answers:

« Most probably ! Most of them are from the same family: small island style!
By the way, I love the new design »
Date of comment: 2009-04-22 16:40 • Reply
3 - Sof says:

« Do people really care about how we give our addresses? We may have no streets or avenues well - established but we do get to our destinations. We ticos, understand the addresses the way they are and I personally feel that it is PART of our culture to give addresses like that. Foreigns sometimes don’t get how we get to the places we are going with our instructions but that’s how we are =) »
Date of comment: 2009-08-12 19:55 • Reply
3.1 - Vince answers:

« Hola Sofia,

I intended no criticism and agree completely that it is a cultural thing. Kudos to you for making it work. Pura vida! »
Date of comment: 2009-08-12 20:00 • Reply

2009

New York, Easter

It was the Easter week-end. I had to get up at 3:30 am to get to Brooklyn around 7:30 pm. Such is the life of budget travelers.

When I arrived at YVR, Alaska Airlines’ computers were down. No ticketing, no check-in, no nothing. I waited in a line that grew to a few hundred people - it would seem many of them were going to Hawaii. Yet I finally made it through US Customs and my plane only took off a half-hour late. Weather was bleak on the West Coast but I got a nice view of the Tsawwassen BC Ferries terminal and the mountains of the Olympic Peninsula shone in the sun as we were landing at Seatac. I made my connection.

Over at Newark, I jumped on the AirTrain to the main station and connected with New Jersey Transit’s train to New York’s Penn station. I like the train, it’s a very civilized way of commuting to and from the airport. No traffic, no mad cab drivers, no breaking at the last minute nor lane swirling, no TV ads, no fortune to pay.

At Penn, I emerged topside and walked over two blocks east to the F subway line as the Empire State Building glowed in a beautiful sunset and thousands of people stormed the streets around Madison Square.

The F took me all the way to Brooklyn where I missed my stop and had to backtrack. The amazingly stupid thing with the New York subway is that you have to pay every time you exit and re-enter, even on a single trip in the same direction.

I walked briskly from Bergen to Henry street, passing by my little florist without stopping because I knew I’d be back and because at that stage, I couldn’t slow down even for a minute. Three flights of squeaky stairs, a deep breath, a cat miaow, an embrace and I was home.

Marie beamed, the terrace had been hastily reformatted, there were flowers on the table, champagne on ice and a couple of very cute chickens in the oven. The big black cat purred and rubbed against my legs, getting more than his share of poultry. Time did its usual trick and managed to simultaneously come to a grinding halt while suddenly jerking forward and speeding up tenfold.

We walked and walked, and when Marie was busy with work, I walked some more, down from the Lower East Side through Chinatown and by the foot of both bridges, and into Manhattan proper and around City Hall and then back up along Broadway. We revisited Central Park, walked around Brooklyn a bit, and also took a train north, leaving the Manhattan Island for the steep banks of the Hudson River.

There were ritualistic visits to Al di la and Sahadi’s, of course, Emiliano having sadly become rather invisible at the former but coffee being up to standards at the latter.

And, much too soon, I had to get up at 3:00 am again in order to get back to Vancouver, happy and sad, lonely but never alone, flying away for a moment and yet knowing that the distance will end, eventually. At last.

Posted at 9:01 PM in Always: & On the road: & Photoblogs: 3 Comments » Toggle display • Reply

2009

Grind in the City 2009 - Running up that staircase

The 2009 Grind in the City charity stair climb was held today at Harbour Centre. Starting at street level and ending up at the Vancouver Lookout, the 700 step or almost 500 vertical feet run has become a classic in downtown Vancouver.

There are two kinds of participants: the open, general-public category of braves wearing shorts and running shoes, and the firefighters from municipalities as remote as Whistler who race up in full gear.

OK, you want numbers? I’ll have to confirm these times but I believe the record in the open category was a little over three minutes (!) and then the fastest firefighter did it in a little more than... 4 minutes!!!

Now, that’s quite... impressive. I am no firefighter myself, not by a long shot, but I did have the opportunity to wear - and train in - full firefighting gear while onboard Club Med 2, since dive instructors were typically assigned to the Fire Teams. I clearly remember the sobering effect of a dreadful combination of heat and weight. Our training sessions were short and involved no more than a couple of decks worth of stair climbing, but I did on various occasions come very, very close to throwing up in my mask from exhaustion.

And these guys, they rush up over 30 storeys (the literature says 47, but it’s a matter of building blue prints vs popular belief), wearing heavy boots, a full fire suit, mask, helmet, Fenzy (sorry, old habit, theirs were Scott’s) and breathing through a mechanical device that always leaves you wanting more air, and then they go on about their business. There are very few people in life I truly admire but firefighters are among those.

Kudos, to everyone who participated.