Thistle Do Nicely: Edinburgh, Scotland

Before heading back to London, my friend and I stopped in Edinburgh for a couple of days and were lucky enough to have gorgeous weather. We happened to stop in a pub for a pint during the one hour it rained during our entire stay.

Don’t really have too much to say for Edinburgh other than that Edinburgh Castle is one of the best castles I’ve ever been to, the trek up Arthur’s Seat is well worth it, and the Scots still love those puns.

Morocco Day by Day: Arrival in Tangier

In April, four friends and I took a 10 day trip to Morocco for what can only be deemed an extreme and totally awesome adventure. The next several posts shall be dedicated to this particular trip. I did take approximately 80 billion photos, so if that’s what you’re after, you really should head over to Picasa.

We took an Iberia flight, at some ungodly hour of the morning, to Tangier on 6 April. We’d heard some fairly mixed reviews of Tangier but we decided to check it out for ourselves. Many folks warned us to stay clear of it because it tends to be a bit more dangerous than other Moroccan cities and doesn’t represent the “real” Morocco. Others said they could get lost in the Medina for days on end and would be happy to explore the many cafes, night clubs, and restaurants. We wound up really enjoying it but probably would have gotten bored if we’d stayed for much longer.

The weather was absolutely perfect upon arrival and we could not have asked for a nicer place to stay. The hostel was called Dar Jameel and was a fairly close walk to the city’s main Casbah. It also featured a terrace overlooking the harbor.

After enjoying some “whiskey Berber” (or mint tea) on the terrace, we went into town to explore the medina. Unfortunately, we were a bit too late to actually get into the Casbah, but we did manage to sneak a look inside before the doors were shut.
The above photos are from the area just outside the Casbah. We stumbled through many arch ways and around several corners to find this place. We experienced our first Moroccan “guides,” or any man or child who decided he could help us find whatever it was we were trying to find. It was a bit unsettling but almost everyone left us alone after we said “no.”

The medina was fairly small, at least from what we saw. Kebabs in a local shop satisfied our hunger but not our new found need for mint tea.
This guy seemed to know it was our first day and so showed us how it’s done properly.

Back at the hostel a few of us played an epic game of Scrabble on the rooftop during prayer call. It was a bit eerie hearing the call for the first time, but was even more so at about 4am that morning. We had little choice but to get used to it quickly.

Dunkeld, Scotland

In March, a different friend and I made our way up to Scotland. Despite having lived in the UK for a while now, and having a British father, I’d never made it up that far north (disgraceful, I know). Well, we took the train from London up to Edinburgh and then hopped on a bus to Dunkeld. My friend happens to be a pretty fine fiddler and once upon a time went to fiddlin’ camp in Virginia. It turns out there was a fiddling festival in Dunkeld, in honor of Niel Gow, and so we decided to go along so she could get her fix and I could experience what all the fuss was about.

I didn’t realize this before our trip, but apparently the Scots love their puns, perhaps more so than the Irish. This was especially evident in smaller towns, such as Dunkeld. We also happened across a beautiful church, St. Columba’s Cathedral and a forest that may have given Shakespeare inspiration for MacBeth.

We encountered surly bus drivers and some rather Lord of the Rings-esque scenery. Don’t worry Niel Gow, we’ll be back.

Travels Part 1: Portugal

What a better way than to get this blog going again than by posting some pictures from some of my more recent adventures? One of these days I might actually include some photos from England, Northern Ireland, and the United States, but for now I’ll stick with these. Of course you can find many of these on Facebook (if we’re friends), or on Picasa, but those don’t include the stories! I’m feeling a bit inspired as I shall be journeying to India on Monday for two weeks.

Last November a friend and I went to Lisbon, Portugal for three days-not long enough! It rained almost the entire time and was much colder than we’d expected, but it was absolutely wonderful. The city is a wonderful blend of new and old, much cheaper than London, and free of many of the obnoxious tourists you’d see in a more traveled area such as anywhere in Spain.

Since I’m recovering from some dreadful illness (possibly swine flu, No Joke!), I’ll let the pictures in the gallery do most of the talking (but what about those stories? Suck it up this time and deal!).

The first couple of pictures are from the old quarter of town, which is filled with winding little streets. My friend and I knew there was a castle to be found somewhere, but it took quite a long time to find it. It was sunny before we got to the castle and absolutely pouring by the time we got there. The photo of people with umbrellas pretty much sums up the whole trip.

The next day we were quite busy and ventured to neighboring areas including, Sintra, Cabo da Roca, and Cascais. On our final day we went to Torre de Belém which is absolutely gorgeous. We also partied all night with some folks at our hostel before getting on an early morning flight…but I’ll refrain from posting those photos here.

Stay tuned for photos from Scotland!

Mad Men and the Sopranos Just Might be the Same Show

Let’s get something sorted before I continue, I LOVE both Mad Men and the Sopranos. If you haven’t watched either, something is wrong with you. I didn’t think I’d ever feel this way about anything, but if new episodes of Lost and Mad Men happened to be on at the same time…I would probably watch Mad Men first.

After getting horribly roped into Don Draper’s smoke-filled and booze-fueled world on a procrastinatory binge about a month ago, I suddenly had a craving to go back and watch the Sopranos. A bit of IMDBing showed that this desire should come as no surprise since Matthew Weiner, writer and producer for several Sopranos’ episodes, happens to be the creator of Mad Men. Well, I obtained the first season of the Sopranos on DVD and have come to the conclusion that Mad Men and the Sopranos are practically the same show-Mad Men possibly appealing to a larger female audience (here’s lookin’ at you, Jon Hamm). I don’t mean this in a bad way, clearly I’m fully addicted to both. But if I didn’t say something, I might go a little insane. Here’s the rundown (in case you hadn’t figured, there will be a few SPOILERS):

1) Don Draper and Tony Soprano as a pair of Bad A’ Mofos.

Okay, so Don Draper is a little easier, to um..digest (on the eyes), and we all really want to like him, but time and time again he shows what a true jerk he is. We all know that Tony’s not exactly the nicest guy but we can see, from his interactions with Dr. Melfi and his daughter Meadow, that he’s not always happy with the decisions he’s made. All he’s ever really wanted is to “get food on the table”, and besides, he barely managed to get into college, let alone survive that semester and a half. Both are mysterious, adulterous, and true top dogs. Don always manages to keep his job by being the best, sharpest, and by having some sweet connections. Tony shows he’s not to be messed with by never being afraid to run over someone.

2) Carmela Soprano and Betty Draper as the almost, but not quite so innocent bystanders.

Although Carmela initially comes off as the stronger woman (she yells and stands up to Tony), we have to remember that Betty is stuck in the late 1950s and early 1960s and can’t be expected to do the same. As the show progresses, Betty does become more vocal and even kicks Don out of the house for a brief period of time. Both want to be good wives and mothers but know that their husbands aren’t exactly honorable men. No one else really understands what they’re going through and we don’t know what they’re going to do next to act out. Each one always seems to be on the edge of having an affair but always seems to return to her spousal duties.

3) The Shoes Thing.

Burt Cooper, everyone’s boss over at Mad Men, makes everyone remove their shoes before entering his office. Meadow Soprano, Tony’s daughter, will not let anyone enter her room until they have removed their shoes. Maybe this isn’t such a big deal, but can you think of any non-Asian shows that do this?

4) Psychiatry.

One of the major relationships on the Sopranos is between Tony and his psychiatrist, Jennifer Malfi. She learns about his emotions, his fears, his secrets in a way that no one else does. On Mad Men, psychiatry is reserved for weak people who weren’t raised right, like Roger Sterling’s daughter. Or Betty Draper. In the first season, Betty develops a nervous condition after her mother dies. As a way of “fixing” her, Don sends her off to a psychiatrist, who reports to him by telephone in the evenings. Betty’s sessions with her shrink are incredibly different from those of Tony and Dr. Melfi, but each each tends to be the pivotal scene of the episode. Perhaps the folks at the Sopranos and Mad Men are interested in demonstrating how psychiatry has changed over the decades? The relatively silent and somewhat creepy doctor from MM versus the rather engaging and likable  Melfi from the Sopranos.

5) Catholicism

Tony certainly makes no claims to be a good Catholic, but Carmela does. She hangs out with the priest, regularly confesses, and often admits that she thinks her husband is doomed to Hell. Don doesn’t really speak about religion and is called out for it by Connie Hilton. Peggy Olson, Don’s former secretary and now copy-writer, has been raised Catholic and frequently clashes with her family over her lack of devoutness. Both Carmela and Peggy get dangerously close to their parish priests and we sometimes can’t help but wonder whether something scandalous will happen.

6) New York City is always in the distance but never quite attainable.

In the Sopranos opening we see NYC in Tony’s side view mirror before he gets on the Jersey turnpike to go home. They go into the City sometimes, but most big business is handled off the side of the highway and closer to home. Sure the folks at Mad Men work in Manhattan, but most of the scenes downtown take place indoors. Anything that takes place outside happens in the ‘burbs of Tarrytown. Betty continually expresses her love of NYC but always seems stuck outside of it because Don never takes her there unless he has some sort of business to attend to.

7) Weird dream sequences and troublesome parents.

Tony and Betty not only share their need for psychiatry, but also their draining, elderly parents and bizarre dreams. Both Betty’s father, Gene, and Tony’s mother provide constant problems until they eventually die.

That’s all I’ve got for now, but trust me, they’re the same.

It Sure Has Been A While!

Whoah…I haven’t posted here since last December? I guess that’s what being in grad school will do to you! Now that all my coursework is done and unemployment has officially begun, this blog may very well become the venue for incoherent and random musings (as if they weren’t before). Edamame and his adventures will most likely return at a future date.

Christmas Post!

My parents have made sure to always have a real Christmas tree every year. We decorate it, some years with a little more zeal than others. However, we have never been the type of family to go overboard when it comes to Christmas cheer. One of my uncles loved to decorate his house with an obscene amount of Christmas lights. His house would stand, out not only because of his enthusiasm, but also because his family happened to be one of the few Christian families in the neighborhood. One year they had a hard time selling a small sailboat so they placed it in the front yard, equipped with a lighted mast and a mini rudolph. 

However, while procrastinating I have stumbled across some people who can put my uncle to shame. While he may have decorated his entire house to look like the American flag, he failed to time his lights to festive music. Perhaps I’m simply a latecomer, but I’ve never fully paid much attention to how much effort people can put into music and light shows. 

I have done a little browsing on YouTube and have come across four different music and light show categories.

1) The people who take these things incredibly seriously

While impressive, I find these a bit on the boring side.

2) People who want to annoy the crap out of their neighbors

It doesn’t really matter if their shows are all that well done. What does matter though, is music choice and the amount of lights used. Take the example of this house, which used the Crazy Frog version of “Jingle Bells.” 

Or, these people, who used a techno version of “Jingle Bells”

3) All things TSO (Trans-Siberian Orchestra) related  

People really like TSO.

4) People who don’t really care that much about Christmas but really enjoy music and light shows (as well as annoying their neighbors)

One house does Sandstorm

And my personal favorite, lights done to the Colbert Report theme

I am really glad my neighbors don’t partake in any of this.

My Battle with Utensils: How my use of silverware identifies my nationality

Last evening, I had the opportunity to attend a lecture at the Reform Club in London. Peter Hennessy was speaking about the British decision to build nuclear weapons. As an aspiring historian, my father believed that I would benefit from attending the lecture. The lecture was interesting, but is not what I’d like to write about today. Instead I would like to focus on what makes me an American, rather than the Brit I could potentially be. My mother is from Ohio, my father from Northern Ireland. While most of my schooling has been in the States, I spent over 8 years in the British school system in Singapore. My American side wins most inner arguments, but a small voice (possibly that of my granny) urges me to embrace my Britishness. But last night at the Reform Club, I learned that while I may be an Anglophile, I will always be a full-fledged American.

What is the Reform Club you ask? It is a snooty, stuffy, club in Central London, where rich old white men and women argue about politics and enjoy guinea fowl and roasted vegetables. At 24, I was probably the youngest person there, other than a couple members of the catering staff. I say probably as a couple other younger people were also dragged by family members. My dad, coming in at 53, was probably close to being the second youngest. It wasn’t all bad. Many people seemed kind and wanted to know if I had enjoyed the speech. Perhaps they had mistaken me for a teenager, who was far too young to possibly understand the lecture. One woman became rather defensive and angry after my father went to move his things from a seat he had ever so mistakenly believed to be free. Several ladies reminded me of Keeping Up Appearances Hyacinth Bucket. For those of you not overly British enough to know anything about this show (or happen to be under 60), Hyacinth Bucket is one of the silliest characters to ever grace a television screen. Constantly trying to prove to her neighbors and fellow members of society that she is civilized and far from being a commoner, she insists that her last name is pronounced “Bouquet.” Her family members, clothed in wife beaters and ill-fitting pants, cause her humiliation and embarrassment. The thing is, no one cares how upper class Hyacinth believes herself to be. After attempts for propriety fail, her neighbors see her as being human, and a pain in the ass. While members of the Reform Club may actually have the titles and reputations to place them in the class with which Hyacinth wishes to associate herself, their manner and speech make them just as ridiculous in my eyes.

Having said all of that, of course I attempted to be at my best behaved and most British. Having spent quite a lot of time in the UK, I have a fairly easy time of changing certain words in my vocabulary. “Chips” become “crips,” “French Fries” become “chips,” “college” becomes “university,” and “trash can” becomes “bin.” I’ll add superfluous ‘u’s to words when spelling, and will sometimes reverse “er” to “re.” “Center” will become “centre,” and “behavior” becomes “behaviour.”  Pronunciation of words like “controversy,” “details,” and “research” may also change. After a couple of days I have no problem looking right first when crossing the street instead of left. I can even slightly change my accent so that I can trick people for a brief second that I am not an American. Saying “excuse me,” “sorry,” or “thanks,” with a small accent twist has helped place me into the “other,” or even worse, the dreaded “tourist” category. 

But, there is one thing that I cannot change. Believe me, I have tried. I cannot change how I hold my knife and fork. This may seem stupid to most people, and it is. But at a dinner party or at a restaurant, my eating habits single me out as an American. British people never put down their knives. The fork remains in the left hand while the knife helps to pile food onto the back of the fork. Peas, chicken, and potatoes will be mushed together. Noodles must not spend excess amounts of time dangling in air. In contrast, Americans will go out of their way to not have to pick up their knives. We cut a piece or two and then set our knives back down. The fork is casually switched from left to right, and if we need to cut another piece, back to the left again. When eating pancakes we will often use the edge of our forks to cut off a piece. Food like rice is scooped rather than piled onto the fork. Our free hand is free to either venture under the table, fiddle with the napkin, or help prove a point in some useless argument. While no one dared to mention it last night, I could feel myself being distanced from the rest as I used my left hand to brush away a piece of hair that had fallen into my eyes. I have come to accept my eating manners as proof that my American side will always win.

The Ninja Learns to Always Read the Ingredients First

Edamame was clueless as to where he should head next. His journey to France had made him a mini celebrity (in both stature and fame), as he had managed to bring attention to several pastry chefs. Tourists and locals had been perplexed by a small ninja running into bakeries and trying a variety of desserts. As meringue sales went up, the bakery owners requested to have their pictures taken with Edamame. Newspapers featured him in their Arts & Wine sections and rumors spread throughout towns of the fierce little warrior with a sweet tooth. However, Edamame was focused on his mission and unable to speak or read French. So he continued through Europe, ignoring the head stares and camera phones pointed in his direction.

Europe was proving to be a challenge. He made his way up to Denmark and Sweden but found that everyone he met only wanted to offer him flavored vodka or pear cider. Edamame certainly wasn’t old enough for alcohol yet and

so had to politely decline all of the friendly offers he received. While wandering through Malmo, he heard someone whisper to him from an alley.

“Hey little ninja guy, come here!”

“Who are you?” Edamame asked?

“A friend who understands you. I can help you find what you’re looking for.”

“How can I trust you?”

“I give you my word. I know the pain that comes with choosing blue cheese dressing over a vinaigrette. Go to Argentina little ninja. A long time ago, the Argentines realized that they had a dreadful reaction to milk. As a result they banished all cows and developed their own, milk free dessert: Dulce de Leche. ‘Leche’ means milk and ‘dulce de’ means free of. The country will welcome you with open arms.”

“They have no cows? I thought I had read somewhere that Argentina had cowboys…”

“Silence! If you plan to succeed on your quest, then go to Argentina.”

Edamame’s eyes brightened as he imagined a country filled with delicious milk free desserts. He made his way down South, passing through mountains, desserts, and waterfalls. He sped through to Buenos Aires and ran into a pastry shop. He tried asking the man in the store about dulce de leche, but he didn’t understand Spanish. He found out quickly that it’s pronounced “dool say” and not “dool che.” The man in the shop chuckled and then gave him a large serving of it alongside a banana. “A banana!” Edamame thought. “This must truly be what I need!” With just one bite, Edamame was in love. It tasted good on almost every fruit, on bread, and even by itself. He was not able to control himself and spent days at a time eating it up. But, he realized that his stomach was grumbling all the time. It ached and felt kind of funny. He’d barely thought about the other members of his ninja clan. How had he let himself get so distracted? The meringues had never made him act this way. 

One morning he was not able to get out of bed as he found his tummy hurt too much. He slept for hours until he was eventually able to muster up enough energy to speak with the woman at the front desk of his hostel. “How does one make dulce de leche?” he asked her. She did not understand what he had said and so pulled out a container of dulce de leche. He shook his head and said, “Donde esta internet?” She pointed him in the direction of the nearest locutorio (or internet cafe) and gave him a few centavos. He looked up dulce de leche and discovered that “leche” did in fact mean milk, but “dulce de” most certainly did not mean free of. In fact, it roughly translated to milk candy, or milk-based syrup. His face dropped in horror as he realized how badly he had been tricked. How had he not noticed the fields filled with cows on his journey southward? One of Argentina’s biggest exports was beef! In fact, Argentines ate beef all the time. Finally the phrases carne asada and parilla made sense. A typical Argentine barbecue consists of eating as much of the cow as possible! How that man had fooled him! No longer could he be as careless in his journeys. His enemy had learned of his existence and now knew his location. He would have to work harder to conceal himself and would certainly need to pay more attention to dessert ingredients!

A Useless Tale of Ice Cream

As Dan still has not created the Ninja Varnish t-shirt, I will try to bring our little ninja pal to life in a different light. We shall call him Edamame. 

Edamame is by no means a standard ninja. At eight inches in height, his clan highly values him for being able to gracefully hide in potted plants and mailboxes. Each night he sets out to complete a different task, working as the clan’s top spy. None of the other clans have managed to find out their secret. Have they placed cameras in every location? Could traitors be lurking in every corner? How would they ever suspect an eight inch tall ninja? Every morning Edamame curls up in an oven mitt and sleeps until his next training session.  

What his teachers and pupils do not know, is that while he sleeps, Edamame dreams of ice cream. The flavors and toppings vary. He doesn’t care if the scoop is cookie dough, mint chocolate chip, black raspberry, or Americone Dream.  Why, you may wonder, does he dream of ice cream? Wouldn’t it make more sense for him to dream of beautiful ninja women, noodles, or nunchaku? Sadly for Edamame, his master has forbidden him to indulge in ice cream. 

Oftentimes, Edamame will dream of a conversation he had with his master:

Edamame: Sensei, will I one day be able to eat ice cream like my fellow ninjas?

Master: No, my brave Edamame. For you are lactose intolerant. With just one scoop, you may succumb to only the worst pain and reveal our secret. No one must ever know of your alliance with us. Ice cream could lead to your undoing. 

Edamame strives to be the best and struggles between his love of the frozen treat and his loyalty to the clan. Typically, Edamame sneaks into the clan’s kitchen in the afternoon and grabs bananas, chips, and raisins in the hopes of staving a vicious ice cream craving. To distract himself, he runs twice as many laps as his fellow ninjas and spends his spare time in the dojo, away from the freezer. Lately his dreams have woken him up abruptly. He sees a member of the other clan, grinning evilly over a pint of cookies and cream. He beckons to Edamame, seeming to understand his greatest weakness. Edamame is no longer able to resist and runs towards the ice cream. Not bothering to grab a spoon, he dives into the container and stuffs whatever has not yet melted into his mouth. Moments later his enemy laughs as Edamame is overcome with pain. The lid of the container closes above his head. Edamame wakes up fearing that his nightmare will come true in a matter of hours.

He reassures himself that none of his enemies know of his existence, let alone his love for frozen dairy. The dreams have become too much and he must put them to an end. The only solution is to travel the world until he finds a dessert worthy of his admiration. A dessert that is lactose free and worth dying for. 

But where would he begin?

To be continued…