December 21-28[27]

I had the privilege to spend this past Christmas in Ireland. This beautiful island is quickly becoming my second home in Europe (four visits in 14 months). My stay this time was concentrated in County Cork (West Cork to be specific). The coastal scenery is breathtaking, with the wild sea surging against tall cliffs and the lashing wind and rain creating an emerald static that blurs the backdrop of rocky hills. I was very lucky to get the local tour from my friend Una. Her family kindly welcomed me into their home and showed me a very good time.


Laughter was never in short supply on this holiday. I was usually the cause or the source of the ridicule. A word of caution: when visiting Ireland it is important to have very, very thick skin. Check all arrogance, pomp, elitism and naivete at the door, because the Irish do not let up on you. Much like how a dog can smell fear, these islanders detect snobbery with just one simple glance. The Irish as a whole are low-key and don't take themselves very seriously (a cultural opposite reaction to England I think). I find this enchanting and it makes everyone who visits the country feel truly welcomed and a majority of the locals approachable. They really do want to know your story, unlike the British who generally smile and then scamper off to wait in line somewhere.

The West Cork accent took a bit of getting used to. Had subtitles or even closed captioning appeared beneath the speaker's chin, I would have dropped a knee and sworn allegiance to the Pope right then and there. The Irish accent that you expect to hear (think Lucky Charm's cereal commercial) is cruelly replaced by a rapid-fire delivery with no pauses and no punctuation (picture Brad Pit's character in the film "Snatch"). At my best, I could discern a question being asked of me by interpreting inflection, tone and the fear of a realization that they are talking at me and nobody else is in the vicinity. At worst, I miss the entire sentence and just stare at them dumbfounded (hence the large amount of laughter directed at me). It got better as the days went on. I learned to laugh with them so as to make them think I knew what they said about me.

It seems you can't be a true visitor to West Cork until you get a nickname. Everyone seems to have one, be it, "The Boss" to "Pig Fingers" or "Jimmy-where's-my-wallet." My nickname was soon forged and I was dubbed, "The Divorce Force." I am not sure if dramatic irony goes up a few notches since this is a predominantly Catholic country or if the politically incorrect meter just self-destructed. Like I said, come over with thick skin and you will be rewarded with laughter and a new sense of self awareness you thought never existed.

On the second night we visited my hosts cousin's (Mary Botty) pub called L'il McArthy's. Irish Pub's generally have the following characteristics: Coal fire, old black and white photos of local sports team (pre-John McCain kind of old), a clock that is frozen on 10:30 and antique trinkets and jugs hanging on the wall/ceiling. Una (Spoons) and Claire [sister](Nana) and John [father](the Boss) and Teresa [sister] (The Big One) have a gem of a local pub. Located in Castletownsend, it is tucked away on a stone lined city street that arcs downhill towards the ocean. It was great to see several generations of Irishmen and women sharing a laugh and enjoying a pint. It is here where the culture, stories, music and gossip are exchanged freely. This is where the 'craic' is created.


The Irish were the first in the European Union to ban smoking back in 2004. This was a welcome change for a vast majority of the 4.2 million residents of Ireland. I was lucky enough to bare witness to an objector when the owner of the joint (Mary Botty) came over with a fag [cigarette] in her mouth and delivered another round. She warned us with the glowing ember bouncing up and down between her lips, "Gards ar outside! Gards ar outside! Yeeneedanother?" Ireland may also have been the first (and only) nation to disallow drinking in pubs after midnight. This legislation defies all cultural logic and equates to banning all AK-47s in Iraq. No one seemed particularly worried on this night and we stayed put well into the morning. I heard stories of the entire establishment rushing out the back door and resuming festivities in the neighbor's adjacent yard or a field down the way. It appears this law is not regularly enforced. The "Gards" or Garda (the official national police of Ireland) have bigger responsibilities. Their main concern is cracking down on drunk driving. One recent statistic I gleaned from the local paper was that 1 in 5 fatal crashes on Ireland's dangerously narrow and twisty roads occurs between 6am and noon. Many of these are alcohol related. Too many try to arrive at work drunk and on time than late and hungover. The Gardas presence outside Mary Botty's that night was just a little cat-and-mouse game to let the people know they are around and nobody should drive home drunk. Lucky for us that night, Mrs. O'Donovan [Mother] (Biddy) picked us up.

The time flew by with daily driving excursions, or "spins" through quaint local towns like Baltimore which boasted numerous pubs a few cafes and excellent pizza. Una introduced me to the world's best crab sandwiches at O'sullivans in Crookhaven that overlooked a stormy bay inlet. Homemade scones down the way at Hayes in a coastal village called Glandore were divine--especially with the fresh cream. Linking these coastal villages are rolling hills, lush glens, farms, moss-covered castle ruins and sheep. For the most part, the area looks frozen in time being still predominantly agricultural and rural. Yet Ireland has seen some drastic change recently in its otherwise long and often bleak history.


The Romans never quite made it across the Irish sea from England and as a result, the Vikings and Celts carved out this land. Most of the major cities in Ireland originated along the coastline, with inland rivers providing a safe harbor to help facilitate trade with mainland Europe. Monastic orders were founded in the 5th and 6th centuries and soon Catholicism flourished. England maintained a heavy and often brutal hand on this island. Tensions ran particularly high during the 17th century which saw Oliver Cromwell ruthlessly crush a Catholic resistance to English rule in 1649. Enough men women and children were senselessly slaughtered as to ensure that the name Oliver would remain about as popular in Ireland as Adolph is in Israel.


The potato famine (1845-1851) decimated the population and acted as a catalyst for a massive wave of Irish immigration to the East Coast of the United States and elsewhere. In 1807, Ireland was the most densely populated country in Europe, by the 1860's it was one of the least. Out of a estimated population of 8 million, the famine took the lives of well over one million people, and facilitated the departure of another million. In six years, the country lost a quarter of its people. Western Ireland suffered particularly acute misfortune during the famine and there are numerous mass grave sites commemorating the dead. England's efforts to tackle the famine can, at best be described as lackluster and more accurately explained as criminal. Throughout the entire 6 years of the famine the British government never provided massive food aid because the English landowners and businesses would have been harmed by fluctuating food prices. As a result, starved masses watched boatloads of Irish-grown oats and grain depart for English shores. During the height of the famine, the British Parliament passed a budget for £200,000 for the "beautification of Battersea Park" in London, that same year they allocated £100,000 to combat the famine. The cause of the famine turned out to be a nasty airborne fungus that invaded the island from open cargo holds on ships returning from North America. The spores destroyed the plants and spread like wildfire. It thrived on the cool, wet conditions that were previously so favorable for growing potatoes (a vegetable that originated in the Andes of South America and were introduced by returning Spanish conquistadors in the 16th Century).

Irish independence gained strength and popularity at the turn of the 20th Century and in 1916 the "Easter Uprising" in Dublin marked the steady increase of resistance. Michael Collins (County Cork born) helped lead the independence movement that eventually gained traction and became what is now known as the IRA. The British responded with a brutal paramilitary force known as the Black and Tans (This is the reason why you NEVER order a Black and Tan at an Irish Pub anywhere in the World!) and proceeded to terrorize the local population. Their tactics were brutal and soon united the entire nation against the British occupation. By 1921, Collins managed to secure a controversial deal with England that gave Ireland 'dominion status'--basically they were allowed to govern themselves (except 6 northern counties who opted out) but still remain part of the United Kingdom. This fueled an internal civil war that cleaved the IRA into 'regulars' and 'irregulars'. This bloody internal feud tore the country apart and pitted brother against brother. Ireland gained full independence from England in 1937, and was finally recognized as a sovereign state.

A reversal of trends began when Ireland joined the European Union. This began to transform Ireland from a strictly rural and agricultural state to one of a more modern and technologically advanced nation. This growth reached its zenith in the late 1990's when the dot com bubble touched Dublin which earned the "Celtic Tiger" moniker. EU subsidies flooded into the country and suddenly farmers were handsomely rewarded for their products. Roads to nowhere were laid down and monuments to inane objects were built. It was as if the entire country was suddenly handed a winning lotto ticket. In a way, the Irish were a bit ashamed of all the new wealth. They had never been used to this kind of economic boom and the entire culture had to adjust to it without losing their salt-of-the-earth identity. I like to think they have pulled it off spectacularly. Practically the entire culture embraces the "pay it forward" mentality. They are still humble, kind and sharing people. Having recently finished reading a book about an Englishman who successfully hitch hiked around Ireland with a mini-fridge, I'm convinced. The man not only made it, but turned into a celebrity with drivers going out of their way to give him a lift because they heard him on the radio.

The language (of what I could pick up) is entertaining. The most unique saying the Irish have is 'craic'. This is originally a Gaelic word that can loosely be translated as 'fun'. It is most often used in the company of friends, the drink, music and casual romance. Its a very organic expression and one that, "...pertains to an atmosphere of comfortable and pervasive conviviality, a complete absence of distrust in pleasant, relaxed and relaxing company." Or something like that.

Another word that often accompanies 'craic' is 'like'. Fortunately, its not used with the same teenage-valley-girl-vigor as we are used to in the States. It is used to fill an expression or put a bit of window dressing on it. For example, "Oh, last night was good craic- like."

Ireland had a dilemma being so strongly Catholic, yet honest and expressive. They bridged this gap with the word, 'feck'. By swapping vowels, they disarmed the big bad 'f' word into an expression your grandmother would use (were she Irish and mildly upset). Its fun for the whole feckin' family!

The Irish favorite has to be, 'Yer man'. This is used to denote a passing ownership through slight association. Such as your local pharmacist. Instead of, "Carl down at Rite Aid closed up early so my prescription for Prozac can't get filled." It goes, "Yer Man at the chemist's fecked-off to the pub and now I'm left with no Prozac. Yee want another pint?"

Which leads to the informal plural, "Yee". It is Ireland's version of the American Southeastern term, "Y'all."

My absolute favorite is "give you a bell". This basically says I will call you later, or you can tell someone to ring you. Good craic.
Suffice to say, I was so reluctant to leave Ireland that I secured a lift one day early. My scheduling blunder was revealed to me while in the security line at Cork International Airport, "Everything alright" I ask the security man at the metal detector. "Oh everything looks grand . . .except that you fly out tomorrow. " This is when he points out the date written in large font on my ticket and sort of looks at me with pity and humor. Most readers of this Blog will agree this is TOTALLY out of character for me to do any such thing. After fighting back the embarrassment of the situation, I enacted my brilliant plan, "Operation Dignity Salvage" with great aplomb. Ryanair quickly torpedoed my plan with their astronomical ticket options and penalties. Mission not accomplished. I was forced to make a very uncomfortable phone call to Claire (Nana) right after she drove an hour to drop me at the airport and was looking forward to relaxing at her house in Cork. The conversation went something like this:
Jon: "Hi Claire. It turns out I am a bit early for my flight"
Claire (Nana): "Was it was delayed or someting? How much time do you have?"
Jon: " . . .erm, just over 25 hours or so"
Claire (Nana): "[laughter]. . . ."
Jon: "How much would it cost me to pay you NOT to tell anyone about this little scheduling snafu?"
Claire (Nana): "There is no amount of money that can keep me quiet about this. . .[under her breath] feckin' Americans"

And so, once more I got to drive on the beautiful country lanes back to West Cork and Claire (Nana) got to enjoy one more delicious home-cooked meal. Even on my last day [second to last], Ireland helped remind me that humility is a good thing and if you can't make fun of yourself, you are never going to enjoy the craic. On the plus side, my next visit to the Ireland will no doubt yield me another nickname (provided I get the dates correct).

September 4th-December 31st

Time marches on at an alarming rate. So much has transpired I feel the need to explain. The first caveat: there will be a profound tense change to this blog henceforth. The 'we' that so often accompanied the previous entries shall now just be in singular first person. Emily and I have decided to separate and go our individual ways. She lives in Dubai now and I carry on here in London until March when my visa expires. It has been really hectic for the past 3+ months and so the Blog's consistency has suffered. This is an attempt to rectify that without being 3 times as long. Apologies for the photos, my camera was broken for a few months and some of the footage is either from my old 'stock', crappy camera phone or a borrowed camera.

London grows cold now. Autumn arrived in fine style. The only "Indian Summer" that people would recognize in England would be some story told by Rudyard Kipling. A few particularly cold evenings have haunted my sleep. The wind sweeps down from the Arctic, stops off for a nip of whiskey in Scotland, then drives south and makes your bloodstream dilate. These winds made short work of the fall foliage, for soon it was strewn about for the feet to kick up. Within 2 weeks we were plunged into the darkness of Winter. Since London is so far north (roughly the same latitude as Calgary, Canada) the night descends at around 4:30pm. This is a type of cold I am not used to . The air is crisp, yet very damp. It is cold enough to snow, but never does. The sky will be clear all day, but the ground remains damp all day long.

I am pleased to announce more London public transportation stories. Combine my genuine stubbornness and London's ruthless transport mechanisms and you have instant entertainment. Even self-imposed travel rules have not helped. Rule one: NEVER attempt to save both time and money with public transportation, for you will rapidly lose both. The last thing on my mind when I took a bus to look at a job 5 miles away, was "where did the 3+ hours, dignity and £5 go?" My return trip should have been a reverse direction on the trusty old bus. But when a train station is so near, how can one resist? The problem begins when you walk past by the desired station, then ask a stranger, "Where is the train station?" Rule two: Be s-p-e-c-i-f-i-c when referring to your desired destination. Streatham Hill is vastly different from Streatham, much to my chagrin. Then, when you buy your train ticket at the wrong station, discover the ticket you bought will never get you to your destination, make sure you don't take it out on the machine that took your money. With sore feet from the lengthy walk and severe ticket machine kicking, I turned around. I got lazy and flagged a bus back to the other train station. Things were going so well, I decided to take the bus back home. Content with my decision, I tucked into my book and only looked up when it felt like my ride home was parallel parking into the service garage. The intense anger I felt was trumped only by my embarrassment and in theory could have cooked the egg that was now on my face. I trundled back the other way, to search for the train station I had originally wanted to find and had previously passed by twice (once by foot and by bus). The station was 3 blocks away from the clients' house. Of course, there are other times on public transportation when you are entertained by people who are less than sober. Sadly, this is never when you are in a hurry or are in need of a mood change. Still, if you look hard enough, you will find some very interesting people riding public transport.

As a baseball fan, its difficult to tolerate a country that is obsessed with Cricket. As a Oakland A's fan, its even tougher to tolerate a populace that is obsessed with the New York Yankees. The problem is that virtually none of the Yankee apparel owners can name the last time the Yanks won a world series. After seeing a grown man sporting a pink camouflage Yankee hat, I came to the conclusion that George Steinbrunner should have fired the team's fashion manager, not Joe Torre. Seriously, a pink hat! They just like the logo, I can assure you that. It reminds me of the phrase, "The greatest trick the Devil ever pulled, was to convince the world he didn't exist." The French developed a inexplicable interest in the college of UCLA during the early 1990's. They just called it "OOH-KLAH" and figured it was a popular type of clothing with a cute cartoon bear symbol. London's American brand obsession extends to Abercrombie and Fitch. The flagship store is festooned with models who work on the floor and blast house and techno music in the darkly-lit mansion. They can afford to rent the mansion because they charge £60 for a hooded sweatshirt. Any Londoner traveling to New York is bombarded with requests for A&F jumpers selling at 1/2 price in the states. Perhaps an even greater trick the devil pulled off was to convince the world to shell out $120 for a pre-worn cotton sweatshirt that advertises for him!


Thanksgiving was successfully observed in London this December. This is actually the accurate month to recognize the "Pilgrims" who landed ashore New England in 1620. After looking into some of the history, things are not as we learned in grammar school. They landed in heaving December seas and were woefully unprepared. They spent 9 1/2 weeks on a boat no larger than the red double- decker bus that shuttles so many Londoners. There were 102 passengers on board who packed items like; sundials, a trumpet, 126 pairs of shoes--but failed to bring things like a cow, horse, plough, fishing line. . .After 4 months, there were just 54 people remaining. Curiously, the Mayflower was broken up and sold for salvage and is rumored to be an old barn 20 miles outside of London (in a village near Buckinghamshire). It was difficult to explain the Thanksgiving tradition to my British friends, given the historical setting for this meal between new colonizers and the Native Americans. Yes, we wiped the native people out in vast numbers with cruel efficiency--but we were thankful for what they did for us beforehand? Fortunately, the English are no strangers to brutal colonization and really the Pilgrims were just as much English as they were American.



If there is any justice in the world, then both satellite navigation and the fake tan had to be invented in London. I used to think fancy gadgets like the "Sat Nav" are just geeky toys for a space-aged car industry. After driving a car in London, I envy those people with the gadgets. Navigation in a vehicle in London requires all your brain power. No street stays straight for more than 200 feet. Road names change as often as the Italian government. Locating these elusive signs becomes a nightmarish 3-D version of Where's Waldo, "There it is! Below the window sill on the 2nd story of that building there." Whilst doing all of this, be sure to watch for bus-only lanes, speed cameras (revenue cameras), pedestrians and bicyclists. These Sat Nav's are really good. You can even download Mr. T's voice to direct you, "Take a left, fool!" Yet, perhaps the bicycle is the best way around this city. I used to pity the poor lycra clad warriors wearing pollution masks on their face. Yet when the average vehicle speed in London is 7mph, a bicyclist gets the last laugh (although it is muffled behind the mask).

Just as the tides rely on the moon, the sun in England seems to be synchronized with the celestial timing of Halley's Comet. Bleak old England may have lost beloved celebrity footballer David Beckham and Victoria-Posh- Spice-Beckham, but there is a lingering afterglow that remains. . .this would be her fake tan powder of course. One can't help but notice some of these women during the morning rat race and it looks as though their commute started in Spain. The ones who apply too much (most of them) powder end up looking like they snorted about a kilo of 100% pure, uncut, Columbian Tang. Seriously, its like a 3 year-old adjusted all the color knobs on the T.V. and suddenly Susan Lucci is orange!


Question: Where do canceled American T.V. shows go to die? Answer: My living room. The lounge in the house I live in always seems to be viewing the most 2nd rate programs from the States. Steven Segal dominates one channel, with Bruce Willis picking up the slack for the rest of the weeknights. British television does devote an inordinate amount of time to the national pastime: Football (soccer). It reigns supreme here. By far the common man's game and it always seems to be on. Except for the day I heard this announcement on BBC 1 last Sunday, "Stay tuned for an exciting afternoon starting with Focus on Football, followed by Darts!" Now that's entertainment. After Cricket and Rugby, there's a really steep drop off for secondary televised sports. Then again, ESPN's world series of poker footage can't be much more exciting than Darts ( its [Poker] the 3rd most popular 'sport' viewed on cable TV after Nascar and Football). We will call that one a draw then. U.K.--nill, U.S.A.--nill.


It may sound shallow, but it still does not diminish the truth in the statement; It's not what you are like, but what you like that paints the picture. Books, friends, music, art, movies--these things are the social barometer that make you unique. Its the same for cultures really. Simply visit a supermarket and take inventory. Overall, the British are no different than Americans. . .until you run across the baked beans aisle--or wing depending on the store. Beans, beans, beans! SO many beans! A soccer goalpost could not properly bracket the selection of canned baked beans. France has massive cheese aisles, England has an unrivaled section for bean worship. Now we are getting somewhere.


Video surveillance is something of a national pastime in England. There are more cameras per person here than anywhere else in the world (one for every 10 people). On a single day in London, the average person is caught on camera 300 times. Recent developments in remote technology have enabled police departments to fly a small drone (UAV) above concert events. These devices are virtually silent and visually undetectable at above 150 feet. The argument goes that if you are a law biding citizen and have nothing to hide, then you shouldn't be bothered. The problem is where to draw the line. Facial recognition software is in place in zone one (central London) and anyone on the terrorist database has about 20 seconds before the 'ring of steel' closes down upon them. But what happens if the machine is only 99% effective? One percent of 5 million people times 3oo is a large number of, "We apologize for any inconvenience this machine gun may have caused you . . .technology is not perfect you know". Some security analysts are now looking into placing RFID chips into people--the same ones that we currently implant into dogs. One problem I have with the CCTV camera craze, is that it does not deter crime. It seems the only thing it has done is make this city docile at acting upon any vandalism or crime they see going on in front of them. Where does all this information go? Who gets to see it? The ultimate irony on this topic has to be the fact that there are no less than 32 CCTV cameras that film you standing in front of the house where George Orwell (Animal Farm, Nineteen Eighty-Four) lived. I am positive there are at least two cameras filming Mr. Orwell rolling in his grave.

The buildup to Christmas is quite similar to that in the States. London gets out the lights and ice skating rinks. Santa appears at carnivals and in shopping malls. I recently witnessed the annual tree lighting in Trafalgar Square on a rain-soaked night. Apparently, the Norway has been donating a beautiful (Norwegian spruce) tree to London since 1947 out of gratitude to England's support during WWII. Correct me if I am wrong, but wasn't Norway occupied by the Nazis during WWII? The tree is decorated in a refreshingly modest set of vertical lights tapering down the 20 metre high tree. I would like to think that England reciprocates with a humanitarian airdrop of baked beans or something like that. Enjoy your holidays everyone!

CROATIA: August 24- September 4th

Cheap airline tickets are so tempting because you don't think about getting up at 4am to catch the early train to make your flight. It seems great while booking the trip months in advance, but when you are surrounded by tranquilized travelers and drunks, hours before the sun comes up, you begin to question the bargain. After shaking the sleep from our eyes, we were excited at the prospect of being greeted by the warm sunshine of a Mediterranean climate. The queue for the security gate in London rivaled a commuter train in length and passenger density. Through the chaos, Emily was able to dive into the bookstore and purchase Harry Potter's latest offering and never loose sight of me. Upon our arrival into the city of Split, everything was different. It is comforting on so many levels to leave a megalopolis like London and be in a place where you can de-plane, watch your luggage get drop-kicked into a truck, get your passport stamped and claim your beaten baggage all within a 180 degree sweep of the eyes. And it was legitimately warm there! We were immediately hit by a wave of heat and humidity that we thought only existed in memories from long ago. The previous night in London was spent with a scarf (for her) and a jacket to fend off the August chill.

The drive from the airport offered up some stark landscape and realistic "not in Kansas anymore" impressions. The coastal mountains were higher and dryer than I had expected. Nothing more than shrubs and olive trees grew from this arid soil. Cinder block houses dominated the horizon, neatly camouflaged with bogonvilla and brilliant blue shutters.

At the heart of Split lies the Roman palace of Diocletian (AD 245-313). It seems persecuting Christians was exhausting work, for the 'retired' emperor Diocletian built a large and cozy palace here to ruminate and relax. In the subsequent centuries it devolved into a sort of ancient time share for the leaders of the crumbling Roman Empire. The imposing walls are 2 meters thick and 25 meters high. That's big, even by today's standards. This palace then became a bastion for the refugees of the dwindling Roman Empire. Taking a stroll down the narrow streets, one can easily see the levels of fear and fortification that went into repelling the Slavs, Ottoman/Turks, Venetians, Austrians . . . archways bricked off and streets suddenly terminated. You really do get a great cross section of human habitation.

All of this combines to make a fascinating and rustic travel experience of meandering, slick limestone corridors and beautiful piazzas flanked by crumbling Roman columns. The dark corners that may have housed some sandal maker now boasts 25 flavors of ice cream and designer swim wear.

Croatia probably conjures up a big blank slate to most Americans. Before my arrival to the UK, I was only aware of its recent history in the civil war that engulfed the Balkan region between the early 1990's (Croatia's war of independence took place between 1991-1995). It really is a shame that this pearl of the Adriatic has not garnered more attention in the states. . . I suppose Greece has eclipsed it's historical achievements. Croatia is littered with beautiful islands (1185 to be exact) throughout its coastline . The Italians discovered its hidden treasures in the mid 1970's and have influenced the western Europeans to follow en mass. The scenery is breathtaking, the Adriatic warm and clean, the people honest and friendly and the food is fresh from the sea.

The ferry is the undisputed heavyweight workhorse of Croatia. Locals and tourists rely on these massive ships to take them to and from home and work. There seems to be two distinct queues and times for departure: one for the baggage laden tourists who show up 30 minutes prior to departure and one for the last-minute locals. They seem happy to cut right in and exchange a laugh and back slap with the ticket agent. Not my country, not my culture. There were plenty of seats for everyone and soon we were on the hydrofoil steaming ahead for the distant island of Vis.

Safety procedure seems tertiary at best for the Croatian ferry service. Luggage is kept in the aisles, blocking emergency exits and fluid movement. No announcements were ever made and the best you could hope for is that the emergency exit diagram was in English and accurately represented your actual boat and section (about a 50/50 chance).


Vis is one of the most remote and wild islands Croatia has to offer. Arid, mountainous, dotted with old stone walls that used to harbor olive trees, it now serves as a idyllic outpost for the sun worshipers. Our pale bodies reveled in the turquoise shores and warm breeze. Croatia is curiously devoid of sand on most beaches. Perhaps it is the lack of strong currents or just an availability issue after the Bosnian War's demand for sandbags? Sandals are worn into the water and every stall sells padded mats that are used instead of a towel. After a brief swim in the crystalline waters, I soon realized why the sandals are so often worn. Sea Urchins. The little black clusters appeared everywhere. Fortunately for us, they were the docile type of sea urchin and they pretty much left us alone.


Next was the exotic island of Hvar. Where Vis catered to the sailboat crowd who reveled in isolation, Hvar attracts the glamorous elite who can afford to know nothing about boating, cooking or cleaning. Everything was more expensive and done up. That being said, the layout of Hvar town was enchanting. The waterfront was the scene here. The eye is easily distracted by the large and ostentatious boats, fancy jewelery shops and mighty citadel perched atop the mountain. Our beach of choice was a short taxi boat ride out to the outer islands that boasted quiet coves, short pine forests and a large shaded umbrella. Interestingly, we would climb into the taxi boat, and motor out there, only to hear the engine idle and have the driver collect the taxi fare 3/4 of the way to our destination. This must cut down the haggle factor quite a bit. On the island, we devoured our books, swam and sizzled in the sun all at comfortable intervals.

When the last rays of sunlight are swallowed up by the Adriatic, Hvar Town comes alive like some nocturnal creature. The young and hip spill out onto the stone streets and dance the night away. Music pours out from one night club to the next with throngs of thirsty tourists indulging themselves in affordable excess. On one particular night, there was a Goliath-like boat that dominated the harbor and soon sparked rumours of George Clooney or P.Diddy.
Sadly, the truth was never revealed and we had to settle with a beautiful harbor town that has been fishing and trading for many hundreds of years. Another return trip from the beach had the entire square covered in exotic cars like Ferrari Enzo's and Porsche 911 Turbos . . .it seems they had some kind of Gumball race going on and Hvar was the finish line. One driver fired up the Enzo and revved it L-O-U-D!


Our last destination was by far the most enchanting city of the trip. Dubrovnik is a remarkably intact and contained city. Its fantastic walls have kept the history and culture protected for hundreds of years. The city is literally pushed right to the edge of the tall sea cliffs and runs up and down the natural contours of the coastal rocks. No cars are allowed withing the old city's walls. Walking is the only option here with stone steps running all over the place. There are only two ways into this walled city, and each gate swallows in hundreds of camera wielding tour groups. The high walls and narrow alleys serve to channel the throngs of people in a frustrating human river of sunblock and fanny packs. One local we befriended told us of the nightmare day when 9 cruise ships were docked at one time in Dubrovnik. We saw the affect that one ship had on the old walled town and were aghast at what she described. I shutter at the thought of having to view those people's photographs of the city, lots of heads obscuring every snapshot.


Contemporary history tested Dubrovnik's fortifications and its people's resolve during the Balkan War. In 1991, the Serbs laid siege to the city and lobbed over 2,000 artillery shells at this majestic place. The old city took quite a pounding. The walls held, and so did the will of the people. The Serbs were driven back after 8 months and the city was restored in a very professional and careful manor. The roofing tiles had to be replaced with newer, brighter versions. The ancient limestone that lined the walls and buildings also had to be replaced. The original quarries gave out long ago to contribute to structures like the Washington Monument ect. . . so the replacement stone bares a slightly new hue. This subtle contrast of colors seems fitting, like a scar to remind people of the recent past. War crimes tribunals are still going on in Bosnia / Hercegovina, Croatia and Serbia. One famous Croatian generals face was posted everywhere with the words, "herjo" below it. This icon of national pride was accused of killing many innocent Serbs and had to take flight. What kind of Hero has to run and hide from his own country?

The amount of languages spoken here is simply astounding. The polyglot waiters and restaurant owners were constantly trolling for customers using very specific bait. While the potential prey is still a few meters away, the experts cast a glance at the clothes, shoes, faces, body language and reel them in with the correct language (English, Italian, French, German, Polish). We never saw an incorrect guess. Historically, this city has been well established and as a result, welcomed many different kinds of people. Its location was crucial to most of the trade routes making their way from Venice onward to Greece, the Atlantic and the Black Sea. Among other things, Dubrovnik boasts one of the oldest Pharmacies and Synagogues in Europe.

We discovered a cafe that braved the elements outside the city walls facing the Adriatic. Stone steps wind down the cliff side to offer up refreshing drinks with fantastic views. We discovered the stairs meandered down further to the shore. The placid waters invite even the most timid swimmer. Looking back up all you can see is sheer rock melding into massive stone walls and then the big blue sky. The cliffs offered wonderful jumping stations and the locals and tourists reveled in the adrenaline fueled leap into the salty blue water. I was impressed by a group of little local girls leaping off the rocks again and again at heights of 25 feet. With the aid of some liquid courage, a hot sun and the fact that a 10 year old girl had just leaped from the same spot 15 times, I took the plunge. Once in the water, it was as if one were transported to another world. The cliffs tumble into the water and just drop off into the abyss beneath the surface. Countless schools of fish swam beneath the city walls with sublime rays of sunlight cutting through the water like it was a precious sapphire. I kept expecting David Attenborough's voice to suddenly start in about some unique needle fish found only in these tranquil waters. After swimming around the cliffs a bit and fighting the current, I reluctantly climbed back to shore and made the ascent back into the heart of the city one last time.

Croatia is a fantastic country offering a variety of beauty and charm. The people are very proud of what has become of their nation. Tourism keeps these islands busy and profitable. They are very keen on maintaining this harmony. Our interpretation of the Croatian culture comes across as working hard some of the time to ensure full enjoyment of the leisure time. This strategy pays off with happy people and a healthy outlook on life. We even managed to capture one local attempting to mix the work and leisure formula with limited success.


A few extra photos for your enjoyment:

July 25 - September 5th

Everywhere you look in London, something new is being built. Cranes dominate the skyline and resemble beanstalks growing up from the cracks in the street. One recent count from the panoramic view of the Tate Modern yielded over 35 crane towers. This city is really a unique blend of Christopher Wren's classical style, post-war concrete mistakes and contemporary glass and steel. Although the skyline is rather tame compared to other cities, the style and grace of some of these structures is very well balanced.


One would think airplanes racing above the river Thames would be a fabulous treat for a spectator. But leave it to a corporate entity like Red Bull to lease out and cordon off all public viewing space and charge exorbitant amounts of money for a grandstand ticket. Not to be out done by a sickening energy drink company (whose product, when mixed with Vodka is known as an 'instant asshole') we scoured and discovered a proper viewing spot on a bridge. It was packed shoulder to shoulder with beer drinking locals. So strange to see the cops standing right next to the natives who are pounding beers and just leaving the litter at their feet. Inspiring really. The planes were screaming in at 15 feet above the water flying slaloms between 9 meter tall inflatable cones . The stretch of river they chose to perform the areal acrobatics presented a hugely ironic twist. Located at the center of the course is the O2 Dome, a gigantic white tent with yellow towers poking out at a sixty degree angle. Basically, it looks like resulting offspring if the Denver International Airport had a reckless one night stand with a crane factory. This dome could not be a more formidable structure for aircraft. It literally resembles a fly trap for humans.

In England life really does orbit around the pub. So many of them seem to possess a dual themed name: The Anchor and Hope, the Horse and Coach, the Hand and Scepter, the Fox and Hounds. Almost all of them have an literal picture or symbol out front. The answer to this phenomenon had eluded me until I read that these names originate back to a time when the majority of the clientele were unable to read before they arrived at the pub. The more clear and distinct the sign was to represent pictorially, the easier the customers could remember and return. Strange to think about a whole society having to navigate around a massive city without the aide of literacy.

The commuting life has gradually taken hold of my instincts. There are unwritten rules one must follow which includes not talking on the phone while in the train car. This is obvious on the tube--where it does not work (but you are being bombarded with radiation from every passengers mobile still on and searching for a signal). Eating is usually kept to a minimum and when they do its pretty tidy and discreet. After the peak commute hours all bets are off. So often, a bus or train car is hijacked by little punks with a speakerphone setting on their mobile phone/mp3 player. The polite masses all suffer equally in total silence. For as much as the British love to gripe about the system (British Rail, National Insurance, the weather, the National Football team, Tim Hennman, the weather) no one does anything about the scourge of midday public transport . Much of this silence is just the cultural norm of pressing on in adverse conditions. But some of this silence stems from a fear of the dreaded "hoody". These packs of teenagers wearing hooded sweatshirts purposely board trains and buses looking for trouble (and almost always leave a trail of trash and beer cans behind). When a violent event occurs, the papers and news programs exacerbate the story and contribute to the fear. If these kids tried the same stunt in New York--they would definitely get a talking to.

My new favourite multi-meaning word in England is: Bollocks. Basically, it means 'balls' but not in the "of dough" or "of fire" [great] kind. This is the Anglo-speak for one's own testicles (Margaret Thatcher included, Tony Blair excluded). For example, one could be justified shouting, "bollocks" if one just realized they took the wrong train (again), or filled out a form incorrectly (yet again). Another use is to describe a person lecturing or dressing down another person. For instance, the form I may or may not have filled out correctly could then be used as a reason for the form's handler to, "give me a proper bollocking." Strangely, the third use of this word maintains its obliquely spherical reference, but puts a positive spin on things but in a non-human way. For example, as a co-worker was espousing the attributes of the brand new video game of FIFA soccer on Play Station 57, he said, "It's the dog's bollocks mate!" How does one version invade the lexicon as a way to vent frustration or denote negativity, yet another use likens a dog's testes as the paragon of cool? This causes me great distress, but then I remember reading about American dog owners who pay to have their post-castrated canine receive prosthetic . . .bollocks! Lets not forget the guys who hang a couple of billiards balls in a swimming cap and tie it to the back of their jacked up truck's trailer hitch (strangely, I see these trucks pulling out of Veterinary clinics all the time).

I recently had the honour of viewing the England vs. France Rugby match in a lively pub serving all-you-can-drink-andpayfor-beer. Were it a football (soccer) match, it would be called a 'friendly.' This being Rugby, it was a war. That being said, I am now a firm believer my friend's comment about Football (soccer) vs. Rugby, "Football is a gentleman's game played by thugs and Rugby is a thugs game played by gentlemen." The fans of the two games serve to prove this point. England has a rather infamous history of producing the sporting thugs known as "hooligans". These fanatics are devoted to deviance and disrespect. A watershed in the history of English football hooliganism was the Heysel disaster of 1985, in which a "charge" by Liverpool fans at rival Juventus supporters caused a wall to collapse, resulting in 39 deaths. English teams were banned from European club competitions until 1990. This is not to say that football is not fun to watch in the pubs, its just marked with a different reputation than that of Rugby. Rugby fans may drink as much or more, but they are really respectful and polite. It is truly electrifying to be in a packed pub and hear the whole place erupt in a passionate version of the national anthem. With the advantage of international competition, nations get to add pride and devotion to their resume. The States just gets to call a big baseball match a "world series" by beating up on some hockey rejects from Canada. It really is a shame that Football or Rugby will never be a huge success in the States. My own theory is that these two games share a similar Achilles heel: they operate on a continuous running clock. There is no huddle, planning strategy, chat with the coach . . . Think of all those commercial breaks that will never be shown! Baseball now has obnoxious advertising behind home plate, and I seem to remember Spiderman base pads during one playoff game? The corporate sponsors have weaseled themselves into the sports over here by pasting a logo on the uniforms. No one is safe. With the Rugby World Cup looming, the viewing, atmosphere and international competition will get fierce. Due up this Saturday is the inevitable spanking of the USA rugby team by way of England. I will sing Francis Scott Key's anthem with all my heart just for all of YOU! It being a Rugby match and not football, I will be joked at instead of spit on and beaten to a pulp.


Along with Rugby, the monetary superiority of the Pound Sterling versus the US dollar is also glaring. Thanks to a 2:1 ratio, there will be virtually no visitors for me over here. But here are a few things that may change your minds: We just got our street re-paved. New asphalt folks. Another would be that the Imperial pint carries a hefty 20 oz. while we Americans boast a skimpy 16oz. Think of that $10 dollars going to that extra 4 oz! Mmmmmm, drink it up! Usually it is the US that boasts something bigger and heavier. One of my favorite ways to sum up America's weight problem goes like this: One out of every three Americans weighs more than the other two combined. England is not entirely off the hook here. At least we measure our fat asses in one consistent (inferior) system. They still mix inches with millimeters (much to my profession's confusion). Weight is usually in kilograms, unless talking about personal weight. Most British adults can tell you exactly how many stones they weigh. A "stone" is the representation of 14 pounds--yet they are at a loss to tell you in pounds or kilos. Seems odd, but when you get to describe your personal heft as "twelve and a half" instead of hundred(s) who can blame them. My British friend knows his weight in stone, height in feet and inches, distance in kilometers, speed in mph, liquid by the litre and weeks by fortnights. He couldn't guess any equivalent measurement for the life of him.

We were lucky enough to be invited to a beautiful traditional English Wedding in the nearby countryside of Kent. The church was terribly old and festooned with well-dressed and mannered English wedding guests. The formula is virtually identical to the traditional American event, but with a bit more pomp and tradition thrown in and the church can collapse on your head at any moment. Most of the women sport some impressive hats with plumage galore. The men in the wedding party wear the penguin-tailed coats and fancy pin striped vests and trousers. Every guest has to be met by the bride and groom's family before the reception. This is taken care of in the form of a greeting line. The only thing I could think of was the beginning of a basketball game where they announce every one and high fives are passed around. I started to run out of things to say to all the strange faces, so I just stuck to a patented few and rotated every other person "such lovely weather" and "I like your hat."

Stay tuned for a special posting on our recent holiday to Croatia!