May 2009

Sometime in 2001, when I was working in San Antonio, Texas, I was viciously attacked on the streets. It was around 6:30 in the evening. After finishing work, I had head back to my hotel, had a quick shower. I was feeling particularly dapper that evening, so I put on a nice collared shirt of a light material, a pair of light khaki trousers and I slicked my hair back with a generous dab of hair gel.

Around 6:30 I headed out to go and get some dinner. I left my hotel, the Westin on West Market Street, and was heading east on Market when the first attack happened. I didn't see it coming. But suddenly, *SWOOSH*, something had grazed the top of my head.

I looked up to see a medium-sized bird swooping up into the air. It landed on a lamp post, looked down at me and squawked twice. "Did that bird just dive bomb me?" I asked myself, looking around quizzically. Everyone else on the street went about their business, oblivious to what had just happened. I looked back up at the lamp post. The bird looked down and squawked again.

I continued on my way. About 20 feet later, the damn bird came swooping down again and dragged his claws across the top of my head. Luckily back then (almost eight years ago now), I had a more robust head of hair, and the birds tiny (but no doubt razor sharp) claws failed to cut my skin.

The bird again flew up into the air and found a perch, where it looked down at me and screeched loudly. I looked at a couple of passerbys. "Did you see that," I asked. "That bird just attacked me, AGAIN. That bird is stalking me!" They nodded politely with strained smiles on their faces, then quickly looked away and hurried down the street.

I started to quicken my pace down the street, looking over my shoulder. The bird launched another sortie. I ducked, my hands above my head swinging wildly as the bird flew down, and buzzed above my head. "Damn bird, leave me alone," I shouted. A couple walking towards me on the sidewalk, quickly cast their eyes down and crossed the street. "That bird is attacking me, REPEATEDLY!" I shouted after them by way of an explanation.

I broke into a run, sprinting down Market Street. The bird came after me again, flying so close to my head that the combed-back hair on my head was brushed up and forwards over my forehead. I turned the corner and sprinted up Presa Street, screaming "leave me alone, stupid bird!" I think a woman might have shrieked in horror and children clung wide-eyed to their mothers' legs, but I was for the most part keeping my head down in an all-out run up the street.

The bird, wings spread and talons pointed menacingly forward, made another plunge at the soft skin my scalp. I stumbled and fell onto one knee. "Please stop! Please stop!" I pleaded with a voice-cracking yelp. The bird flew up and perched on a lamp post, I broke into a run across the street, looking over my shoulder.

I stumbled on the curb, and staggered helpless into the wall of the building across from me. I looked back. The bird remained perched atop the lamp post. He looked at me, and squawked triumphantly. I just stared at my nemesis, chest heaving, face streaked with sweat, shirt plastered to my back and a dirty scuff mark on my left knee.

"What do you want? Why are you doing this to me?" I cried out. A man and his girlfriend who had been walking towards me turned and headed the other way.

The bird had no answer except for "Caaawww!"

I retreated, slowly, inching my way along the wall, keeping my front turned towards the bird, my eyes on him. He made no more moves, just silently watched me from his perch on the lamp post high above the street. I reached Commerce Street, and broke into a run, not stopping until I was inside the air conditioned safety of the Rivercenter Mall.

I bring this story up today, because I saw on the News this morning that apparently birds single people out for attack. According to research done on mockingbirds by the University of Florida, "Research has shown that mockingbirds can remember the faces of people who venture too close to their nests and single them out for attack. Targeted individuals are dive-bombed and even have their heads grazed by the screeching birds, while nearby onlookers are left alone."

This is good news for me, because I think most people think I am crazy when I mention this story. Now I can point to this story and say, "see, the bird did stalk me!" I don't remember going close to the birds nest, but I might have accidentally. At the time, I was inclined to think that it had a problem with my hair gel. I stopped using that brand right after, and since then have kept my hair short and tried to use only lightly scented products on my hair, in case the more robust scents drive birds into a frenzy.

Of course, the story doesn't explain why it is since that time I have been repeatedly stalked by birds. I haven't been so blatantly attacked since that day in San Antonio, but often pigeons and other foul winged things seem to be flying directly for me. I often find myself having to duck and start moving in a (hopefully) defensive zig-zag pattern. Others I am with often point to the fact that pigeons just in general like to fly low to the ground and aren't necessarily targeting me, but I think they are wrong. I'm pretty sure the birds still have it out for me. I'm am sure that the birds have not forgiven me yet.

I know, I know. Know you think I'm crazy again. I think I need to contact those researchers in Florida and get them to do a follow up study on how a mockingbird in Texas will communicate transcontinentally to birds in England to continue to carry out his mission. I'm pretty sure they'll find that's true too!

While I am still having some trouble with mastering the English language as spoken by those who invented it, I am starting to feel more "European" than I previous did. In fact, last night - a Saturday night - I stayed in and watched on TV an important night of political unity for the continent.

Imagine that it is the late 1950s, and Western Europe continues to try and rebuild from the second world war, while being rent apart due to the growing threat from the Communist bloc. You, one of the political masters of Europe, think to yourself, "what can we do to bring together this continent in peace and love?" That is where the idea was born.

That last paragraph exists solely to give some gravitas to what I am about to announce. I stayed in on the partiest night of the weekend to watch a pop-song singing contest.

Eurovision!

Picture from the Times of the entrants from Romania, Greece and the UK

Eurovision is a national song contest that has been held every year since 1956 among the countries that are participants in the European Broadcasting Union. The 2009 contest featured a total of 42 countries. Each country presents one song and one artist to sing it. The populations of the EBU countries then get to vote which song they liked the best, though they are unable to vote for their own song. There are two semi-finals to whittle the entrants down to 25, and then they have a final, which is broadcast on TV.

This years contest was held in Moscow, Russia. The winner of the previous year's contest gets to host, and Russia had won last year with a song called "Believe." The former Soviet bloc countries have tended to do well of late, mostly blamed on "political voting blocs," where all the countries of the former Soviet empire all vote for each other. The scandal was enough to have the former UK host of the show, Terry Wogan quit in disgust and made the EBU scramble to change the voting this year to include a professionally judge component.

The contest has over the years attracted some big names, and is most famous for launching the career of a little group from Sweden called ABBA, who won the contest in 1974 with Waterloo. Less well known is the fact that Celine Dion, Canadian song bird somehow managed to win the contest in 1988, despite, you know, not being European and all.

As the countries are vying for popular votes, the songs tend to be pretty middle-of-the-road catchy pop songs, and to attract votes the presentation of the songs are usually very over the top. It is high camp, to be sure, and I found myself laughing out loud at the cheesy Euro-pop songs and singers at many points. But it is also good fun, and some of the songs are real toe-tappers.

The UK, after years of humiliating defeats pulled out the big guns this year, getting Diane Warren and Andrew Lloyd Webber to pen a song for reality TV show winner Jade Ewen. The song, called "It's My Time" was pretty standard Andrew Lloyd Webber fare, and if you are a fan of his, you probably would like the song. Personally, I thought it crap.

I was more impressed with Greece's entry from Ricky-Martin-She-Bangs-Alike Sakis Rouvas, who sung a song entitled "This is Our Night." It wasn't, though. Greece wound up in 7th. Many of the songs included statements about it being their night or our time or such. Wishful thinking for most of them.

The stage show highlights of the night came from two countries. Albania's entry from 17 year old Albania Idol winner Kejsi Tola entitled "Carry Me in Your Dreams" included dancing Oompa-Loompas on stage with giant smiles and a man dressed as a green disco mirror ball. It was truly a frightening scene. And Ukraine's Svetlana Loboda sang her song "Be My Valentine! (Anti-Crisis Girl)" with the help of Roman centurions dressed in sequins. The Ukraine song was kind of catchy, and was the only one that included a drum solo by the singer, so points for that.

The winner was Norway, with a mind-numbingly catchy song sung by a little pixie-faced boy with a fiddle named Alexander Rybak. The song, entitled "Fairytale" was the run away winner. It finished with the highest total ever - 387 points - and the highest margin of victory - 169 points ahead of its nearest competitor (the Taylor Swift like Yohanna from Iceland with "Is it True?" Yes, it's true, your country is bankrupt and you lost Eurovision! Double whammy.).

So, round one to Norway. There are still two more big contests for European Supremacy to come over the next few weeks, so stay tuned!

I figured coming to London would be a safe bet, language-wise. As I think I’ve stated before, all things being equal, I probably would have preferred to live in Paris over London, but the ease of getting a Visa for the United Kingdom married with the fact that I DO speak English and DON’T speak French made London seem like the logical choice.

After all, they speak the same language as me, right?

Well, kind of.

Sometimes the accents are really hard to understand, and I’ve already mentioned that Brits seem to have a tendency to clip the last sounds off words, in the words of the Polish bartender I was speaking with, “swallowing their words."

Beyond that, though, I’ve had to learn a whole new vocabulary since I’ve arrived here. In North America, I lived in an apartment with an elevator. In my parking garage was my car, with an engine under the hood and a snow scrapper in the trunk. When the trash can was full, I’d take out the trash. I used to take the subway to work.

Now, I live in a flat. Unlike my place in Toronto, it has no lift, so I have to walk up the stairs. Cars here have boots for luggage and bonnets cover the engine. When I am done with something, I bin my rubbish, before heading off to work on the tube.

Things that used to be singular in North America are plural here. Kids in North America learn math, here they learn maths. Conversely, here in London people eat five servings a day of fruit and veg, as opposed to the 5 servings of fruits and vegetables they eat in North America.

Truthfully, it felt a little weird at the beginning, calling my apartment a “flat,” my trash “rubbish,” asking people to open their trunks by calling them a “boot” and catching the “tube” instead of the subway.

After a while, though, I got used to it. Repeat something enough, and it starts to become second nature. Plus, most of my new vocabulary was just that, NEW vocabulary. They were words that had no particular relevance to the words they were replacing. The words may have had other meanings, for example in North America I used lift as a verb, now I use it as a noun as well, or flat was an adjective used to describe pancakes, now it is as used to describe the box I live in.

One switch I have really struggled with, though.

Look at this picture.

Which one are the pants?

If you said the denims, you are probably one of my North American friends. If you pointed to the boxer shorts and said, “those are the pants,” then you are from over this side of the pond.

I have not been able to make the switch to calling my underwear my pants, and my long, leg related clothing as jeans or trousers.

This can led to some embarrassing turns of phrase from me, if I say stuff like...

“Before we go out I want to change my pants.”

“I don’t think these pants are clean, they smell funny.”

“I have a big brown mark on my pants. I think it’s from when I was rolling around in the park earlier.”

For my North American friends, the translation as the Brits would hear those phrases.

“Before we go out I want to change my underwear.”

“I don’t think this underwear is clean, it smells funny.”

“I have a big brown mark on my underwear. I think it’s from when I was rolling around in the park earlier.”

Damn you, pants!