Jul 2009

Call me my life
Call me call me any anytime
Call me for a ride
Call me call me for some overtime

This is a phone booth. Phone booths in London are very distinctive, because they are red, old fashioned looking and have pretty windows on the doors and side panels.

There primary purpose seems to be to hold these:

Ads for erotic escorts.

The phone booths do have handsets and receivers in them, but in a country where there are 118 mobile phones for every 100 people (per capita cell mobile phone ownership), I can’t imagine that the phone booths get much work. Mobile phones are ubiquitous here. Everyone has one.

I have seen people begging on the street for change while chatting away on a mobile. “...and so I says, ‘oy, mate, don’t you step on my jacket,’ and the guys says back at me... Oh, wait hang on a second will you... Hey mister, can you spare any change?”

It all makes me a little sorry for the phone booths. They used to be well used and practical, making them proud symbols of this country. Now they seem a little put out and neglected. Nothing but impotent showpieces for tourists to take snapshots with.

Even as a tourist, though, you won’t get very far without a mobile phone. A hotel around the corner from me has a sign up that says, “Hotel reception. If the door is locked, please ring 020 1111 1111.”

Kind of leaves you stranded if checking in late without a mobile phone.

I suppose if you were willing to hike a block away to the nearest booth, you could use one of the phone booths. If you have any trouble remembering the number of the hotel reception between the door and the phone booth, you could always take down one of the escort ads and jot down the number of the back.

There you go. Perhaps phone booths are more important than impotent.

Antony Gormley's Fourth Plinth art project is now running in London's Trafalgar Square. The One and Other project will see a different person standing on the plinth every hour for 24 hours a day for 100 days from 5 July to 14 October.

FYI, a plinth is the base or platform upon which a column, pedestal, statue, monument or structure rests. In Trafalgar Square there are four plinths on the corner of the square, though only three of them hold statues. The empty fourth plinth was meant to hold a statue of William IV, but due to lack of cash that statue was never built.

Nowadays it usually holds modern art. The most recent project is Antony Gormely's project, which sees regular people standing up there for an hour each. Some are doing actual arty stuff, while some are just up there for the heck of it.

I went down today and saw a woman standing on the plinth holding up a sign for the Citizen's Advise Bureau, an organisation that helps people with free advise on their rights.

People have to stand up there rain or shine, even in the middle of the night.

Last Saturday night, both my flatmates had disappeared for the evening and all my friends were busy, so I was on my own for the evening. I had been at home watching some TV, but got bored and decided to grab a quick drink round about 11 o’clock in the evening.

I wandered over to my “local” for a pint. A “local” is the term people use for the pub they usually frequent. I actually have a couple pubs that I call local. My favourite is actually further down the street past at least two other drinking holes, so technically it isn’t my “local,” but it is small and quirky and often has a very diverse crowd, which appeals to me. Unfortunately, it also closes at 11:00 PM, so last Saturday night I’d already missed the closing bell, so I went to my second favourite local, the pub right around the corner, The Thornhill Arms.

It is a proper looking pub with wobbly tables, stained stools and a few moth-eaten couches on which you can sometimes get a seat, which is all a plus. On the negative side, though is the fact that they do karaoke on Saturday nights. Last Saturday night was beautiful though, clear and warm, so I took my pint and grabbed a seat at one of the picnic tables on the pavement outside. Many other folks were also out enjoying the weather, and I happened to grab the last picnic table.

This picture is not actually The Thornhill Arms, but it has a picnic table and beer, so is illustrative of the concept. In fact, none of the pictures in this blog are of The Thornhill Arms, but they do have beer in them...

A few moments later three men wandered out of the pub, pints in hand, and asked if they could share the table with me. I nodded, and the gents sat down. We started talking, and it turns out they were from Ireland, in town for the weekend for a boozy weekend.

“Is there a strip club around here?” one of them asked me. I replied there was a dodgy looking one down by King’s Cross Station, about five minutes walk away. “Nothing closer?” he asked. I shook my head.

The weather must have put everyone in a joyous mood, because soon there was a lot of chatting with the tables on either side of us. I ended up talking to a Brazilian student who was studying here in London, while the Irishmen were getting directions to a nearby “spa” from two bemused women in their early twenties.

The bartender was a woman in her fifties. She came out of the bar and called out, “last orders, please!” I looked at my watch. It was almost midnight, closing time of The Thornhill Arms. I wandered into the pub to get another pint, surprised that the Irishmen had declined my offer to buy them a round. Apparently they had been drinking since 10 in the morning, and had finally become so saturated with alcohol they could take no more.

I returned to my picnic table, glad to escape the awful warble of a man attempting (but failing) to sing Cracklin’ Rose by Neil Diamond. The Irishmen were arguing amongst themselves whether to try and find the spa that the women at the other table had mentioned to them. Finally, one of them decided that he was off to find it regardless of what the others did, and as he was the one holding the card that had the address to their hotel, the other two were forced to follow.

I chatted a little more with the Brazilian student, but soon he and his party were off, and I was left alone. No matter, I had started the night alone and was fine with just sitting back, sipping my beer and enjoying the warmth of the night.

Finishing up, I must admit that it was so pleasant I decided another pint would hit the spot. Of course, the landlady had called last orders, which meant I missed my chance… Unless there was a chance of a lock-in!

The landlady was standing outside, saying goodnight to a couple of regulars. After they departed I wandered up.

“Any chance of one more?” I asked. The landlady shook her head. There would be no more beer for me that night.

I should have guessed that would happen. After all, the Thornhill Arms has no curtains, and curtains are absolutely required for the lock-in.

A lock-in is the term used when a pub keeps serving after closing time. Generally the publican will close and lock the doors, thus locking in the customers and giving the practice its name. The curtains are necessary because otherwise the police would be able to see that the pub is breaking its license and serving out of hours. With the curtains closed and the door locked, no one from the outside knows.

Usually a lock-in is an honour reserved for regulars, but a few times since I’ve arrived in London I’ve been included in a lock-in. I will refrain from naming the pubs (after all, it is illegal), but I will tell you about my first experience with the lock-in.

It was at a pub I was at back when I lived on the Isle of Dogs. At 11 o’clock the landlord walked over and shut the curtains and locked the door. He then walked back behind the bar, and kept on chatting to the two regulars sitting there.

I wasn’t quite sure what was happening. Was the pub closed and were we meant to leave? I continued to drink my beer and watched the behaviour of the other patrons, the two regulars at the bar and a threesome playing pool at the back of the pub. One of the pool players wandered up to the bar and ordered another round, so once I finished my beer, I figured I was safe to do the same.

The landlord served me without question, and I went back and took my seat, pleased to be included in this strange ritual. It was only much later when I discovered that this practice had a name, and the history of the lock-in. The lock-in dates back to World War I, when opening hours of pubs were changed to keep factory workers from getting too drunk to contribute to the war effort. The tradition continued after the war, and in most cases if things were kept low key, the police didn’t bother to break down the door and arrest everyone inside.

In 2003 the licensing laws in Britain were changed, and pubs and bars could continue to serve alcohol past 11 o’clock at night, depending on the conditions of the license the pub receives (thus why the Thornhill Arms was open until midnight last Saturday night). With this change, the practice of the lock-in apparently has diminished, though I can attest that it does occasionally still happen, as I experience in that pub in the Isle of Dogs.

After I had finished my beer, I decided to head home. The landlord came around from behind the bar and unlocked and opened the door to let me out. I walked out and he closed the door behind me. As I walked away I heard the lock click, the pub still with the three pool players, two regulars and the landlord downing their pints.

From July 8th through 10th the leaders of the G8 will be meeting in L'Aquila, Italy, hosted by embattled Italian Prime Minister Silvio Berlusconi. The G8 (the Group of Eight) is formed of eight key industrialised nations who meet to discuss issues of international importance and determine key international policies.

With this meeting comes a national shame for Canada, for I know that I will have conversations similar to the one below over the next few days with people here in the United Kingdom.

“Look, there’s a photo of the G8 leaders. Doesn’t Gordon Brown look like an idiot?” they will say.

“The man doesn’t take a great photo,” I will agree.

Pointing at the picture, they will say, “I heard that everyone is ignoring Berlusconi because of the sex scandal in Italy right now. Look at how far Merkel and Sarkozy are standing from him!”

“You’d think Silvio would be a better host, given all the parties he seems to be having for 18 year old models at his residences,” I’ll joke. We’ll all laugh.

“Medevev and Obama are in deep conversation in this photo. Probably talking about nuclear missile reductions,” my UK friends will reply.

Finally, they will point to the two last leaders. “That’s the PM of Japan,” they will say, pointing to the obviously Japanese guy.

Then will come the blow to my national pride. Pointing at the last man in the photo, they will say, “Who is that guy, did the caterer wander into the photo?”

I will reply, too quickly and loudly in a squeaky and hurt voice, “that’s the prime minister of Canada!”

“Oh,” they will say, nodding. “Jean Christian, right?”

My heart will drop with that. “No, Jean Chrétien used to be the Prime Minister. That is Stephen Harper. He’s a Conservative. He is the leader of the minority government.”

“Hmm, I see,” they will say, but they will have already stopped listening; having moved on to checking out the photos of Michelle Obama’s dresses.

I just have to learn to accept that nobody over here knows who the Prime Minister of Canada is. The G8 is made up of France, United States, United Kingdom, Russia, Germany, Japan, Italy, and Canada, though most folks would probably struggle in naming that last one, or its leader.

Everyone knows Obama, of course. I’d be hard not to, given his almost rock-star like status and constant media coverage. Even if McCain had won though, all the Europeans would still know who is the President of the USA. President of the USA is still the most important office in the world, despite the recent ascent of the BRIC nations.

The Brits can all name the European leaders as well. They are after all, part of the big union with them, and all are key trading partners with the UK. Over here we all know the Russian president too, because he keeps cutting off the gas that keeps our heating going in the winter.

Japan, well, I’m not actually convinced that anyone knows the Prime Minister’s name, but he’s easy to recognise because he isn’t a white guy.

Canada, though, always gets overlooked.

The G8 leaders in Germany in Taken on June 7, 2007, courtesy the White House. Canadian Prime Minister Stephen Harper is walking beside Tony Blair on the left of the photo. That the UK PM was pushed out to walk with the Canadian Prime Minister was no doubt a sign that he was on his way out. Blair was ousted as PM less than three weeks later.

This isn't a slight on Stephen Harper specifically, because I bet if Canadian Liberal leader Michael Ignatieff was PM, no one in Europe would know who he was either. Well, probably a couple disgruntled international students at Harvard would be thinking to themselves, "I can't believe that jerk-off Ignatieff who gave me D-minus in my Public Policy course is now Prime Minister of Canada. " The rest of the Europeans, though, would have no idea who he was. That's the place of Canada in the European consciousness today.

In fact, when the international group that would eventually morph into the G8 was first formed in 1975, there were only six of the present nations involved. Russia was excluded because, at the time, they were godless communists who kept threatening to nuke the other participants, which isn’t exactly the best way to make friends. Canada wasn’t included simply because no one thought to invite them. Feeling bad about forgetting his little neighbour to the north, the USA President Gerald Ford, who hosted the summit in 1976, invited Canada along. Once the other national leaders saw Canadian Prime Minister Trudeau show up, they shrugged and said, “Well, I guess if you are here now, you might as well join.” Thus the G6 became the G7.

It is only going to get more embarrassing for Canadians like me, I’m afraid. While Canada used to have one of the seven highest GDPs in the world, it has slipped behind Spain, China and Brazil recently. All three of those countries are lobbying to be included in the group, along with India, Mexico, South Africa and Egypt. If the G8 grows, no doubt our lowly Prime Minister will keep getting pushed to the outer fringes of the picture.

Years from now, when the G15 are meeting in Durban, South Africa or Goa, India, someone will no doubt point to a picture of the smiling leaders and say, “and who is that guy at the end beside the Mexican president? Did the caterer wander into the picture?”

I am an obsessive counter. Those of you who only know me through my blog might think me a right brain, creative type because I write. In reality though, I am probably more left brain, drawn to logic and maths, despite my inability to do simple sums in my head. This left brain logically streak combined with a touch of anal retentiveness leads me to want to count and categorize all that I see and do.

Combine this counting obsession with a love of travel, and you might not be surprised to learn that I have spreadsheets that track all manner of facts and figures about my various travels. I have spreadsheets that track and summarize where I worked and vacationed back to 2000, a list of dates of validity for the US work visas I have had, a spreadsheet and graph that tracks my time in the UK, dates and costs of hotel stays at a number of major chains, spreadsheets of dates and distances flown on all airlines and a recently created spreadsheet of every train trip I have taken since January 1, 2009 (88 trips totalling more than 127 hours and counting).

The majority of these spreadsheets and lists started out for practical purposes. The tracking of where I was working was for tax purposes, tracking how much I worked in each country and what that meant to the amount of income tax owed to various governments. The airline and hotel spreadsheets were to track my progress in their various rewards programs towards elite status and ensure I was being credited all the points I was due. The graph of time spent in the UK is to understand if I am going to meet the requirements to apply for “indefinite leave to remain” in the United Kingdom come 2013 when my current visa expires. The train trips… well, that one has no practical purpose except for my own pleasure.

Over time I have continued to track and maintain all these various lists even though I don’t require most of them any more. Again, I blame my anal-retentive streak for this, plus the fact that I actually consider it fun to play with Microsoft Excel. Despite owning a Macbook, this love of the spreadsheet most likely makes me the suited PC in those “I’m a Mac… and I’m a PC” ads.

With all this obsessive counting, you would think it would be easy for me to answer a question oft posed when one finds out I like to travel.

“How many countries have you been to?”

Ummm…

The answer is between 25 and 35 depending on what you mean by “been to.”

What does it mean to have “been to” a country? I’ve spent time in airports in Brazil and Belize, but never cleared customs or saw the outside of the airport, so do those count? Similarly, I spent an hour in a plane as it sat on the tarmac in Venezuela. I took the train across Poland and Belarus, saw the countryside passing by through my window, but I didn’t get off at a station in either of those countries. Can I really say I’ve been to Poland or Belarus? I have a stamp in my passport for Poland and a transit visa from Belarus, but other than the customs officials who boarded the train to give me that stamp, I haven’t met a Polish person in Poland or a Belarusian in Belarus yet.

Some frequent travellers have come up with definitions that they use when determining if they have “been” to a country. Some say you have to have slept in a place or at least done a number two in the local toilets. That would leave me striking Monaco off my list, as I spent a day there watching the Grand Prix, but neither spent the night nor sat on the porcelain throne while there.

Personally, I only count those countries where I have cleared customs (if they have such a thing), exited the train station, bus depot or airport and have either spent the night or done something of note. So Monaco counts because I watched the Grand Prix, which is of note, but Poland, Belarus, Brazil, Venezuela and Belize don’t count.

Right, so now we have a definition (or at least I have a definition) for having been to a country, what’s the answer to the question of how many countries I’ve been to?

Ummm… The answer is between 25 and 30, depending on what you mean by “country.”

My recent visit to Wales highlights this problem with counting. What is a country? It seems a simple answer, but its not. Wales is part of the United Kingdom, one of four component countries in the union, the others being England, Northern Ireland and Scotland. So, in having been to England and Wales, have I visited one country called the United Kingdom or two countries called England and Wales? The more nationalistic of the Welsh would no doubt tell you they are a separate country. Wales does have their own parliament now, but most major decisions are still made by the UK Parliament back in Westminster, London.

Also on my potential list of countries visited are also Hong Kong, Inner Mongolia and Zanzibar, all places that are part of a larger country (China for the first two, Tanzania for the last) but that practice some manner of self-government.

There are even explorer clubs (like the Travellers Century Club, as an example) that one can join once you have visited enough countries. Some of these clubs will define places like Prince Edward Island and Newfoundland in Canada or Hawaii in the USA as being separate countries for the purposes of counting even though they are in no way self-governed. They are considered countries simply because they are islands and thus harder to get to. Some places even consider Trinidad and Tobago as two separate countries for the purposes of counting.

The government of Canada has recognized Quebec as a “nation within Canada,” so I could probably throw that on my list as well. There is also a website I found where the owner counted his visit to the United Nations building in Geneva as a separate country, as the UN issues stamps, have ambassadors to it and officially the property isn’t Switzerland but is “International Territory.” I’ve been in the UN in New York, similarly a patch of international territory in the USA.

So, what do I personally count? I’ll include Hong Kong because it is very separate and distinct from China, but won’t include Inner Mongolia and Zanzibar as individual countries. Trinidad and Tobago are one on my list, and Newfoundland is part of Canada, as is Quebec (for now). Wales and England I’ll count as separate countries, but my visit to the United Nations in New York City, I’ll just count that as a trip to America.

Some of these distinctions are kind of fuzzy, I will admit. I’m not even sure I’m really comfortable in calling Wales a separate country from the UK. But what the heck, this is just a blog and I am only really counting for fun, so let’s call it so. Cymru is on my list.

So, how many countries have I been to?

With all those caveats, 27…

Though that number includes Canada and England, both of which I have lived in. Some country counters claim you can’t count the country you live in on your list of countries to which you’ve travelled. Then again, I visited England when I lived in Canada, and have visited Canada since moving to England, so perhaps I am safe in counting both.

Whew, this counting is harder than those math problems that start with “Bob boarded a train in Pennsylvania at 4:45 PM heading for New York at 103 mph. Jan boarded a train in New York headed for Pennsylvania at 5:03 PM, travelling at 125 mph.”

Oh, there is one more wrinkle that I haven’t personally come across yet, though if Quebec decides to leave Canada I would face. How do you count the countries you’ve been to if that country splits, merges or otherwise changes form after you’ve been there? For example, people who visited Czechoslovakia back when it exists, do they count 1 country from Czechoslovakia or 2 for the Czech Republic and Solvakia?

Now my brain is hurting.

Ah, sod it. Next time I hear the question…

“So, you like to travel. How many countries have you been to?”

…I think I will deflect the question, paraphrase Churchill and reply with, “Did you know it is improper to end a sentence with a proposition. That is the sort of bloody nonsense up with which I will not put.”

Me in a place I haven't really been. Minsk.