Events

Settling into my new home for the past couple of days, I have had to put up with a lot of noise from planes overhead. No, it's not short-haul flights to Europe from the London City Centre Airport that are buzzing over my house (though I do get those too), rather it is a bunch of dudes in single engine crop-dusters out to prove who is the best pilot.

Red Bull (the energy drink company) sponsors a series of events called the Red Bull Air Race. The London event was held August 2nd and 3rd, and it is the 5th in a series of 9 races this season.

The event is described in a few places as being like Formula One for airplanes, though given what I have seen of the event on TV and this weekend in person, it's probably closer to a Super G Slalom skiing event than a car race. Of course, given that Red Bull sponsors two teams in the Formula One and (as far as I know) 0 ski racers, I can understand why from a marketing perspective they probably went with the F1 connection.

The competitors fly aerobatic planes with small wingspans (8 m) and high top speeds up to 426 kph. The course in London consisted of 8 gates which the competitors must fly through 4 times.

The event is a ticketed event (of course), but as it takes place over the Thames River, there are still free places to view the action. I went out on the 2nd and watched part of the qualifying. Situated on the west bank of the Thames River near the bridge on Preston Road looking over towards the O2 Dome, I was able to see a couple of the gates, including the start and end gate.

The planes pass through the start and end gate three times - (1) to start, (2) to turn around and complete the course again and (3) to end. On the second pass through the gate, the planes do a half-loop, with a roll at the top to get themselves right-again in a move called a Half-Cuban Eight.

I snapped some shots, which don't quite capture the kinetic energy of the event, nor the noise, but hopefully still entertain.

For those of you interested in such things, American Kirby Chambliss won the London event. He was the 2006 champion, and with the win today, he is in second place overall in the standings.

Now, if you will excuse me, I am off to my local Sushi joint to see if they have a Half-Cuban Eight Roll on the menu. If not, I guess I will just get a Salmon Skin Roll.

Prologue: Injecting Some Glamour Into This Affaire Internationale

When I moved here, I was expecting my life to be, well glamourous, James Bond in a tuxedo sipping on Martinis, and so on. It hasn’t turned out that way so far. My move to Europe has been more like a cross between National Lampoon’s European Vacation and an episode of Coronation Street. So I have decide to inject some glamour into my life.

For that reason, On Sunday, July 13, 2008 at noon, I could be found at St. Pancras International train station, sipping on champagne at Europe’s longest champagne bar and getting ready to take the Eurostar to Paris, where I would check into the Renaissance Venodome for a few days of rest away from the pressures of finding jobs and places to live and such. In addition, I would be there to see the Bastille Day Celebrations, the national day of France which takes place every July 14th to celebrate the 1789 storming of the Bastille, a key event in the eventual march to independence and the creation of the Republic of France. While we know the day in English as Bastille Day, here in France they call it simply the Fête Nationale, the National Holiday.

For my friend Chris, I will mention that Bastille Day is also a ripping song by Canadian Rock Group Rush, but that is probably a whole other blog entry.

Chapter 1: Blame This Whole Thing on Paris

Ah, Paris, that beautiful city on the banks of the Seine. It’s really Paris’ fault that I moved here to Europe at all. Prior to coming to Paris for work in 2005, I was content to leave Europe to itself. Other than a 6 hour layover in Amsterdam on my way back from Tanzania, I hadn’t set foot on the continent. It probably says a lot about my feelings on visiting Europe that I choose to travel to South America and Africa before heading over there.

Frankly, prior to that 2005 trip, I always kind of considered Europe dull. It was the old world. Why bother with the old world when there was so much more interesting stuff to see? The new world, the dark continent, the Asian tiger! Now those were places that sounded exciting. The old world? The home country? Yawn.

Most of my experience in seeing Europe came from two sources: people’s slide shows of bus tours and Rick Steves. If ever there was a combination of sources of inspiration to inspire you NOT to go to the place, it was these two. Folks in darkened rooms saying, “Umm, so this was Tuesday in Venice. Here’s a nice shot of the grand canal. Ah, this is a funny one, here’s Edith feeding the pigeons. This one pigeon landed on her head!” All the while you try and not become hypnotised by the dust swirling in the projectors beam of light and try to stay awake. Then at home, you flip on PBS to find Rick Steves looking out a train window while his voice-over says, “the Swiss Alps have excellent train connections through them, and the trains are fast, reliable and frequent. You can even get food on board, as you see the crew and I sharing a few Swiss pastries.”

Not surprisingly, that sent me heading directly south from Toronto towards South America. I bounced around there for a couple months, landing eventually in Buenos Aires, the most “European” of the Latin American destinations. I hated it. It was old, in shambles, full of poor people digging through garbage while rich folks drove in Mercedes Benzes to fancy clubs with $US 9 cocktails. “If this is what Europe is like, they can keep it,” I thought.

Honestly, I did want to see Europe, eventually. It seemed like the kind of place to leave off until I was old, when sitting on a bus getting driven around Italy with a tour guide pointing to the left or right so you knew which way to point your camera.

Paris changed all that.

To start with, I don’t think I was entirely sold on the place. I was having a good enough time wandering around looking at the old buildings and historic monuments, and because I was there for work, doing it on someone else’s dime, but it wasn’t really grabbing my attention. “Nice enough place,” I thought, “I wonder how far I can get from here?”

It also says a lot about my impression of Europe that on knowing that I would be there for a few weeks, I planned a vacation at the end of it not to explore more of Europe, but to take a train to Asia. Other than a half a day in Brussels and a couple days in Moscow, I was ready to roll right out of Europe and leave it in my rear-view mirror as quickly as I could.

My Paris-Hong Kong rail trip was planned and booked before I spent any significant time in Paris. I’d only spent a week there before the tickets were all booked and the visa processing was underway.

Then I settled into, spending my days going to work, riding the metro back to my hotel and heading out for a bite to eat. This was the fall of 2005, which was beautiful, and I usually took the opportunity to sit outside on the Parisian patios and enjoy a nice dinner and a glass of beer.

That’s when I fell in love.

It wasn’t the old buildings that was impressive or the cobblestone streets or historic monuments that really grabbed me. It was the lifestyle. It was more relaxed and more urban than what I knew from home. Paris was a lively place, old couples and young families mixed on the streets with young singles out for a good time. We worked hard when we were in the office, but out on the streets at night, people just let time flow by. Dinner would take hours, but it didn’t matter, because people were together.

That started it. I don’t know if I even realized it at the time, but once I was back in North America, my mind would often wander to my time in Paris. It had infected me, and I wanted to experience more of that life.

So we can blame it on Paris. She intrigues, she pulls you in, makes you feel comfortable, makes you think this could be home. She is a beautiful woman.

Why else would a man quit his job, leave his life and family behind to travel over the ocean and start a new life than to chase after a beautiful woman?

Chapter 2: The Fish Out of Water Re-Submerses Himself In Paris

Check in for the train went quickly, and I passed through French customs without even a word from the border guard, just a stamp welcoming me to France, even though I was still in the basement of St. Pancras station.

20 minutes prior to departure, the train was ready for boarding. After a quick check of my boarding pass from a gate agent, I was up on the platform. After a quick glance up to admire the beautiful glass roof, I headed off to my carriage.

I boarded the train and grabbed my seat. The train seemed to be mainly filled with French folks, returning from a weekend in London. There were a few grubby backpacker types, which normally I would be, but as I was trying to inject some glamour into this trip, I had dressed up.

10 minutes prior to departure, and I had settled in to my window seat. My suitcase was stored above me, my book and bottles of water were tucked into the seatback in front of me, and my laptop bag was dashed away at my feet. I was ready to roll.

A young girl, probably about 15 was escorted on the train by one of the Eurostar attendants, and took the seat beside me. She stowed her larger bag above the seat, and then sat down. After a few minutes digging through her massive shoulder bag, she looked over at me.

“Vous etes Francis?” she asked.

I haven’t really spoken any French since my last trip to Paris in 2005, so I was a bit rusty. I needed some time to wrap my head around the phrase, so I stalled by saying, “huh?”

My stalling worked, because I finally translated the phrase in my head. She was asking me if I was French! I prepared my answer, “Non, je suis de Canada,” and was about to deliver it, but she beat me to it.

“Never mind, you are English,” she said, somewhat derisively.

Tail between my legs, I replied with a “Yup.”

“Can I ask from you a favour?” she said in thickly accented and halting English. “I want to watch my Dee-Vay-Dee Player, and I would like to sit at the window, for it has the... ummm...” she paused, searching for the word. I looked down to my left and saw the power plug.

“Power outlet,” I suggested. She smiled and nodded. So we switched seats, and I settled in again, this time to an aisle seat.

I was, however, not willing to let the somewhat insulting, “you are English,” go by without comment, though. After a minute of practizing the phrase in my head, I turned to her and said, “Je parle Francis...”

Before I could complete my phrase, “un peu,” a little, she pre-empted me and completed the phrase for me with, “un petite peu,” a very little. Ouch. She smiled and went back to her DVD.

The train took off. I kept my eye out for the partial constructed Statford station that will service the Olympic area in 2012. Not much to see except some platforms, as the train is in a ditch and the station is all above, and then settled into my book, “Playing for Pizza,” by John Grisham. It’s about an American football player that moves over to Italy to play in their professional American football league. A fish out of water story about a guy in a strange land who can’t speak the language. After my encounter with the girl with the Dee-Vay-Dee player, I wondered if I am about to get the same experience in Paris.

The ride over on the Eurostar was quick and mostly uneventful, though we did arrive 30 minutes behind schedule due, we were informed by an announcement in French-accented English, to “the train in front of us hitting an animal on the track.” For full effect, drop the “H” in hitting and pronounce the word animal as so, “an-e-mal.” Really quite charming.

We arrived at the crowded and dirty Paris Nord station, which looks pretty much as it did when I left from here in October of 2005 for my Paris to Hong Kong rail odyssey. That was the last time I was in the city, and must admit that I had missed it. I bought some Metro T+ single fare tickets, checked the map so I knew where I was going and walked outside the station. I sighed. It was good to be back.

My plan was to walk from Paris Nord to the Poissonieres Metro Stop, and then take the 7 train down to Pyramides and my hotel. In attempting to execute that plan, everything about my Paris experience came back to me. I got lost on way from Train station to Metro. Paris, redesigned famously by Baron Haussmann to include wide boulevards appropriate for strolling makes it a nice city to walk in, but Haussmans love of the traffic circle means that no street really runs straight, or for more than a few blocks, and so it’s easy to get lost. I probably walked further trying to find the metro station than the ride from Poissonieres to Pyramides, but eventually found the Metro and was on my way.

The hotel is beautiful. 5 stars, just two blocks from the Place de Concorde. I am given a nice room on the top floor, with French doors that open out onto a view of the street below.

Heading out on the first night for dinner, I notice there are lots of fancy cars with flags on them and police escorts. Originally I thought some EU function, but then I see cars whiz by with flags from Turkey and Lebanon on them. That’s not EU. What’s up in Paris? There is a Union of the Mediterranean conference in in town. Launched by the French head of state last year, the union “aims to strengthen and deepen the cooperation between both sides of the Mediterranean.”

My original thought that the conference was an EU function was based on more than just speculation, though. The presidency rotates every 6 months, and France has recently taken over the presidency of the EU. It is quite a big deal here. Everywhere I look, whenever I see the Bleu, Blanc and Rouge (the flag of France), I see a blue background with 12 yellow stars beside it (the flag of the EU).

To further celebrate the EU presidency, the National Assembly building on the south bank of the Seine is lit up with pictures and text celebrating Europe’s great accomplishments, ending with a note that there are 495 million Europeans. I wonder if I am included in that tally?

The Eiffel Tower, the symbol of Paris, is also in on the EU fever. The tower is being lit in blue at nights, with 12 yellow stars adorning her north side. An EU flag rendered in iron and rivets.

I grabbed a map of Paris from my hotel, and go out for a wander. Even with the map, without careful attention it is easy to get lost. The map is also quite confusing. In addition to the streets in all directions, there are metro stations every 2 blocks. There is no way that the map could fit all the names on, so the stations are marked on the map with a number and a symbol (circle or square), and there is a legend off in the corner to decode the numbers. It’s a task at times.

After wandering, I found a quiet looking restaurant on a corner that seemed appropriate for dinner. The menu was placed outside, written up on a chalk board. I was reading it over, translating the dishes in my head when the waitress approached.

She said something speedily in French, which I didn’t understand but would assume, based on what happened next, was the French equivalent of “are you eating or just here for drinks?”

Things were getting worse for me. At least on the Eurostar I eventually translated the phrase. This time, when faced with French, I froze, unable to even spurt out my usual, “I’m sorry, I only speak a little French.”

She said, “Anglais?”

“English, yes,” I said.

“I speak English too,” she said, a detectable American accent. “Are you here for drinks or to eat?” she asked, and thus I was able to put together what her original question in French had been.

Turns out the waitress was from California. She had done a semester in France, and after graduating had decided to move back. I asked where in California she was from, having a fair bit of familiarity with the Bay Area myself. “Los Angeles,” she replied. I cringed. No wonder she wanted to move to France.

We finally got down to the ordering. She brought over the chalk board with the menu. “Do you need me to go through this, or do you think you have it.”

“No, I read it better than I speak it,” I said.

“Or hear it,” she added, helpfully. Ouch, again.

I ordered a leg of duck in pepper sauce, and on her recommendation a 1/2 litre of white wine. Beautiful. With still a few glasses of wine left in my carafe after finishing dinner, I decided to get some desert, something I don’t normally do (despite what my gut might indicate to the contrary. That’s all beer in there, no desert). I was tempted by the chocolate mousse, but went with a cheese plate instead. I left the restaurant full and happy.

Walking along the streets, I came across this amazing little scene by the Palais Royale. It looks like a painting of Paris from the late 1800s, but was happening in 2008. That’s the amazing thing about Paris, is that it looks like a place stopped in time, but acts like a very modern city. All these modern people with their modern fashions and modern cars dropped into a city from the past. It’s truly a remarkable place to exist in, even for a few days.

I had to wander around for a few more hours. It gets dark here so late. Coming from Toronto, I like to think of Canada as the True North, Strong and Free. But really, Toronto is pretty far south, in line with the south of France. Places like London and Paris are much further North than my hometown, and so the sun is still in the sky at 10:00 at night here.

After snapping some photos of the Eiffel Tower lit up at night from the bridges across the Seine, I find my progress blocked by road closures. The flyer at the hotel had said that streets would start closing at 6 in the morning, but apparently the Police Nationale decided to start shutting them down around 10:30 at night.

I finally make it back to the hotel for midnight, and quickly fall into bed. My alarm is set for 7:45 tomorrow morning so I can get up and get a place to see the parade.

Chapter 3: The Military Might of France

That title isn’t a joke. I know, many people in North America will think it is. France doesn’t exactly have a reputation as being a military strong man, but it actually is. It is the largest force in Europe (by solider count) and the third largest cache of nuclear weapons, behind only America and Russia. France spends more on their Military than any other country in the world except for America.

The Fete Nationale is a chance to show it all off.

I left the hotel early and try and head the two blocks to the end of the parade route, only to discover that the police have blockaded most the streets, and I soon found myself working through a rat maze of blocked streets and police instructions until I find myself closer to the Arc de Triomphe than Place de Concorde and my hotel. Understandable, though, as Place de Concorde is where all the big-wigs sit, so they are keeping the unwashed masses as far away from them as possible. Though, one would think with the largest military force in Europe parading down the streets today, the leaders of the free world would be safe?

Anyway, no hard feelings on the parade herding, as I went through the same thing to see the Thanksgiving Day parade in New York City in 2006. It is typical of our times, I suppose. When I was a kid, you would show up at a parade and stand right on the curb. If you stepped out onto the street, one of the police man stationed every 50 feet or so would whistle at you to get back on the curb. Nowadays, its armed guards, barricades and standing back from the street.

Unfortunately for me, by the time I found a spot, I’d spent an hour following the maze in a slow moving crowd, and all the spots near the front are taken. I found myself watching the parade behind row upon row of heads in front of me. So as the foot soldiers, mounted calvary and mechanized calvary marched and rode and drove by, I didn’t see much of it.

I did manage to catch a glimpse of the President of France, Nicolas Sarkozy as he rode by on a troop inspection. He was standing in the back of a jeep, and frankly seemed more interested in waving to the crowds than actually inspecting his troops, but it was nice to get a smile and wave from the French President.

His wife Carla Bruni, was not with him.

France was nice enough to fly some of its most expensive military might right over my head, though, so I did get to see some of the parade. Planes, helicopters and even skydivers filled the air.

I captured some of it on film, and cut it together, resisting the urge to use the song “Danger Zone,” from Top Gun, I have set it to La Marseillaise, the National Anthem of France, recorded by David Zinman and the Baltimore Symphony Orchestra & Chorus.

About one minute in is some shots of the tanks. You can just barely see the heads of the soldiers as the tanks roll by. I included it more for the sound. It is deafening hearing them roll down the street, a real warfare of intimidation. I already had a lot of respect for that student in Tiananmen Square in 1989 who stood in front of the tank, but after hearing them today, that respect doubled. Frankly, the sound alone is enough to make you pee your pants and want to go hide.

Chapter 4: The Skies of Paris Are Alight

I had an easy afternoon of surfing the web, reading my book, watching some TV and having a bath (Shh, don’t tell anyone I’m a sissy). After having walked the entire length of the Champs Elysee in the morning I wanted to rest up, as I knew I would probably have another long walk to the Eiffel Tower that evening.

I headed out about 8:30 at night, and after a quick sandwich and beer at a cafe, headed into the Champ de Mars. At one end of the grand Boulevard there was a stage were musicians played to a large crowd. I didn’t recognize anyone except for James Blunt, who came out for a few songs. His appeal escapes me. He looks pained when he sings, and he sounds like a cat being wrung out.

Finally, the light started to fade and the anticipation built. Soon the skies would be on fire.

I moved from the main area and closer to the Eiffel tower to get the best view of the fireworks. Night fell, the speakers blared to life, and the show began.

Mostly I just stood and watched, moving around throughout the area to try and get the best view. Near the end of the show, I found myself standing just to the east of the Eiffel Tower, watching the fireworks explode through the open grid work of the tower. I tried filming it, but it was out-of-focus and the sound was a little choppy. I’ve included it anyway, as the last clip in the video below. As Pavoritti sings Nessun Dorma, the black lines that you criss crossing in front of the fireworks are the iron beams of the tower.

The sky lights up with white sparks as Pavoritti sings, “Dilegua, o notte. Tramontate, stelle. All’alba vincero, vincero, vincero!”

Vanish, o night!
Set, stars!
At daybreak, I shall win! I shall win! I SHALL WIN!

Vive la France.

Back on July 1st, 1867, the British colonies of Nova Scotia, New Brunswick, and the Province of Canada joined into a federation of four provinces (the Province of Canada being divided, in the process, into Ontario and Quebec) which henceforth would be known as the Dominion of Canada.

Now, the Queen of Canada Elizabeth the Second (who also happens to be the Queen of England) is our head of state, but since 1867 Canada has been outside the control of the British parliament (though there were some ties until the 1982 constitution was signed, which is so divisive to our country I won't get into at this time). Many folks, even Canadians, are not aware that our head of state is in fact the ruling Monarch, represented in Canada by the Governor General (currently Ms. Michaëlle Jean, a bilingual immigrant to Canada from Haiti).

Anyway, enough history, now more beer.

Moosehead is a Canadian beer which has a surprisingly strong presence internationally, as no one I know seems to drink it in Canada. However, I have found it in pubs in the United States, France and now England both in abundance of supply and well represented through various marketing efforts (small flags hanging from the ceiling, buxom bartenders in tight-fitting t-shirts, that sort of thing).

Anyway, the Moosehead marketing dollars were out in full force at the Maple Leaf Pub today, which is (self-proclaimed, though I can't dispute the claim) London's only Canadian Pub.

The Maple Leaf Pub is a pretty big deal on July 1. It used to be so big that they shut down Maiden's Lane to allow the party to spill out into the street, but like all things in London, that party was ruined by a stabbing, and so now the crowd is confined to inside the pub for Canada Day, with overflow being directed to the party at Trafalgar Square just a few blocks away.

Damn kids and their knives. PUT DOWN THE WEAPONS, BOYS, YOU ARE RUINING MY CHANCES TO DRINK!

Anyway, met a number of Canadians at the pub, and a few Canadians-for-a-day who managed to throw on some red and white and throw down a few pints.

And so we find me, 27 days into my life in London, already talking about life back in Canada.

Seriously, I had a few people ask me the same question today.

"Are you missing home?"

I had to answer the same way every time.

"I haven't been here long enough yet."

Ask me the same question next year. Maybe I will have a different answer.

It has been more than 2 months now since I last worked, and as such haven't had any reason to set an alarm to wake up. You get used to it, the sleeping until you feel like getting up. That's not to say that I am sleeping in until noon, at least not any more. I am usually up and about by eight or eight-thirty in the morning, so I am not a complete, lazy slug. I'm just not used to having to get up because an mechanical buzz tells me to, and so it was shocking to hear the alarm go off at six o'clock in the morning yesterday.

Hanging my feet over the side of my bed, I rubbed my eyes and wondered if it was worth it. "I could just go back to bed," I think. No, I decided, this event only happens once a year and when it rolls around next year I'll probably be too busy working to get a chance to go. So I stood up and headed to the shower to get ready for a day at the All England Lawn Tennis & Croquet Club to watch "The Championships, Wimbledon" known for those outside of London simply as Wimbledon.

Wimbledon is one of four major Tennis grand slam events and is the only one played on grass. Wimbledon is also the only grand slam that allows non-ticketed fans to line up to get tickets to centre court, court 1 and court 2 on the day of play. With only 500 seats for each court, however, you have to get up a lot earlier than I did. Specifically, you need to spend the night camping in Wimbledon park to get those tickets.

In addition to the 1500 or so tickets mentioned above, there are also 6000 ground passes given out every day. Ground passes allow you onto the ground and you can see any match at any of the other 16 courts (though only 14 were in play this year as they are building a new court # 2), as well as giving you the option to line up for standing room for Court 2.

This year, Wimbledon has instituted a queuing system to prevent "queue jumpers." Figures that if anyone was going to invent a better way to queue, it would be the British. But seriously, the queuing system is a lot like how some places do lining up for concert tickets - you arrive and are given a card showing your place in line. Those who get the premium court tickets get wrist bands as well.

Arriving at around 7:45 at Wimbledon park, I was number 3,890 in line, so no wrist band for me. I got was my queue card and "Guide to Queuing," a booklet that tells you how to line up (in case you didn't already know).

There was a group of 8 guys in line who had bags full of ice and cans Carlsberg beer, and 8:30 in the morning. I guess that's one way to have breakfast at Wimbledon. (Only North American's will probably get that joke).

Around 9:30 we started moving, the line snaking its way from Wimbledon park through the Wimbledon golf course, for the tournament in use as a car park and eventually over a bridge and up to the ticket office. £20 and about an hour and a half later, and I was in the grounds of Wimbledon.

Checking the schedule of play I saw that Canadian Frank Dancevic is playing American Bobby Reynolds on court 18, starting at noon. I took a quick wander around the site and grab a bite to eat before heading over and getting my seats. There is no reserved seating (save for a few seats for player's families and trainers) in the courts, so it's first come first serve. I got a seat one row back (there's only three rows) about 10 feet from centre court.

About 10 minutes before noon the ball boys and girls (ball kids? - what's politically correct here?), line judges and chair umpire come out and start getting ready for the match. I couldn't help but feel that in their jackets with the white striping, all the line judges and umpires look like people who lived in The Village from the freaky 1960s The Prisoner.

With a few minutes to go before noon, Frank Dancevic and Bobby Reynolds arrived and took their seats on the sidelines. The chair umpire looked up at the sky and frowns. Clouds were rolling in and there were drops of rain falling. He delayed starting the match to see what the weather would do.

Luckily the clouds pass without releasing their rain onto us, and play started just a few minutes behind schedule.

Canadian Frank Dancevic serving. Wild hair, no?

American Bobby Reynolds, getting ready to receive. He looks suspiciously like actor Ryan Gosling, but I knew it couldn't be because Ryan Gosling is Canadian, and wouldn't pose as an American tennis player, even if he is researching a role. In the foreground you see one of the ball-children... or is it ball-young-adults?

I was cheering for Frank Dancevic as he is Canadian, and was wishing I had a little Canadian flag to wave when an American woman sat down beside me. She obviously was going for the American, and brought out her little American flag to wave, which brought snickers from the British folks in the crowd. That made me glad I didn't have my flag.

Now it is here that I should probably make an admission. I don't know much about tennis. I know that between two and four people stand on opposite sides of a net and hit a ball back and forth using a racquet, which for the first 10 years of my life I thought was a toy that one used to simulate guitar playing when a cool song came on the radio. When the tennis balls are not being used, they can apparently be tossed in parks to make dogs run endlessly after them and tire themselves out.

I only knew that Frank Dancevic was Canadian because there was a little Canadian flag beside his name on the schedule of play, and on seeing that I seemed to vaguely recall his name being mentioned in sports broadcasts in Canada after they had covered hockey, baseball, basketball, football (both American and Canadian), soccer, lacrosse, auto racing, track and field, swimming, kayaking, skiing, tiddle-winks, competitive eating and contract bridge. But I never let my ignorance get in the way of my blind patriotism, so I was all out cheering for Dancevic.

Now, "all-out cheering" at tennis matches is a very subdued affair. It appears that mostly you get to say the phrase, "Come on, Frank" at points when play was not happening, and clapping politely at the end of a point if your man got the point. One time some guy said, "That's the way, Bobby," and I must admit I think I saw some raised eyebrows in the crowd, no doubt thinking that abandoning the tried and true "Come on, <insert name here>" was just not cricket.

The first few minutes of the first set Dancevic looked strong, but couldn't close. It's a good thing I had a basic understanding of the rules, because if I had formed an opinion of the rules based on Dancevic's play, I would have assumed that the point of the game is to get the other player out of position and then hit the ball into the net. However, Dancevic managed to settle down and won the first set.

During the second set at a pause in play he went and lay down on the sidelines.

"Kind of a strange time to have a rest," I thought. Turns out he had injured his left oblique, a muscle so mysterious they named it with a synonym of obscure. A trainer came out, sprayed some stuff on Frank's side and applied a bandage. Not sure why the bandage, perhaps it's like when you were a kid and you hurt your knee, your mom would put on a bandaid even if the skin wasn't broken, just to make you feel better.

Anyway, after that the match continued, but Dancevic didn't look the same, and after a tightly fought tie-break during the 2nd set which he lost, Frank lost the next two sets and the match 4-6, 7-6 (12-10), 6-4, 6-4.

Strangely, I probably know more about women's tennis than men's tennis. I think that has to do with the fabulous set of blonde clones coming out of the former soviet countries, who when not playing tennis seem to be on TV advertising expensive watches. As such, the next match I went to watch, which was already in progress, was between Russian Elena Dementieva and Italian Maria Elena Camerin. As the match was already in play and folks had staked out their seats, I had to watch from inglorious vantage points like through a hole in the fence or over a hedge. Given the youth and grace of the players, it made me feel a little like a dirty old man, peeping tom...

Camerin, who some drunks in the hedges with me kept cheering on with a chant of "CAMEROON," pronouncing it like the African country, always a popular chant during the FIFA World Cup.

Dementieva. Pretty.

After Dementeiva won, I decided to grab some food and try out a few of the traditions of Wimbeldon, specifically Pimms and Strawberries and Cream.

I'm not really sure what Pimm's is, but it was a brownish, cold liquid poured into a cup with ice, mint and a slide of lemon and lime. It tasted a little like cold tea. I don't mean iced tea. I mean hot tea that has gone cold. Like all strange, foreign foods I don't know, it was worth trying, and then it was worth switching over to beer.

It's only £3.80 for a pint of Grolsch. That's actually not too steep a price compared to the price of a pint in a nice bar in central London. I'm used to be gouged at sporting events. This price was just a small gash.

After finishing off my strawberries and cream, I took a wander around, taking in the sites.

The sun was beating down and I was starting to fear sun stroke, so I staked out a chair in one of the covered courts. The match in progress finished up and I looked at my order of play to see who was up next. "Oh, I know that name," I said, reading that Amelie Mauresmo from France was set to play at this court.

I watched most of the first set, which Mauresmo lost before going on to win 4-6, 6-1 and 6-1 over Virginia Ruano Pascual of Spain. I noticed that most people were doing what I was doing, hopping from match to match without really watching any one in full. Other than the Dancevic-Reynolds match, I didn't see any match from beginning to end.

I hopped in an out of a few more matches as the sun started to go down and the shadows started to get long.

I looked at my watch. 6:30 in the evening. I grabbed some food and a couple pints of Grolsch, and headed up onto the hill overlooking the big screen TV attached to court 1. For those of us with ground passes, this was really the only way to see the action on the main courts. When I arrived, Roger Federer was playing, and the Swiss fans were cheering loudly.

Federer won easily. The TV switched over to the match between David Ferrer and Igor Andreev. Along the bottom of the screen scrolled the notification:

Centre Court and Court 1 resale tickets are now available. The cost is £5 and the proceeds go to charity

Folks with tickets from the top courts who decide to leave can put their showcourt tickets back into circulation. In the evening, those inside the grounds can then buy these tickets at a low price to get a chance to see action on one of the big courts.

I thought about. After all, £5 is a small price to pay to get a chance to see one of the main courts at Wimbledon, even to just see the building.

I decided against it though. The sun was going down, leaving most of the All England Lawn Tennis & Croquet Club in shade, but it was still sunny on the hill. In front of me the action played out on the big screen, with the Centre Court building behind, and off in the distance a church steeple in Wimbledon. Off to my left I could see London - Westminster and the London Eye, "The City" with the Gherkin standing tall, the Docklands with the tall buildings at Canary Wharf and the four white stacks of the now defunct Battersea Power Station. Behind me a pond and water feature gurgled away.

Kids played in the grass, rolling down the hill. Young adults laughed and flirted as they drank their beers and Pimms. A couple of kids who worked on the grounds took a nap after a long day of work. Two couples grabbed a picnic table, brought out four glasses and a bottle of Champagne and uncorked it with a pop.

The sun was warm. The grass beneath my body was soft. My drinks were cold.

Nah, forget Centre Court. This was the place to be.

After yesterday's rain, I woke up to a gloriously sunny and warm day, Ganesh be praised. For while it was raining on the Formula one drivers in France and the hikers in Scotland (though, of course as he have already discussed, they are probably loving that), it was sunny here in London for the 40th version of the Rath Yatra parade.

Ratha Yatra is a major Hindu festival. The deities Jagannath (Krishna), Baladeva and Subhadra are taken on the day of the Rath festival through the streets so that everyone can have the fortune of seeing them. Three richly decorated chariots, resembling temple structures, are pulled through the streets. You can find out gobs more about the festival, if you are interested, by following this link: Ratha Jatra, the Festival of Chariots

The parade in London runs from Hyde Park to Trafalgar Square, and has been a fixture in London since 1969. I was surprised by the number of white people there dressed up to celebrate the Hindu gods, but then I remembered that the UK has a long connection with India, back to the days of the Raj, through to when the Beatles travelled to India and learned to play the sitar, and finally today when there is a large population of Hindu immigrants from India living, mixing, marrying and having babies with the white population. It should be no surprise then that some of the local (previously Christian) population has moved allegiances to the Hindu gods.

Here is a video that I put together of the day. It's my first attempt at video editing using iMovie. The audio isn't quite what I wanted it to be, but it'll have to do. Please enjoy.

Update Thursday, August 7, 2008:

A Youtube user named CopyCutNPaste put together a montage of a number of different videos of the Rathayatra parade, including some shots from mine (with my permission, of course). He calls me a devotee in the credits, which I am not, just an interested observer.

Anyway, if you want to check it out, there is about 10 minutes of footage there, only about 20 seconds or so of mine, so it's MOSTLY NEW CONTENT! (For those who are focused on me, like I am, my clips run from 4:58 to 5:35 (or so)).

Follow this link to Youtube to see the video of the 40th Rathayatra celebration in London.