Inadequate Skylines

The cities of Chicago, Shanghai and Sydney all have two things in common for me. 

• Firstly, I have been to each of these places and witnessed truly magnificent skyline views at night. 
• Secondly, I have tried to catch each one of these night time views on my little compact digital camera (and failed miserably on each occasion)

I have come to the hard considered conclusion that the things I have seen will have to remain in my memory and not on my blog - and perhaps thats a good thing. It all too easy to spend your time when seeing something spectacular in the world, taking snaps rather than actually enjoying the event firsthand.

The most spectacular (purely because of scale and the complete absence of clouds) night skyline I have failed to capture on camera has to be Shanghai. Here is the best photo of a very poor bunch (I am sure that Kerry or Dan from AllThatComesWithIt who were there with their SLR can beat this one):

Here is one I took of another fantastically clear night in Chicago in 2006... actually that is a complete lie, my colleague Mike took it and I 'borrowed' the photo as my camera wasn't quite up to the job (or I didn't know how to work it properly). I really like the foreground on this one, and the fact it is a little imperfect:

The reason for all of this random gibbering, is that last night Lucy and I went to watch the New Years Eve fireworks celebration in Sydney at Cremorne point. And boy was it busy! We turned up at 9am, and the only place left to pitch our blanket and cool-box was on  45 degree slope in the full heat of the sun as people had been setting up camp for days beforehand. Throughout the day, the place got gradually more and more busy (at what we thought would be a quiet vantage point), a ferried kept shipping more and more people in. The queues for the toilets were 40 minutes long, and people were camped out everywhere. 

Anyway, to the point. After a long day of sunburn and JD and coke (we didn't have a bottle opener for the beer), the fireworks were absolutely spectacular, as was Sydney Harbour. It is really something you can only appreciate first hand, particularly the huge day-long build up and the busy atmosphere. Some of my best photos (of a poor bunch) are below (in their raw form at present - soon to be photoshopped), and they look good, but I couldn't even get any kind of an image of the Opera house and the bridge both of which were spectactularly lit up.

The Blue Mountains

We went to the Blue Mountains this week, for a little bit of escape from the city and I have to say I was a little disappointed. Walking in the Blue Mountains is something I had been looking forward to for months. It wasn't that the scenery wasn't impressive, because it was, deep ravines, exotic birds everywhere and amazing flora I had never really seen before. the reason I was disappointed was because I never really felt like I had left the city. In fact it felt like the Blue Mountains is an extension of the city. Every walk is covered in carved stone steps, every slight slope has enormous steel railings concreted into the floor to make sure you don't slip. I think there would be national outcry if they did this in the Peak District. I think maybe we'll try to get a little further afield the next time.

The Blue Mountains are strange to me, as you begin your hikes from the top of the hills and work your way down into the ravines. The day was pretty overcast, so none of my photos were particularly spectacular - but here are a couple of the best (with railings edited out):

The Three Sisters:

Ravine on the "Grand Canyon" Trail

Birds of My Balcony

This is probably really boring mundane stuff to Aussies, but over the last couple of days we have had a number of visitors to our balcony (and we're not used to it!). So we have been birdwatching Bill Oddie Style and have seen:

Daffydd the Noisy Miner (actually there are several noisy miners - but we just pretend they are the same one) 

Larry and Lorry the Rainbow Lorikeets (these are Lucy's names by the way - she wanted to call her hamster Hammy the Hamster)

Damien, the Harbinger of Death.

And of course, Bruce the Laughing Kookaburra.

Ah the Nook

Today is Christmas Eve evening. Its 24 degrees C according to my computer (not so hot for Sydney). I have spent the day bathing in sunshine (and buying a fridge). But I have to say that for all the bikini clad girls and suntans in the world, it doesn't yet feel like Christmas. It might be the lack of freezing cold weather, it might be the absence of 8 hour traffic queues on the M1, or it might be the fact that I haven't bought my Christmas presents yet - but it doesn't quite feel like Christmas.

After some thought today, I have come to realise what it is that my life is missing. What I need to complete that Christmas circle. Its at times like this that I long for that great Holmfirth institution ... the Nook!

For those not in the know, the Nook (aka the Rose and Crown) is a bit of a Yorkshire legend. And here it is for your delectation in all its glory (don't get too overwhelmed, it actually looks a lot grottier than this in real life):

As a baby, I spent many an hour here (apparently) wedged under one of the scarred, battered and beer stained wooden benches, happily sleeping away whilst my parents supped on the glorious (filtered back) real ale. Ah the sweet nectar!

When I was a small child, I vividly remember my first sip of beer (in the Nook, where the pool room now stands). How I hated the vile fiery liquid (if only it had stayed that way - I would be a millionaire!).

During my teenage years, my Dad abandoned the Nook, claiming that it had been lost to undesirable local druggies and underage drinkers, reminiscing about the time that the Nook was the only place around where you would see a workman in his scruffy overalls sitting next to an accountant (or more probably an alcoholic).

At this point in the story alter egos will be assumed to preserve annonymity.

During my underage drinking years, the Nook became a haven. A place where my obligatory friend (lets call him "The Artist", the one that had more facial hair than the rest of us) could get served, whilst the rest of us cowered in the corner for fear of discovery. There is even a facebook group dedicated to those who had their first ever alcoholic beverage in the smoke filled air of that great building.

Eventually, as we came of age another of my good friends (lets call him "The Nurse" (followed years later by "The Artist") got a job there and spent 3 years observing the fruit machines (reading the fruit machine manuals) and emptying them of their wares at the end of the night, and we spent 3 years trying to empty the bar for free. Those were the good years!

Now the Nook is much as it was. The management has cleaned up the clientele significantly, though you can still find some of the underage drinkers chancing their luck. Over the bar hangs a cast iron rotating spirits dispenser that my Dad made for the place when he used to own a blacksmiths shop back in the 80s and that "The Nurse" used to complain about regularly for releasing Captain Morgans all over his head (I believe there is still a poker by one of the open fires made by him too). It still smell of stale beer and Seabrooks Crisps.

If you go there when its not busy, there is always a dog or two to pet, and a pickled onion or bag of pork scratchings  behind the bar for sampling (as well a some good real ale).

We tend not to frequent the place much nowadays as the gang and I are scattered across the globe, except at those times when we are all back in the 'firth, such as Christmas Eve. Hence the nostalgia.

Around about this time on Christmas Eve, we would be gathering (The Nurse, The Artist, The Rock Star, the Sergeant Major, The City Worker and I) - the only time that I can walk into a pub and expect a drink on the table waiting (assuming I am not first) for me. We would spend some time discussing how events over the last year had transpired. The conversation would go a little like this: 

"Alright mate?"

"Yeah, I got you a pint of Kronenburg"

"Cheers [drinks] ... its Carlsberg isn't it?"

"Yeah ... its cheaper"

This has always perplexed my other half who always asks me about how my friends are getting on, and about their relationships. I always answer - I have no idea about their relationships. I still don't understand why she would expect us to discuss all of that boring rubbish, when we still haven't concluded the argument on whether 50 midgets would beat a lion in a fight?

We would then proceed to spend most of the night avoiding people we went to school with. Either those who had never left the town, telling you how there was no point in leaving Holmfirth as there is nothing out there (always reminds me of the Arctic Monkeys song "Vampires", or some boring idiot telling you about successful they are as a London Banker and how you could never possible earn as much as they do (why do these guys think that you care?). 

Then we would get slowly drunk, do the beer salute (demonstrated kindly by the Rock Star - below) a few times, and stumble home, swearing at the local Indian Takeway which astonishingly isn't open at 3am on Christmas day (which we alway forget from the previous year).

Unfortunately tonight, I will have to make do with Coopers Pale Ale, Bundaberg Rum and coke, and watching the sunset whilst the boats manouvre around Sydney harbour with the lovely Lucy.... I guess its not so bad.

 

P.s. I did have a picture of all of the Rock Star, the Nurse, and the One That Got Away all pulling moonies in the Nook doorway, but I thought it a bit blue for publication.

Park at 60 Degree Angle

I started my first first week at work this week just gone, and immediately discovered that all of my pre-conceived British stereotypes of the Australian way of working are completely wrong. The pace of life of Sydney is certainly a little slower than that of the UK, but in terms of Aussie working being laid back - it certainly doesn't seem to be! Where us Brits - we love to queue; the Australians - they love rules and regulations.

I've had a few experiences of this over the past couple of weeks - from the way that the people drive so slowly, and no-one EVER breaks the really slow speed limits. The other day, my bus driver had a massive tirade of beeping and swearing at  car driver who had parked in a bus stop. As the driver drove off I heard the bus driver say "and he didn't even indicate at the roundabout UNBELIEVABLE! That's FOUR traffic offenses I've seen .... and the police, they do nothing you know! If I could hit him I would!" Personally - I was considering calling in a SWAT team. 

And you don't have to worry about what angle to apply to you parking here (or whether you should go in forward or backwards) - because the signs tell you what to do. 

I terms of climate change policies for business you can apply the same principles; those of Australia vary vastly from those of the UK (which will take some getting used to): 

The UK government apply what I would term a 'stick disguised as a carrot' philosophy - i.e. they create rules and regulations (and extra tax) which affect the cost of energy for businesses, which then get hit in the pocket and have to do something about the way they use it in order to make financial savings (or that's the theory).

The Australian have extremely cheap energy (due to the abundance of coal), and are extremely scared to do anything about this (as it has been an attraction for business moving to the country for many years). Consider this - when a Brit uses a unit of electricity, they produce 0.43kg CO2 per kWh (due to the current energy generation mix i.e. natural gas, nuclear, coal). When an Aussie uses a unit of electricity, they can produce way over 1kg CO2 per kWh depending on what state they are in.

The Australian government therefore apply a "stick disguised as a stick philosophy" - whereby they create masses and masses of regulation which require companies to prove that they have all kinds of energy management processes in place, and have to undertake all kinds of assessments and audits. The Australians love detail, and wont do anything without comprehensive cost benefit reviews to the nth degree so they take great care in completing these assessments.

Of course - if you applied any such onerous regulatory controls to a British company - they would just say 'what you going to do if I don't to this?', and would weigh the penalties for non-compliance up against the cost of actually doing it.

Whether the Australian approach has merit - I have yet to discover.

p.s. sorry for boring uninterested people - this probably just interests me.

The Kookaburra Laughs

When I was young, I remember listening repeatedly to an old tape of Australian folk songs. I'm not sure whether this was enforced, or whether this was through my own choice. One of the tunes I best remember is the Kookaburra song (my family will hopefully help me with the titles of the other songs which have since escaped my memory), which is a bit of an Australian institution.

The reason I am reminded of this is because this morning, I awoke to the sound of what I believed to be a gaggle of rampaging monkeys, escaped from the nearby Taronga Zoo intent on slaughter. Then I saw this enormous bird perched on our balcony. "Come quick!", I shouted. "I think we have some king of bald eagle perched on our balcony!" After some work on google, the reality (disappointingly) is that we seem to have adopted one of the neighbourhood Laughing Kookaburras. If you click on the link and go to the Kookaburra clip, you will understand the confusion (with the monkeys, not with the eagle - that was just stupidity).

Lucy wants to name the little chap Percy, but I think that Barry is a much more fitting name:

I have to report that we have finally managed to sort out something that resembles a living room, and importantly we managed to achieve all this on a shoestring budget whilst still managing to color co-ordinate the place with my new Mac-book. 

Mr (storm trooper) Potato Head is certainly very happy with the results:

All is going well, Lucy spends her days walking the streets of Mosman looking for nic-nacs while I work my new job (I'm hopefully going to write a big post on this tomorrow).

Posing with Ute

Lucy finally arrived in Sydney on Thursday after  huge build up. For the first time, I was one of those people waiting in the arrival lounge nervously moving my head from one side to the other to cover both of the possible exits she could take. But when she got here, it was all worthwhile, I almost couldn't believe that she was finally here (and she brought duty free Tobelerone - the snack of the gods!). And she didn't complain too much about the apartment with no furniture (or a fridge) in (although she did try to introduce some floral patterning which didn't go down too well. 

 A trip to Swedish hell (otherwise known as Ikea) saw that we instantly fell back into our old ways. Its so good to have her here.

I was reading Jerry Chicken's blog recently who (in between spinning Christmas tunes) has been writing bout his upbringing in Burley in Leeds (co-incidentally where I used to live) and his thrifty Yorkshire Dad who refused to throw anything away and was a sucker for a bargain.

I was reminded of this on Friday night when, after returning from a nice dinner (Lucy in a beautiful dress), we struggled about a quarter of a mile down the road to my apartment with quite a large fridge freezer at round 10 o'clock at night. 

In Sydney, there are a lot of migrants and temporary workers, and as most of the apartments and flats remain unfurnished there is a lot of furniture moving around to be done. Many people, a they move out of their apartments, simply leave their items on the front lawn of the property for anyone who wants it to pick it up (although I was slightly unsure of this at the time).

So as we carried the fridge down the road (that we had tentatively abducted from outside a neighbours house), our forearms killing us and Lucy complaining of a near terminal full bladder, I was kind of unsure as to whether we were stealing it, and also praying to the lord that the damn thing would work. It took us quite a long time to manouvre the thing in the dark, up the two flights of stairs (without annoying the grumpy old man downstairs) to the apartment, but we succeeded (although n

ot without swearing).

Anyway. The fridge doesn't work. So now I am left with the moral dilemma of whether I should leave the stupid thing outside for someone else to make the same mistake. Or whether I should pay to dispose of it properly.

In other news, I drove a Ute for the second time. This left me feeling exceptionally Australian and manly. See below Lucy posing with Ute:

Random Review

Taking what is essentially a two month holiday has allowed me a lot of time. Time to think, time to look inside myself and to re-evaluate my life. As I was unhappy with what I found, I decided that I should spend my time reading a bunch of books.

I have no real knowledge of literature (I am just starting this thing), but because I have nothing else to blog about) - I have decided to have a little review slot (also copy-catting my brothers Saturday review which I am slightly ashamed about). In typical RCWR style, I will do no research about bestsellers lists or other reviews, so I will tell you nothing you couldn't find out through a simple google search, and nothing will be up to date.

 

Like the sound of that? Read on.

7 Years in Tibet, Heinrich Harrer (1952)

Since my trip to China in 2005, I have had a mild interest in Chinese history (the trip was one which inspired my desire to see south east Asia). I have constantly been going on about wanting to go visit Tibet and do some trekking through the mountains (another of my new found likings). A guy I used to live with suggested I have a look at '7 Years in Tibet', a book made famous by the 1997 Brad Pitt movie of the same name. It took me some time to track down the book in bookshops (partially because I forgot the authors name), but once i did, I saved it for my Indonesia trip.

The book is hard going for the first part, the author makes the written excuse in his introduction that he is not a writer, and it tells in his writing style (it is also translated from German). It tells the story of Heinrich Harrer, a mountaineering and ski champion of some repute from Carinthia, Austria. In 1949 Heinrich is caught in India (on a mountaineering trip) at the onset of the second world war. His primary fear being captivity, he decides to make his escape from the British PoW camp and after being re-captured twice, he made it to the Himalayas, and eventually to Tibet.

His story really takes off when he talks of the months of hard trekking through inhospitable lands, and the years he spent trying to get Tibet to accept him into the country. However what really inspires is the story of becoming the fried of the Dali Llama, and learning of Tibetan politics and society. He accompanies the Dali Llama into exile from Tibet during the Red Chinese invasion, and goes on to be instrumental in raising global awareness of the plight of the insular Tibetan people on a global scale. 

The vivid and pragmatic depiction of the untouched Tibetan race (before the Chinese cultural revolution in which 1.2 million Tibetans lost their lives) is what has made this one of my favourite books. I can really recommend this.

Rating: 4 1/2 Rabbit Raisins

Mao's Last Dancer (2003)

Continuing the Chinese theme, this was a book that I had no prior knowledge of, and I spotted on an Australian bestsellers list. Another autobiography, this book tells the story of Li Cunxin, a peasant boy living in poverty in the 60's China. The book tells of how his peasant life is affected by the politics of Mao's revolution, how he grew up to love Mao and his policies although he descended into deeper and deeper poverty and starvation. Eventually he was randomly plucked from that poverty by the Chinese government (on the basis of his flexible limbs) who were looking for candidates to attend Madame Mao's dance school, and compete on a world stage.

He works hard, knowing it is his only chance to lift his family out of poverty and build a better life for himself, and upon the death of Mao and the beginning of a new open door policy he becomes one of the first Chinese people to leave the country. Upon leaving, he discovers that all he was told about the 'impoverished west' was fabricated and he uses his dancing as a means to gain freedom from the communist regime.

This book is written exceptionally well and is unputdownable for somebody keen to learn about Chinese peasant culture, and Mao's cultural revolution from the inside. One of my favourite self explanatory quotes echoes a sentiment given to me by a Chinese tour guide 'Oscar' when I was over there in 2005: "I often shed sympathetic tears and I felt even more grateful for the life that Chairman Mao had given us. If our life was heavenly, then these poor 

children's lives in America must be hell indeed."  

Rating: 4 Rabbit Raisins

Bridge over the River Ottawa

This is a bridge over the river that separates Quebec from Ontario (a photo that I took). Nuff said.

The Importance of Being Bald

About a year ago, I was on a staff night out with my boss (a very interesting character - I may post on him later), when we got into talking about ages. I vividly remember him saying something to me along the lines of "you've got plenty of time to get some more experience, what are you? 28 years old?". At the time I had to remind him, that I was in fact 25, and that in fact he had seen my CV and  therefore should know my age, and that in fact we had been working together for three years and he should know it anyway, and anyway - do I look 28?!

Since then I have never been able to figure out whether being mistaken for a much older age, is an insult or not. In a professional capacity, I guess it is not all bad - people assume you have much more experience than you do, and they give you a lot more respect than perhaps you deserve. 

On a personal level, it is much more insulting. Such as when I first met Lucy's friends, and they said to her afterwards "Wow, we cant believe you are going out with such an older guy", to which she replied "Not that much older - how old do you think he is?". Turns out they thought I was well into my 30's!

"It is because you are so much more mature and grown up than them" says Lucy. 

"Its not fair!" I squealed and ran up to my room, slamming my door.

The reason this has entered my mind is because of a conversation I had with an engineer at the steel works near Montreal, I was working at today. 

Engineer: "Do you have kids?"

Me: "Nooo!"

Engineer: "You don't sound too keen o the idea?"

Me: "I'm way too young for that kind of carry on!"

Engineer: "What are you? 35?"

Me: "A little younger than that!" Embarrassed to give my real age in an effort to not lose respect.

Engineer: "Oh. I'm 35. I guess you look a little older because you ... err ... shave your head"

Me: "WHAT? I'LL HAVE YOU RIGHT NOW YOU BALDIST SWINE!!"

(Actually I didn't make that last comment. But I am sitting here wishing I did!)

I know they say that baldness comes from your mothers side, but they all have a full head of hair, and my Dad is bald as a coot. My theory is that some past member of my dad's side of the family sold his soul to the devil and his descendants are still paying the penance in hair loss!

When Sam met Lucy (Part 2)

Part 1 can be found here.

In my usual manner, after having a quick look around the place - I made a beeline for the bar. As was usual for Mark, he made a beeline for the nearest single looking girl. If I remember correctly the offer at the time (there always has to be an offer in a student nightclub) was some kind of 3 for 2 on vodka red-bull as advertised on a scrawled chalk board on the bar. Being a Yorkshireman at heart, I could hardly pass up the offer, despite the fact that I didn't particularly like vodka... or redbull, and there weren't three of us.

I pushed my way to the bar, trying without success to use my 'older guy' stare to intimidate the sweaty students 3 deep at the bar into moving aside. Abandoning this I opted for the elbows in tactic of trying to get one elbow on the beer sodden bar surface and wriggle my way to the front. I remember it taking quite a few minutes to get my three plastic cups of delicious vodka and chemicals, designed to make you hyper and drunk at the same time (not a good idea). I grasped my reward for my patience in two hands, and turned back into the dance floor trying to locate my absent friend. There he was, over by the DJ booth, already deep in 'conversation' with a particularly young looking (they all look young to me) student girl.

'Oh well', I thought to myself, finding somewhere to lean, and chugging back the first of my three drinks. 'All the more for me.'

That when it happened. This extremely cute girl with beautiful blond hair came up to me, low cut top full of attitude and with a bright smiling face which drew me in from the very first moment. 

'Don't you know you aren't allowed to have two drinks in your hands at the same time? Its the rules.' she said.

'You going to buy me a drink if I can neck them both?' I replied. (at this deluded point in my life, I still thought that I might be able to impress girls with my ability to consume vast amounts of alcohol).

I smiled without waiting for an answer, shrugged my shoulders and putting on my best 'this is easy' face, I quickly drank both of the remaining disgusting drinks one by one .  She seemed like my kind of girl already.

'What's you name?' I asked. 

'Lucy,' she replied. 

'Hi Lisa, I'm Sam' I said. At this point the base was reverberating right through me, and I couldn't actually hear anything I was saying - let alone what she was saying.

After getting the names right some time later, I intimated that she was now indebted to me and that she owed me a drink, but being the gentleman that I am, I would go to the bar and get her some shots of tequila (presumably to get her drunk in a gentlemanly manner). Which I did.

We talked and she danced (I attempted to dance), and quickly became embroiled in each other. She was witty and flirty and had incredible big brown eyes. When she smiled or laughed her face seemed to shine in a way that moved me. Some time passed, I have no idea how much and we never ran out of things to talk about, though I struggle to remember what. 

She was worried about where her friends were but they eventually found us, as did Mark who had lost his student girl and was now trying to engage us in some kind of dance-off which we found so amusing (still do). 

I think it was when Mark was involved in one of his crazy dance moves when one of the overly aggressive bouncers barged past him on his way to some other incident. The club seemed a little emptier and quieter at this point, perhaps it was getting late. 'Watch it mate' shouted Mark at a clearly audible level to the bouncer (though mark didn't realise he worked there). The bouncer moved on, and Mark went back to his dancing, and I went back to talking to Lucy.

That was until a few minutes later, when Lucy said to me 'Is that your friend', pointing to some guy who was literally being bundled head first out of the fire escape, down some particularly nasty looking concrete stairs about 20 feet from where we were standing.

'Yeah', I replied. 'I think he is being thrown out'.

Lucy was surprised my my matter-of-fact attitude, but I tried to explain to her that it happened all of the time.

'I had better go, I suppose', I said, saying goodbye and heading to the exit.

That when I made one of my better decisions in life and turned round and went back to her. At the time, I thought I was the smoothest thing on the planet, but Lucy will probably give you a different story. I said something incredibly cheesy along the lines of 'you're beautiful, can I have your number?'. For some reason, against all reasonable odds it worked!

So the next day, I made the call and we were going out by the next week. It was pretty instant attraction (at least on my part).

When I left the club I never did find Mark outside, but he later informed me that after he left the club, he spent his time wisely piling wheelie bins against the fire exit doors in order to stop the bouncers, until the police chased him off. It amazing what things you think are a good idea after vodka-redbull.

Unfortunately every story has a tragedy. The sad part of this story is that Mark passed away in 2006 after having an accident whilst diving off the coast of Sharm-al-Sheikh in Egypt. I never professed to have known the guy particularly well, he was best friends with a housemate and good friend of mine. But I will always owe him for that one night out we had together that brought Lucy to me.