Only last December we gave serious consideration to buying some beachside property in Playa del Carmen, which we have used several times as an arrival point before proceeding on down to Antigua.
Hurricane vulnerability was one of the key reasons we decided against in the end. So many of the properties sported palapa roofing that it was clear how susceptible to decapitation the main tourist and residential area would be.
In the end Wilma hung around above the town for 36 hours. Today water levels are said to have reached the third floor of some of the main hotels along the beach.
Playa has been the fastest growing town in all Mexico for nearly a decade now. With reports claiming that the Mayan Riviera is likely to be out of business as a tourist destination for at least four months, one can only imagine the personal devastation to the thousands whose subsistence economy is based on the presence of foreigners.
Let's hope that Tulum wasn't badly damaged. However, if ever there was a place that deserved to be trashed by Mother Nature it's Cancún.
Monday, October 24, 2005
The Seventh Archangel
El Séptimo Arcángel (2003) is an impressively unpredictable Argentine thriller that opens up a wealth of interesting possibilities for itself only to run out of steam a bit towards the end. Watching it reminded me how rarely Hollywood is prepared to show real moral transformation in its chief protagonists - circumstances are nearly always a test of character, not vice versa.
Here the lead character is man called Luciano who has been siphoning off funds from his Korean employers. Betrayed by his own cousin, the supermarket firm's accountant, he is given 24 hours to replace the missing money. Meanwhile his girlfriend walks out on him.
Abortively he turns to petty crime yet is hamstrung by fits of remorse (another aspect of the crime thriller we hardly ever see in American cinema). This state of mind prompts him to wander into a gathering held by a strange protestant cult (which turns out to be a kind of urban guerrilla group), where he meets a police commisario that all-too-easily pays off his debt for him. These new circumstances encourage Luciano to leave behind his pathetic, passive self and adopt a rather less palatable, assertive persona, bent on revenge.
As ever with Argentine films, the sound quality is regretably poor.
Here the lead character is man called Luciano who has been siphoning off funds from his Korean employers. Betrayed by his own cousin, the supermarket firm's accountant, he is given 24 hours to replace the missing money. Meanwhile his girlfriend walks out on him.
Abortively he turns to petty crime yet is hamstrung by fits of remorse (another aspect of the crime thriller we hardly ever see in American cinema). This state of mind prompts him to wander into a gathering held by a strange protestant cult (which turns out to be a kind of urban guerrilla group), where he meets a police commisario that all-too-easily pays off his debt for him. These new circumstances encourage Luciano to leave behind his pathetic, passive self and adopt a rather less palatable, assertive persona, bent on revenge.
As ever with Argentine films, the sound quality is regretably poor.
Friday, October 21, 2005
Mar Adentro
The English translation of the title of this extraordinary film captures only one aspect of the ambiguous, original Spanish phrase.
There was a TV movie made about Ramón Sampedro's life in 2001 (who died in 1998) and to some extent the Alejandro Amenábar has built his story around the skeleton of a based on a true story TV format, bringing to the subject some of the preocupations we saw in Abre los Ojos and The Others, and using it to address some very interesting questions about the value of human existence.
The Guardian's Peter Bradshaw wrote The Sea Inside off as an "unchallenging issue movie". However, an issue movie is exactly what this isn't.
Ramón Sampedro was himself very clear about the fact that he spoke as a person and not as an issue. He had to fight hard against those motivated by the belief he had the power to become "contagious" through the set of ideas and issues his private cause represented in society.
Rather than being a film about suffering and disability, Mar Adentro is one about human limitations in a much wider sense. Our freedom is never absolute, but for most the limits, personal and circumstantial, are hard to define without us an obvious frame of reference like Sampedro. He inspired love and gave meaning to the lives of his household while at the same time he sensed that he was depriving them of a piece of their own potential for liberty.
Is a human life one's own private property, as Sampedro believed, or does it belong communally to the circle of one's friends and family? Is it death we fear most, or is it grief?
Amenábar clearly wants us to share the mixed emotions of those who were charmed by this ship's mechanic paralysed from the neck down at the age of 26. It's important that at the end that we sympathise with his fight for death, and yet also sense that we will miss him when he's gone.
Sampedro assessed his situation and chose death. Like the great stoic thinkers of Antiquity, he anticipated a restoration of the kind of non-sentience that preceeds birth and considered that this was unlikely to feel bad beyond the moment of extinction. It is this coldly rational view of the bleakness of one life that gives this film its universal impact.
There are great lines ("You learn to cry by smiling") and great sequences, such as the debate between Sampedro and the quadraplegic priest Padre Francisco:
Padre Francisco: "Freedom without a life is not freedom."
Ramón Sampedro: "A life without freedom is not a life."
Even setting aside the subject matter, Mar Adentro is a marvellous piece of film-making and cinematic story telling. Amenábar's technique is faultless from start to finish. His cast, not just the Oscar-nominated Bardem, are all superb. The film also serves as a paean to rain-drenched Galicia.
Meanwhile, over on the Beeb I caught a single episode last week of Beyond Boundaries, a mosquito-on-the-nose documentary about a group of differently-able Brits attempting to cross from Atlantic to Pacific at the point their ancestors would have built the canal, Nicaragua.
This lamentable programme demonstrates that wheelchairs have the potential to be as unwelcome a presence in the rainforest as pushchairs in supermarkets (or anywhere really).
It is founded on the unstated, yet overtly cynical observation that people with disabilities can be amongst the most spoiled and self-centered members of our society. The resulting spectacle is as uplifting an insight into the human spirit as Big Brother.
Resentment was focussing on Charlie; deaf, black and gay, but able-bodied enough to appreciate the essential futility of the whole exercise. Who knows what the economically-cripped forest dwellers of the Mosquito Coast make of all this. If anyone is benefitting, it certainly isn't them.
There was a TV movie made about Ramón Sampedro's life in 2001 (who died in 1998) and to some extent the Alejandro Amenábar has built his story around the skeleton of a based on a true story TV format, bringing to the subject some of the preocupations we saw in Abre los Ojos and The Others, and using it to address some very interesting questions about the value of human existence.
The Guardian's Peter Bradshaw wrote The Sea Inside off as an "unchallenging issue movie". However, an issue movie is exactly what this isn't.
Ramón Sampedro was himself very clear about the fact that he spoke as a person and not as an issue. He had to fight hard against those motivated by the belief he had the power to become "contagious" through the set of ideas and issues his private cause represented in society.
Rather than being a film about suffering and disability, Mar Adentro is one about human limitations in a much wider sense. Our freedom is never absolute, but for most the limits, personal and circumstantial, are hard to define without us an obvious frame of reference like Sampedro. He inspired love and gave meaning to the lives of his household while at the same time he sensed that he was depriving them of a piece of their own potential for liberty.
Is a human life one's own private property, as Sampedro believed, or does it belong communally to the circle of one's friends and family? Is it death we fear most, or is it grief?
Amenábar clearly wants us to share the mixed emotions of those who were charmed by this ship's mechanic paralysed from the neck down at the age of 26. It's important that at the end that we sympathise with his fight for death, and yet also sense that we will miss him when he's gone.
Sampedro assessed his situation and chose death. Like the great stoic thinkers of Antiquity, he anticipated a restoration of the kind of non-sentience that preceeds birth and considered that this was unlikely to feel bad beyond the moment of extinction. It is this coldly rational view of the bleakness of one life that gives this film its universal impact.
There are great lines ("You learn to cry by smiling") and great sequences, such as the debate between Sampedro and the quadraplegic priest Padre Francisco:
Padre Francisco: "Freedom without a life is not freedom."
Ramón Sampedro: "A life without freedom is not a life."
Even setting aside the subject matter, Mar Adentro is a marvellous piece of film-making and cinematic story telling. Amenábar's technique is faultless from start to finish. His cast, not just the Oscar-nominated Bardem, are all superb. The film also serves as a paean to rain-drenched Galicia.
Meanwhile, over on the Beeb I caught a single episode last week of Beyond Boundaries, a mosquito-on-the-nose documentary about a group of differently-able Brits attempting to cross from Atlantic to Pacific at the point their ancestors would have built the canal, Nicaragua.
This lamentable programme demonstrates that wheelchairs have the potential to be as unwelcome a presence in the rainforest as pushchairs in supermarkets (or anywhere really).
It is founded on the unstated, yet overtly cynical observation that people with disabilities can be amongst the most spoiled and self-centered members of our society. The resulting spectacle is as uplifting an insight into the human spirit as Big Brother.
Resentment was focussing on Charlie; deaf, black and gay, but able-bodied enough to appreciate the essential futility of the whole exercise. Who knows what the economically-cripped forest dwellers of the Mosquito Coast make of all this. If anyone is benefitting, it certainly isn't them.
Wilmaaaaaaa
Tom Cruise and Katie Holmes said yesterday that their love is "stronger than Hurricane Katrina". Let's hope it's stronger than Hurricane Wilma too, because they're planning to wed in Cancun next month. (Holmes has been seen on the circuit recently alongside the woman known to her Spanish detractors as Possespice, the fasson victim.)
My friend Mark from Belize sent me these images of flooding on Caye Caulker which yesterday caught a side swipe from wild Wilma. High ground isn't really an option there!
V's niece Jeannette has been feeding us details of the damage done by Stan. This public beach at Panajachel is no more.
Antigua got off very lightly, but the countryside to the north-west of town suffered flooding of varying degrees of severity. The house of V's tia Yema in Pastores was inundated with muddy waters from the river behind; news that saddened me because I know how hard she worked to keep her home impeccably tidy.
My friend Mark from Belize sent me these images of flooding on Caye Caulker which yesterday caught a side swipe from wild Wilma. High ground isn't really an option there!
V's niece Jeannette has been feeding us details of the damage done by Stan. This public beach at Panajachel is no more.
Antigua got off very lightly, but the countryside to the north-west of town suffered flooding of varying degrees of severity. The house of V's tia Yema in Pastores was inundated with muddy waters from the river behind; news that saddened me because I know how hard she worked to keep her home impeccably tidy.
Brain Tremors
V has vivid memories from Guatemala's great quake of '76 (measuring 7.6) which include huge cracks opening in the ground in front of her house before closing again without a trace.
There are similar eyewitness accounts from the massive earthquake (estimated at 7.5) that hit Pompeii on November 5th AD 62. One man relaxing in the baths at the time recounted how every last drop of water in the pool he was in disappeared into a gaping fissure before being squirted back out again.
It seems that some of these experiences at least can be put down to hallucination - the effects of major eathquakes include disturbances to the inner ear, which means that the first set of aftershocks take place inside victims' own heads.
There are similar eyewitness accounts from the massive earthquake (estimated at 7.5) that hit Pompeii on November 5th AD 62. One man relaxing in the baths at the time recounted how every last drop of water in the pool he was in disappeared into a gaping fissure before being squirted back out again.
It seems that some of these experiences at least can be put down to hallucination - the effects of major eathquakes include disturbances to the inner ear, which means that the first set of aftershocks take place inside victims' own heads.
Thursday, October 20, 2005
Fertility in Pompeii
Skeletal evidence from the remains of Pompeii's elite women that died as a result of the eruption (beyond childbearing age) shows that the average number of children they had given birth to was less than the two required to maintain population levels.
The reign of Nero had witnessed a wave of ancient metrosexuality (known then as mollitia - culpable softness) and parents of both sexes were becoming less well-disposed towards the civic duty of weplenishing the wanks of Wome's quack legions. Inheritance law and the clearly-understood dangers of pregnancy compounded this decline in manly values.
The reign of Nero had witnessed a wave of ancient metrosexuality (known then as mollitia - culpable softness) and parents of both sexes were becoming less well-disposed towards the civic duty of weplenishing the wanks of Wome's quack legions. Inheritance law and the clearly-understood dangers of pregnancy compounded this decline in manly values.
Zapatero
How could José Luis Rodríguez Zapatero be anything other than a good bloke? Just look at him. The other day he was attending a Franco-Spanish summit seated midway down a long table of busy-looking ministers. The cameras caught him looking around with one of those classic "which page are we on?" expressions.
An incident earlier in the week saw him in solemn procession with the back of one of his trouser legs caught in his sock. Security agents trailing him tried to discreetly dislodge it while he continued onwards, oblivious to this sartorial indisposition.
Zapatero still has the aura of a man utterly surprised to find himself living the life of his nation's political leader; almost as if he thinks he must enjoy every second because soon someone will tap him on the shoulder and tell him it was all a hideous mix-up.
An incident earlier in the week saw him in solemn procession with the back of one of his trouser legs caught in his sock. Security agents trailing him tried to discreetly dislodge it while he continued onwards, oblivious to this sartorial indisposition.
Zapatero still has the aura of a man utterly surprised to find himself living the life of his nation's political leader; almost as if he thinks he must enjoy every second because soon someone will tap him on the shoulder and tell him it was all a hideous mix-up.
Sneezing Swans
Spain's Queen Sofia has been in Guatemala this week, surrounded by officials intent on reinforcing the message that the country's severed highways and bridges represent a singular calamity and not just a regular feature of the rainy season in Central America.
Spain has now surpassed Sweden as the largest provider of emergency financial aid to the region ( €55m) and Mel Gibson has pledged $1m of his own cash. The US government has increased its initially paltry offering to $350,000 (through USAID).
Meanwhile, as Hurricane Wilma begins to swing by the Yucatan, the check-in desks at Cancun's airport are faced with long lines of the kind of daredevil holiday-makers that book their Caribbean vacations in early Autumn.
The flu pandemic of the 1968/9 season killed 750,000, making it the least deadly of the twentieth century's outbreaks. At the other end of the scale the 'Spanish Flu' of 1918 (appropriately a strain of swine flu) attacked lung cells not usually vulnerable to this type of virus.
Miseryguts has been stockpiling cans of food for around 3 years in preparation for the great bird flu plague which the media feels is now upon us. The H5N1 variant of avian influenza has been around since 1997 and has yet to be sustainably transmitted between humans. Those that catch it from a sneezing swan appear to have a 50% chance of survival. Nevertheless the kind of antigenic shift needed to make this a genuine threat to mammalian health could result in a low pathogenic form with reduced instances of mortality.
Spain has now surpassed Sweden as the largest provider of emergency financial aid to the region ( €55m) and Mel Gibson has pledged $1m of his own cash. The US government has increased its initially paltry offering to $350,000 (through USAID).
Meanwhile, as Hurricane Wilma begins to swing by the Yucatan, the check-in desks at Cancun's airport are faced with long lines of the kind of daredevil holiday-makers that book their Caribbean vacations in early Autumn.
The flu pandemic of the 1968/9 season killed 750,000, making it the least deadly of the twentieth century's outbreaks. At the other end of the scale the 'Spanish Flu' of 1918 (appropriately a strain of swine flu) attacked lung cells not usually vulnerable to this type of virus.
Miseryguts has been stockpiling cans of food for around 3 years in preparation for the great bird flu plague which the media feels is now upon us. The H5N1 variant of avian influenza has been around since 1997 and has yet to be sustainably transmitted between humans. Those that catch it from a sneezing swan appear to have a 50% chance of survival. Nevertheless the kind of antigenic shift needed to make this a genuine threat to mammalian health could result in a low pathogenic form with reduced instances of mortality.
El Maquinista
The Machinist is a densely atmospheric Spanish production starring Christian Bale in dramatically condensed form as the paranoid Trevor Reznik; a role in which he skirts the edges of both horror and comedy.
Ultimately V and I differed substantially about how unsubtly it went about its subtleties. For my part, I'll give it the benefit of the doubt. It was well filmed, well scored and evenly suspenseful. V found the knot of the mystery rather too easy to unravel ahead of the plotline, but I considered the intellectual engagement welcome after recent disappointments like Creep.
My one criticism would be that it wears its influences a little too brazenly. If you have vivid memories of either Memento or Spider for instance, they may prove distracting here.
Living off an apple and a can of tuna per day, Bale shed 63 pounds for the role (a method acting record) and ended up weighing just 120 pounds.
Ultimately V and I differed substantially about how unsubtly it went about its subtleties. For my part, I'll give it the benefit of the doubt. It was well filmed, well scored and evenly suspenseful. V found the knot of the mystery rather too easy to unravel ahead of the plotline, but I considered the intellectual engagement welcome after recent disappointments like Creep.
My one criticism would be that it wears its influences a little too brazenly. If you have vivid memories of either Memento or Spider for instance, they may prove distracting here.
Living off an apple and a can of tuna per day, Bale shed 63 pounds for the role (a method acting record) and ended up weighing just 120 pounds.
Friday, October 14, 2005
La Sin Ventura
Another tornado in Birmingham, hot on the heels of the recent immolation of Wallace and Grommit, but this week's most disaster-prone EU nation has been Spain - first tropical cyclone Vince made landfall near Seville on Tuesday and then yesterday it was the turn of Catalan town Girona to be flooded out by Biblical downpours.
When the rains come late they come hard. So it was on September 11, 1541 when Guatemala suffered its most notorious mudslide, which brought an end to the two-day reign of the country's second governor, the beautiful 22-year old widow of the Conquistador, Doña Beatriz de la Cueva.
When news reached Santiago of Pedro de Alvarado's death (crushed when his secretary's horse fell on top of him during a punitive expedition in Mexico), Beatriz daubed the palace and cathedral with black paint and shut herself up for days. The rain started to come down incessantly and a bad case of bowel trouble in the Volcan de Fuego set off a series of powerful tremors. Beatriz emerged from mourning on September 9 in order to engineer her election as the colony's new ruler, presciently assuming the title of La Sin Ventura, the hapless one.
Two days later she was dead, drowned when mud dislodged from the slopes of the Agua Volcano deluged the fledgeling capital. Legend has it that Beatriz fled to the Palace's high chapel with 8 of her ladies in waiting and Anica, one of Alvarado's natural children. Her lifeless body was found still clutching the altar crucifix, the child's nearby. Leonor Alvarado Xicotencatl , the Conquistador's seventeen-year old daughter and heir had survived by clinging to the branches of a tree.
The disaster resulted in the removal of Santiago (Antigua) to its present site further away from the skirts of the volcano on which the course of the mudslide can still be made out.
In my readings about Vesuvius I have come across the phenomenon of Bradyism, whereby ground levels can move up and down by 10m or more in a very short period of time in areas subject to a lot of seismic activity. During their childhood a couple of V's brothers once came across the intact remains of a sixteenth century church buried beneath a coffee plantation on the finca. Given the location of this find it would make sense that it was associated with Alvarado's original settlement, but it is said that la Nena does her best to prevent news of this site spreading in order to avoid academics and other undesirables encroaching on her enormous estate.
When the rains come late they come hard. So it was on September 11, 1541 when Guatemala suffered its most notorious mudslide, which brought an end to the two-day reign of the country's second governor, the beautiful 22-year old widow of the Conquistador, Doña Beatriz de la Cueva.
When news reached Santiago of Pedro de Alvarado's death (crushed when his secretary's horse fell on top of him during a punitive expedition in Mexico), Beatriz daubed the palace and cathedral with black paint and shut herself up for days. The rain started to come down incessantly and a bad case of bowel trouble in the Volcan de Fuego set off a series of powerful tremors. Beatriz emerged from mourning on September 9 in order to engineer her election as the colony's new ruler, presciently assuming the title of La Sin Ventura, the hapless one.
Two days later she was dead, drowned when mud dislodged from the slopes of the Agua Volcano deluged the fledgeling capital. Legend has it that Beatriz fled to the Palace's high chapel with 8 of her ladies in waiting and Anica, one of Alvarado's natural children. Her lifeless body was found still clutching the altar crucifix, the child's nearby. Leonor Alvarado Xicotencatl , the Conquistador's seventeen-year old daughter and heir had survived by clinging to the branches of a tree.
The disaster resulted in the removal of Santiago (Antigua) to its present site further away from the skirts of the volcano on which the course of the mudslide can still be made out.
In my readings about Vesuvius I have come across the phenomenon of Bradyism, whereby ground levels can move up and down by 10m or more in a very short period of time in areas subject to a lot of seismic activity. During their childhood a couple of V's brothers once came across the intact remains of a sixteenth century church buried beneath a coffee plantation on the finca. Given the location of this find it would make sense that it was associated with Alvarado's original settlement, but it is said that la Nena does her best to prevent news of this site spreading in order to avoid academics and other undesirables encroaching on her enormous estate.
Thursday, October 13, 2005
Aid for Guatemala
International aid for Stan-stricken Guatemala has been pouring in. Sweden: Q45m, Spain: Q11m, Venezuela: Q8m, Canada: Q6.5m, Taiwan: Q5.2m, Italy: Q2m, Germany: Q1m.
(1$=Q7.7)
GB? Still thinking. USA? $50,000!
However, hit US show Survivor is being broadcast from the north of the country right now and the producers have promised to help out a bit.
Sadly, Guatemala will yet again miss out on the big soccer party. The finished the CONCACAF qualifying competition with a 3-1 win over the ticos at home, but the pinche Mexicanos went and lost to Trinidad, most probably willfully.
(1$=Q7.7)
GB? Still thinking. USA? $50,000!
However, hit US show Survivor is being broadcast from the north of the country right now and the producers have promised to help out a bit.
Sadly, Guatemala will yet again miss out on the big soccer party. The finished the CONCACAF qualifying competition with a 3-1 win over the ticos at home, but the pinche Mexicanos went and lost to Trinidad, most probably willfully.
Wednesday, October 12, 2005
"Blessed are the Pacemakers"
For Geraldine and Paul's wedding mass was performed in three languages Eurovision-style, the presiding priest Don Giuliano leading in Italian, assisted by a giggly co-compere that did her best to track him in both English and French. The Don, a full-sized character, went on to take more snaps of the happy couple with his pocket camera than anyone else on the guest list.
Paul appeared a little unpracticed during the French parts of the promesses, inadvertently delivering his acceptance of marital responsibility in the future tense. "Oui, nous acept-ONS" his bride corrected him sternly, and then lifted her eyebrows demonstratively to the congregation as if to deliver a Crowe-like "are you not entertained?". We were. Another batch of stifled sniggers arrived just after Paul's recitation of the line "When I grew up I finished with childish things".
The weather, which had been uncomfortably hot outside the hilltop Church while we awaited the groom, had turned decidedly nippy by the time the bus finally managed to cram itself into the lane leading up to the Villa Grazioli- on its third pass. While white-jacketed waiters scrambled to move the champagne reception indoors we fingered a buffet on the front lawns and shivered to a selection of lift music classics delivered by a bloke with an electric keyboard.
Premium quality was reestablished in the grand frescoed hall where the sumptuous binge was formally opened with a speech from our elegant and gracious hostess, Kirsten, whose birthday it would also serve to commemorate. (Paul should have little trouble remembering this most important date in his mother-in-law's calendar!)
At dinner, we found ourselves posted to the 'couples' sub-section of Paul's circle on a table rather suspiciously called The Untouchables. Each little grouping had been christened with the name of a memorable movie, but we were not alone in detecting an intentional subtext in this instance. Neutral territory it might have been, but being part of the groom's numerically-outnumbered contingent felt very much like belonging to the away supporters section. Like the pomerium that used to separate the ancient Roman urbs from the infames living beyond the walls, there seemed to be an intangible buffer zone between us and the semi-impermeable set of European socialites that made up the bulk of the bride's tifosi. Perhaps this existed in order to prevent verbal transmission of the folklore of Paul's bachelorhood, or perhaps it arose because we were regarded as a bunch of uncouth barbarians from the north. The (inevitable) man in the kilt probably wasn't helping our cause all that much.
Ours was a fine company though - Sam and Steve, Tony and Katy, Edward and Hisham. We were missing them all when we set off south the following afternoon. After a week of solitary adventure it had been both strange and agreeable to suddenly find ourselves amidst such a large gathering of friends.
Before the main course was served we were summoned outside for a "special event". V, accustomed to Guatemala's multi-casualty firework extravaganzas took a seat on the lawn well back from the gasp-inspiring display. I stood half way between her position and the main crowd, but still ended up with a speck of warm debris in my eye.
The night's other entertainment included a magician, a caricature artist, a mad waiter and a powerpoint deck packed with images from Geraldine's childhood and adventurous life before her fateful encounter with the "perfect English gentleman" - who merited a couple of slides at the end. The best man's speech was initially suppressed, but later allowed in a closed-doors session in the bar to a fairly select audience. By this time some of the guests were sporting their third outfit of the day.
The eating, drinking and dancing carried on for hours throughout all the interlocking, painted antechambers of the 16th century villa's primer piano. The building was used by the German High Command during the Second World War and trashed by squatters after it. In its reincarnated form as a fine hotel it would be the ideal venue for one of those Eyes Wide Shut-type parties, but the groom has put such childish things behind him now!
However much you eat, you're always able to find room for some tiramisu; but an end to the evening there eventually was, and when we returned to the Verdeborgo with the Cottages we found our way blocked by another vehicle seemingly parked at the main crossroads. The driver inside looked dead, but was in fact merely taking an overdue siesta. V bravely knocked on the window a few times until he came round and squinted at the four of us in abject bewilderment.
Paul appeared a little unpracticed during the French parts of the promesses, inadvertently delivering his acceptance of marital responsibility in the future tense. "Oui, nous acept-ONS" his bride corrected him sternly, and then lifted her eyebrows demonstratively to the congregation as if to deliver a Crowe-like "are you not entertained?". We were. Another batch of stifled sniggers arrived just after Paul's recitation of the line "When I grew up I finished with childish things".
The weather, which had been uncomfortably hot outside the hilltop Church while we awaited the groom, had turned decidedly nippy by the time the bus finally managed to cram itself into the lane leading up to the Villa Grazioli- on its third pass. While white-jacketed waiters scrambled to move the champagne reception indoors we fingered a buffet on the front lawns and shivered to a selection of lift music classics delivered by a bloke with an electric keyboard.
Premium quality was reestablished in the grand frescoed hall where the sumptuous binge was formally opened with a speech from our elegant and gracious hostess, Kirsten, whose birthday it would also serve to commemorate. (Paul should have little trouble remembering this most important date in his mother-in-law's calendar!)
At dinner, we found ourselves posted to the 'couples' sub-section of Paul's circle on a table rather suspiciously called The Untouchables. Each little grouping had been christened with the name of a memorable movie, but we were not alone in detecting an intentional subtext in this instance. Neutral territory it might have been, but being part of the groom's numerically-outnumbered contingent felt very much like belonging to the away supporters section. Like the pomerium that used to separate the ancient Roman urbs from the infames living beyond the walls, there seemed to be an intangible buffer zone between us and the semi-impermeable set of European socialites that made up the bulk of the bride's tifosi. Perhaps this existed in order to prevent verbal transmission of the folklore of Paul's bachelorhood, or perhaps it arose because we were regarded as a bunch of uncouth barbarians from the north. The (inevitable) man in the kilt probably wasn't helping our cause all that much.
Ours was a fine company though - Sam and Steve, Tony and Katy, Edward and Hisham. We were missing them all when we set off south the following afternoon. After a week of solitary adventure it had been both strange and agreeable to suddenly find ourselves amidst such a large gathering of friends.
Before the main course was served we were summoned outside for a "special event". V, accustomed to Guatemala's multi-casualty firework extravaganzas took a seat on the lawn well back from the gasp-inspiring display. I stood half way between her position and the main crowd, but still ended up with a speck of warm debris in my eye.
The night's other entertainment included a magician, a caricature artist, a mad waiter and a powerpoint deck packed with images from Geraldine's childhood and adventurous life before her fateful encounter with the "perfect English gentleman" - who merited a couple of slides at the end. The best man's speech was initially suppressed, but later allowed in a closed-doors session in the bar to a fairly select audience. By this time some of the guests were sporting their third outfit of the day.
The eating, drinking and dancing carried on for hours throughout all the interlocking, painted antechambers of the 16th century villa's primer piano. The building was used by the German High Command during the Second World War and trashed by squatters after it. In its reincarnated form as a fine hotel it would be the ideal venue for one of those Eyes Wide Shut-type parties, but the groom has put such childish things behind him now!
However much you eat, you're always able to find room for some tiramisu; but an end to the evening there eventually was, and when we returned to the Verdeborgo with the Cottages we found our way blocked by another vehicle seemingly parked at the main crossroads. The driver inside looked dead, but was in fact merely taking an overdue siesta. V bravely knocked on the window a few times until he came round and squinted at the four of us in abject bewilderment.
Andora Homicide
Having translated and Googled the necessary keywords I have now established the context of the media circus we came across in Andora, Liguria on Tuesday September 27th. I'm beginning to think that this was the scene of Luigi Verri's arrest rather than the home of a distinguished, retired avvocato.
Pic 1
Pic 2
Pic 1
Pic 2
Tuesday, October 11, 2005
Torre Pendente
Some more pics...
I'd passed by Pisa's Campo di Miracoli on my inter-railing trips in the 80s, and was determined not to leave it out once again.
This complex of beautiful Romanesque building is set on a wide lawn next to the walls in the north-west corner of the city. Wherever you roam you are bound to be ruining somebody's photo, but in spite of the frantic hordes, it's a very rewarding piece of sightseeing.
All three structures were intentionally off-perpendicular, though over time the famous tower has come to seem more and more like an outrageous folly.
The outskirts of Pisa have one of the classic Italian 'squareabouts' - essentially a four-way crossroads with no traffic-lights or obvious indications of right of way.
Grottaferrata is one of those places whose name is hard for English-speakers to pronounce without sounding either over or under cultured. It's a quiet suburb of Rome, one of the Castelli Romani beneath which the lights of the eternal city twinkle enticingly every night. At its northern edge it blends with Frascati, famed worldwide for its unpleasant wine.
One of the best meals we had in Italy was on the eve of the wedding at Il Sentiero in Rocca di Papa, a winding 15 minute drive from the Villa Grazioli. By the time all the flights carrying family and friends from around the world had unloaded, it wasn't until after 10:30pm that a group of around 50 of us set off for this informal four course meal. That the restaurant could serve such great food to that many people, that late, is a testament to its quality. The wine was also superb (apparently not the local stuff served at the reception) and only cost 5 euros a bottle, so many of the guests looked a little drained in the church the next day.
I'd passed by Pisa's Campo di Miracoli on my inter-railing trips in the 80s, and was determined not to leave it out once again.
This complex of beautiful Romanesque building is set on a wide lawn next to the walls in the north-west corner of the city. Wherever you roam you are bound to be ruining somebody's photo, but in spite of the frantic hordes, it's a very rewarding piece of sightseeing.
All three structures were intentionally off-perpendicular, though over time the famous tower has come to seem more and more like an outrageous folly.
The outskirts of Pisa have one of the classic Italian 'squareabouts' - essentially a four-way crossroads with no traffic-lights or obvious indications of right of way.
Grottaferrata is one of those places whose name is hard for English-speakers to pronounce without sounding either over or under cultured. It's a quiet suburb of Rome, one of the Castelli Romani beneath which the lights of the eternal city twinkle enticingly every night. At its northern edge it blends with Frascati, famed worldwide for its unpleasant wine.
One of the best meals we had in Italy was on the eve of the wedding at Il Sentiero in Rocca di Papa, a winding 15 minute drive from the Villa Grazioli. By the time all the flights carrying family and friends from around the world had unloaded, it wasn't until after 10:30pm that a group of around 50 of us set off for this informal four course meal. That the restaurant could serve such great food to that many people, that late, is a testament to its quality. The wine was also superb (apparently not the local stuff served at the reception) and only cost 5 euros a bottle, so many of the guests looked a little drained in the church the next day.
McDo
US General John Abizaid recently compared Al Qaeda to McDonalds, which made me wonder whether OBL's French terror cells are staffed by closet Christians.
While the Italians have their Slow Food Society, the French just serve fast food slowly. I'm not a massive fan of McDonalds' menus, but when you travel along France's E roads the evil arches perform the function of the Aires on the autoroutes - predictable, routine spots for a coffee and a bathroom break. Except when you walk in and find that there's only one person behind the counter, both serving the customers and preparing their orders!
In order to preserve their culture of small independent retailers in town centres the French have allowed the surrounding ring roads to become encrusted with a thick coating of major chains: Buffalo Grill, LiDL (clearly the most omnipresent retail brand in Europe!), Casa, Carrefour etc.
In Italy, the urban tangenziale are stock-car circuits where the driving is mostly of the hand-to-hand variety. Gone are the tight little roundabouts with pretty lawns and flower beds and McDonalds restaurants are generally to be found somewhere inside, hidden within the dense urban core and without the useful en-suite car park area. Still, the espresso coffee they (sometimes) serve is amongst the best I have ever tasted!
While the Italians have their Slow Food Society, the French just serve fast food slowly. I'm not a massive fan of McDonalds' menus, but when you travel along France's E roads the evil arches perform the function of the Aires on the autoroutes - predictable, routine spots for a coffee and a bathroom break. Except when you walk in and find that there's only one person behind the counter, both serving the customers and preparing their orders!
In order to preserve their culture of small independent retailers in town centres the French have allowed the surrounding ring roads to become encrusted with a thick coating of major chains: Buffalo Grill, LiDL (clearly the most omnipresent retail brand in Europe!), Casa, Carrefour etc.
In Italy, the urban tangenziale are stock-car circuits where the driving is mostly of the hand-to-hand variety. Gone are the tight little roundabouts with pretty lawns and flower beds and McDonalds restaurants are generally to be found somewhere inside, hidden within the dense urban core and without the useful en-suite car park area. Still, the espresso coffee they (sometimes) serve is amongst the best I have ever tasted!
Guatepeor and Muzaffaraworse
The same Mayan mud that the Blairs were rebirthing in a couple of years back has been sliding down hillsides and causing devastation across Central America, with rural Guatemala particularly badly affected.
Somewhat unusually, the global news media took an immediate interest, probably because a) the root cause was a topical tropical hurricane and b) one of the worst-affected locations was Santiago Atitlan, on a lake visited by thousands of tourists each year and where many foreigners have established expensive chalet-style homes.
It's clear that the Spanish have been especially speedy in delivering assistance, both here and over in Pakistan. Typically the UK media is determined to give the impression that the relief effort has been both patchy and predominantly British.
Officially the death toll from Stan in Guatemala is 652, but unofficial sources suggest that the real figure is in excess of 1800. Whole communities buried by landslides have been abandonned and declared mass cemeteries.
The economic damage is likely to be long lasting: for instance 75,000 hectares of the 185,ooo dedicated to sugar cane production have been flooded.
As with Mitch 8 years ago, the storm aftermath has included roadblocks, hoarding, corruption and vehicle hold-ups. Last week a team of Welsh broadcasters came close to being lynched and killed by an angry machete-waving mob in a Guatemalan village near Chichicastenango , apparently mistaken for government surveyors speculating on sacred Mayan land.
Another calamidad publica that afflicted Guatemala last week was a 5-2 trouncing by the pinche Mexicanos that leaves them in 5th place in their qualifying group, two points adrift of Trinidad and Tobago, now favourites to clinch the play-off place for Germany 2006.
There was also a moderate quake (5.8) in the region on Friday. President Oscar Berger has declared 3 days of national mourning.
Somewhat unusually, the global news media took an immediate interest, probably because a) the root cause was a topical tropical hurricane and b) one of the worst-affected locations was Santiago Atitlan, on a lake visited by thousands of tourists each year and where many foreigners have established expensive chalet-style homes.
It's clear that the Spanish have been especially speedy in delivering assistance, both here and over in Pakistan. Typically the UK media is determined to give the impression that the relief effort has been both patchy and predominantly British.
Officially the death toll from Stan in Guatemala is 652, but unofficial sources suggest that the real figure is in excess of 1800. Whole communities buried by landslides have been abandonned and declared mass cemeteries.
The economic damage is likely to be long lasting: for instance 75,000 hectares of the 185,ooo dedicated to sugar cane production have been flooded.
As with Mitch 8 years ago, the storm aftermath has included roadblocks, hoarding, corruption and vehicle hold-ups. Last week a team of Welsh broadcasters came close to being lynched and killed by an angry machete-waving mob in a Guatemalan village near Chichicastenango , apparently mistaken for government surveyors speculating on sacred Mayan land.
Another calamidad publica that afflicted Guatemala last week was a 5-2 trouncing by the pinche Mexicanos that leaves them in 5th place in their qualifying group, two points adrift of Trinidad and Tobago, now favourites to clinch the play-off place for Germany 2006.
There was also a moderate quake (5.8) in the region on Friday. President Oscar Berger has declared 3 days of national mourning.
Monday, October 10, 2005
Six Countries and a Wedding
In total 3453 miles, 14 overnight resting places*, a couple of shunts and an unscheduled 3 hour pitstop in Pavia for new brake disks.
Along the way we've had plenty of opportunity to tuck into weird and wonderful foodstuffs of the like we'd never try at home...such as Nutella!
We've tested and collected an eclectic assortment of bottled liquids ranging from the grand vins of Burgundy to an unlabled home-made rosso we bought from a peasant farmer on the Sorrento peninsula. In shops at least the beer is remarkably cheap in Italy, 45c, and a two litre bottle of mineral water costs just 16c. We've also stocked up with several years' supply of balsamic vinegar (from a supermarket between Modena and Reggio).
We'd only been in the country for 30 minutes when we came across our first bustling murder scene (in Andora). It was hard to piece together the precise chain of events from the visible evidence not obscured by the throng of absurdly overdressed reporters - a smashed first floor window, a taped up car with a dented front wing and forensic teams in white full-body suits coming in and out of a boarded up Ristorante - but a tally of more than one stiff seemed likely. (I shall use the Net to investigate further.)
The Belgians may drive faster, but the lack of any basic highway etiquette makes sharing Italian roads with the natives a particularly challenging experience. You can't keep your distance, because if you leave any space in front of you the guy behind will immediately assume it belongs to him. Our biggest bump occurred in rolling rush hour traffic in Milan when a car came straight into us from the rear, prompting V to jolt forward into the one in front which in turn passed the disfavour onwards to another vehicle. Fortunately, the PT Cruiser has excellent front and rear bumpers and we found ourselves unwounded, though a little shocked. Oddly the last car in the chain had come off worst.
It probably was also fortunate that all the drivers involved were female. I myself reversed into an expensive-looking silver-grey Merc in Siena, braking just in time, but just touching its bumper. When I got out to deliver my best British "Scusi, the Merc's occupant launched into a spectacular series of gesticulations, and it became clear from his references to blind women that he had failed to notice my GB number plate and and had concluded that V was the culprit. I had to bite my lip to avoid laughing, which I just knew would complicate matters even further.
When a bus stopped in front of me in a narrow street I had attempted to pass it, not seeing the temporary traffic light on the right by the pavement - a fairly standard misadventure facing right-hand drivers on the continent. The guy in the Merc must have seen what I was trying to do but was clearly determined to quickly close down the space before I could get back to safety and I'm sure that much of his Latin vexation derived from the fact that we had apparently dared to call his bluff and carried on backwards regardless.
Will be publishing all the photos in sequence. The first two sets encompass the journey down through France and the ride along the Rivieras into Tuscany.
* Gevrey-Chambertin, Rhône Valley (nr Vienne), Fréjus, Finale Liguria, Lucca, Grottaferratta/Frascati (x2), Sorrento, Orvieto, Florence, Cremona, Torno (Lake Como), Stresa (Lake Maggiore), Besançon and Bruges.
Along the way we've had plenty of opportunity to tuck into weird and wonderful foodstuffs of the like we'd never try at home...such as Nutella!
We've tested and collected an eclectic assortment of bottled liquids ranging from the grand vins of Burgundy to an unlabled home-made rosso we bought from a peasant farmer on the Sorrento peninsula. In shops at least the beer is remarkably cheap in Italy, 45c, and a two litre bottle of mineral water costs just 16c. We've also stocked up with several years' supply of balsamic vinegar (from a supermarket between Modena and Reggio).
We'd only been in the country for 30 minutes when we came across our first bustling murder scene (in Andora). It was hard to piece together the precise chain of events from the visible evidence not obscured by the throng of absurdly overdressed reporters - a smashed first floor window, a taped up car with a dented front wing and forensic teams in white full-body suits coming in and out of a boarded up Ristorante - but a tally of more than one stiff seemed likely. (I shall use the Net to investigate further.)
The Belgians may drive faster, but the lack of any basic highway etiquette makes sharing Italian roads with the natives a particularly challenging experience. You can't keep your distance, because if you leave any space in front of you the guy behind will immediately assume it belongs to him. Our biggest bump occurred in rolling rush hour traffic in Milan when a car came straight into us from the rear, prompting V to jolt forward into the one in front which in turn passed the disfavour onwards to another vehicle. Fortunately, the PT Cruiser has excellent front and rear bumpers and we found ourselves unwounded, though a little shocked. Oddly the last car in the chain had come off worst.
It probably was also fortunate that all the drivers involved were female. I myself reversed into an expensive-looking silver-grey Merc in Siena, braking just in time, but just touching its bumper. When I got out to deliver my best British "Scusi, the Merc's occupant launched into a spectacular series of gesticulations, and it became clear from his references to blind women that he had failed to notice my GB number plate and and had concluded that V was the culprit. I had to bite my lip to avoid laughing, which I just knew would complicate matters even further.
When a bus stopped in front of me in a narrow street I had attempted to pass it, not seeing the temporary traffic light on the right by the pavement - a fairly standard misadventure facing right-hand drivers on the continent. The guy in the Merc must have seen what I was trying to do but was clearly determined to quickly close down the space before I could get back to safety and I'm sure that much of his Latin vexation derived from the fact that we had apparently dared to call his bluff and carried on backwards regardless.
Will be publishing all the photos in sequence. The first two sets encompass the journey down through France and the ride along the Rivieras into Tuscany.
* Gevrey-Chambertin, Rhône Valley (nr Vienne), Fréjus, Finale Liguria, Lucca, Grottaferratta/Frascati (x2), Sorrento, Orvieto, Florence, Cremona, Torno (Lake Como), Stresa (Lake Maggiore), Besançon and Bruges.
Friday, September 23, 2005
Hot Pursuit
This was to be the post making all those inevitable remarks about how we intend to pursue the fleeing season south across the continent, but in fact the European summer is conducting a reasonably ordered retreat this year, with a particularly impressive rearguard action here in southern England.
Anyway, it's holiday hiatus time again.
We have have allowed ourselves just a few hours short of one week to get down to the Villa Grazioli in Gottaferrata. It will be strange after all those days of serene solo travel to suddenly find ourselves in the midst of the babelesque Baksheesh bash. Guests will be flying in from all over the global underbelly, the dress code permissive of "anything except man-made fibres".
The journey down already has a vague outline. Breakfast tomorrow in Reims, followed by a relaxed drive on the N roads to Burgundy. Watfish has been giving me the low-down on how to make best use of time in and around Gevrey-Chambertin - a really nice cave just off the main square run by one Monsieur Gerarrd Quivry - and Fleurie, which has a Michelin-starred restaurant where "the Maitresse wears purple Ozzie Osbourne specs and floats around like an old sailing ship".
We should reach Orange (Chateauneuf country) by Sunday night. I want to show V the Pont du Gard, and then drive east along the coast, stopping in Aix and then in Monaco to visit my late uncle.
That should leave us with two more overnight stops, in Liguria and western Tuscany, before arriving in Frascati. Baksheesh has boasted that his wedding posse will be taking over the hotel for the whole night, convincing me of the folly of reserving one of the €400 bedrooms for the hours of debauch.
It would be optimistic to expect to add much to the mileage the morning after, but I have hopes of getting down to the Bay of Naples and Pompeii before the need to plan the journey home arises.
Anyway, it's holiday hiatus time again.
We have have allowed ourselves just a few hours short of one week to get down to the Villa Grazioli in Gottaferrata. It will be strange after all those days of serene solo travel to suddenly find ourselves in the midst of the babelesque Baksheesh bash. Guests will be flying in from all over the global underbelly, the dress code permissive of "anything except man-made fibres".
The journey down already has a vague outline. Breakfast tomorrow in Reims, followed by a relaxed drive on the N roads to Burgundy. Watfish has been giving me the low-down on how to make best use of time in and around Gevrey-Chambertin - a really nice cave just off the main square run by one Monsieur Gerarrd Quivry - and Fleurie, which has a Michelin-starred restaurant where "the Maitresse wears purple Ozzie Osbourne specs and floats around like an old sailing ship".
We should reach Orange (Chateauneuf country) by Sunday night. I want to show V the Pont du Gard, and then drive east along the coast, stopping in Aix and then in Monaco to visit my late uncle.
That should leave us with two more overnight stops, in Liguria and western Tuscany, before arriving in Frascati. Baksheesh has boasted that his wedding posse will be taking over the hotel for the whole night, convincing me of the folly of reserving one of the €400 bedrooms for the hours of debauch.
It would be optimistic to expect to add much to the mileage the morning after, but I have hopes of getting down to the Bay of Naples and Pompeii before the need to plan the journey home arises.
Durker Durker Mohammed Jihad
I've reported on this blog before how London's police conscientiously followed up an unlikely Guatemala angle on the Canary Wharf bomb.
Yesterday, the front cover of the Guardian sported a pic of Frode's friend David Mery, heading up an 'arrowing account of 'arrassment on the London Underground. Just a week after picking up a copy of the Metro became a capital offence, David found himself surrounded by uniformed officers on the platform of Southwark station, who have determined that his apparent interest in both his surroundings and fellow passengers suspiciously out-of-place down in the zombie-burrow.
"They must immediately notice my French accent, still strong after living more than 12 years in London." This, to say the least, is an understatement; I doubt whether David is consistently intelligible even to his own countrymen. (How I would have loved to have been a fly on the wall during that interrogation!)
Anyway, just when it looks like he's only being detained so that someone senior can come along and say sorry, he's handcuffed and bundled off to Walworth Police Station for some DNA profiling. Citing the Terrorism Act, David's flat in Clerkenwell is then searched.
The boys in blue don't get enough opportunities to search pads like this - in the movies at least. Not only does David possess what is surely the world's largest man-made panda collection, his line of work requires him to retain prototypes of just about every mobile phone handset ever made. What with all the other geek-chic artefacts proudly on display, the investigating officers must have thought they had stumbled upon something strange but significant, that at the very least would require the immediate attendance of a sexy female agent from the NSA.
Poor David. Such is his gallic sense of style that there are times when OBL himself in full Afghan tribal gear would stand out less in a crowd of London commuters. He does tend to look a bit like some sort of bounty hunter hailing from a dystopic wild west of the future in a Japanese manga comic. And even without the wide-brimmed hat (which he had apparently left behind that fateful morning) you'd have to say he does look remarkably like a Middle-Eastern terrorist from central casting.
Last February I was pulled over at LAX just before boarding a plane to Guatemala and told that the DHS had found evidence of nitro-glycerine in my suitcase. After a brief interview and being made to sign some paperwork, I was informed that it often shows up in shampoo and face-creams. Like David Mery, my biggest concern is how much this isolated 'false positive' may lead to more serious inconvenience in the future.
Airport security in the USA is the archetype of the modern police state. It bulks up as an organised response to a threat that has already manifested itself and moved off elsewhere. Yet my mobile has just bleeped with a text from CNN informing me that a suspect person and package have been detained at Manchester under the Terrorism Act. We shall see if this incident can offer some vindication for the omni-suspicious security screen.
On a separate airport-related matter, I was amused by New York journalist Alexandra Jacobs' comments to CNN after surviving the televised emergency landing of the JetBlue Airbus. "We couldn't believe the irony, that we were watching our own demise on TV - it
was all too post-post-modern." Post-post-modern?! Something similar happened to me many years ago at Nice airport in a Tristar, but luckily it was half of the rear undercarriage that had misdeployed and there was no live TV back then. Still, the scary part for the passengers yesterday must have been when the crew switched off the news just ten minutes before the landing.
Yesterday, the front cover of the Guardian sported a pic of Frode's friend David Mery, heading up an 'arrowing account of 'arrassment on the London Underground. Just a week after picking up a copy of the Metro became a capital offence, David found himself surrounded by uniformed officers on the platform of Southwark station, who have determined that his apparent interest in both his surroundings and fellow passengers suspiciously out-of-place down in the zombie-burrow.
"They must immediately notice my French accent, still strong after living more than 12 years in London." This, to say the least, is an understatement; I doubt whether David is consistently intelligible even to his own countrymen. (How I would have loved to have been a fly on the wall during that interrogation!)
Anyway, just when it looks like he's only being detained so that someone senior can come along and say sorry, he's handcuffed and bundled off to Walworth Police Station for some DNA profiling. Citing the Terrorism Act, David's flat in Clerkenwell is then searched.
The boys in blue don't get enough opportunities to search pads like this - in the movies at least. Not only does David possess what is surely the world's largest man-made panda collection, his line of work requires him to retain prototypes of just about every mobile phone handset ever made. What with all the other geek-chic artefacts proudly on display, the investigating officers must have thought they had stumbled upon something strange but significant, that at the very least would require the immediate attendance of a sexy female agent from the NSA.
Poor David. Such is his gallic sense of style that there are times when OBL himself in full Afghan tribal gear would stand out less in a crowd of London commuters. He does tend to look a bit like some sort of bounty hunter hailing from a dystopic wild west of the future in a Japanese manga comic. And even without the wide-brimmed hat (which he had apparently left behind that fateful morning) you'd have to say he does look remarkably like a Middle-Eastern terrorist from central casting.
Last February I was pulled over at LAX just before boarding a plane to Guatemala and told that the DHS had found evidence of nitro-glycerine in my suitcase. After a brief interview and being made to sign some paperwork, I was informed that it often shows up in shampoo and face-creams. Like David Mery, my biggest concern is how much this isolated 'false positive' may lead to more serious inconvenience in the future.
Airport security in the USA is the archetype of the modern police state. It bulks up as an organised response to a threat that has already manifested itself and moved off elsewhere. Yet my mobile has just bleeped with a text from CNN informing me that a suspect person and package have been detained at Manchester under the Terrorism Act. We shall see if this incident can offer some vindication for the omni-suspicious security screen.
On a separate airport-related matter, I was amused by New York journalist Alexandra Jacobs' comments to CNN after surviving the televised emergency landing of the JetBlue Airbus. "We couldn't believe the irony, that we were watching our own demise on TV - it
was all too post-post-modern." Post-post-modern?! Something similar happened to me many years ago at Nice airport in a Tristar, but luckily it was half of the rear undercarriage that had misdeployed and there was no live TV back then. Still, the scary part for the passengers yesterday must have been when the crew switched off the news just ten minutes before the landing.
Thursday, September 22, 2005
Mondeo Man
Having established that we have a strong preference for 'average' looking faces, psychologists have repeated their tests using fish, birds and cars as the subjects in order to ascertain whether there is a general cognitive mechanism asigning attractiveness to things of average appearance, or whether it only really works with the kind of things we might want to copulate with.
Cognitive Daily reports the results: "For birds and fish, there was still a relationship between averageness and attractiveness. But there was no link in the case of cars, suggesting that we may judge attractiveness in living organisms differently than we do for artifacts."
But a car is one of those artefacts that tends to play a significant role in mating rituals. Not all artefacts profer differentiation or status. Perhaps these tests could be usefully expanded!
Also, are teenagers as likely to prefer average-lookers as adults? There are surely stages in our pyscho-sexual development where differentiation counts a whole lot more.
Cognitive Daily reports the results: "For birds and fish, there was still a relationship between averageness and attractiveness. But there was no link in the case of cars, suggesting that we may judge attractiveness in living organisms differently than we do for artifacts."
But a car is one of those artefacts that tends to play a significant role in mating rituals. Not all artefacts profer differentiation or status. Perhaps these tests could be usefully expanded!
Also, are teenagers as likely to prefer average-lookers as adults? There are surely stages in our pyscho-sexual development where differentiation counts a whole lot more.
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