Sydney vs. Melbourne

Sydney and Melbourne: it’s hard to imagine how two cities in the same country, located reasonably close together and in similar geographic settings, can be so different.  But alas, how different they are!  The causes are numerous, and include history and politics.  Yet these are well documented and a little dull, so rather than analyze the why, what follows are my observations as to how.

If Sydney was a high school kid, she’d be the good looking one who excels at everything, from scholastic pursuits to varsity sports. She’s brash, confident and bound to succeed.  As if in direct response to Sydney’s clean-cut image, Melbourne has decided to be one of the cool kids hanging out by the smoking doors.  With her edgy personality and self-assured funkiness she turns out just fine too, thank you very much.



Opera House



Sydney has the harbour, and oh what a harbour it is!  As the saying goes it’s all about location, location, location.  Sydney has more waterfront than I’ve ever seen.  A tour guide alleged that there’s 56 km of it within the city.  Whether true or not (this particular operator regaled us with Whitney Houston, Britney Spears, and Billy Ocean as we toured the harbour, which to me discredits anything they had to say),  there’s enough to provide ample opportunity for stunning vistas and seaside activities.  And as if the harbour isn’t enough on its own, Sydney has thrown in The Bridge and The Opera House just so there’s absolutely no debate as to who is the fairest of them all.





Melbourne Skyline over the Yarra River



Melbourne has waterfront, too, with much of it quite beautiful.  But the city isn’t centered on the ocean; rather the CBD (central business district) has built up around the winding Yarra River.  The Eureka Tower is the obvious landmark.  Standing 297 m above the banks of the Yarra, it is visible from many miles away and is easily the tallest "inhabitable" building in the southern hemisphere?  (A tower in Queensland is taller by means of a radio antenna on the roof.  Hardly comparable.)  It is the centerpiece of a very pleasant, modern central core where skyscrapers meet bike paths and café culture.  Still, no matter what Melbourne’s best efforts could be, as far as location and natural beauty are concerned, Sydney gets the nod.



Central Quay is the hub of Sydney harbour, teaming with charming yellow and green ferries connecting many of the outlying neighbourhoods to Sydney’s CBD.  The harbour is a constant coming and going of ferries of all sizes, with the odd cruise ship added to the mix for good measure.  The quay is alive every day of the week, with tourists and business types alike, creating the perfect location for street performers and mini-marts that charge exorbitant amounts of money for a 0.5 l bottle of water.

Harbour Bridge from Central Quay

Melbourne’s alternative to the ferries is trams.  The entire city is connected by a network of trams that run on tracks down the center of most major roads in Melbourne.  Some of the trams are modern, while others date back to the days of wooden slat seats.  It’s a comprehensive, if not painfully slow, means of getting about town.  The trams have a certain aesthetic appeal, yet my vote would likely be for the ferries - save for one peculiarity resulting from the trams that is completely unique to Melbourne:  Hook Turns.

Now remember that Australians drive on the left side of the road, so a right hand turn crosses the path of oncoming traffic.  Anywhere else in the world, a right hand turn would be done by pulling into the right lane, or right turn lane, and yielding until it’s safe to turn.  But in Melbourne the trams take up the middle of the main roads and they have the right of way.  Thus on these roads (and to complicate matters, only on these roads) an alternative had to be devised. 

Enter the Hook Turn.  Instead of occupying the right lane when they want to turn right, Melbourne drivers pull over to the curb lane and wait until the light turns yellow.  At this point, once they determine it’s safe to do so, they crank the wheel to the right and dart through the intersection across all the lanes of traffic.  I don’t think I’ve got the nerve to do this as it seems to me there would never be a safe time to dart across 4 to 6 lanes of traffic, not to mention two tram lines, in the middle of an intersection.  I would probably either keep driving straight and go somewhere else, or opt for the “three lefts make a right” strategy. 

Regardless, because of the funky Melbourne Hook Turn, I call ferries vs. trams a tie.

Eating and drinking in Sydney is done on a large scale.  Restaurants tend to be of a very expansive open area style.  They’re modern, busy, loud and expensive.  It’s that brash confidence coming out.  Drinking establishments tend to be the same way.  Everything’s a big beer garden.  This isn’t necessarily a bad thing because when it’s on, it’s on!

Melbourne is all about cool.  Restaurants trend towards small bistros, as opposed to Sydney’s sprawling brasseries.  Likewise, the pubs and bars in Melbourne are just that, pubs and bars.  Large beer gardens are present, but not the norm.  Thus, Melbourne’s numerous eating and drinking establishments are generally small and free to try whatever they please.  In fact, they need to be unique and creative to attract patrons.  This breeds creativity and style, something those kids at the smoking doors seemed to possess in abundance.  The result is something that, in my opinion, Sydney lacks; variety.  And after all, variety is the spice of dining and boozing.  Melbourne is my choice for a meal or libation.

So far we’ve established that both Sydney and Melbourne have their own distinct personalities and inclinations.   So who wins, and why? 

For me, the winner needs to possess something completely unique that sets them apart, from not only the competitor in this little tilt, but other cities around the world.  And for me that thing is Melbourne’s laneways.  I don’t know what substance they were smoking at the smoking doors, but it inspired Melbourne to reclaim most of its CBD alleyways and convert them into a maze of pedestrian walkways, lined with shops, cafes, restaurants and bars.  Some are posh, others are covered in graffiti, but it all seems to work in a way that brings vitality and energy to the city’s core.

Laneway Art

I’m not saying that Sydney doesn’t have an energy and vitality of its own.  It possesses ample individuality amongst its myriad neighbourhoods.  Still, so do many other great cities.  What none of them have is the laneways.  Sydney vs. Melbourne?  I say Melbourne. 

(Oh, and I almost forgot.  Another area that sets Melbourne apart is the live music scene.  It’s no secret that I love live music, and Melbourne is full of live music venues.  It’s got heaps of small clubs and bigger venues.  What do you think the kids at the smoking doors were doing while the other kids played sports?  They were in a dark basement somewhere learning how to play guitar.  So it only makes sense that Melbourne would have dingy places down grimy alleyways for the bands to play.  Melbourne has had a vibrant music scene for years, something that has been strangely absent from Sydney.  Nick Cave over the Opera House?  In my books, absolutely!)

Full disclosure: Before you think this was a completely unbiased comparison, I must admit to having a number of good friends who live in Melbourne (with whom I’ve stayed with on more than one occasion) while I don’t know a soul in Sydney.  If I had chosen Sydney, I’d have never heard the end of it, and would probably have been banned from ever setting foot in Melbourne again!  My hands are tied…

Modern Gadgetry

Traveling sure has changed since the last time I hit the road for an extended period.  Mind you, back then I was a horny teenager jumping from youth hostel to pub across Europe in search of, well, let’s just say Cathedrals weren’t at the top of my list.  Today, I’d prefer to experience a better rounded sort of trip, and take the time to remember more of what I see and do along the way.  I also want to share my travels with friends and family, so modern travel gadgets for communication are a must.

Still, my selection of travel gadgets as I hitch hiked around back in 1983 was pretty cutting edge.  I had a cassette tape Walkman with 5 tapes to choose from (and I can assure you I will never listen to any of those albums ever again), a Canon Sureshot automatic camera with 25 (that’s right, 25!) rolls of slide film, and a six month supply of AA batteries.  I was as connected as it gets, which wasn’t much at all, really.

For an example of just how rudimentary communications were back in those “dark ages”, consider what it took for a traveller to call home from Europe.  It would start with a trip to the central post office, where the only international phones outside of the major hotels could be found.  (You had better have been in a larger center as many of the small towns only provided public access to local phones.)  Once inside, the would-be caller was undoubtedly confronted by a long, painfully slow moving line.  Getting to the front wasn’t guaranteed, but it also wasn’t the end of the ordeal.  The receptionist had to take down the number and transfer it to an operator who would place the call, but only when one of a limited number of phone booths came available.  It was often an all day affair!

In my case, being connected when I called home didn’t necessarily assure that I would have the opportunity to speak to my parents.  I always called collect, and apparently calls were expensive.

How the world of communications has transformed!  I don’t consider myself an overly tech savvy individual, but check out the list of gadgets accompanying me on the 2011 version of Dave’s adventures (along with why I need each item):

·         SLR digital camera with 32 GB memory card

o       because I can’t carry 5,000 rolls of film and “point and shoot” cameras are for amateurs)

·         “point and shoot” camera

o       because I’m an amateur

·         Flip HD video camera

o       because standard video doesn’t cut it any more

·         16 GB iPod Nano

o       because I need 7000 songs to choose from

·         capsule loudspeaker

o       because the people in the next room need to hear “good” music

·         quad band Blackberry mobile phone

o       because I haven’t been to Thailand yet to buy an iPhone

·         500 GB portable hard drive

o       because I need the capacity to store an additional 50,000 songs, 2000 movies, and 100,000 photos

·         Netbook computer

o       to pull it all together and take up all of my time

For a more detailed description check out this video (shot in HD, or course):

Remarkably, all that gear takes up less space than my humble load of gadgets from back in 1983.  However, I’ve noticed it does weigh a tad more.  Or is it perhaps that I’m a tad older?

On Buying a Netbook

Rare are the events in life that change everything.

That's a good thing, too, because such radical change can be a pretty traumatic experience. Trust me. I know.

These are the life experiences that result in major upheaval in people's lives; large scale epiphanies that lead individuals to rethink fundamental life choices.
I have recently had just such an experience. My life will never be the same. I bought a Netbook, and everything has indeed changed.

For those of you not in the know (like me until about a week ago), a Netbook is a mini laptop computer. It has all the basic functionality of a standard computer but in a much more convenient size. Some computer weenies turn up their noses at Netbooks claiming that they are insufficient for certain activities like online gaming. However, since I'm not a 15 year old Asian male I suspect I'll be just fine with a Netbook.

After all, my Netbook has a reasonably fast processor, a large hard drive and a bunch of accessories like a web cam so it's perfect for important things like blogging, Facebook, emailing, Skype, managing photos, etc. It has also been "ruggedized", which is supposed to mean that it can withstand a little more rough-housing than your average electronic gizmo. It's a perfect travel companion.

As a result, I am well prepared to turn my back on over 20 years of a professional career and hit the road. I've had a job my entire adult life, but now I've chosen a different direction. Ah the freedom! No more "bored" meetings. No more last minute panic sessions trying to realize additional revenue before month end. No more regular paycheck. (Hmmm. Perhaps I should have thought that one out a little better...)

Regardless, starting this January me and my Netbook are going travelling. We'll be on the road for over six months - seeing old friends, making new ones and visiting an incredible variety of destinations. It'll all be happening here at Dave's Digglings, too. So please feel free to follow along, or better yet, participate! After all, these sorts of events don't come 'round very often.


(OK, truth be known, certain other events have occurred in my life that may have also had some more than minor influence on this new direction. Like, for example, immediate termination of employment from a large multi-national corporation. But hey, it's my blog, and if i say it's all about buying a Netbook, then it's all about buying a Netbook!)

Iqaluit Bound: A Photographic Venture Into Canada's Arctic

The bumper sticker said it all. I certainly wasn't in painfully PC Vancouver anymore. I had embarked on a journey into a world so different from my own it's hard to believe it's still in the same country. Mind you, this is Canada after all, and you can travel a long, long way without crossing an international border. It took me longer to fly to Iqaluit way up in Canada's northeast than it would have taken for me to fly to Bali. That's far.

What follows are a few snapshots from my trip accompanied by some impressions from this ice-covered wonderland.

The first thing that hits you as you step off the airplane is the cold. My flight was greeted by temperatures dipping below -20 Celsius, and winds gusting over 50 km/hr. The conditions were such that the plane was forced to stop on the tarmac about a two minute walk from the terminal. Seasoned northern travellers are prepared for such occurrences by keeping their winter clothes on board as carry-on. I walked to the terminal in my light sweater and t-shirt, shivering and cursing the entire way. By the time I got inside, my right eye had frozen completely shut. My guess is that the locals were mocking me by loudly discussing how wonderful it was that spring had finally arrived. I kept my mouth shut and attempted to defrost my face.

The sun does shine in the Arctic (quite often, in fact), and when it does the stark beauty of the place is stunning. Shown here is Iqaluit from the neighbouring village of Apex, looking across Frobisher Bay. Mind you, without the clouds the temperature drops. It was -34 one deceptively sunny morning.

The ocean freezes in the northern winters, and the combination of tides and wind results in an incredible mish-mash of broken ice, with striking, twisted shards forming beautiful modern sculptures.

Nature isn't the only artist in the north. The Inuit people are famous for fine soapstone sculptures. This carving of a traditional hunter was perched atop a traditional weaved basket, and fetched a whopping $3,000 at an auction I attended.

Other indigenous art includes fashion, utilizing local furs such as seal, caribou and polar bear. These would probably not be practical in rainy Vancouver, as persons wearing such fashion would immediately be shot by someone who lives between Commercial and Victoria Drives.

Still, Lord knows how I love to shop, so I picked up two of these outfits...

The north also presents some startling contrasts, and with that some difficult social issues. On the left is the first Hudson's Bay trading post in the region, established on Frobisher Bay in 1620. It's quite remarkable that western explorers came to these harsh environs that long ago. But what's even more awe inspiring is that the Inuit people had called this rather uninhabitable land home for many previous generations.

The resulting meeting of cultures has not been a smooth one. Today, Iqaluit is the land of snowmobile cadavers, like the one shown on the right. The town boasts two snowmobile dealerships, and no snowmobile service centers. The locals have no need to service them. The government buys the Inuit new ones every two years so the machines are basically driven until they stop, then abandoned.

Amazing what a government will do to try and make up for the sins of the past.

And so Iqaluit evokes a wide variety of emotions along with its barren landscape and occasional discarded tire...


...or boat left to the mercy of the ice.

The conditions are pretty harsh for any living creature, including the dogs and crows...



...although I certainly wouldn't want to be a local polar bear!

Even so, there's still time to play some outdoor recreational sports, like hockey and basketball.

Where does it all lead? Hopefully not here!

Yankees Go Home!

Pabst Blue Ribbon really is awful stuff. You don’t tend to notice this when you’re actually drinking it, because the fact that you are indicates that you’re already inebriated to the point where you think drinking cheap swill is a good idea. No, the moment you realize that Pabst Blue Ribbon is awful stuff is the moment you open your eyes the following morning. Trust me.

Our Saturday thus started rather slowly. It was to be another day packed with discovery, yet I was having trouble getting past exploring the inside of my eyelids. Beth managed to get me up with the promise of good coffee, and a reminder that our day’s agenda was to start off with a true New York experience – an afternoon matinee game at Yankee Stadium in the Bronx.

When we started planning this trip, a Yankee game was high on my to-do list. Once we decided on the weekend, I immediately checked out the schedule and was thrilled to find that Major League Baseball would be in the middle of inter-league play. Not only that, the American League Yankees would be playing their arch cross-town rivals, the National League’s New York Mets! It was being billed as the Subway Series 2007.
OK, my apologies to the non-sports oriented reader. Please feel free to ignore the previous description full of nonsensical sports jargon. All you need to know is that to a sports fan, this was a big deal. Unfortunately for me, the world is full of sports fans and that game had been sold out since the season began. In the weeks leading up to our trip, tickets were going on eBay for hundreds of dollars apiece. Beth and I had decided to save the cash and try our luck at buying scalper tickets the day of the game.

In keeping with the series name, we headed to the subway to get to Yankee Stadium. The subways were under construction and over the weekend it had sometimes been hard to figure out which train was going where from what track. For this day’s destination, however, there was no question. The station was full of Yankee pinstripe jerseys. We just had to follow the masses.

The streets around Yankee stadium were alive with activity. Hoards of fans, even an occasional thick skinned Mets fan, filled the streets and local bars. Booths and street touts were on each corner selling everything imaginable to do with baseball. Everything, that is, except tickets. There were no scalpers in sight. We circled the entire stadium in search of someone selling tickets, and never saw a soul.

Our first stop once out of the subway had been the Yankee Stadium ticket office, but all they had to offer were some box seats for $280 a piece. Not even I am crazy enough to pay that kind of money for a baseball game. It was close to time for the game to begin and I had pretty well given up when Beth suggested we try the ticket office again. I rolled my eyes at such a ridiculously futile idea, but accompanied her to the window just the same. Sure enough, the agent clacked away on her computer for a moment, then announced that they had just released some tickets down the left field line for $55. We couldn’t hand over our cash fast enough. In no time we were at our seats, beer in hand.

Yankee Stadium is more than a sports venue; it’s a shrine to baseball fans not only in the Bronx and New York, but all across America. It’s the last of the remaining old ballparks. While all the other teams have built mega stadiums with corporate names, vast concourses and midway like gaming areas, Yankee Stadium goes on as a comparatively cramped has-been. Still, it’s the past that earns the stadium its place in history today. It is home to the most storied, and valuable, sports franchise in history. From “The Babe” to Willie Mays and Joe DiMaggio, they all played and won here. It has also almost single handedly kept the Bronx from turning into a third world slum. As a destination for people from all walks of life around the greater New York City area, Yankee Stadium has focused attention on the Bronx, and brought in much needed dollars, since 1923.

Sitting in our seats waiting for the first pitch, I took a deep breath to fill myself with the aura of Yankee Stadium. Unfortunately, I was greeted with sensations not exactly commensurate with the reverence that these hallowed halls deserve. First off, Yankee fans are not ones to dress up for a game, or bathe, for that matter. It was a hot and humid day in The Bronx, and the majority of the fans were, for lack of a better term, ripe. Secondly, since the stadium has been around since the 1920’s, that means Yankee fans have been spilling beer all over the place for more than 80 years. This day was no exception. They don’t give lids at the concession stands, so you’re lucky if you’ve still got half your beer by the time you make it through the crowded corridors and back to your seat.

The “House that Ruth Built” is being replaced in 2009. Construction of the replacement is already underway in an adjacent lot. The Bronx will still be home to the New York Yankees, but Yankee Stadium will not. Like Astroland on Coney Island, another New York area icon is about to fade into memory. My nose was telling me that for Yankee Stadium, it’s about time.

So there we were, in our left field seats, about to witness our last game in Yankee Stadium, and likewise probably the last “Subway Series” to be held there as well. Our surroundings weren’t so pleasant, but the significance of the event was not lost on us. It was only then that we first heard it. “Deh-wick! Deh-wick!”

I couldn’t believe it. By some cruel twist of fate, we had been seated in front of the loudest mouth in all of The Bronx. Not only that, but his Bronx accent was so thick, and his voice so squeaky, that he sounded just like a young Elmer Fudd!

“Aw c’mon Deh-wick Jetah! Hit a home wun fer yer goilfwend!”

I kid you not. Beth and I both had to turn around to be sure that he wasn’t packin’ and out to hunt wabbits. No, instead we were confronted with a very fat, very red faced fellow in his mid-thirties, completely decked out in Yankee’s gear.

We consoled each other with the hope that he couldn’t possibly keep up that volume for an entire game. We were certain that he’d run out of things to say, or his vocal chords would finally give out. We were wrong. I had to hand it to the guy, for what he lacked in intelligence and originality, he made up for in stamina. So, other than a short distraction from a group of large black gang bangers trying to pick a fight with a frat boy Mets fan, our game was overshadowed by young Elmer and his never ending babble-train of consciousness.

He would yell “SUEY!! SQUEAL LIKE A PIG!!” every time Hideki Matsui came up to bat or touched a ball. Apparently, “Awex Wadweegez” kissed his cousin one day. Or was it Jason Giambi? He couldn’t really remember, so that story was repeated over and over with the name of whatever Yankee happened to be at bat. The barrage went on, but the crescendo had to be when the field crew came on and “YMCA” was blared all over the stadium. That was his signal to leap to his feet and run down the aisle (ok, waddle quickly) and lead our section in the hand motions to the song. Unfortunately, young Elmer wasn’t a very good speller, so his routine amounted to a series of whoops and yips while frantically waving his hands in the air.

Thankfully, there was a rain delay in the seventh inning, and Beth and I were in need of a good hosing off before heading to a Broadway play that evening. As we headed to the exits we noticed that pretty well every other person from our section out in left field was doing the same thing, except for young Elmer, of course. I’m sure he was there until long after the game was over.

Oh, I almost forgot. There was a ball game that day. It was actually quite entertaining. The Yankees won 11 to 8. Both Derek Jeter and Alex Rodriguez hit home runs, apparently for their “goilfwends”.

A Long, Long Weekend in NYC (Pt 1)

There is no place on earth quite like New York City. It possesses an indescribable energy that derives from a unique mish-mash of concentrated humanity and vibrant history.

To truly get to know New York City would require a lifetime of experience. Even then it would still be impossible to eat at every restaurant, see all the shows and take in the incredible diversity of culture, not only in Manhattan, but in all the boroughs, too. Regardless of that fact, I wanted to do it all and I only had one weekend. I’d apparently have to hurry.

To help me with the Herculean task of fitting as much of New York as humanly possible into a single weekend, I drew on the services of a few special individuals. My sister Beth is a regular visitor to NYC. She volunteered to be my primary guide. Her friend Allison, an actor who has written her own guide to the city that is almost as widely used as the Zagat, was flying in for a day and agreed to join us. And, Beth’s friend Todd, who was living in New York at the time, felt he was up to it as well.

The plan had been to arrive at La Guardia at 4 PM Wednesday and start off with a big dinner in the city. Unfortunately, the friendly skies weren’t, so instead we arrived at our rental apartment somewhat haggard around 11 PM. Luckily, Beth had chosen our base camp carefully. It was a funky little 5th floor apartment on 4th between Bowery and Lafayette, straddling Greenwich Village and the East Village. That meant we were close to all the hipster action, but also happened to put us directly above the Bowery Bistro where that night I devoured a double cut pork chop the size of New York State. Add in a few cocktails and some red wine and our trip had officially begun.

We started off Thursday at a café in Greenwich that has no name (how NY is that?). All I can tell you is that it has yellow awnings and is located at the corner of Bleeker and MacDougal. Oh, it also happens to be one of the few places around that sells Intelligentsia coffee. Absolutely brilliant! I started each day with two of their large lattes. Hey, if you’re not going to sleep, you’ve got to have a contingency plan.

Allison met us at the café and led our group out to Brooklyn where we spent the afternoon haunting old foundries and antique shops. We followed our day of wacko discovery with dinner at an equally eclectic restaurant called Freeman’s, nestled away at the end of Freeman’s Alley on the Lower East Side. It’s an exceedingly low-profile restaurant that boasts a taxidermist's dream of a dining room. The food and atmosphere were fantastic, but the true highlight was the “devils on horseback”, or as I call them “heaven on a toothpick”. Imagine prunes stuffed with Stilton cheese wrapped in bacon and grilled until crispy and drizzled with some sort of wine reduction. Sounds bizarre, but tastes magnificent.

With bellies full of fun, we bode adieu to Allison, and went for a wander through the stores and bars of Greenwich. The standout for me was a place called “Cake Shop”. It’s a cool record store in the back, with a full cake shop in the front, and a bar in the basement. How perfect is that? I mean, I can’t count how many times I’ve been in a record store, flipping through the vinyl, when I get a hankerin’ for a big piece of cake. And, no sooner have I finished the cake when I get a crave on for some live music and a few drinks. How did they know?

Our next stop was the Bowery Ballroom, recently voted one of the top 40 live music venues in the country by PASTE magazine. It’s one of my favorite venues because of the incredible sound and great sight lines, a perfect combination for this evening’s show which featured Earl Greyhound. The Earls are a three piece from Brooklyn formed out of a musical collective. Their album “Soft Targets” was on my best of 2006 list. Based on their show at the Bowery, I’d say they’re better live than on record. I bounced about and pumped my fists in the air (they have Sierra Nevada on tap, what more can I say?) as their wall of sound blew away the audience.

It was now 2 AM, but our night was hardly over. As we polished off our last drinks in the Bowery Lounge, I was approached by some NY music scenester who wanted to know how I pulled off not dying my hair. He was so relieved to hear that there's still life after letting your hair turn gray naturally, that when we were finished chatting, he invited us to the band’s private aftershow. That’s right; my gray hair actually got me into a rock n roll after party! Take that all you young dudes!

So, our Thursday was topped off downing cocktails with the Earl Greyhound entourage in a sweltering private club just off Houston. When Todd and I were almost busted for peeing in a doorway down the road (there were huge line-ups for the only toilet in the club), we knew it was time to call it a night.

Thursday had taken a lot out of me, but it was now Friday AM and officially the weekend, so we had to get motivated. That’s where the two lattes came in handy. From a rather extensive list of possible activities to choose from, we decided to spend the day at Coney Island. It was an admittedly odd choice, but then again, 2007 is the last year of operation for Astroland, the amusement park portion of this icon of Americana. It would be my last chance to sneak about the rows of tattered sideshow games, calling “Warriors… Warriors… Come out and play!”

Coney Island today is almost an insult to its former glory. What was once a proud example of what America could accomplish has become an eyesore representing in some ways what America has become. The world famous “Wonder Wheel” and “Cyclone” roller coaster are looking worse for wear, and are dwarfed by a back drop of tall brick projects. The amusement parks, at least those that remain open, are home to as many gang bangers as they are to families.

We took it all in from the top of the Wonder Wheel, before risking our lives on the rickety, bone jarring tracks of the Cyclone and finished up by strolling along the boardwalk. It was quite a smorgasbord of sights, sounds and smells. There’s supposed to be a huge 1.5 billion dollar facelift planned for the park, including new condos, hotels and rides. I wonder if these will do a better job of obscuring the projects from the view of tourists?

From Coney Island we headed to a more modern freak show, that of Washington Square Park back in the Village. We grabbed falafels from Mamoun’s world famous shop (the best two dollars I have ever spent!) and lounged for an hour or two watching the jazz performers and all the crazy spectators who were hanging around the fountain in the sunshine.

Flipping through a copy of Time Out NY, we spotted a free jazz concert that evening at the summer soundstage in Central Park, featuring Cassandra Wilson. New York is a very expensive place to live or visit, but it also has plenty of free stuff to help you stretch out your hard earned dollars. We made it to the venue just in time to catch the sunset, while grooving to Cassandra's soulful stylings.

We had a late dinner that night at Peep, a marvelous Thai-fusion restaurant in Soho regularly frequented by Todd. Walking in the door it's immediately obvious that you've entered a hot spot for hip scenesters and foodies alike. The look is sleek and modern, which fits the patrons, while the food is relatively cheap and extremely yummy, which suits me just fine.

However, there was one niggling detail that had to be solved before we left. Why in the world do they call a Thai fusion restaurant Peep? The answer was provided by, of all places, the bathroom. The entire wall of one length of the restaurant was done in mirrors. That's not a bad design idea because all of the rather good looking crowd of primarily female patrons could catch glimpses of themselves. The doors to the two bathrooms, also mirrors, were set flush along the mirrored wall. Women in line were thus able to give a fair amount of attention to themselves while they waited. The trick was that the main wall of the bathroom, including the door, was made from two-way mirrors. As a result, the bathroom occupant was able to observe the entire restaurant while sitting on the throne doing his or her business! A much different sort of "Peep-show" than those offered at Coney Island.

It was getting late, but our bellies were so extended from dinner that we needed to work off the calories before calling it a night. So we wandered through Soho for a few hours, finally ending up at another of Todd’s faves - a downstairs hovel called Fat Cat’s Pub. This place is a basement’s wet dream; a never ending supply of pool tables, foosball, and most importantly, ping pong tables. The style is 70’s family den, complete with old couches and chairs, only they up the ante with live jazz bands to entertain the patrons. And, as I found out, the cans of Pabst Blue Ribbon were disgustingly cheap. Thanks to Todd, I always had one in hand as I challenged the local kids to foosball and embarrassed myself on the pool table.

After getting our fill of heaven’s basement, we stumbled out into the night. Two days down, two to go, and I was still alive. Saturday and Sunday would be no problem, right?

Which East is Better? The Answer Lies Somewhere in the Middle.

On two different occasions while in Riyadh, Saudi Arabia, I was posed with the question “Do you find much difference between Riyadh and Dubai?” In both instances, before I had a chance to respond, the asker supplied me with his answer “Riyadh is just the same, isn’t it?” Now, I’m not sure who they were trying to convince, themselves or me, but I did my best to squirm out of replying without divulging my true feelings, which would have come across something like “What, are you nuts?!?”

Not that there aren’t some similarities between the two cities. Both are really hot and dusty, which I suppose one expects from the desert, and since both are located in the Middle East, there are lots of Arabs, and thus lots of guys who are obsessed with facial hair who wear white robes and Arabian style headgear. Also, driving in the two cities is pretty well the same, often resembling camel races, but with Hummers and the like all jockeying for position while ignoring the lines on, and rules of, the road.

Of course, the Middle East wouldn’t be the Middle East without prayer, and in both locales one can hear that unmistakable wail broadcast all over the city on huge loudspeakers at least 5 times a day, calling the faithful to face Mecca and pray. However, here’s where the difference between the two cities starts to surface. It’s a subtle difference, but noticeable to anyone who’s paying attention. The prayers are always respectful and reverent, for these are a deeply religious people. Yet, I swear in Dubai I heard them slip in some soccer scores at the end. Honest, I swear it went something like:
“God is great,
All praise be to Allah!
Dubai 3, Abu Dhabi no score...”

This is where the two cities diverge. As I see it, it all hinges on spirit – Dubai’s got it, Riyadh could only be so lucky.

When looking for something to do in Riyadh, besides work, about all my associates could suggest was eating and shopping. Well, Dubai also has eating and shopping and, oh yeah, did I mention that one of the shopping malls has a full sized, indoor ski hill? With real snow?

Or how about special events? In Riyadh, well, there are none. Meanwhile, the day I arrived in Dubai was opening day of the Dubai Men’s Tennis Championships. So, my spare time in Riyadh was spent holed up in my hotel room doing work on my computer, while my spare time in Dubai was spent swilling beer, sitting in the sun and watching the likes of Roger Federer.

Architecturally, Riyadh has some interesting buildings, but overall, it’s pretty well an underdeveloped sandbox. On the other hand, Dubai is an out of control construction nightmare on a scale the world has never seen. It’s like ten separate Manhattans, all under construction at the same time, with every building over 100 stories tall. Even more outrageous is that several of these Manhattans are being created at sea, on man-made islands fabricated in the shape of palm trees, or the earth! Dubai is like Vegas, only orders of magnitude more extravagant, and without all the people from Kansas.

It’s obviously not a lack of money in Saudi Arabia. Saudi Airlines apparently flies nothing smaller than a 777. On both of their flights that I took, the plane was almost ¾ empty, yet they flew the behemoth anyway. (Funny, they also sat everyone at the very back of the plane. As soon as the doors were closed, I led a charge to the free rows up towards the front.) There is certainly no shortage of money in that nation.

No, what Riyadh’s missing is, like I said, spirit. Or should I have said spirits? Alcohol is most certainly a missing link in Saudi Arabia. It’s the only way to explain all the super models in Dubai. I mean, the place is crawling with them - Amazon beauties, dressed to the hilt, strolling around talking about Monaco, Versace and Formula One drivers. It’s absolutely unbelievable. The most beautiful women in the world are in Dubai, and they’re all in bikinis…

OK, the last bit isn’t entirely accurate, but I’m trying to make a point, and it’s not just that when I drink I see super models in bikinis, or that alcohol is the reason there are women in public in Dubai. It’s just that the equivalent to super models in Saudi Arabia, or females for that matter, simply doesn’t exist. In fact, my experience in Riyadh was one of “women, what women?” The lack of women in Saudi Arabia is more striking than the presence of all the Riviera trash in Dubai. A woman’s place in Saudi life is certainly not a public one. Women simply aren’t around. I gave a presentation to over 60 people from the Ministry of Water and Electricity in Riyadh. There wasn’t a woman in the audience. Moreover, there wasn’t a woman in the entire building.
Women in Saudi Arabia lead an entirely private life. If in public, they are dressed literally from head to toe in black. No wonder you never see them. It’s 45 degrees Celsius in the shade in the Middle East. Who in their right mind would go out of the way to bake themselves to a crisp?

Now, having read the Darwin Awards from the last few years, I think the answer to that question is undoubtedly “a man”. But a woman subject herself to such undo harm? Not a chance. As a result, Saudi Arabian women are left to do their own thing, away from the prying eyes of strangers or men. I asked my male associates where the women were, or what the women do, and their reply was something to the effect of “We don’t really know, but we’re sure they are really enjoying themselves, and when we come home, they’re usually there.”

Thus, I have developed this whole secret society theory of a Freemason type alliance amongst Saudi women. I really have nothing else to go on. I was never able to talk to one to learn otherwise. But, judging from their apparent fondness for gold, I wouldn’t be surprised if some sort of alchemy is realized in the kitchens of Saudi Arabia. Remember, you heard it here first.

So which is better, the ultra-religious repression exemplified by Riyadh, or the out of control commercialism of Dubai? My guess is it’s some ideal yet probably unattainable middle ground.

Still, an event occurred on my last day in Dubai that suggests perhaps the unchecked growth option isn’t sustainable. Indeed, February 28 was the first time the construction workers in Dubai, all of them foreigners, went on strike. It wasn’t every one, but it was enough to shut down a highway and disrupt business in the city for the better part of a day. Why are they acting in this manner? They work six days a week in incredible heat, live in camps with conditions that rival those experienced by some POW’s, and they earn 600dh per month. To put that in perspective, my hotel room my first night in Dubai cost 770dh, for one night. These guys are building the foundations by which many people are making huge fortunes, and their rewards are on a par with slave labor.

But hey, far be it from me to piss on Dubai’s parade. It’s an incredibly amazing spectacle that may very well support the Emirates long after the oil money has dried up. And who knows, maybe by then the Saudi women will have perfected their magic, and the two countries will approach the happy medium I spoke of earlier? It could happen, couldn’t it?

Just So You Don't Think This Is All Play And No Work

Yep, there it is, the depressing little tunnel where we spent the better part of the last two weeks. Pretty glamorous, huh? I apparently missed the day when the more notable winners from the film festival in Cannes dropped by, but not to worry. There's so much glitz and high society in my line of work that it's nice to occasionally take a break from it. We get to do more science that way.

So there you have it. A train tunnel dug through a mountain side in the 1800's, long since abandoned, is now a center for scientific research. In fact, this little tunnel in the south near Montpellier is being used to confirm data from a large Underground Nuclear Repository Research Facility in the east of France. I have worked at both sites and must admit that even though the large site in the east is much more interesting from a scientific standpoint, this site is much closer to Montpellier, so it wins. (Still don't get it about Montpellier? I'm telling you, just go there!)

Each day in the tunnel, our group of merry Frenchmen (and me - not so merry, not so French) would go about installing equipment deep into the ground. It's a rather unique site, because the rock is very similar to the rock where the French Nuclear Agency is proposing to store spent fuel (radioactive waste) deep in the ground. Since this tunnel was constructed well over a hundred years ago, and it goes through the heart of a mountain, it provides an unparalleled opportunity to study the long term effects of excavations on this geologic material at great depths. This work will have a direct influence on the regulatory acceptance of the proposed site in the east of France.

And so, our crew does its best to shake off the influence of the ample red wine from the previous evening, and focus on the importance of the task at hand. You can tell from the picture, by how we're all bent over a table (click on the picture to enlarge, you'll see), that we're having a little trouble focusing on this particular day. Ce n'est pas une problem, however, as there will most certainly be more wine each and every evening, ensuring that we will maintain a sort of equilibrium that will enable us to be, if nothing else, consistent. It will also ensure that my "16 Rule" remains a distant memory until I return to a land where we can't afford to have a beautiful bottle of red on the table each lunch and dinner.

I Want To Live In Montpellier

I want to live in Montpellier.
If you've been there, you know what I'm talking about.
If you haven't, go.

(Feb 12)

Driving Me Crazy in Pau

Famous for its fetes and bullfights, Pau exudes a Spanish flavor unique to France. It boasts an enviable location near the Spanish border, with equally short travel distances to beaches in the west, and mountains to the east. It's a veritable playground for the outdoor enthusiast, and to think if it weren't for my company's addiction to QHSE (Quality Health Safety and Environment for those of you not familiar with useless corporate acronyms) policies, I would never have had the opportunity to stroll along Pau's expansive "Boulevard des Pyrenees".

You see, before I can rent a car in a foreign country, the makers of draconian policies who inhabit our QHSE department feel it necessary for me to take a driving test. A test in Canada will not suffice, so before I can begin my work in France, they insist that I pass a driving exam in France - not just any exam, but one carried out by an internal, company trained examiner.
Our upcoming job is located in a remote area in the south of France near Montpellier, accessible only by car. Therefore, in order to carry out my job, I need to rent a car. Before I can rent the car, I have to find the nearest company driver training center, and prove to them that I know what side of the road to drive on, how to survive in roundabouts, and that red means stop. Lucky for me, that training center happens to be in Pau.

Arriving in Pau a day prior to the test provided me with a wonderful opportunity to stroll the streets of the old town, which is perched high on a bluff above the Gave de Pau River. The Boulevard des Pyrenees spans the length of the bluff, from the elegant Chateau de Pau (pictured below) to the Palais Beaumont (which cleverly contains the local casino, without spoiling the skyline). Along the boulevard are numerous cafes and restaurants. On sunny days, such as the day I was fortunate enough to be there, the cafes set out beach chairs to lure in the pedestrians for a glass of Jurancon, a local white wine that can be enjoyed sweet or dry. Needless to say, I spent the afternoon doing an in-depth study into which was superior. With a glow on my face and a smile in my belly, I headed to the hotel well after dark to prepare for my driving exam.

Corporate bureaucracy - it can drive you crazy, but hey, you can occasionally steer it in a direction you want to go.

(Feb 4, 2007)

French Training

Ah the SNCF (French Rail Service). So reliable you can set your watch by it. I’m currently on the TGV (Bullet Train) from Montpellier to Paris. A ride on one of these trains is worth the airfare to France alone. They literally fly along the countryside at a modest 300 km/h, yet they’re so smooth you’d hardly know you were moving (save for the blur of countryside out your window). And the facilities are first class; lots of legroom, comfortable seats that recline, a good sized table and, of course, a restaurant/ bar car.

Several years ago I rented a car in Paris and was pleasantly surprised when I got to the lot and saw a brand new BMW in my space. I hit the “peage” (high speed motorway) and was soon barreling down the road with the pedal to the metal, quite confident that I was the fastest human on the planet. My confidence was short lived. Not far out of Paris the motorway paralleled some train tracks. That was my first real encounter with the TGV, and it was a brief one. The train passed me so quickly I may as well have been moving backwards. As it disappeared into the distance ahead of me, I eased off on the gas and slowed to the posted speed limit of 130 km/h. No point in getting a speeding ticket for going backwards, I surmised.

Fast rail service is now common throughout Europe, everywhere except the British Isles, that is. This is no more obvious than on the “Eurostar”, high speed rail service between Paris and London through the “chunnel”. If traveling to the UK, the journey begins with a sprint to the English Channel that’s over before the taste of café et croissant has left your mouth. As the train plunges into the darkness of the chunnel, it slows slightly due to the grade of the tracks. The welcome sight of daylight is about the only positive aspect of arriving in England by rail. Your first thought is that the train must already be arriving in London, as it is proceeding at a pathetic crawl. Not only that, but your drink is spilling all over the table in front of you. The tracks in Britain are so old that the trains bounce around on them, and therefore are unable to reach a reasonable traveling speed. As a result, the entire UK leg of the Eurostar is completed at an embarrassingly archaic rate.

(Feb. 14, 2007)

Viva La France! (or, The 16 Rule Goes To Hell)

(Feb 5, 2007)
Greetings from France!
For the next month or so I’ll be on a business trip in France and the Middle East.
Business travel is both a blessing and a curse. It’s wonderful to be able to get around and see the world, but at the same time, your time is not your own, and your days tend to be filled with meetings, trains and airports. When the trip is over, staid hotels and bored service industry workers dominate your memories…
Feeling sorry for me yet? I didn’t think so.
However, there is one other negative aspect of this type of travel to which I’m sure you can relate - YOU CAN”T BRING ANYONE WITH YOU! This truly is a shame because there are sights and experiences worth sharing.
This is where the Digglings come into play. It's as close as I can come to bringing YOU with me. For the next few weeks I’ll be updating the blog as often as possible with pictures, stories and thoughts from France, Saudi Arabia and Dubai. So, buckle up and come along!
(You'll notice that some of the blog dates don't match my journal entry dates. All I can say about that is good luck finding an Internet connection in rural France. Oh yeah, and there's that bit about actually having to work, as well...)

The Suns Also Rise

Had a great time last night in Phoenix. The hi lite was getting a chance to attend a Phoenix Suns game against the Minnesota Timberwolves. Still, one small drawback - I was looking so forward to seeing Kevin Garnett take on the Suns, but it turns out he had been ejected from a game the night before for throwing a punch, and suspended for one game. MY GAME! The Timberwolves point guard was suspended too, so they had a very short bench and a weak team. The result? The Suns crushed them without even blinking. They were up by 35 at the beginning of the 4th!
We bailed early to watch the end of the football game. Saw New England go up by a field goal, then watched in horror as Indy marched back down the field...

...and speaking of horror:
While in Phoenix yesterday - it snowed.
Arrived in San Antonio this AM - it was 42F.
Am planning to stay in my room tonight, cranking up the heat, and watching Al Gore's "An Inconvenient Truth". Seems kinda ironic that I'm here for a conference related to global warming!

Halloween Horror

Happy Halloween everybody. Greetings from the Vancouver International Airport, October 31, 2006 at about 6 AM.

I have a very scary story for you today kiddies, as I’m off on another sojourn into the deepest, darkest nether regions of America. That’s right, for the second time this autumn I’m off to Orlando.

And, as if the prospect of returning to this bastion of Disneydom, frightenly situated in the center of the Floridian jungle, isn’t terrifying enough in its own right, it appears as if I’m going to spend my day today surrounded by airline and airport staff dressed up in Halloween regalia. Oooh, isn’t that scary kiddies? Ha! You have no idea.

It started with the ticket agent, dressed up as an overly helpful, flamingly gay fellow who was sure to touch each passenger tenderly on the shoulder. Next came the gruff disposition and jangly jowls of a middle aged man posing as a US customs official. I’m still shaking from that encounter. Soon afterwards I was confronted by a large group of East Indians dressed in black, posing as security agents. They weren’t very convincing, however, as they seemed far more interested in laughing together about Diwalli than acting in character. Hell, they forgot to make me take my shoes off, which had the guy behind me (pretending to be a businessman) particularly chuffed. Most recently, I encountered the best costumes so far, a gang of crazily efficient, loudly chattering Asian women in Starbucks uniforms. That was particularly unsettling; as everyone knows that Starbucks only hires young kids with lots of facial hardware.

So there you have it. 6:44 AM, the dawn only beginning to lighten the eastern sky, and my brain is on fright alert sensory overload. Either that or the venti quad latte is kicking in!

Flying By Numbers

Some stats from a recent day spent flying from San Antonio to Vancouver (via Dallas):

5:30 – time of scheduled wake-up call
never – actual time of wake-up call
6:00 – time at which I happened to roll over and look at the clock
6:30 – time of arrival at check-in counter for flight to Dallas
7:26 – scheduled departure time
45 – number of minutes in security line-up
5 - number of seats by which flight was oversold
30E – number of my assigned seat
30E – number of seat assigned to and occupied by a sharply dressed Hispanic businessman
2 – number of other seats I was directed to sit in prior to occupying my final seat
550 – estimated combined weight (in pounds) of the two individuals on either side of my middle seat
0 – number of available arm rests
1 – number of opportunities I was given to relocate to a less “crowded” seat, but was prevented from doing so because the obese gentleman to my left refused to stand-up “yet again” (I’m not kidding!)
39 – number of minutes that gentleman snored through the flight
40 – duration of flight to Dallas, in minutes (thank God!)
2 – number of hours scheduled for layover in Dallas
1 – number of oil leaks discovered in left hand side engine of Vancouver destined aircraft, after all passengers were loaded
5 – number of times engine was restarted in hopes that the leak would “go away”
0 – number of successful attempts
2.5 – number of hours “de-planed” passengers waited for a replacement aircraft
55 – number of minutes that passengers were further delayed, once loaded on the 2nd aircraft, waiting for food services to stock the galley
4.5 – total number of hours behind schedule that I arrived in Vancouver