California Dreamin'

Every now and then I get a real yearning to go back to California.

Unusually, this doesn't happen when I'd expect it, i.e. when it's cold and windy and wet outside. Rather, it happens as soon as I catch the first glimpse of summer; when the air warms by that single essential degree marking the difference between spring and summer; when the smell of flowers hangs heavy in the air; when I feel the sun warming the stones under my feet and the bones under my skin; this is when I long to be back in California.

A cloudless sky and an endless horizon ahead of me as I drive home; the outline of the city against a backdrop of hazy mountains; sunshine glinting off a beat-up Ford pickup ahead of me on the motorway; these are the things that remind me of California.

It literally wrenches my heart. The longing to be in California grips me and leaves me breathless, aching, unsatisfied.

I have only ever been to California three times, but each single time was such an incredible experience that I have never forgotten it. The first time I visited was in 2000, and, bless me father for have sinned, it's been a year and a half since my last visit. Far, far too long.

In my three visits to California, I have driven the Pacific Coast Highway from just south of Portland, OR, to just north of Tijuana, Mexico. I have driven through incredible redwood forests and along roads clinging to the sides of mountains, as the surf pounded the rocks hundreds of feet below. I distinctly remember my first glimpse of the Pacific ocean in Oregon - grey and vicious and angry. I disctinctly remember the first time I swam in the Pacific in San Diego - clear and blue and warm. And very salty, as I discovered when I was dragged under by a massive wave.

I have cruised along beach boulevards, with the top down on my car, honking the horn at the glistening muscle men and gazing upwards at the clear blue sky through the almost-touching, impossibly tall palm trees. I have made the road trip from San Francisco to San Diego three times, and each time is more wonderful than the last. I have driven through Baja Mexico, from Tijuana to Ensenada and beyond. From poverty to paradise and back to poverty again.

There are some moments of my three trips that are etched indelibly in my memory. Driving through the desert for days on end, with nothing but Pink Floyd playing on the only station my broken radio could pick up. Since then, every time I hear Dark Side of the Moon I get a shiver down my spine.

I remember my big gay weekend in San Francisco, celebrating the successful open houses of our photographer and artist friends by getting pissed on Mojito's in a trendy bar on Castro Street and going to a Gay Glo show. Buff naked men in neon paint - nice!

I remember making plans to set up camp in a pink glittery tent at Burning Man the following summer... Unfortunately those plans were never realised.

I remember sitting in a beer garden near the Golden Gate Bridge, drinking pitchers of Bud with hairy bikers and gazing up at the stars. Watching Podge & Rodge on DVD in an apartment overlooking the bay.

Driving through wine country, with vineyard after vineyard rolling out all around us, windows rolled down, hand surfing in the warm breeze.

Hanging out in La Jolla, giggling at the seals and eating giant freshly-baked cookies from the local café. Drinking Hang Ten beer with the surfers who brewed it in their bar near the beach whilst eating BBQ shark and fish tacos and saying "Dude!" a lot. Walking in on a bizarre speed dating session in an Irish bar in the Gas Lamps, San Diego, where all the women looked like Cindy Crawford and all the men looked like George Costanza.

I remember Ozzfest in the desert. The dry, baking heat that you only get in the Californian desert. The weird, yet undefinable differences between American and European music festivals. Trying to avoid staring at the tattooed gang members down from LA for the day, as they walked around in their uniform of baggy blue jeans, white wifebeater vest and numerous bullet holes and scars. Doling out suncream to sunburnt teenagers because seemingly I'm the only person in America who brings suncream to a festival in the desert in California. Watching the dust bowl develop and envelope the mosh pit whilst Rob Zombie pounded the stage in front of us. Ten bucks for a beer... some things never change.

Drinking beers and watching the wannabes at the Rainbow Bar & Grill on Sunset Strip, the birthplace of my kind of music! Waking up in my hotel, opening the curtains and feeling my stomach flip with excitement and my hangover rapidly disappear as I see the Hollywood sign right in front of me. Getting lost whilst driving around southern LA, taking a wrong turn and ending up in a bad neighbourhood. Burning rubber as we sped out of there, laughing with relief and near hysteria, stopping only to pick up a case of cold beers as we raced toward the beach.

Sipping coffee on a patio café in the morning. Soaking up the sunshine at the beach in the afternoon as we spot the Irish students on their summer visa. Hot, sultry nights shooting pool at the local bar and sitting on the steps outside the apartment, sipping beers and watching the world go by.

California has everything I want. Mountains. Sea. Sunshine. The laid back attitude. The hopefulness that anyone can be someone if you just work hard enough.

I need to go back!

So, if anyone has two round-trip flights from Manchester to Los Angeles that they're not using, let me know...

In the meantime, I'm hoping this longing will wear off soon, because I can't get to California until next year at the earliest. It's due to rain tomorrow, so if that doesn't shift it my trip to the oil refinery north of Grimsby on Friday will surely do it!

Philistine or Pedant?

I'd like to preface this blog by saying that I adore art. I don't know a whole lot about it, but I adore it. I love visiting galleries and museums and spending the day wandering amongst artwork, regardless of whether it's three hundred years old or three years old. I've had the immense pleasure of standing in front of original works by Botticelli and Caravaggio, as well as Blake and Lowry. However, I've recently discovered a slight internal problem that may well ruin my enjoyment of art forever.

Let me explain...

In March 2006, I had the good fortune to be invited to spend a few days in Florence with Mairead, her parents and her aunt. I didn't need to be asked twice. I'd always wanted to visit Italy and I'd heard that Firenze is one of the most beautiful cities in Italia, as well as being the bithplace of the Italian Renaissance and the hometown of the art-loving Medici family. Well, I'd be a fool to turn that down, wouldn't I?

Oh yeah, and I'd also get to spend five days with my best friend doing what we do best - drinking coffee, sipping wine, sitting in the sun and commenting on the talent walking past. It's a good life!

Anyhoo, Mairead and I arranged to meet in Pisa on the Friday night, which we did. Exhausted after our respective full day's work, flights, travel to the hotel, etc., we got ourselves checked in and set out to find someplace that could offer us a nice glass of Italian vino. Wandering around the streets near the hotel, we turned a corner and were faced with the leaning tower in all its magnificent glory.

Most of the time, when you see pictures of the tower, it looks something like this:

i.e., surrounded by tourists all yabbering away and making silly poses in front of the tower. However, due to the fact that it was around about midnight, the Campo dei Miracoli was completely deserted, allowing us to drink in the sight of this beautiful marble structure in peace. It was a beautiful night and the white tower and incredible Baptistry beside it looked almost painted onto the clear, navy blue sky behind. When we got back to the hotel (with a couple of bottles of red), we realised that we had a perfect view of the tower from the balcony in Mairead's room. As we sat and drank our wine and chatted, every now and then we would wander over to the balcony and just stare at the magnificent view. It was hypnotic.

Anyhoo, that's not the point of this story.

So, the next day we hopped on the train and made our merry (if slightly hungover) way to Firenze. Mairead's dad met us off the train, hustled us along to the hotel to drop off our bags and then rushed us over to the Uffizi where Mairead's mum and aunt were waiting for us, tickets in hand, to go explore one of the most incredible art museums in the world. The Uffizi houses a stunning collection of artwork and sculptures that would take days to investigate thoroughly. However, and now we're getting closer to the point of the story, as we wandered through the rooms, being bombarded from all sides by incredible works of art, we found ourselves becoming more and more blasé about what we were seeing. Our conversation rapidly degenerated from: "Wow! Look at this one! God, that's incredible! Look at the detail!" and: "Bloody hell! That must have taken years to finish!" to: "Oh, look.... another painting of the Madonna and child. Nice." and: "Hmmm...... sensing a slight obsession with religion here...." eventually, two hours later, to: "What's in there? More religious crap? Ah, let's skip it."

I mean, there's only so much of this you can take in at any one time:

Nice paintings, but after about two hundred of 'em, you get a bit overloaded.

Eventually, we got to the good stuff, but even then, we were beyond redemption. About three hours after entering the museum, we arrived in the Botticelli room, and saw the absolutely astounding Birth of Venus:

To say I was awestruck in the presence of this painting would be an understatement. I mean, the thing is huge! It would be difficult to not be impressed by it. And Venus is absolutely beautiful, as you can see. But... then I noticed that... well, Botticelli is a bit rubbish at painting feet. If you look at the feet of the two angels on the left, they look a bit weird. And Venus herself looks as if she's been a victim of Chinese foot binding. As for the wave-effect on the water - seriously, I could do better than that.

With my eyes closed.

And my arms hacked off.

And no lips with which to steady the paintbrush.

But, then, maybe I was just still pissed off about the billions of religious paintings I'd just had to wade through. So, we continued on. I'm happy to say that by the time we reached Botticelli's Primavera, he'd gotten much better at painting toes, which is strange because Venus was actually painted after Primavera.

Anyway...

We carried on throughout the rest of the musem, including an exhibition on the life and works of Leonardo da Vinci (more on this in a moment), and by the time we left, many, many hours later, we had been rendered pretty much speechless by the sheer talent we had witnessed inside. To think these were painted hundreds of years ago... wow! Luckily, a couple of glasses of wine later and speech had returned full force, although slightly slurred.

The next day, we made our way along to the Accademia to see Michelangelo's David:

Breathtaking. Absolutely stunning, from every angle. The fact that the statue is 17 feet tall makes it impressive by itself, but the attention to detail is what makes it for me. Not only can you see every rippling muscle in this beautiful example of the male form, but Michelangelo even carved out cuticles on the hands of the statue. Incredible.

And then we noticed.... aren't his hands and feet a bit.... out of proportion? In fact, is it just me or is his head kind of huge*?

Goddamnit.

Why were we suddenly noticing these things? Why were we suddenly looking at beautiful pieces of art created hundreds of years ago by world class masters, and only able to see the flaws? Personally, I blame Leonardo da Vinci. You see, in the Uffizi, we had visited a special exhibition entitled "The Mind of Leonardo - The Universal Genius at Work" in which there were presentations about the rules of geometry and proportion that Leonardo applied to all of his art. He explained how all of nature conforms, naturally, to these rules, and how they can be applied to create absolutely perfect works of art. Take, for example, the famous Vitruvian Man:

Leondardo's drawing displays the exact proportions of the average or ideal man. Whilst there is no such thing as universal proportions for the human body ("We're all individuals!"), I really like this idea of logically and systematically creating the perfect being. I like to think of myself as a logical person (most of the time), and so this idea sits well with me. Unfortunately, I think a result of this is that I've become very pedantic when viewing art. I've become a major fan of perspective and proportion, and I find it difficult to enjoy art that doesn't employ these two rules.

Picasso wrecks my head.

So, when viewing the statue of David, with his disproportionate hands, feet and head, I couldn't help but wonder am I being a complete philistine, standing here in front of one of the most superb works of art in the world and pointing out its flaws, or am I merely being pedantic in my persuit of beauty and thus unable to accept anything less than perfection?

Will I ever be able to fully enjoy art again**?!?

...

...

[End]

 

* I've since found out that: "The proportions (of the statue of David) are not quite true to the human form; the head and upper body are somewhat larger than the proportions of the lower body. While some have suggested that this is of the mannerist style, the most commonly accepted explanation is that the statue was originally intended to be placed on a church façade or high pedestal, and that the proportions would appear correct when the statue was viewed from some distance below." -- source: Wikipedia

** Claire has since gone on to enjoy many lovely works of art, most of which have not been proportionally correct, so one must presume that the answer to this question is: "Yes."

Heaving on a jet plane - Part II

Having survived the ritual humiliation of getting felt up by the butch female security guard, I now had to face the gut-wrenching wait for the muppets to announce which gate my flight would be leaving from. I hate this part because they usually only post up the gate number about 20 minutes before the plane is scheduled to leave, and then everyone rushes down to the gate and you end up standing there for ages and every time I swear to myself that I'm not going to do it, that this time I'm not going to run down there like a lunatic, and then every time I panic and think "If I don't run to Gate 11 this very minute, the plane will take off without me." Of course, it never does.

And then you spend the next forty minutes trying to surreptitiously shuffle closer and closer to the desk where they check your tickets so that you'll be the first on the plane as if it was some sort of prize; as if spending half an hour longer sitting in that cramped metal tube waiting for the rest of the morons to board was some sort of goal that leads to inner enlightenment once achieved.

Anyway, they announced the gate, and I dutifully trundled along with my fellow passengers. Luckily there weren't too many taking this flight, so there were plenty of seats to spare. The flight wasn't due to board for another five minutes or so, so I took a seat. And waited. And I waited a bit more. I took out my book and started distractedly flicking through it, thinking there's no point in getting stuck into it, as we'll be boarding any time soon.

Aaaaaaaaaany minute now.

Oooh! There's the trolley dolly, I mean, air hostess. We must be boarding soon.

Then I looked out the window and noticed that there was no airplane. And my heart sank. I understand that if you're going to pay budget prices for your flights then you have to expect budget services. But I am shit sick of waiting for the damn plane to show up. This seems to happen every time I fly on a low budget airline. And it's not as if the tickets are that cheap either! I was only flying to Southampton, but it still cost me (well, the company) almost £150. I'm tired of budget airlines thinking they can treat passengers like cattle just because we refuse to pay astronomical prices for the privilege of being given an actual seat number with a bigger airline. If your don't have the fleet numbers to be able to provide airplanes at the allotted time, then change your fucking timetable. If you only have three airplanes, and you're offering ten flights a day between London and Paris, then you really need to rethink your business plan.
Anyway, the trolley dolly announced that they were still waiting for the plane (duh) as it had been late taking off from its previous destination, and there would be a 15-minute delay (yeah right) and that they apologise sincerely for any inconvenience this might cause (uh huh, sure).

Then my boss arrived. I prayed to all the gods I could think of that, just this one time, they would grant me super-chameleon powers so I could blend in with the awful upholstery of the chair I was sitting on, so that he wouldn't see me and he'd walk on by. The gods did not look favourably upon me (I don't blame them, really. I'm not a very nice person). He came over and sat right beside me and, whilst trying to block out his noise, I stared daggers at the trolley dolly in a vain attempt to let her know that this is all her fault and, come judgment day, she'll be first against the wall.

The plane eventually arrived, only forty minutes after we were supposed to actually depart, which was about five minutes before we were due to land in Southampton, had everything gone to plan. We had to wait another twenty minutes or so for the arriving passengers to get off the plane, then for the pilot to have his regulation cup of tea, then for the throwers, I mean, 'baggage handlers' to load the luggage onto the plane, and then we were allowed to board.

When we were all settled and seat-buckled in, the pilot made an announcement over the PA, apologising for the delay but saying that it was due to a technical fault before they took off in Southampton. He then proceeded to describe said fault, in almost excruciating detail, which I find completely unnecessary. Again, this is something I find completely irrational in the wake of 9/11. Before the terrorist attacks in the USA, pilots would never discuss this kind of stuff.

They'd never tell you that the reason they were late taking off is because they had no power on the plane when they were on the ground in Southampton because they couldn't find a power cable to go into the ground and therefore couldn't switch the engines on, and when someone eventually found the power cable, they then realised that they had an electrical fault with some of the equipment in the cockpit and they had to wait for someone to find an engineer to take a look at it, and then when the engineer arrived he had to go off again to find some part to fix the problem. And all this had made them late taking off.

No, the pilot would never have told you that. He would have said that some passenger was too pissed to board, so they'd chucked him off and had to wait to find his bags in the cargo hold before they could depart. That's a nice, comfortable, safe lie.

This era of FTMFI (that's 'far too much fucking information' for those of you who don't deal in acronyms) is starting to carry over into other industries too. A few weeks ago, I was on the train to London and we had to stop for half an hour whilst the driver explained in minute detail why he couldn't continue on the track because someone had thrown something onto it, and then explained all the possible accident scenarios that could have happened, had he not stopped in time in front of this obstruction.

And I know why they do it too. They're just trying to pass the buck. They're ensuring that people know it's not their fault that the plane/train/whatever is late departing. They're doing all they can. In fact, if they could, they'd just pile everyone into their own car and drive us to our destination; that's how nice the pilot/driver is. But, you know, company regulations, blah blah blah. So, instead, here's a whole lot of technical info which proves that I'm not making this up and the situation really is out of my hands.

But, all that does is make me wonder, well, even if they do find a power cable and plug the plane in so he can start the engines, what happens when we take off? Is the cable long enough to make it to Southampton? How can they make power cables that long? What happens if it snaps? Or comes out of the ground? Is the pilot planning on freewheeling it all the way to the other end of the country? Those are not things I want to think about on an airplane. Neither do I want to start thinking about the 'real' electrical problems they're having in the cockpit (i.e., that the co-pilot has spilt her coffee all over the dials and they're currently arguing about the best way to remove it), and how that might possibly affect the functioning of the plane.

Too much information. We don't need it. Stop telling us that kind of stuff.

Heaving on a jet plane - Part I

I hate airports with a passion. Because I live in foreign places, and because of my job, I travel quite a bit, and it seems like I'm in Manchester airport every other week. And I'm really beginning to loathe the place. The sooner they build some sort of teleportation device, the better, as far as I'm concerned. But that's another story.

Lately, my airport experiences have been unfavourable, to say the least. It's probably something to do with the fact that, now, I almost always expect the worst when I'm flying anywhere, but I think it's also something to do with the fact that airports are run by muppets. Complete and utter muppets.

It's funny (that's 'funny hysterical-verging-on-madness' rather than 'funny ha ha') because I'm not afraid of flying whatsoever. In my job, I know a little bit more about airplanes and how they work (and sometimes don't work) than the average person. I know what noises to listen out for during the flight, and how to tell if everything's going ok or if there might be a slight problem, etc. In this age of hyper-sensitivity regarding all things big and shiny and metal hurtling through the air at speeds upwards of 500mph, I'm quite comfortable with flying. It's definitely my preferred mode of transport, unless the alternative is a swanky BMW with a cooler full of beer. I love seeing the land spread out before me, marvelling at how tiny all the houses and fields are, watching the sun glinting off car windshields miles below, and then soaring above the cotton wool clouds, feeling as though the laws of physics and gravity do not apply. I love flying. It's the bits beforehand and afterwards that bother me.

Last week, I had to fly to Southampton for a couple of days work, and it was, without doubt, one of the worst trips I've ever been on. Things got off to a funky start in the taxi to Manchester airport. I hopped into the regulation Black Cab, and gave my destination to the driver. Before I could even sit down, he slammed his foot on the accelerator, throwing me backwards into my seat, and sped off towards the airport. At the first set of lights I was still adjusting myself, desperately trying to buckle my seatbelt and willing my heart rate to slow down, when the driver decided that some hardcore dance music was needed to liven up the trip, and turned the stereo up full blast. As both my eardrums simultaneously started to bleed, I tried to shout at the driver to please turn the music down, but, of course, he couldn't/wouldn't hear me, and so I had to endure "duf-duf-duf-duf" for the rest of the very long 20 minute journey.

We eventually got to the airport, and I practically fell out of the cab. My ears had that weird ringing/cotton wool sensation that makes you feel like you're really, really stoned. I wandered into the airport in a daze, and checked in for my flight. I have always found checking in for my flight in Manchester to be a doddle. I think they do it on purpose - make check-in as easy as physically possible in order to lull you into a false sense of security before you have to face the complete mindfuck that is running the security gauntlet before you can get to your gate.

The security area in Manchester airport must have been designed by an alcoholic with the DT's and not enough cash to buy chewing gum, let alone his next bottle of moonshine, and who wanted to inflict the same amount of pain and confusion on anyone able to afford to get this far in the airport. If you're travelling to anywhere in the UK, Channel Islands or Ireland, they have a separate 'fast channel' through which you can get your boarding card and passport checked and then you can go through to a separate X-ray machine, and basically you skip the huge queues of Mancs heading off to Torremolinos, or wherever. But, if the airport isn't particularly busy, then you all go through the same security machines. In theory, this is a good idea, and it usually works.

Anyhoo, so, I went off down this corridor, expecting to get through to the departure lounge fairly quickly, so I could get my caffeine fix smartish. I arrived at the end of the corridor only to find out that there was, unusually, a really long queue. This is because the muppet in charge of checking the passports, etc., was... well, he was being a muppet. He was pretty much going through everybody's passport, page-by-page, double checking the photographs, etc.

As an aside: I know 9/11 was an awful, awful event. I watched it live on TV. I saw the second plane hitting the WTC in real time, and it scared the shit out of me. I can't even begin to imagine how the people who were directly involved or who lost family members or friends must feel. But I have to say that airport security has gone to the point where it's ridiculous. And, what's worse is that it's not even consistent. One day, you might get strip searched even though you're only flying to Dublin. The next day, you could be flying to LA and they won't even glance at your luggage as it goes through the X-ray machine. That really annoys me.

Anyway, so there was this huge queue, and I looked over at the queue for the people flying to other destinations, and there were only about five people in it. So I thought what most normal people would think, which was "Why am I standing here waiting for Kermit the Frog to check my passport when I could get through security there in about 30 seconds?" We were all being directed to the same X-ray machines, so I didn't think it would be a problem. I went over to the other queue, waited behind the five people for my turn, got to the top of the queue and handed the lady my boarding card and passport. She looks at it and says "Oh no, you have to queue over there".

I said "But, that queue is really long, and we're all going through the same machines, so could you not just check my details here".

"No. You have to queue up over there."

"But I'm only going to Southampton. It's not like I'm flying to foreign places."

"No. Over there."

The woman had a head for slaps. It made absolutely no sense whatsoever for her to make me wait in the really long queue. There was no one behind me, so it's not like I was holding up other passengers. All she had to do was check my boarding card and passport, and she could have let me go through. But, because she's a bitch, and because it would require a small amount of thinking, she refused. I can't stand people who do this kind of thing. It reminds me of going into KFC or some other such fast food place once. I ordered a burger and fries. The girl asked me what drink I wanted. I told her I didn't want a drink. But... why not? She couldn't understand this. I said I don't like fizzy drinks, therefore I don't want one. But it only costs 1p more to get the drink. I don't care, I don't want a drink, I just want the burger and fries. At this point, the girl's head exploded. Moron. Life doesn't run according to the script! Get used to it! USE YOUR BRAIN!!!

*and breathe*

Anyhoo, so I queued for ages and Kermit eventually checked my details and let me through. Then the fun started. I put my bags through the X-ray machine, and then stepped through the metal detector. As per usual, the detector didn't beep because I had nothing metal in my pockets and, oh yeah, because I'm not a terrorist. But, every time I go through the metal detector in Manchester airport, they always call me over for a random search. I like to think it's because I'm so damn hot that the women can't wait to run their hands up and down my body, but in reality I know it's because I always look guilty and/or like I'm hiding something. I kid you not - every single time I go through security there, I get searched. Anyway, this 'lady' calls me over (I'm using quotes there because she was rough! I felt kind of dirty afterwards) and starts to feel me up. She spent a long time feeling my bra to check I didn't have a grenade or something hiding in there. She had me there for about two minutes and I swear I had bruises afterwards.

*shudder*

She eventually let me go, and I grabbed my bags and ran all the way to Starbucks for the precious rocket fuel, and finally began to relax. Then I remembered that my boss would be along soon, and I got all stressed out again. I swear I'm going to have a stomach ulcer before my contract is up in October.