Playa Biesanz Refreshments

The snack shack at Playa Biesanz.

Wait til I post a picture of the security hut.

The whole place looks like they suffered a brutal tsunami, looked over the damage, shrugged their shoulders saying "ehhh, whatever" and reopened for business.

But, nonetheless, quiet, peaceful, and locals-only due to the steep and shaggy climb down through monkey-infested rainforest.

Perfect.
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Hoto
(sent wirelessly from my phone)

Playa Biesanz Refreshments

Easy bein' green

A very green, 3" guest in our hall. Spent all four days with us just hanging out and clocking our nudity while we applied our sun lotion each day directly in front of him.

Or her.

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Hoto
(sent wirelessly from my phone)

Easy bein' green

Casa Neruda, Manuel Antonio

Wednesday January 23rd.

You should see the sunsets.

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Hoto
(sent wirelessly from my phone)

Casa Neruda, Manuel Antonio

A good day

Tuesday January 22nd

From our deck looking south over the pacific and Playa Espadilla. Many exotic birds abound, but mostly Black and King Vultures. Handy since shortly we will have small children staying with us, and thebirds are apparently attracted to the cries of such succulent little creatures. Bueno.

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Hoto
(sent wirelessly from my phone)

A good day

Son of God expands retail empire

In a move sure to disrupt Wall Street's notions of an easy future from the first and only spawn of Mary's whoring loins, Christ Himself has expanded His retail stance deep into Central America's gold coast. Citing a strong tourism wave unchecked for the past decade, a strong Costa Rican colon, benevolent local capital investment law, and a consistent and temperate political climate, Jesus hopes to establish an anchor store in Manuel Antonio's most patronized strip of heretofore shabby and disenfranchised local-run retailers, setting tongues wagging and heads shaking in the process.

"What are we to do, mayn?" asks one roadside retailer rhetorically. "While we is proud to have the Son of God open up his outlet for cheap Nicaraguan-made beach towels, floaties and foamie cervesa-coolers right here on our strip, how is we to compete?" Juan-Carlos shrugs his narrow shoulders in defeat. "I pray to Him and His mother every steenkin' night and the **** comes in with refrescos on offer for cheaper than I can buy from my own supplier in San Jose!"

Insider reports indicate that Christ intends to open a Christos' Club right beside the latest WalMart megaplex, which opened last year in Tamarindo.

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Hoto
(sent wirelessly from my phone)

Son of God expands retail empire

Quepos

Monday January 21st

Land in San Jose after two long flight legs from Vancouver, via Toronto, to Costa Rica's capital. Extreme temperature swing from -12C in Toronto to a sweltering +40C in San Jose. The jetway broils us as we exit the flight at 1:30 in the afternoon. 26 hours without sleep and every minute worth it.

Even the worst plane food we have had the misfortune to chokedown could not dampen our mood as the wave of palm-scented air blasted across our faces.

The international terminal is bright, modern and friendly enough. The domestic terminal next door is as sorry-assed a ghetto shack as it gets. A three hour wait for a 30 minute flight that ended up leaving 45 minutes late, in a shed basically slapped together out of plywood and corrugated steel.

We boarded a tiny 12 seater single-prop job that allowed us to watch over the pilot's shoulder as he first flew us up into the sunshine and gusts of wind, that had us rollercoastering through the air (GregR would not have enjoyed this part), then over the white and fluffy clouds that shrouded a mountain range, and then (alarmingly) directly INTO the tall white and fluffy clouds. At this point the men in charge abandoned the view out of the water-streaked windscreen and focussed on paper-calculations in their lap, while my mind echoed my father's eloquent description of "controlled flight into terrain". And I idly wished that wifey and I were not about to become a tourist-tragedy feature on the 6pm news at home.

Then suddenly we were out of the clouds (or rather, below the rain clouds) and soaring smoothly over thousands of acres of palm plantations ("I don't know," said our semi-local-looking-fellow-passenger gal in answer to my question. "I guess they use them for something, or something." Thankfully the only other passenger on the plan knew the palms' fruit was harvested for palm oil.)

Out of the green and lush mists, wifey spotted a tiny airstrip passing below, and thought "glad we're not landing there", since the forlorn strip of tarmac had been crudely carved out of the jungle like a drugrunner's secret rendez-vous.

Then to her surprise the plane banked sharply and made a heart-in-the-mouth dive for the tiny strip. Within minutes, and with no runway to spare, we were down.

The airport in Quepos is an open shack with some plastic chairs and a cafe counter.

More later.

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Hoto
(sent wirelessly from my phone)

Quepos

Leaving

Sunday January 20th.

It's never quite as fun to leave for a tropical vacation in the middle of winter when the sky is actually blue and the sun is staging a spectacular plunge into the horizon. While it is quite cold, and a walk across the bridge warrants gloves and a tocque, it's not the driving sleet and general widespread meteorological misery that one wishes to smugly leave behind as one heads for palm trees and 90F temperatures.

But off we go. The sun sets, the moon chases it across the sky, and the city glitters reflections of the deep blue of it all.

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Hoto
(sent wirelessly from my phone)

Leaving

Pour some sugar on me

Commodore Ballroom. The wee hours of January 1, 2008.

Two friends.

Lost in the moment.

Agony meets ecstasy.

Well, if not Ecstasy then vodka tonics and a bottle of Turley.

Perhaps the band's entreaty to "Pour Some Sugar on Me" led to the vixens being showered in cheap Champagne while they destroyed their sparkly dancing shoes on a carpet of broken glass.


But either way, the girls about to rock salute you.


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Hoto
(sent wirelessly from my phone)

Pour some sugar on me

And face unafraid, the plans that we laid

So, okay, it's well known by most people who read this blog that I am not into messy things.

I like cleanliness.

Order.

Sanitation.

Now, don't get me wrong, I don't mind cleaning up a mess if it's for a good cause. I like to clean my house, for example. I don't mind getting messed up to get a job done, or get healthy. Working out. Riding in the mud. Running in the rain. Chopping wood. Cleaning windows. Washing a car. Renovating an apartment. Working on a farm. Hell, I've cleaned toilets for a living. But, really, I am n o t into scatological pursuits if they can be avoided.

Which, let's face it, they can be most of the time, can't they? Avoided.

Really. I mean, I'm an idealist, sure, but I know that pretty much apart from my own, and perhaps in the future that of an infirm or aged loved one, human or animal waste is just not a big part of my life. No pets. No children. No ... well ... you know ... no Number Two. At least, not someone else's.

I grew up on farms and in the country, and am no stranger to a pitchfork or dungheap. I have mucked out cows and chickens and horse stalls and even goats. In one job my fellow stooge and I cleaned out forty-eight cattle and horse stalls in two and a half days. But that's another story.

What I'm leading up to, here, as you can probably tell, is an unfortunate tale in which I play the fall guy, in a most literal sense, for my wife and another good lady friend of ours. Both of whom, while loving them dearly, I must say demonstrated less sympathy to me than perhaps I felt I deserved at the time.

On the occasion of this particular event, I was visiting my parents in Alberta, just prior to Christmas. A couple of days spent in the bracing cold of a Kananaskis Yule. With snow on the ground, kitchen counters groaning under the weight of Mum's baking, wine and spirits deftly served by my father's liberal hand. A real tree to decorate. Fragrant little mandarin oranges peeled in front of a roaring fire as Baileys is tippled generously into the hot chocolate. General merriment and Very Good Cheer. You get the picture.

And, an added bonus for me, there at the house is the absolutely beautiful dog Sandy, a sturdy and golden-fleeced Japanese Ainu with spunk to spare, a sparkle in her eye, enough attitude to dominate the said lady-friend-neighbour's enormous Newfoundlands, and large enough not to be one of those despicable little yappy canines that are so easy to hate.

Next to my parent's last wonderful labrador (sadly, no longer with us), Sandy is probably the most favourite dog I've ever known. So when I go to visit, I try to spoil her rotten. I love to walk dogs you see, run with them, throw rocks and sticks, horse about playing tug 'o war, and generally get caught up in the exuberance of all that is the carefree existence of dog.

Now, because we lived in the country when I was growing up, I never had to spend much time dealing with dog waste. The odd pile to clean off the lawn, or an occasional pick-up in the park during a walk, but most times it was au naturel for our pooches, because there was an awful lot of au naturel to absorb it, you see. My wife and I cannot have a dog due to my allergies, and so despite growing up with dogs, I don't get to spend too much time with them these days. Hence, I spend little or no time cleaning up after them. No cats. No pets at all.

And as I said before, no kids. No diapers, no unpleasant surprises in the middle of an otherwise blissful sleep. No searching for a change-table carrying a bawling, stinking bundle of reek through a restaurant. No frantic lane changes across a freeway while junior hoses down the leather 60/40 split rear like a muck-spreader.

In fact I have to say that I enjoy an almost total absence of foreign excrement in my life. Apart from one recent incident in Brockwell Park with my nephew, who left an eight-inch by four-foot smear down the park slide ("Well, he WAS sick", said his Mum) I've avoided as much of the stuff as any man can in this old world.

However my parents have, with their neighbours, taken the high road and now clean up the waste that their pets leave behind in the woodlands that back their property down to the river not far away. So now (sigh) a joyful bounding through the woods with Sandy must end with removal of any deposits she makes. Fair enough but not my idea of a Dickensian stroll through a winter wonderland, if you get my drift. But, them's the breaks, as Mother likes to say.

So on this particular walk, I was carrying not only dog treats in my pocket, but also a plastic bag with which to scoop up Sandy's recycled treats, accompanied by two otherwise delightful companions, my wife S and our parent's neighbour and good friend, N. Now N has a veritable pack of Newfoundlands as I hinted earlier. On this walk she brought her friendliest pooch, a 100-pound puppy, who gets along famously with Sandy, and, well, with most everyone really. Just like her owner, N. So off we set through the snow to the frozen river, dogs bounding ahead and humans chatting happily in their wake. The sun was shining off the blindingly white snow, and our breath rose in vapours to vanish in the tree branches above. An exquisite winter's day.

After a while tossing rocks and watching the dogs crackle dangerously along the river ice, it was time to return home. Now, well-trained as she is, Sandy has become quite regular in her pattern. As we were walking back to the house, she stepped daintily off to the side of the path to do her business. I groaned and moaned and took a little light ribbing from N and S, but prepared to do my duty.

Sandy is also apparently known for another habit, in that she will appear to be finished her task and begin to walk away from her pile, but then will suddenly squat and leave one more small deposit, almost as an afterthought. And true to form on this day, she stepped away from Point A and then stopped and began her encore at Point B. But this time something happened.

Whether it was the bitter cold, or just a change in her diet due to the scrumptious treats available at this time of year, her encore performance was, well, paused mid-execution. In fact while fully formed, it was trapped, dangling from her nether regions and swaying dangerously to and fro.

Like any good mammal, Sandy wanted no part of this errant hanger-on and the ladies cried out in sympathy for the little dog, as she began to waddle crazily across the path, still squatting and furiously wiggling her little bot, trying to loosen the load.

"Help her, Hoto!" cried the ladies. "You've got to get it off her." And almost as if she understood every word, Sandy began to scoot backwards toward me, looking over her shoulder at me beseechingly and presenting her unladylike posterior to me, offending article swaying madly. By now the ladies, human that is, had not only reached some degree of alarm at the little pooch's plight, but also the stirrings of unsympathetic mirth at the fact that it would have to be me, weak-stomached and scat-averse me, to have to wield the plastic bag and pluck the dangling doo doo from the damsel in distress, as it were. So silenced by rising gorge and gagging throat, and surrounded by shouted advice and unbridled glee at my discomfort, I approached poor Sandy to unburden her. But from behind, unbeknownst to me, the Newf decided she wanted to get past all this cafuffle on the path, and frankly, I was in her way.

---

Now, many of you may be familiar with Newfoundland dogs, but if not, let me paint a picture. As a relative pup, this specimen can put nine feet of turf between paw prints at a gentle trot. With a head the size and consistency of an anvil, and all the poise and grace of a woolly mammoth, she pretty much goes where she wants to go, and it takes large and sturdy fences to curb her wanderings. So a skinny-legged city boy presents little to no obstacle.

Suddenly, as I bent to the task at hand, my legs were taken out from underneath me, and after a brief but memorable soar through the air, I landed hard on my unpadded rear-end in the snow.

Thankfully I had not yet grasped the turd from Sandy's butt, or it too would have been soaring through the air, and indubitably would have landed on my head. As I staggered to my feet, barely realizing what had happened, I turned back to poor Sandy, still whimpering and waggling her nether regions at me, and realized that my human companions had completely abandoned all sympathy for the little dog in favour of staggering around in helpless laughter, tears streaming from their eyes. Impervious to their heartless cackling, I freed Sandy from her unwilling poop, and, gagging manfully, with my last shred of dignity disappearing like a vapour into the tree branches above, went and picked up the rest of the mess.

Hmph.

Walking back to the house, Sandy happily bounded along with the unrepentant Newfoundland, and I was regaled with multiple replays of my unfortunate spill by my unfeeling and outrageously exaggerative companions.

N insisted that I pose with Sandy and the bag of goodies on my parent's deck, prior to slinking away in shame.

I mustered a brave smile for the camera, then went inside and had more Baileys while N and S ensured my parents heard every sordid detail.

Humbug.

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Hoto
(sent wirelessly from my phone)

And face unafraid, the plans that we laid

Storm Mountain

The main lodge at Storm Mountain on Christmas Day, 2007. In the Rockies under two feet of snow, the lodge and the old log cabins where we stayed date to the 1920s.
.

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Hoto
(sent wirelessly from my phone)

Storm Mountain

Buggeration.

Mac people are so, erm, advanced.

Why couldn't I find this article when I was looking six months ago?

http://www.maclife.com/article/blog_from_your_cell_phone

Ms. Ochs' article has pictures, too.

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Hoto
(sent wirelessly from my phone)

Buggeration.

Blog from your phone to Blogger with photos

OK. For any of you who have REALLY tried this, it's not easy. The hardest thing to do is to blog wirelessly from your mobile phone or PDA to your existing Blogger blog, WITH support for attached pictures. Let me tell you it is not easy. And I'm pretty wirelessly savvy.

However Blogger just made it easier by updating their Wireless Blogging service to support emails with attachments from gmail. Up until recently, the only way to submit to your blog wirelessly was either:

(1) email your blog from your phone (text only - doesn't support pictures), or:

(2) send MMS messages with text and pictures from your phone to go@blogger.com
(many wireless networks not supported - including mine)

In the latter case Blogger.com would set up a special wireless blog for you, which you are then allowed to connect/link to your existing Blogger blog.

Well for those of you who want to try the new and improved (and PROVEN) method, here's how to do it.

Easy instructions (I admit these are simplified)

(1) Set up a free Blogger Blog (Let's presume you've got one already)

(2) Set up a free gmail email account and configure for IMAP

(Gmail > "Settings" > "Forwarding and POP/IMAP" > "Enable IMAP")

(3) Get wireless data working on your phone.

Well, D'uh. I'm going to have to presume you've figured that all out.

(4) Set up your phone to send/receive email to/from your gmail account from your phone.

If you're trying to blog from your phone, I'll trust that this step isn't too complex for you. If it is, you might, erm, consider another pastime.

(5) Send a test email from your phone using your Gmail account to go@blogger.com.

(6) Using your desktop PC email client or browser, check your gmail account for an email from go@blogger.com.

They send you a link to your new wireless blog that looks something like this:

"Welcome! [new-wireless-blog-name].blogspot.com is your blog. Claim it at go.blogger.com with code: XYZABC"

(7) Using your desktop browser, click on the link provided in that email which will take you to a special Blogger page to link your new wireless blog to your existing Blogger blog, entering the code as you go.

Yay. Done. Since I had (1), (2) (3) and (4) done already, this took me about 15 minutes to configure steps (5), (6) and (7).

The point is, you can now send blog entries to your Blogger blog WITH pictures wirelessly from your phone. Done and done. That's what I'm using now. No need for some service like PicoBlogger (now discontinued).

Yay

Blog from your phone to Blogger with photos

Not Gay

Although right-leaning bro and hubby leant toward the aesthetically pleasing solid magenta colour scheme, old lefty-veggy-flower-child-wicca-Mumsy claims Spudling Moss here will be "teased" about a "pink trike" and that the tri-tone colour scheme of this model will avoid "embarrassment" for the little racer on the unforgiving and gritty slopes of Brockwell Park.

Me smells a Hippycrite.

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Hoto
(sent wirelessly from my phone)

Not Gay

Pick up the pieces

My bro-in-law beats my most optimistic projection and assembles the trike, sans instructions, in under 10 minutes,

And with Interfero-Spud lending a sticky hand.

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Hoto
(sent wirelessly from my phone)

Pick up the pieces

Joy

Seawall Opens Again + Sunset + Wifey =
Mmmmm...Siwash Rock...

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Hoto

(sent wirelessly from my phone)

Joy

Ain't Goin to Kansas City, Kansas City there I ain't

There's nothing worse than finding out you've got to split for Kansas City. Except perhaps finding out you have to be at the airport at 6am to fly there. After gigging until 1am the night before. Or perhaps that your flight home to Vancouver is via Toronto (erm, look that up on a map).

And there's nothin' better'n findin' out you ain't gotta go after all.

Amen.

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Hoto

Ain't Goin to Kansas City, Kansas City there I ain't

Ahh, Europe

...where the streets are lined with sausages.

Ahh, Europe

The Once and Future Hoto

It seems that I have a busy life. Some might say a very busy life. When compared to others, I personally think my life is quite sedate. Especially when contrasted with the lives of people like sparx and the frog. My spouse and I have no children, you see, which frees up a broad swathe of time to pursue life.

When I compare my busy-ness to my colleagues who mountain bike, ski, take extra-curricular educational courses, volunteer and manage a busy work schedule with a home life that includes raising kids, again my life seems very quiet. However others around me in my circle of friends and family look at my music career and work schedule (including plenty of travel), and comment on how insane my life is, or can be.

I think that I have a reasonable balance between work and personal life considering my career, but frequently it can become a lot to manage, and so it's at these times which I find myself playing a little mental game. Sometimes this game can get me through weeks of days in which I get up at 6:00 to go to work, and don't get home to bed until around midnight, often because I leave from work to go to a practise, gig or the studio. Other weekends I've packed up from a gig at 1:00am, taken my drums home, slept for two hours and then got up at 4:00am to catch a morning flight to Korea, landing in country for a dinner meeting after having had two hours sleep in 48 (I don't sleep on planes). Or I'll land in Vancouver at 10pm on a weekday after three weeks away in Europe, get up the next morning for an early conference call, and head straight from work to a band practise. This can leave me a little ragged, I admit, and kudos to my wife for suffering me through these periods.

So to get my tired brain through all the days and nights, I play this game which involves projecting into the future to the point in time when I know a particular set of obstacles will have been hurdled. I try to imagine what I might feel like then, at that future point, and picture myself looking back upon the intervening events. I create a vision of my future self peering back in time to the current moment, with true hindsight, and wonder what that will be like.

For example, when I started writing this post on my phone's keypad, I was in a cab tearing up Granville street in Vancouver, headed for the airport, knowing that in five days time I would be driving back in the opposite direction, having completed a somewhat arduous business trip to Sweden and having arrived back in Vancouver to be met by my lovely wife at the airport. I did some more writing of this post in the Vancouver airport, in the security line at the infamous Heathrow arrivals hall, again in my brother-in-laws house in London, more in the long Piccadilly tube trip to Heathrow from Green Park, all showing that even writing about mental time travelling causes me to travel through time.

Allows me to look back on that which I have predicted.

While trying to envision my return to Vancouver on this particular trip, I know that I may or may not have had a successful set of meetings with my customer in Kista outside Stockholm. I know that I will have likely spent a day shopping with sparx and co, that I will have probably eaten out at some nice restaurants in Stockholm, that I will have probably spent a night in a grim Ibis hotel room at Heathrow, and know that moment will eventually come when I will pass the same houses on Granville street, coming in the opposite direction. The small and seemingly insignificant cycle will have been completed, another mini chapter in the somewhat foreseeable sequence of events that is my life. Likewise, if I have a long set of gigs, or rehearsals, as I leave the apartment on the way out, hauling a pile of drums on my handcart, I will picture myself returning to the door having completed the musical date. When the moment arrives that I am hauling my drums back to the door, I will consciously look back to my past self, and remember the previous moment with some relish.

It appears I have created a life in which I can consciously live in the moment, the future and in the past.

It is only idly (and with detachment) that I find myself pondering my forthcoming fate, and considering the recent past. I must mention that it is neither an anxious nor a regretful experience, just an interesting one.

To me.
__________________________________
(sent wirelessly from my phone - written in a cab in Vancouver, at YVR airport, at Heathrow arrivals hall, in Brixton, UK, on the tube back to Heathrow, and at Heathrow Terminal 3 departures lounge.)

Hoto=

The Once and Future Hoto

Ammonia Stars Records

Brandon Cherrington mixes Matt's bass at Greenhouse.

Ammonia Stars Records

hello

hello

Priorities

A nice stroll with sis and Lord Spud through Covent Garden. Having a nice chat. You know. Sunny day. All that. Suddenly brother and child are forgotten...Cue: Neglectamummy.

Priorities

Baggage

In all of this, they only lost my bags once. And I got them back. Miracle, when you come to think of it.

Baggage

European Weight Loss Program

The Bad News: 24 hours of puking and other evacuations thanks to gastrointestinal plague caught from nephew.

The Good News: 7 kilos down since I arrived in London on Friday.

European Weight Loss Program

Wireless Blogging

Ok so blogging is pretty much the most self-centred and egotistical form of communication. The blogger can carefully choose his or her words, can choose whether or not to post comments and replies from readers, and can blather on about pretty much anything that he or she believes is interesting to his or herself, notwithstanding the opinions of others.

This blog was intended as a personal test of my comittment to wireless handheld devices as the ultimate means of communication. In reality it has been extraordinarily taxing to make these posts from a keyboard that is not much larger than my two thumbprints held side-by-side. Even more taxing because there is no reasonable way for me to get phone pictures posted to Blogger. There are few readers, really, other than my immediate family members. Even they will find little value here, other than the abbreviated diaries of my sporadic business and road trips. In perusing sparx' blog, it's clear that her content is more interesting to an almost infinitely larger audience, better executed, more frequently and consistently delivered and incorporates feedback religiously, no matter how lame. In fact sparx has marketed her product as effectively as any
good Product Manager would even though she would modestly claim otherwise. She chose a large target market that is consistently growing and refreshing itself (pregnant women and new mothers), kept her product quality high (executed effectively using her innate and considerable writing skills), delivered frequent product updates (writing almost daily), and listened to her market (interacts frequently with her readers, posted feedback and responded to it). So hats off to her for all of this.

I still haven't found a consistent voice, or topic, or energy to post frequently from my phone, and may soon abandon this effort, but until that time, I will endeavour to hone my product, seek an interested target market, and increase production, with sparx as my inspiration.
__________________________________
(sent wirelessly from my phone)
Hoto

Wireless Blogging

Drei Linden Hangover

My colleague ordered the schnitzel, and two came, and I ordered the ribs, as did the rest of the party. He managed half the plate of ribs and one and a half schnitzel. And he's not a big guy. And yes, it's covered in cheese.

Drei Linden Hangover

It's Thursday: Must be Nurnburg.

Europe by the numbers

This trip is getting a bit old. Since I was a child, I have always tried to break tedious experiences down into ordered lists. Things I've done, things I need to do, that sort of thing. Like riding a motorcycle 600km in one day: After the joy and pleasure wears off, and you're just riding along, I would count cars, play the alphabet game, that sort of thing.

So this trip, while full of variety and interesting people, has hit the Alphabet Game , or rather, the Numerology Game. On the way back from yet another customer meeting today, this time in northern Bavaria, I started a small and meaningless catalogue in my brain.

So for my own edification, here's the tally:

It's been 13 nights away from home with 7 to go.

It's been 9 cities with 2 to go.

It's been 7 flights with 5 to go.

It's been 8 hotels with 2 to go (counting my lovely sister's accommodations)

It's been 5 trains with 9 to go.

It's been 7 meetings with 4 to go.

It's been 4 currencies with 1 to go.

It's been 7 shuttle buses with [unknown] to go.

It's been 13 taxis with [unknown] to go.

It's been 8 restaurants with [unknown] to go.

It's been 2 lost bags and 2 found bags.

It's been one funeral wake, one 1st birthday party, one disappointment, one triumph, many unknowns and...well...not so far to go.

I can say please, thank-you, black-tea-with-sugar, goodbye, and hello in Swedish, German and Finnish except you can't say please in Finnish because the word doesn't exist.

So you raise your eyebrows and smile. {8o)


[Picture: Nurnburg Spital in the alt stadt, dating from 1486, apparently]

It's Thursday: Must be Nurnburg.

Taxi Heads-up Display

Your fare appears in the rearview mirror. Looked slick.

Taxi Heads-up Display

Zetor!

A most bizarre dining experience was had in Helsinki. We couldn't get into a couple of restaurants we wanted to try so stumbled upon a giant barn of a place in downtown Helsinki right near the bus station. Older gentlemen in varying stages of drunkenness swayed dangerously on the front steps. At first appearance we thought it was a country and western bar, with tractors sitting in various locations around which tables were formed. Lots of old farm implements, wagon wheels and plows, and a dance floor large enough for a group of enthusiastic line dancers to scoot a boot. The staff were surly and non committal but we finally found a table and read through the menu. It was written up with a lot of apparently tongue-in-cheek-humour, and appeared to be based on old Finnish farmhouse recipes: lots of meat, potatoes, sausage and swedes. We ordered and received two hugely-mounded plates of food, mostly potato. The rest of the clientele looked like rejects from a Billy Ray Cyrus video, with lots of mullets and cheesy clothing: The Finnish equivalent of the Nascar set. Anyway, the men's bathroom walls were completely covered in pictures of half nude pinup girls from 1960-1970 girly magazines, interspersed with advertisements for tractors.

Turns out the Zetor is a revered old Czech brand of tractor that just ran and ran. Finnish farmers could get low-powered versions of them very cheaply in the impoverished days of Finland's independence from Russia (Finland as a country was only formed in 1917 and was previously part of Sweden, followed by a stint as a Grand Duchy within Russia).

Anyway, we were glad to get out of there as the clientele and staff were equally unfriendly, and the former were mostly blind drunk.

Zetor!

Land of the Moomins

I forgot that Finland was the home of Tove Jansson and the tale of the Moomins.

Stumbled across this in the Helsinki airport. Unfortunately Finland has failed to capitalize on this delightful series of children's books that I grew up on, since the souvenirs are absolutely shite.

Who can buy a china Moominmamma dish in the departure lounge and get it home in one fucking piece?

Loads of people browsing, not so many buying.

Land of the Moomins

Birthday cake #1

Blow, Charlie, Blow.

Birthday cake #1