The countryside is beautiful, the cities can be elegant and exciting, the culture is a joy and the food is my anchor, but oy! the people!

As someone who on his last visit home endured the joys of travelling cheek-by-jowl with his fellow Britons aboard an overcrowded train while they acted like pigs and sharp-elbowed gollems; who sat wreathed in the smoke from a thousand cigarettes in an unventilated basement restaurant; and who revelled in the intensity of the surly bad service given by shop assistants and waitstaff across several counties I have to say that the Rough Guide folks are being pretty fair:

New guide to 'irritating' England

Quaint bobbies prepare to greet colourful drinkers at chucking out time, any British town, any Thursday through Saturday night

Final Florida

This is traditionally quite a prolific posting time for me: a glance through the archives shows multiple December posts all the way back to 2004. I have to admit to being a little slow out of the gate this year, but I will make amends (not least with the traditional holiday gift guide that will follow this week at some point).

I do however have an appointment with a dozen chestnuts, some buerre blanc sauce, yorkshire puddings, and half a pound of brussel sprouts this afternoon (I have been quite an ambitious cook this weekend with- so far- homemade naan bread, lemon cornmeal shortbread, black bean soup, clam & panko stuffed portabella, nori bites, pomegranate iced tea, seaweed salad, and egg glazed sesame seed bagels under my belt). Therefore more expansive posts will have to wait another day and instead I will finish up with a last few pics from our hols.

I call this little series "Fear of a Clown Planet":

Back Home

Back in Maine a few days and already facing the prospect of 8 to 14 inches of snow after a wicked cold weekend.

Secretly I quite like it, but don't let anyone know.

As you can imagine things are hectic and so this post is perforce short. But I thought I would at least share a few photos from Florida as an interim measure.

Idiot boy tries to teach daughter to swim

Roast turkey on the beach

Alligator!

The Fruitville Chronicles, lost count of the days

Today is the penultimate day of our vacation and I am sitting at the table, staring up at the ceiling fan like Captain Willard. Something tells me that I'm not going to drink a bottle of cheap hooch, hallucinate that the neighborhood is going up in napalm flames, and smash my hand through a mirror, although I may get up from my seat in a minute and walk over to get an oreo. Take that for a dramatic embodiment of the perpetual conflict between conscience and ego, Francis Ford Coppola.

When we last huddled together for a chat I believe I had to cut things short to go for Thanksgiving dinner. Much like in the north, family gathered, football was watched, the food staples were served (albeit in a slightly different form) and gratefully consumed. It certainly was a nice change to be able to gird up for the giant meal by walking along the beach in shorts and bare feet rather than pushing through grit and sleet whipped around by the Alberta Clipper; it was odd to feel the cold pulse of the air conditioner rather than the warming rumble of the furnace while sitting at the table. I think I shall file this year under the subjective title of "Bizzaro Thanksgiving", when everything was opposite it's normal state.

We haven't slackened in our pace and have continued to explore Sarasota and its environs. I must admit that I'm rather taken with downtown Sarasota as it still carries the air of the sleepy yet quietly prosperous town this place once was before A/C, final value pensions, cheap credit, and the ideas of Victor Gruen transformed life in the south. The main street bears the stretch marks of a revitalization in progress, with the usual crop of gourmet stores, clothing boutiques, and restaurants. It may be getting gentrified, by gentrified beats atrophied in my book. Besides the presence of the old hardware store, a less-than-elegant liquor store, and the Gator Club bar serve as anchors of authenticity for the purists. Country Mouse and I are taking advantage of the in-built babysitting to go eat at one of downtown's many restaurants tonight, and maybe a pint at the Gator.

On the subject of dining, I'm sad to report that the majority of places we have eaten at down here serve the same variation on the theme of fried/blackened white fish (substitute tilapa, mahi mahi, haddock, etc based on specific geographic location), burgers, french fries, and caesar salads that signify casual family dining from Key West to Lubec. Your vegetable for tonight will be coleslaw, once more; and would you like something fried and cheese covered on top of your romaine lettuce? I believe that there is a central distribution point, in Nebraska maybe, that handles all the food service orders for these joints on the east and west coasts (and which is also responsible for clam bellies on Iowa menus).

I know there are different options down here and that our dining out menu these past two weeks has been a function of pleasing as many palates as possible while offending none. It does sadden me somewhat however to see that while there are miles of coastline in America and much of it is inhabited, fresh fish markets are few and far between and sourcing good, fresh local produce that can stand on its own without immersion into a fryolator is still a fringe activity among restaurateurs. Nothing I have eaten has been bad and much of it has been pretty darn tasty. I just know it could be better.

In addition to exploring downtown and hitting the casual dining joints, Country Mouse, Scout, and I commandeered the Astro van this past weekend and spread our wings south and east. On Saturday we had a delightfully low key reunion with my old pal Max, who now lives in Nokomis. He and his partner Melissa have carved out an eclectically beautiful spot for themselves, as is their wont wherever they pause to lay out their bedrolls, and he proved to be a most wonderful barometer of local opinion on a whole range of topics. We stuck around neighboring Venice for that evening's holiday parade (multiple Santas [santii?] at 70 degrees F is most surreal) and were rewarded with an amazing display of rhythm and pyrotechnics from Max and his pals in the Nokomis drum circle. The evening ended with a phosphate and sundae binge at a restored 1950s soda fountain: quite excellent.

On Sunday we again took the van and this time we headed east, to Mayakka River State Park. I had never seen an alligator in the wild before yesterday: I certainly never expected to see close to fifty of them out the window of a slow moving airboat. The various wading birds and vultures were fantastic, and I was struck with the particularly pooterish thought of how much the wide and shallow (4 feet at the deepest point) tea colored lake resembled the Norfolk Broads. Mondale- if global warming continues you and I could make our names as the men who introduced alligators to Hickling Broad. Just a thought.

Once again social demands require that I finish up. People are stirring for the early evening activities and I should go lend a hand before taking Country Mouse on a date. We fly out of this lovely yet peculiar place on Wednesday: back to cold, dark, and the USB cord for uploading photos....

The Fruitville Chronicles, Day 9

Six months ago I didn't think I'd be sitting in shorts and t-shirt on Thanksgiving morning having had grits for breakfast. Que sera, sera.

Today is the first day of our trip when we aren't off exploring in the specially rigged Chevy Astro van. A lawn chair has been bungeed in the back so one of us can ride tail-gunner fashion, as there are more passengers than there are seats. As with all families, we take a distinct pride in adapting existing resources when visiting rather than shelling out for a rental. "Shoot- there's three cars between the fifteen of us: y'all can fit!" is our merry refrain (y'alls supplied by the southern contingent). We have been riding in the specially rigged Astro through some of Sarastoa's more expensive neighborhoods, alternating between ogling the ostentation and figuring how many of those floor-to-ceiling windows will blow out in the next hurricane. At first glance we must look like a van load of undocumented Guatemalan landscaping laborers: the surprised looks we get when we pile out brandishing cameras instead of weed whackers are superb.

We haven't just been emulating Robin Leach, however. We are half way through checking out all the attractions Sarasota has to offer, and so I thought I'd offer up a handy cut-out-and-keep guide to the must-sees we have taken in so far:

Things to do in the Greater Sarasota area (a guide by W. Weasel)
Siesta Key Beach: famous for its sand with the consistency of sugar which doesn't get hot under foot no matter how fierce the sun, Siesta Key's public beach is the perfect spot for that classic Thanksgiving time tradition, turkey hunting. We aren't talking about the noble birds of course, but rather the human phenomenon of barrel-bellied middle aged men sun-cooked to the color of an Etruscan pot and slathered with some sort of vile oil. These men look like they have either been basted or shellacked, and for an alabaster freak like myself it is quite disconcerting. I can't figure out why the look is so popular- maybe its how they attract their Thai mail order brides, turning up in their home village looking like something that could feed the whole extended family should things go badly and thus winning the matriarch's approval. I do believe some of these chaps have Coastguard banning orders forbidding them to swim, lest their crispy skin and oily outer layer cause an environmental holocaust.

St Armand's Key Circle: This is a popular shopping district, anchored by the Columbia Cuban restaurant ("since 1905"). As you might expect for an area popular with tourists and senior citizens, the shops generally cater to the "retired color-blind Baptist minister and his secretly rum-nipping wife" set, with a sea of choices for the lover of pastel citrus palette prince of wales check sports coats and burn-victim pattern golf sweaters. Country Mouse and I were able to find some gems among the -ahem- brighter clothing choices. However having packed every garment Scout owns to bring with us and thus not having any space in the suitcases we had to content ourselves with window shopping.

Venice Beach (FL): Unlike Venice Beach (CA), there are no nutcases bench pressing roller-blading Baywatch extras. Instead there is just a stunning beach, a grand fishing pier, Sharky's Restaurant, and a sobering display of jaws from tiger- and black-tipped sharks caught off the pier that put me right off going for a swim.

The Mote Aquarium: Out on Lido Key, past the Salty Dog, sits the Mote Aquarium. Its really cool, does incredible research, and has a pair of resident dolphins. Scout loved this place more than anywhere we have been so far- apparently, 6 month-olds can be rendered insensible with glee by the sight of clown fish swimming in an enormous tank. Good to know, for future reference. The next time she's fussy I'm taking her to loiter in the lobby of Rockland's only Thai restaurant so we can stare at the fish tank.

The dolphins live at the aquarium due to chronic health conditions that preclude their release into the wild: the Mote also tends to sick turtles, manatees, small whales, and other dolphins before returning them to their natural habitats. This leads to a memorable docent speech, in which he lists the various ailments these sea creatures present to the vets: "We had a pilot whale with sunburn. A spinner dolphin with chronic fatigue syndrome. A myopic minke. A leatherback turtle with crabs. A manatee with the shits. A bi-polar moray eel..."

The Ringling Museum of Art, Circus Museum, and Mansion: John Ringling, circus master and entrepreneurial investor, put Sarasota on the map. He made a colossal fortune (not from 25c circus tickets alas, but from oil leases on land he owned in Oklahoma) and with his wife Mable spent much of their lives trying to acquire the trappings of American aristocracy, even going as far as buying whole rooms from the Astor mansion in New York and reassembling them in Florida. They were never accepted by high society, and predeceased by Mable John died broke, having been all-but wiped out by the 1929 Wall Street crash. How do the house and grounds look? Exactly as one would expect the house of a carnie who came into money would look. I think that says it all.

The art museum is great for lovers of European art from the 1500s to the 1700s. Unfortunately, I am not one of them. The Defenestration of St John the Baptist by plump topless ladies egged on by satyrs- eh, seen one like that, you've seen them all. The best part of the museum was far and away the tall wall that allowed me to crouch down and pose Scout like Mussolini giving a speech from a reviewing stand- photos to follow upon our return.

The circus museum is something else. I hate clowns, but even I was impressed, especially by the miniature circus that one man spent 20 hours a week for 50 years building before donating it to the museum. Such lunacy rarely gets recognized in this day and age, and I am glad that the Ringling went so far as to build a pavilion to house the output of this peculiar genius. Also impressive was the enclosure for the two clowns with chronic medical conditions that preclude their release into the wild. They also treat other clowns there for a variety of ailments and you can check out the hospital cages. Even behind bars and heavily sedated you can still sense the terrible power and palpable evil of these smiling killers: it is a salutatory reminder to treat these grease painted carnivores with a healthy respect at all times.

My time with you today draws to a close: no doubt I shall have more to report soon. A Happy Thanksgiving to my American visitors, and to the rest of you- back to work, stop wasting your employer's Internet connection reading this drivel.

The Fruitville Chronicles, Day 7

Much like George Lucas I figured I would start my story cycle half way through. It made him millions, after all, and what's good enough for the bearded killer of movie dialogue is good enough for me. Let us begin.

Tuesday November the whatever finds your correspondent in Florida, a week in to his two week sojourn in the sunshine state. Thanks to the generosity of mother-in-law, her consort, and said consort's extended native Floridian family the Weasel Unit has been luxuriating in a borrowed bungalow taking in the sites as well as a modest amount of beer (not Scout- she has been sticking to milk).

The house comes with a beautiful tile swimming pool which is equipped with a woefully underpowered heating unit. Of course, being residents of Maine the general expectations of the Florida relatives have been that we will jump in the pool even if we have to chip ice off the surface. So with an air temperature of 80 degrees and a water temperature of 68 degrees we have been taking turns amazing the locals with our polar bear impressions. "Its no colder than Loonlips Lake in August" we say through gritted teeth with exaggerated New England cadences as we shiver through a few lengths of the pool. What the relatives miss are the early morning screams as the Yankee drive to puritan self-mortification hits chilly chlorinated water for a few chest constricting lengths of unvarnished agony.

We have a grapefruit tree (on its last legs) and an orange tree with fruit that is just coming ripe. Scout has been helping consort Les pick the oranges, extending his reach by 26 inches and employing her surprisingly strong grip to good effect. Cousin Gary brought by a sack of avocados from his daughter's house and we are eagerly awaiting their ripening. We have made many trips to the so-called "Third World" Publix (we aren't exploring the racial implications of that nickname in the interest of preserving the family dynamic).

We have split our time between cultural pursuits, getting sand between our toes, and eating fried seafood in a variety of guises (please don't batter anything that swims for me for a while, please, please). I imagine I will provide details in future dispatches.

I could write much more but I hear relatives filing in to the lanai and beer bottles clinking in the fridge door. Tonight we are grilling: a little chicken, a little salmon, and baked potatoes. I'd better go grab my plate and get in line for the buffet.

Toodle pip,
Weasel

Off Away On Our Hols

The Family Weasel are departing for warmer climes for a couple of weeks for our first short-sleeve shirt Thanksgiving. Might post from the road- depends on the perfect intersection of subject matter, wireless signal, and energy (mine).

Have a lovely,
Weasel

Ruminant Gets Crappy End of Stick, Again.

Probably not by meat goats, or for meat goats, but about meat goats I'll wager
From the BBC:

Goats sacrificed to fix Nepal jet

Nepal's state-run airline has confirmed that it sacrificed two goats to appease a Hindu god, following technical problems with one of its aircraft.

Nepal Airlines said the animals were slaughtered in front of the plane - a Boeing 757 - at Kathmandu airport.

The offering was made to Akash Bhairab, the Hindu god of sky protection, whose symbol is seen on the company's planes.

The airline said that after Sunday's ceremony the plane successfully completed a flight to Hong Kong.

"The snag in the plane has now been fixed and the aircraft has resumed its flights," senior airline official Raju KC was quoted as saying by Reuters.

Yeah! Suck that Dawkins and your atheist ilk! A pair of dead goats made an aircraft fly- lets see your "science" beat that!

I do like how the BBC notes the aircraft model, as if it is implied that different aircraft require different sacrifices. A chicken for a Gulfstream, half a herd of gnu for a 747....

Questions

Amidst all the hoopla on both sides of the Atlantic over the attack by the Islamic Non-Sequitur League* on Glasgow Airport I want to ask a two-parter. After every incident or thwarted incident the level of airport security in the United States is raised. Does this mean:

a) That the terrorist types are fiendishly clever and are constantly out-thinking our best security minds? On Saturday afternoon was a TSA or FBI person thinking "A car that explodes- a car bomb, if you will; that's so out of left field we never would have anticipated that in a million gazillion years. Now we know about that, lets raise the security level"?

Or:

b) That these tightened security measures are a pointless attempt to mollify the great travelling herd of egotistical idiots who won't go near a 25 year-old Boeing 737 crewed by surly failed models and crop-duster rejects in case Osama bin Laden has personally poisoned the complimentary nuts unless some cro-magnon git with a plastic sheriff-type badge confiscates their shampoo?

"We get what we deserve" is a way better battle cry for this Globule War on Turr than "They hate us for our freedoms" or "you are either with us or against us". I wish they'd set up an airline and a security check-in for those of us prepared to weigh the risk and travel the old way anyway.


(*"Knight Salman Rushdie, will ya? Well we'll try to blow up the Ryan Air desk at Glasgow Prestwick in retaliation. Allah Admiral Akbar!")

Final England

One of the major reasons we planned our holiday trip and embarked on such a punishing schedule around the houses was that my brother and his wife's second child was due on December 15. We put little bruv at the end of the trip to allow a cushion for the new baby to arrive and for them to get settled back in at home, but as the days went by the little 'un stubbonly refused to come. I was begining to kick around contingency plans for the remainder of our stay when finally the call came at 8am on Christmas Eve: four hours earlier the 8lb 15oz Grace Ella had arrived- mother and daughter both doing well. Now my brother has the other brackett for his Boxing Day birthday, and I have a new niece:






And when a little sister gets too boring, there is always hairdressing...

And so the trip draws to a close. The next time we go it will be to show off a kid of our own- weirdly cool....

England, Part 7

As the trip progressed towards the meat of Christmas our explorations dropped off and family time came to dominate. In the interests of completeness however I'm going to slap up a couple of posts, if only for my own pleasure and a vague future anthropologist's edification. Press on, before Christmas becomes yet another distant memory:

Consulting with Granddad (as this photo shows, he doesn't move much year to year).

Portrait studio time.
Off to Leicestershire, and the little brother:

Countryside: the real Britain in my estimation

Scenes like this always make me think of the short poem A Shropshire Lad by A.E. Houseman

Auntie Country Mouse and her number one fan

The hardscrabble yet prosperous town of Loughborough

Loughborough was once the heart of England's hosiery industry...

..and may well have the only piece of municipal statuary complete with an engraved tattoo.

Would you really want candy from a store so named?

Next up, part the last: greeting the new niece...

England Update 6

On the road again.... off to my Dad's

The view from my mother's apartment: she apparently lives on the set of "A Christmas Carol".

From mum's Christmas tree...

...to dad's.

Sisters...


...now available in a two pack.

Father re-engineers the dishwasher.

England Update, Part 5

Christmas is like that bit in Apollo 13 when the astronaut's orbit takes them onto the dark side of the moon and out of radio contact for several frustrating hours. Except of course I am in England, not outer space, and all I lacked was access to a DSL or cable modem rather than adequate oxygen and food supplies. But you get my drift.

When we last left our intrepid explorers it was the shortest day of the year in the Northern Hemisphere and they were off to the British Museum for some "Kultur":

Aladdin's cave: home to things pinched from across the globe.

Where to start?

How do you gain access to an Egyptian tomb? Just toot and come in. Gedditt?

It only takes a few short years to become a tourist in your home country.

Ancient John Kerry statue.

That's the way to be buried: none of this modern, biodegradable malarkey

Yet More Blighty

Yum, great Thai last night, and now a very atmospheric day with freezing fog swirling around outside. We change horses today and head over to my dad's on the other side of town but first, Monday's pics; out of the city and into the almost buccolic confines of St Albans:

Inside the abbey where mum and Mark were married

And the outside with a pair of tourists ruining the view.

Mum and Mark, watching us watching them watching us and so on.

Into the heart of the Roman bit of town, now a park.

These birds have become conditioned to aggressively beg from anyone who passes, likes Scotsmen in London. No evidence of the old purple tin among the ducks, however.

Or what? The constable will give you a jolly stern ticking off?

Tune in next time for the British Museum and all that...

England Update, Part 3

British museum was fab: can't beat the larceny of our forebears, as Flying Rodent points out. We haven't reached that point yet, so its back to Sunday (and Monday):

Sticky infants and an exhausted Santa

Covent Garden

Up on the London Eye

More Eye

Final Eye

St Albans later, but off for Thai in a minute (how English, eh?)