Hollywood

I went to the Hollywood Theatre on Broadway, which is my favourite theatre because they show double features for one low price. I went to see Eastern Promises and the Telus movie website listed Eastern Promises first and the second film listed was Rush Hour 3. Now, I don't mean to imply that Telus was mistaken and likely had I looked at the times they were showing I would have seen that Eastern Promises was the later film. Considering the nature of the two films, it makes to show Rush Hour 3 before Eastern Promises. Well that is in the event that you are somehow committed to showing them together, which is an entirely different question.
The thing about the double bill at the Hollywood is that every once in awhile the pairings are fantastic. Even when they aren't I end up seeing films that are ok and that I wouldn't see otherwise except on late night TV when I really should be going to bed, but will stay up watching any thin excuse for television. In the end, I often feel I am paying a fair price for the 'other' film at the Hollywood, if I even stay to see it. And that is the question, I'm not sure I would have stayed for Rush Hour 3, but then I thought I would have to decide after seeing Eastern Promises.
What I can say in the end, is that Eastern Promises was well worth the wait. Excellent. Well done. Could have been longer. Rush Hour 3, well really how could they top Rush Hour 2.

Museum Art

Yesterday, I visited the Vancouver Art Gallery and that trip has left me depressed about art. The gallery is currently exhibiting two artists: Georgia O'Keefe and Roy Arden. You will likely have heard of O'Keefe, but I can't imagine that you will have heard of Arden. Although I am told:

Roy Arden has been active as an internationally exhibiting artist since the late 70’s. He has played a major part in the development of Vancouver as an internationally recognized centre for the production of contemporary photographic art. Regularly seen in significant local, national and international exhibitions, Arden's work is included in important museum collections in Canada, Europe and the U.S.A., including The Art Gallery of Ontario, the Los Angeles County Museum of Art, The Museum of Modern Art, New York and the Staatsgalerie in Stuttgart.

He is a photographer and although I read the intro piece written in letraset on the wall, I just don't understand how his work can be called Allegorical Realism. Actually, I don't even know what that means. Certainly I was hoping that seeing his work would shed light on the glorious intro he was granted. After all, half the current gallery is either an exhibition of his work or an exhibition of work he likes by other artists.
In the end what I saw did not provide "a questioning of photography's 'truth value'." nor did it "present evidence of the social and economic history of Vancouver and it's environs, what he has termed ‘the landscape of the economy’". And while I think I saw "A photograph such as Landfill, Richmond B.C. (1991)", I definitely didn't see anything that could be described as "a searing image informed by a contemporary ecological consciousness", nor could I say that any photograph I "invokes the problematic history of the picturesque landscape."
Instead, I saw a collection of mundane, pedestrian photographs that I would discard had I took them. And maybe that is the point. Maybe someone thinks the selecting of these mundane pictures makes them valuable. But damn it if I didn't want my money back.
The thing is, by most standards, I'm an artsy fartsy kind of guy. I go to see galleries whenever I travel and I have fallen in love with works of art before. I have wished for the talent of Monet. I have dreamed of painting even half as well as Tom Thompson. So, I find it hard to understand how Roy Arden's work gets revered. I don't mean to pick on Roy. I think this inaccessible art is rampantly revered by galleries across North America. But I just don't get it.
I would like to say that thankfully I was there to see the Georgia O'Keefe exhibition, but it too was disappointing. A good portion of that exhibit was dedicated to photographs of O'Keefe. Fair enough. Another section was a hands on bone display encouraging you to give drawing a animal skull a crack. Fair again. Finally, a good portion of the work were styles for which she isn't famous. Fair still. In the end, there were only three pieces that you would want to make a trip out to see. Ok, but disappointing.
But then I got to thinking about the crappy little landscapes they had on the wall, which held absolutely no merit other than they were done by a famous artist. And it left me even further depressed to think that between O'Keefe and Arden occupying almost three entire floors of the Vancouver Art Gallery, there are only three pieces that are noteworthy. I mean museum quality noteworthy. That's the best we can do.
That is of course unless you like soundless video panning across a parking lot - cause there was plenty of that in the remaining portion of the museum. One of a lake. One of a stone wall with some trees behind. etc.
Maybe someone can explain to me what makes the photo at the top worthy of museum status but until then I will have to stay a little angry with our curators. Surely they can do better. Show us something that makes us feel awe. That makes us feel envy for the artists creativity and skill.
In the meantime, if you want to see some good art try the South Granville Rise.

Am I Alone?

Now, lots of people have heard me rant about gender specific single occupancy public washrooms, and my annoyance with them hasn't subsided. I am still uncomfortable and awkward standing in a hallway at the back of a restaurant waiting outside the men's washroom, while the women's door is wide open almost mocking me. I still think that if we allow ourselves to divide up our world along gender lines in the back hallways of restaurants, then we can expect no less a division in critical places.
But lately, my new confusion with single occupancy washrooms only applies to the men's version. It seems there is a trend towards putting a urinal into these types of washrooms, which I think confuses most of us. Do we lock the door or don't we? If we do, we feel ridiculously prudish and if we don't we risk a much more awkward situation as someone may choose to use the toilet. Can't say that I am a fan.

Canadian Ambassador

A future Canadian Ambassador was born earlier this week. If it follows that my mother turned out to be a great cook because neither of her parents could cook, then Shaen and Rou gave birth to a little boy who surely will be the most adept conflict manager this world has ever seen.
At least that's my hope little acorn. Roll as far as you can little guy.

Welcome Kaeden Greyson

Just outside the delivery ward, along the corridor, is a long wooden bench. Well more of a shelf really in that it has no shape to it. Just long flat and hard. That's where families wait. Wait and speculate.
Around the corner, down the hall, and around another corner you can find another waiting area. One with chairs and even a small sofa, but at 2am it seems awfully distant. And while it is clearly a better place for waiting, it certainly isn't the best place for speculating.
Whereas while seated on the bench you are privy to a constant trickle of activity. Nurses, or could they be doctors, come and go, carrying bundles, pushing stretchers, fetching mirrors. What's in the bundle, why is someone being moved, who is the mirror for? Then a cry.
Families hover listening, friends fret wondering and finally news is carried from father to friend to grandparent to other waiting families.
Twice we heard the sound we were all waiting to hear and both times we watched as news trickled out and down to us. Twice we were the other waiting family and twice we were left to wonder.
Then, at 4:32am our wonders ceased as the real wonder arrived. Little Kaeden weighing 7 pounds 12 ounces, who wasn't so sure he wanted to come out of the womb, finally did so in a rush. If he cried, we hadn't heard it.
His father came out to give us the news and like paparazzi we poured into the room cameras flashing and video rolling. And, to be honest, quiet little Kaeden didn't seem to mind.

You're Late, We're Waiting

I am a patient man. Sometimes too patient. Sometimes I wait patiently when I should be approaching the counter and confirming that my name is actually on the list instead of assuring Donna that we just need to be patient. Few things cause what impatience I have to stir. Most notably Claudio Lopez. It is as if he has a gift.
But lately, it is my sister-in-law. I have been patiently waiting for my new nephew. But it is getting a little ridiculous. She was due days ago. Days!
I don't know if she isn't concentrating, if she is not focused, or maybe she is just not trying. And well, apparently the whole medical community is on my side. Word is, Sarah, if you don't get the job going they are going to get it going for you. You have till tomorrow to do it yourself. Your hear!

P.S. Woke up to snow this morning. Great day for a birthday. Very memorable. You know Dec 1st and snow in Vancouver - good stuff. Now let's get this going.

Safety First

I have been traveling a lot lately. Too much, to be sure. Enough to have missed a connection in Chicago and thereby lose my luggage. Which, I understand is not extraordinary. Losing your luggage between Austin and Toronto, then not staying put long enough for it to catch up to you until you reach Montreal is less ordinary. Even more so, if in that time you'd been to Vancouver and Boston as well.
Leaving Boston, heading towards my luggage, working with a tight rotation of clothes and toiletry travel bag given to me by a courteous United Airlines representative, I was reluctant to check my luggage. I opted instead for carry on, which for me is unusual. In my carry on was a small tube of toothpaste. Granted, not as small as the one I first found in my complimentary toiletry bag. That was ridiculous. Nonetheless, I had forgotten about the tube of toothpaste and as it passed through the x-ray machine I am sure it looked ominous. Ominous enough to search my bag.
Now, being a passenger I am all in favour of safety. I don't want people boarding my flight with tubes of toothpaste packed with high explosives. So had that meant that I had to surrender my potentially lethal Colgate, then so be it. I can understand that level of paranoia.
What I don't understand is how this lethal weapon of mass destruction was a danger to our safety inside a zippered nylon bag buried in amongst clothes inside a zippered duffel bag, but that if that same weapon of mass destruction was inside a plastic ziploc bag, well then we would be safe. Safe as houses. It is as if John Cleese is the director of security.
"What's this? Is this C-4, a highly explosive device?"
"Why yes, yes it is."
"Do you have a Ziploc bag?"
"No, no I don't."
"Well then I don't see how we can let you on the plane with it, can we?"
Are there Lobbyist of the year awards? If so, someone from Ziploc has got to be a shoe in.

Trick or Treat

Halloween was great this year. I had lost hope after previous years of living in different places around Vancouver. Year after year in Kits we put out Pumpkins and bought candy, ready to great a wave of trick or treaters. Looking forward to seeing al those little faces struggling to be polite as you drop candy into their bags and yet the whole time dying to see what they got. Most years we just ended up with a big bowl of candy, which isn't such a bad thing, but no waves of costumed kids.
This year, in our new place we got somewhere arround a hundred and fifty kids. What a blast. Among my favourites, we had a little tiger, and princess, and a Thomas the Tank engine.

Betty Jull, Oct 24 RIP

I used to send her cards. Not addressed to Betty Jull, but simply addressed to Grandma. She would tease me saying that she didn't know how they ever got to her without her name on it. It was Betty Jull who taught me the importance of names.
Looking back, I can see that everything I ever needed to know about what it means to be family, I learned from Julls. From Barb and Gary and Frank, and especially my Grandma Jull, Betty.
Technically speaking, I wasn't her grandson. We weren't blood related at all. We weren't even legally related. But I never doubted, not for a single moment of my life, that she was my grandmother and I was her grandson. She had a gift for making you feel loved.
My favourite childhood memories revolve around holidays when our house would be bursting with grandparents. Great times full of great stories of forgotten stuffings and misplaced teeth, of phonograph records and kitchen tables cleared for card games.
It was through cards that Betty taught me it's OK to curse at loved ones. If they steal your trick you can call them all sorts of names and trust me, my Grandma Jull called me all sorts of names.
But what she really taught me is that making someone feel special is in the details. It is often the smallest thing that means the most. Like how she never forgot to bake my favourite cookies at Christmas, just because I liked them. Or how she kept toys for me in a special hidden room in the basement. Or how she saved Oor Willie comics, because she thought that I might like them. No matter what, she took the time to make me feel special.
I live on the other side of the country now and on my first road trip out here a friend and I had an old Datsun that we painted to look like a race car: complete with racing stripes, numbers, and sponsors logos. We needed a name for the car and nothing captured her spirit quite like Betty. So in yellow and orange fluorescent on the rear quarter panel, we wrote her name: Betty.
I wanted to call her Betty because it made me feel connected to a her. Sometimes I would be asked if Betty was an old girlfriend and it was then that I felt connected to her youth and a place long since lost that was full of dancing and singing at the Palais.
But mostly, I wanted to call her Betty because my grandma taught me about the little things that count the most. And the littlest thing that counted the very most with me was every Easter my grandma brought me a chocolate egg with my name written on it in white icing and nothing ever made me feel quite so special as that.

Halloween

Here's my pumpkin.

(Stole the basic idea off the web. Thank you anonymous internet poster.)

Singing in Public

On my way home from running circles around our local duck pond, I was not thinking about how absurd and gerbil like it is to run in circles around our local duck pond even if you put in variations in some futile attempt to fooling yourself into thinking that you are not running circles around our local duck pond, but rather I was thinking of little more than how much I would rather be at home, inside, out of the rain. That is to say that I was less distracted than normal and even somewhat alert. Just after I crossed the first of the two somewhat busy streets that lay between my house and the duck pond, I heard the sound of a voice.
I looked up to see a guy in a grey hoodie coming towards me, bouncing slightly as the walked, and all the while ranting. My first thought was that he was likely nutters. He was short on meds and now he was talking angrily to himself, likely of himself, and likely in third person.
As he neared, I could see that under his hoodie he was wearing what on first blush I charming wanted to call a Walkman, but really I all could see were earphones. They were large earphones and not the typical white earbuds that are ubiquitous these days and I suppose that is what made me think that he had a Sony product on the other end that would be older than him.
Actually he was young enough to wear his jeans half off his hip and crumpling around his ankles as if he had left the house that morning several pounds heavier. And as he approached, the ranting melted into a rhythm and that rhythm became rap. None of which is particularly unusual or unique.
What caught me was that at a certain distance, and I can't tell you now if it was five, ten, or twenty feet, but at a certain distance he stopped. He stopped echoing the angry words in his head. He passed me without a break in his stride and then at another, closer distance began again.
I was caught by how similar we were despite outward appearances. Despite me running by him in close fitting run clothes with shorts that are riding up as I run, as if I had the house a little thinner. Despite my being roughly double his age. If I had been the one with headphones on, I'd have done the same thing.

The Belt

I've held the unified belt for several days straight now, but I fear it looks a little sunny out and we are about to try a little Sudoku challenge.

Take That Mother Nature - I'm the Household Grand Champion

It seems obvious now, Mother Nature is rooting against me. Ha, I say, ha.
You see, it's not so much that she is conspiring against me, and let's face it, there is little she can do to me to hold me back. Well at least, there is little she can do to me that won't also affect Donna. She can get overcast and gloomy, she can rain and bluster, but short of a lightning strike, she's getting us both. And really now, don't you think that a lightning strike would be a tad too obvious.
No, I don't mean to imply that she is cheating, that she is providing any extraordinary assistance like a wind at someone's back say. It is more that she wants Donna to win. I mean, let's face it she probably has an in with fate. They probably went to the same school or they met at a party and now she knows ahead of time whether ... well I suppose, she knows a lot of things. Not the least of which is who will be our household grand champion. And it would seem she has taken an interest in the outcome.
Only a few days ago, she was in a grand mood. Couldn't wait for us to get up and get going on our morning Sudoku. Couldn't wait for me to lose.
And how about today? She has been miserable all day. Dark and brooding. Spitting all day. I suspect it's 'cause she knew. She knew I'd win at Sudoku and she knew I would win on the grind. She knew I would regain my rightful title as Household Grand Champion.
Well, at least for today.

Donna's Still Champ

It's Sunday morning and for the first time in what has seemed to be a very long time the sun was up and out eagerly waiting for us to rise. Prying at the bedroom blinds. Peeking in the kitchen window, as if straining to see whether the kettle was on the stove yet.
So you'll forgive me if I felt optimistic returning up the stairs. It's become a part of our morning ritual that as she finishes her second bowl of cereal, I head downstairs to print of a few Sudokus. Two sheets, each with an easy and a medium level puzzle. She uses pen and I a mechanical pencil. Which speaks volumes in itself.
I sunk into the big chair that sits in front of the large north facing window wearing my glasses. "Oh, your serious," she said. I don't often wear my glasses. Not out of some sense of vanity, as I don't think they look badly on. Rather, more out a sense of bother. I never really seem to have them at hand and not needing them to function, I rarely feel impelled to search for them. But this morning I had noticed them on my desk and without thinking had put them on. Not really a wise strategy I'll admit.
Sure they are helpful and I may even complete the puzzles in question a tad faster, but just by wearing them I have thrown down the gauntlet. I have spurred on my opponent.
"Are you ready," she asked? It wasn't so much a question as a prod.
"Yes."
"Are you sure?"
"No."
Not surprisingly, I failed to supplant our household champion once again. Which, in case your counting, I'm told makes six losses in a row. But, I thought, while listening to the Vinyl Cafe and the wonderful voice of Stewart McLean, at least it's sunny and we've no plans to climb the grind today.

The Fall

It would seem that I have lost the title of Household Champion and let's face it my chance at regaining the unified belt is slim. It isn't the Grind, it is the Sudoku. Sure the Grind favours Donna. She isn't dragging up the same massive carcass that is glued to my bones. While I'm not quite double her weight, I'm closer to double than I am to her actual weight. Disconcerting, isn't it? And of course, being an Ironman finisher, she certainly has a better endurance background than I do. Except of course when it comes to movie marathons, which let's not kid ourselves presents a certain physical challenge. So, although the scale, if you will, is certainly tipped in her favour, I do have one card to play: I am more willing to hurt myself in order to win. So the Grind will be mine again.
Sudoku on the other hand, well, no degree of effort will change the outcome. I'm averaging roughly a victory roughly 1 in 8 times. So, combining the two, ain't looking so hot.
Oh well, it was good while it lasted. At least Donna is gracious in victory. Like, this morning when she offered me more coffee, "Would you like a top up, Loser?"

Bill Walsh R.I.P.

Few, if any, have left as clear and as indelible a mark on the NFL.

I Am The Champion, My Friends

That's right, I am the household Sudoku champion and the household Grouse Grind. Well at least for now. And since I'm about to go travelling for a couple of weeks, I can think of no better time to announce any such title, fleeting or otherwise. Although I must say, I've been the household Grind champion for quite some time already. Go Me.

UFC Upset

Another upset. The last three UFC main events have been upsets and while I didn't like seeing GSP, the good Canadian kid that he is, go down to the little terror, I must admit this was a great upset to see. Sometimes the world of sports isn't a ladder. Sometimes times it is a little more like Rock Paper Siscors. I'm curious to see if Rampage can hold his own against other contenders or if he just has Chucks number.

Me and Barry

Just me, hanging out with Barry Bonds. Kinda hoping he'd hit one out of the park for the historic I was there thing and yet still hoping he never hits one out of the park again, for the historic Hank thing.

Pussy Cat Dolls Upset

I can't believe I care in the slightest. I can't tell you anything about the Pussy Cat Dolls, but I can tell you how I feel about their latest choice. How did this happen? How did the Search for the Next Pussy Cat Doll suck me in?
The strangest thing to me is that I'm disappointed in the outcome. I think they made the wrong choice. It is strange to me because I've never considered buying their CD in the past, I wouldn't buy their CD now and I wouldn't have bought their CD if they had a different new face in the band. They just don't interest me in the slightest. And yet, I'm disappointed.
For those who don't know, it came down to three: Melissa R, Chelsea, and Asia. For the record, I would have chosen Melissa R. because she was all round the 'hottest'. In second place, for me, was Chelsea. She was clearly the most talented.
Wow, I meant that. Weird.
Anyways, the finale was far more interesting than the drumming the Canucks took in the opening game of round 2.

Air Travel

I'll readily admit that I like the current state of airline meals, or
rather the lack thereof. I can't recall any great meals on a plane and were
they offering two prices (with and without meals), I would opt for the
lower fare every time.
What isn't working for me is the headset deal. I have a collection of
headsets from various airlines. Each has been kept with the intention of
reusing them. Each with more and less success.
I appreciate that asking us to bring our own saves both cost and cuts down
on our already massive environmental footprint. But why can't they just
reuse them. I don't need a new set. Is it a paranoid hygiene issue? I say
let anyone who has a big issue with the used headset buy a new one or
bring their own.

GSP Goes Down

I still can't believe that George St Pierre, sometimes known simply as GSP, lost to Matt Serra. Now, I'm not saying, not even for a moment, that I would even remotely consider the notion of getting into the octagon with Matt the Terra Serra. I don't care how much reach advantage or weight advantage I may have. And if I say he just isn't in the same class as GSP, I still recognize that he is a world class fighter. On the other hand, I am a pussy. So, please understand that I have a great deal of respect and admiration for the fighting skills of Matt Serra.
But how could that little washed up, second tier shrimp do it?
Kudos to you Matt Serra. You just made the UFC that much more interesting. And it was already interesting.
I was down at the local pub with a few friends to watch the match and before the undercard began the place was full. Not since Tyson, has boxing seen that kind of interest.

Signs

Warning: Jane and Lucy please note that despite the following entry's positive view on children, I am well aware of the joy of temporary visits. We (despite Donna's apparent weakness for 9 year old girls) aren't softening. There are no kids in our future. Well at least not ours anyway. In fact it looks like there will be a lot of kids in our future. Enough I'm sure.
You see lately, it seems that every couple around us is pregnant or trying to get pregnant. All except one, but I'll come to that.
Thankfully, this recent pregnancy affliction doesn't seem to be contagious. It's kind of exciting though. We had friends over recently with their newly adopted little one and he was adorable. He cried only once and we were given ample warning from his mother. "As soon as this bottle is done, he'll start crying."
I wanted to comfort him - to let him know that feeling never goes away. That to this day I need to suppress that same urge when, say, the ice cream carton, or the Pringle tube, or the lasagna tray have nothing left to give. I suppose that wouldn't be much comfort though. Especially at his age.
Well anyway, before I knew it he was distracted and forgotten that the bottle was empty. He returned to the smiley face drunken midget he had been a few minutes earlier. All was well again and soon he was put to bed.
Now truth be told, it would seem that not every mother in our life would see us a good parents. As I alluded to earlier, we have a friend who has stopped trying. Is on a trying hiatus so to speak. You see, for reasons of her own, she doesn't want either a Scorpio child nor a Capricorn child. Too many other birthdays, she said. Too many other festivities, she said. Nothing whatsoever to do with Donna and I being both a Scorpio and a Capricorn.
So a word of warning to those other women. You are playing with fire. You've been trying right through the Scorpio - Capricorn window. You could end up with a kid like Donna or me. Or even Claudio Lopez.

Me? Golfing?

I went golfing and I have to say I kind of liked it. I went with a friend who is a pretty good golfer and a funny guy. Without his advice it would have been a lot longer round than it was and without his humour it would have seemed a lot longer than it was. In the end, it turned out to be a nice walk with an interesting distraction along the way.
What I didn't realize going into the endeavour - we wouldn't be golfing alone. I mean it is one thing to be an idiot firing balls off into the woods in front of a buddy. It is another thing to invite strangers to witness.
Actually, truth be told, I couldn't care if people thought I sucked. You see, I do suck, so they shouldn't be misled. No, I was actually worried that my shortcomings would slow the group down too much and they would get pissed off. Turns out 2 hours and 30 minutes is not the average marathon time any more than par applies to middle age men showing up to 9 hole courses as singles. I could have been a whole lot worse and still not dragged them down too badly.

Settled In

It's been nearly two months now and we've completely settled in. We are a few pictures shy of completion. Well ... besides the garage. It's kind of funny how close the word garage is to garbage. And it certainly is a dumping ground for us.

Hair Cut

As we approach our moving date, I've recently begun playimg the silly little game of no more this and only three more times of that. My latest injection of sentimentality into the most unsentimental of acts, comes on the heels of having my last haircut in Kits.
Now I've not lost my mind so far that I'm getting misty eyed on fourth ave thinking about it. But I did think that thought. I've also started thinking about how many more times I'll park in our driveway and climb our stairs, etc. Truth be told, I've never liked our stairs and I've never liked getting my haircut in Kits. In fact, I don't think I've started counting the things I like nearly as much as the ones I don't.
So get ready, Jackson, of Blue Bird Beauty salon, I'll be ready for a new do in roughly six weeks time.

Ha Noi Traffic

Imagine crossing roads like these.

Extreme Ironing

I love a private joke taken past too far and down the road to full out nutters. On that note, I welcome you to the world of Extreme Ironing. Enjoy.

Rocky Mountain Flatbread Company

Our new favourite restaurant - the Rocky Mountain Flatbread Company has amazing food and a great eco friendly attitude. But let's be real, it's the food that counts and it was fantastic.
Very reasonable prices - on First just west of Burrard.

A Question of Judgement

My grandfather described it as "homogenized weasel piss" and perhaps that's a tad harsh. I would, in an effort to be as fair as possible, say that it is the Baby Duck of beer, that it is a pre-made Shandy, that it is the worst beer with the best marketing. So when friends bring over a six pack of the silver bullet, I try to look the other way. I try to look past it, if you will, and see more as a friend than as a drinker of homogenized weasel piss.
The more "chick", the more glam and fabulous that friend is, the more apt I am to see past it. When Mich'Elvis' leaves her left over Coors Light in the fridge, it kind of makes sense. She probably didn't want a beer to begin with. She was probably looking for something a little more fabulous, a little more chic than beer and had simply left it too late. After all, there is very little that's chic about a Cold Beer and Wine off sales store in the back of a hotel, but sometimes that's all you got.
All of which does very little to explain away the behaviour of Dylan. He not only drinks Coors Light quite willingly (passing up on quality brews, I have seen him reach into a cooler full of tasty suds and come up with a smile and a silver bullet), but recently I think he has taken things a little too far.
Left over from watching Playoff Football (no less), sitting in the bottom of my fridge are two "near beers". What has the world come to? Will someone talk sense to this man?

More Photos

Second half of photos

First Batch of Photos from Vietnam

Saigon to Hoi An

Seperate Ways

Back in Hanoi, our band of six went in three seperate ways. Claudio Lopez and Samantha went south in search of sun and sand. Rob, unwilling to risk the smell of more train travel, held down the fort in Hanoi with Harumi, who's flight was soon to go anywhere else. And Donna and I went north into the hills of Vietnam.
We took an overnight train north northwest to the Chinese border of Lai Cau. From there we took a minibus south southwest into the mountains to the very small town of Sapa.
The French, reminded of the Alps, established this small town high on a slope overlooking a winding valley. When the clouds lift (which isn't often), the views are wonderful. While our hotel was higher than most, it didn't offer a great view. It was, however, wonderful.
We stayed at the Baguette & Chocolat. An old French building that has been converted into a bakery / restaurant / mini-hotel. They only have four rooms and each is giving a pastry name in lieu of a number. We stayed in the croissant room.
It was very cold in Sapa and our hotel offered no central heating. With big french doors opening on to a small balcony and large windows and high ceilings, our room was cold. In the corner they had a small electric heater which was better at lighting the room than heating it. Knowing that, the hotel drowned our bed in with two enourmous duvets - making it the coziest room we had in Vietnam.
In the morning, the smell of croissant and pain au chocolat would waft up the stairs and as we made our way downstairs for a continental breakfast by the fireplace the smell would overwhelm us.
What makes the hotel special is its purpose. It is a training facility for disadvantaged youth. They take in orphans and street kids and give them an education and teach them a skill.
Sapa itself doesn't offer much, but the trek's through the valley are interesting. The surrounding area isn't populated by Vietnamese, but rather by hill tribes of ethnic minorities. We hired a private guide for a day to show us a few villages. She was a local and had a very interesting perspective on the politics of her world. She was bright and clever and spoke English very well - which is amazing as she has only learned it from speaking to tourists.

Comical Hats

Not surprisingly, Donna and I couldn't find any Happy Birthday stuff in Hanoi before heading out to Ha Long Bay. We had meant to buy some before we left, but, well, things happen. And so we found ourselves searching for something festive that didn't say Happy New Year on it. We failed. The best we could do was steal some ribbon off of a Christmas display and loosely attach it to a conical hat. Sure it's a little plain looking, but they are everywhere (only the baseball style hat is more common in Vietnam) and they do kind of look like party hats - just a little oversized.
Besides we did look comical.