View allAll Photos Tagged polyglot
The earliest archaeological evidence of human habitation of the territory of the city of San Francisco dates to 3000 BC The Yelamu group of the Ohlone people resided in a few small villages when an overland Spanish exploration party, led by Don Gaspar de Portolá, arrived on November 2, 1769, the first documented European visit to San Francisco Bay. The first maritime presence occurred on August 5, 1775, when San Carlos—commanded by Juan Manuel de Ayala—became the first ship to anchor in the bay. The following year, on March 28, 1776, the Spanish established the Presidio of San Francisco, followed by a mission, Mission San Francisco de Asís (Mission Dolores), established by the Spanish explorer Juan Bautista de Anza.
Upon independence from Spain in 1821, the area became part of Mexico. Under Mexican rule, the mission system gradually ended, and its lands became privatized. In 1835, William Richardson, a naturalized Mexican citizen of English birth, erected the first independent homestead, near a boat anchorage around what is today Portsmouth Square. Together with Alcalde Francisco de Haro, he laid out a street plan for the expanded settlement, and the town, named Yerba Buena, began to attract American settlers. Commodore John D. Sloat claimed California for the United States on July 7, 1846, during the Mexican–American War, and Captain John B. Montgomery arrived to claim Yerba Buena two days later. Yerba Buena was renamed San Francisco on January 30 of the next year, and Mexico officially ceded the territory to the United States at the end of the war in 1848. Despite its attractive location as a port and naval base, San Francisco was still a small settlement with inhospitable geography.
Juana Briones de Miranda, considered the "Founding Mother of San Francisco"
The California Gold Rush brought a flood of treasure seekers (known as "forty-niners", as in "1849"). With their sourdough bread in tow, prospectors accumulated in San Francisco over rival Benicia, raising the population from 1,000 in 1848 to 25,000 by December 1849. The promise of great wealth was so strong that crews on arriving vessels deserted and rushed off to the gold fields, leaving behind a forest of masts in San Francisco harbor. Some of these approximately 500 abandoned ships were used at times as storeships, saloons, and hotels; many were left to rot, and some were sunk to establish title to the underwater lot. By 1851, the harbor was extended out into the bay by wharves while buildings were erected on piles among the ships. By 1870, Yerba Buena Cove had been filled to create new land. Buried ships are occasionally exposed when foundations are dug for new buildings.
California was quickly granted statehood in 1850, and the U.S. military built Fort Point at the Golden Gate and a fort on Alcatraz Island to secure the San Francisco Bay. Silver discoveries, including the Comstock Lode in Nevada in 1859, further drove rapid population growth. With hordes of fortune seekers streaming through the city, lawlessness was common, and the Barbary Coast section of town gained notoriety as a haven for criminals, prostitution, and gambling.
Entrepreneurs sought to capitalize on the wealth generated by the Gold Rush. Early winners were the banking industry, with the founding of Wells Fargo in 1852 and the Bank of California in 1864. Development of the Port of San Francisco and the establishment in 1869 of overland access to the eastern U.S. rail system via the newly completed Pacific Railroad (the construction of which the city only reluctantly helped support) helped make the Bay Area a center for trade. Catering to the needs and tastes of the growing population, Levi Strauss opened a dry goods business and Domingo Ghirardelli began manufacturing chocolate. Chinese immigrants made the city a polyglot culture, drawn to "Old Gold Mountain", creating the city's Chinatown quarter. In 1870, Asians made up 8% of the population. The first cable cars carried San Franciscans up Clay Street in 1873. The city's sea of Victorian houses began to take shape, and civic leaders campaigned for a spacious public park, resulting in plans for Golden Gate Park. San Franciscans built schools, churches, theaters, and all the hallmarks of civic life. The Presidio developed into the most important American military installation on the Pacific coast. By 1890, San Francisco's population approached 300,000, making it the eighth-largest city in the United States at the time. Around 1901, San Francisco was a major city known for its flamboyant style, stately hotels, ostentatious mansions on Nob Hill, and a thriving arts scene. The first North American plague epidemic was the San Francisco plague of 1900–1904.
At 5:12 am on April 18, 1906, a major earthquake struck San Francisco and northern California. As buildings collapsed from the shaking, ruptured gas lines ignited fires that spread across the city and burned out of control for several days. With water mains out of service, the Presidio Artillery Corps attempted to contain the inferno by dynamiting blocks of buildings to create firebreaks. More than three-quarters of the city lay in ruins, including almost all of the downtown core. Contemporary accounts reported that 498 people lost their lives, though modern estimates put the number in the several thousands. More than half of the city's population of 400,000 was left homeless. Refugees settled temporarily in makeshift tent villages in Golden Gate Park, the Presidio, on the beaches, and elsewhere. Many fled permanently to the East Bay.Rebuilding was rapid and performed on a grand scale. Rejecting calls to completely remake the street grid, San Franciscans opted for speed. Amadeo Giannini's Bank of Italy, later to become Bank of America, provided loans for many of those whose livelihoods had been devastated. The influential San Francisco Planning and Urban Research Association or SPUR was founded in 1910 to address the quality of housing after the earthquake. The earthquake hastened development of western neighborhoods that survived the fire, including Pacific Heights, where many of the city's wealthy rebuilt their homes. In turn, the destroyed mansions of Nob Hill became grand hotels. City Hall rose again in splendid Beaux Arts style, and the city celebrated its rebirth at the Panama–Pacific International Exposition in 1915.
During this period, San Francisco built some of its most important infrastructure. Civil Engineer Michael O'Shaughnessy was hired by San Francisco Mayor James Rolph as chief engineer for the city in September 1912 to supervise the construction of the Twin Peaks Reservoir, the Stockton Street Tunnel, the Twin Peaks Tunnel, the San Francisco Municipal Railway, the Auxiliary Water Supply System, and new sewers. San Francisco's streetcar system, of which the J, K, L, M, and N lines survive today, was pushed to completion by O'Shaughnessy between 1915 and 1927. It was the O'Shaughnessy Dam, Hetch Hetchy Reservoir, and Hetch Hetchy Aqueduct that would have the largest effect on San Francisco. An abundant water supply enabled San Francisco to develop into the city it has become today.
The Bay Bridge, shown here under construction in 1935, took forty months to complete.
In ensuing years, the city solidified its standing as a financial capital; in the wake of the 1929 stock market crash, not a single San Francisco-based bank failed. Indeed, it was at the height of the Great Depression that San Francisco undertook two great civil engineering projects, simultaneously constructing the San Francisco–Oakland Bay Bridge and the Golden Gate Bridge, completing them in 1936 and 1937, respectively. It was in this period that the island of Alcatraz, a former military stockade, began its service as a federal maximum security prison, housing notorious inmates such as Al Capone, and Robert Franklin Stroud, the Birdman of Alcatraz. San Francisco later celebrated its regained grandeur with a World's fair, the Golden Gate International Exposition in 1939–40, creating Treasure Island in the middle of the bay to house it.
During World War II, the Hunters Point Naval Shipyard became a hub of activity, and Fort Mason became the primary port of embarkation for service members shipping out to the Pacific Theater of Operations. The explosion of jobs drew many people, especially African Americans from the South, to the area. After the end of the war, many military personnel returning from service abroad and civilians who had originally come to work decided to stay. The United Nations Charter creating the United Nations was drafted and signed in San Francisco in 1945 and, in 1951, the Treaty of San Francisco re-established peaceful relations between Japan and the Allied Powers.
Urban planning projects in the 1950s and 1960s involved widespread destruction and redevelopment of west-side neighborhoods and the construction of new freeways, of which only a series of short segments were built before being halted by citizen-led opposition. The onset of containerization made San Francisco's small piers obsolete, and cargo activity moved to the larger Port of Oakland. The city began to lose industrial jobs and turned to tourism as the most important segment of its economy. The suburbs experienced rapid growth, and San Francisco underwent significant demographic change, as large segments of the white population left the city, supplanted by an increasing wave of immigration from Asia and Latin America. From 1950 to 1980, the city lost over 10 percent of its population.
The Transamerica Pyramid was the tallest building in San Francisco until 2016, when Salesforce Tower surpassed it.
Over this period, San Francisco became a magnet for America's counterculture. Beat Generation writers fueled the San Francisco Renaissance and centered on the North Beach neighborhood in the 1950s. Hippies flocked to Haight-Ashbury in the 1960s, reaching a peak with the 1967 Summer of Love. In 1974, the Zebra murders left at least 16 people dead. In the 1970s, the city became a center of the gay rights movement, with the emergence of The Castro as an urban gay village, the election of Harvey Milk to the Board of Supervisors, and his assassination, along with that of Mayor George Moscone, in 1978.
Bank of America completed 555 California Street in 1969 and the Transamerica Pyramid was completed in 1972, igniting a wave of "Manhattanization" that lasted until the late 1980s, a period of extensive high-rise development downtown. The 1980s also saw a dramatic increase in the number of homeless people in the city, an issue that remains today, despite many attempts to address it. The 1989 Loma Prieta earthquake caused destruction and loss of life throughout the Bay Area. In San Francisco, the quake severely damaged structures in the Marina and South of Market districts and precipitated the demolition of the damaged Embarcadero Freeway and much of the damaged Central Freeway, allowing the city to reclaim The Embarcadero as its historic downtown waterfront and revitalizing the Hayes Valley neighborhood.
The two recent decades have seen booms driven by the internet industry. First was the dot-com boom of the late 1990s, startup companies invigorated the San Francisco economy. Large numbers of entrepreneurs and computer application developers moved into the city, followed by marketing, design, and sales professionals, changing the social landscape as once poorer neighborhoods became increasingly gentrified. Demand for new housing and office space ignited a second wave of high-rise development, this time in the South of Market district. By 2000, the city's population reached new highs, surpassing the previous record set in 1950. When the bubble burst in 2001, many of these companies folded and their employees were laid off. Yet high technology and entrepreneurship remain mainstays of the San Francisco economy. By the mid-2000s (decade), the social media boom had begun, with San Francisco becoming a popular location for tech offices and a common place to live for people employed in Silicon Valley companies such as Apple and Google.
The Ferry Station Post Office Building, Armour & Co. Building, Atherton House, and YMCA Hotel are historic buildings among dozens of historical landmarks in the city according to the National Register of Historic Places listings in San Francisco.
The San Francisco Peninsula
San Francisco is located on the West Coast of the United States at the north end of the San Francisco Peninsula and includes significant stretches of the Pacific Ocean and San Francisco Bay within its boundaries. Several picturesque islands—Alcatraz, Treasure Island and the adjacent Yerba Buena Island, and small portions of Alameda Island, Red Rock Island, and Angel Island—are part of the city. Also included are the uninhabited Farallon Islands, 27 miles (43 km) offshore in the Pacific Ocean. The mainland within the city limits roughly forms a "seven-by-seven-mile square", a common local colloquialism referring to the city's shape, though its total area, including water, is nearly 232 square miles (600 km2).
There are more than 50 hills within the city limits. Some neighborhoods are named after the hill on which they are situated, including Nob Hill, Potrero Hill, and Russian Hill. Near the geographic center of the city, southwest of the downtown area, are a series of less densely populated hills. Twin Peaks, a pair of hills forming one of the city's highest points, forms an overlook spot. San Francisco's tallest hill, Mount Davidson, is 928 feet (283 m) high and is capped with a 103-foot (31 m) tall cross built in 1934. Dominating this area is Sutro Tower, a large red and white radio and television transmission tower.
The nearby San Andreas and Hayward Faults are responsible for much earthquake activity, although neither physically passes through the city itself. The San Andreas Fault caused the earthquakes in 1906 and 1989. Minor earthquakes occur on a regular basis. The threat of major earthquakes plays a large role in the city's infrastructure development. The city constructed an auxiliary water supply system and has repeatedly upgraded its building codes, requiring retrofits for older buildings and higher engineering standards for new construction.[88] However, there are still thousands of smaller buildings that remain vulnerable to quake damage. USGS has released the California earthquake forecast which models earthquake occurrence in California.
San Francisco's shoreline has grown beyond its natural limits. Entire neighborhoods such as the Marina, Mission Bay, and Hunters Point, as well as large sections of the Embarcadero, sit on areas of landfill. Treasure Island was constructed from material dredged from the bay as well as material resulting from the excavation of the Yerba Buena Tunnel through Yerba Buena Island during the construction of the Bay Bridge. Such land tends to be unstable during earthquakes. The resulting soil liquefaction causes extensive damage to property built upon it, as was evidenced in the Marina district during the 1989 Loma Prieta earthquake. Most of the city's natural watercourses, such as Islais Creek and Mission Creek, have been culverted and built over, although the Public Utilities Commission is studying proposals to daylight or restore some creeks.
Generations of Americans have been taught that one of the United States' true strengths is that it is just a big ol' melting pot.
We come from all parts of the world, and what binds us together are an adopted or shared history, a culture honed by common influences and faith in our imperfect democracy.
Sociologists would call that a polyglot society.
Fact is, that we also share convergent bloodlines. Love has a way of knowing no color, no religion and in some cases, no politics.
Hard times have a way of making people think about who they are and how they feel.
I guess belief systems are really being tested these days.
I've cast a lot of ballots in the past 36 years. Sometimes I've voted for people who look a little like me. Many times I've voted for what late Congressman Mickey Leland often described as candidates who were "people of good will."
This time, that's the choice for some folks. You can look at this candidate and see the obvious. You can look at this candidate's family and see America. If you can't get past what you see on the surface, just vote for the white part.
A few more thoughts in my Blog: dehollsworld.blogspot.com/
L'Hypolaïs polyglotte (Hippolais polyglotta) est une espèce d'oiseaux de la famille des Acrocephalidae. C'est un visiteur d'été en France.
Il a le dessus gris-brun olivâtre et le dessous jaune, plus net sur la gorge et le haut de la poitrine. Le ventre et les flancs sont lavés de gris jaunâtre. Petit sourcil jaune, pas toujours visible. Le bec, long relativement à la tête, et orangé.
Cet oiseau mesure 12 à 13 cm de longueur pour une envergure de 18 à 20 cm et une masse de 11 à 14 g.
Name: Navin Khattar
Age: 36
Aliases: N/A, Nav, Agent Khattar, sometimes Agent K
Nationality: American, Emirati
Profile: Born in Dubai to an American father and a Pakistani-British mother, Navin was supposed to have the name “Hensley”, but his parents insisted on using Navin. He gained powers at a young age and the rest is history. He states that once he turned 8, he travelled with his father back to the states in Ohio—where he came from while his mother stayed behind. Upon his high school education, he didn’t have much of a career ahead until going back to Dubai, working around stalls then at the Burj Khalifa.
Navin went for soul searching, knowing had to go somewhere after graduating in Oxford. It struck his head when he found out his powers were best used for something. An agency—Interpol, which he joined. Much to his ability as a polyglot, he traced for criminal activities around. The surge of superhumans grew more as Navin became the team’s valuable consultant, and meeting a woman who became his wife, but before her impeccable betrayal which would make the Navin a different man.
Powers and abilities: Glass manipulation , able to warp shards and make shields.
Equipment: Standard Interpol gear, lined, armored suit except his torso. Necklace given to him by his mother, sidearms worn at chest.
Personality: Prior to his supposed mission, Navin was carefree, happy and a wise cracking man, until his wife’s betrayal spiraled him into demise because he was unable to accept the fact who she became. He is rather hard boiled and hardened his own senses.
Brussels, officially the Brussels-Capital Region, is the capital and largest city of Belgium and the de facto capital of the European Union and headquarters for NATO.
Brussels is a regional level entity comprising 19 municipalities, including the municipality of the City of Brussels, which de jure is the capital of Belgium, in addition to the seat of the French Community of Belgium and of the Flemish Community.
Brussels has grown from a 10th-century fortress town founded by a descendant of Charlemagne to a sizeable city.
The city has a population of 1.2 million and a metropolitan area with a population of over 1.8 million, both of them the largest in Belgium.
Since the end of the Second World War, Brussels has been a major centre for international politics. Hosting principal EU institutions,
the secretariat of the Benelux and the headquarters of the North Atlantic Treaty Organization (NATO), the city has become the polyglot home of numerous international organisations, politicians, diplomats and civil servants.
Brussels is just a few miles north of the boundary between Belgium's language communities—French in the south,
Dutch in the north. Historically a Dutch-speaking city, it has seen a major shift to French since Belgian independence in 1830. Today, although the majority language is French,
the city is officially bilingual. All road signs, street names, and many advertisements and services are shown in both languages.
Brussels is increasingly becoming multilingual with increasing numbers of migrants, expatriates and minority groups speaking their own languages, and English often serves as a lingua franca.
======================================================================
Clase: Aves
Orden: Passeriformes
Familia: Mimidae
Género: Mimus
Especie: M. polyglottos
Taken on December 8, 2007 at 4.47pm, Muller Shopping, Curitiba City, Paraná State, Southern Brazil....... See in Larger
Santa Claus Names from Around the World:
Afghanistan: Baba Chaghaloo
Australia: Father Christmas
Brazil: Papai Noel
Canada: English Speaking: Santa Claus
French Speaking: Pere Noel
China: Shengdan Laoren
Denmark: Julemanden
Holland: Sinter Klaas
Egypt: Papa Noel
England: Father Christmas
Finland: Joulupukki
France: Pere Noel
Germany: Christtindl
Hungary: Mikulas
India: Ganesha
Iran: Baba Noel
Italy: Babbo Natale
Japan: Hoteisho
Netherlands: Kertsman
New Zealand: Father Christmas
Norway: Julenissen
Peru: Papai Noel
Poland: Świety Mikolaj
Portugal: Pai Natal
Russia: Ded Moroz
Spain: Papa Noel
Sweden: Jultomten
Turkey: Noel Baba
United States: Santa Claus.
I will see all my friends soon soon!
This month is of many activities at my work, but I know that friends understand
the situation...Kisses
Eu verei a todos muito em breve!
Este mês é muito tumultuado no meu trabalho, mas eu sei que meus amigos compreendem a situação...Bjks
Brussels (French: Bruxelles, pronounced [bʁysɛl] ( listen); Dutch: Brussel, pronounced [ˈbrʏsəl] (help·info)), officially the Brussels Region or Brussels-Capital Region (French: Région de Bruxelles-Capitale, Dutch: Brussels Hoofdstedelijk Gewest (help·info)), is the de facto capital city of the European Union (EU) and the largest urban area in Belgium. It comprises 19 municipalities, including the City of Brussels proper, which is the constitutional capital of Belgium, the French Community of Belgium, as well as Flanders and the Flemish Community.
Brussels has grown from a 10th-century fortress town founded by a descendant of Charlemagne into a metropolis of more than one million inhabitants.
The metropolitan area has a population of over 1.8 million, making it the largest in Belgium.
Since the end of the Second World War, Brussels has been a main centre for international politics. Its hosting of principal EU institutions as well as the headquarters of the North Atlantic Treaty Organization (NATO) has made the city a polyglot home of numerous international organisations, politicians, diplomats and civil servants.
Although historically Dutch-speaking, Brussels became increasingly French-speaking over the 19th and 20th centuries. Today a majority of inhabitants are native French-speakers, although both languages have official status. Linguistic tensions remain, and the language laws of the municipalities surrounding Brussels are an issue of much controversy in Belgium.
(by Wikipedia)
Name: Connor Elías Raul Arden
Age: 26
Aliases: Con/Conn, Dusksmoke, Battoman of 23, Big Bro
Nationality: Italian-American, 1/3 Spanish and Mexican, Japanese (granted permanent stay/residence)
Profile: Like his younger brother Jesse, Connor grew up in a poor household, constantly abused by their alcoholic mother, and his father could not do anything to help.
However his father managed to meet a Mexican-American woman, whom he married later and had a better job and life. Both siblings went to the same elementary school where they met Tyrone and Erin, becoming best friends. Connor was often a troublemaker and almost blew up the lab during an experiment, which is a common recurring joke.
When Connor turned 14, he started to act differently to due harassment and bullying, but he still stood strong. His former electronics teacher in first grade, Oddcrow, found him and decided to take the young teen to Japan, as he trained in secret under the guild and worked his way up to become an assassin. His family was constantly worried during his disappearance.
In the years passing by, Connor managed to become Igarashi’s finest lieutenants in the guild, as he also became accustomed to Asian education, culture and norms, but still shunned by most of his peers. His allies included Oddcrow, who still remained as a uncle figure and mentor to him, and developed a brief relationship with a detective, Mina Tatsugami. Mason Gardner also became a friend of his when Connor went back to the states for university and met the businessman as a teaching assistant, despite their age gap by 12 years.
Upon learning Paladin’s activity and rediscovering his brother alongside his team, whom they arrived in Tokyo to fight against the Yakuza, he decided to aid them secretly. Seven months later, he also participated in the battle against North, the warlord, at the behest of his friend Gardner.
Approximately a year after the Tokyo incident (and five months after dealing with the Spectres), he was tasked by the Guild to find a red katana, but found himself framed and being set up. Connor decided to reach out to Paladin in order to clear his name, which meant revealing his identity and managed to do so succesfully, while electing his mentor, Oddcrow, to become the new guild leader.
Currently, he has joined Paladin as a new member while managing to reunite with his family.
Powers and abilities: Like the name of his alias, he is able to conjure winds and smokes, able to suffocate people or blind them, while also aided by his smoke bombs. Connor is a natural polyglot and genius, being able to demonstrate science at an early age and master languages including his native English and Spanish, later on Italian and Japanese etc. Connor is also a martial arts expert, mastering most forms of Asian and international fighting styles and perfects them to killing if he has to. He has a vast knowledge of weapons, culture and many things.
Equipment: Being the weapons master he is, Connor possesses a highly refined protective suit that is water, electric and fire proof. After proving himself in the field, he and Oddcrow have added many touches to the suit, including acid prevention, stealth mode and etc. His main weapon is a hardened staff that can retract and shock people with attacks, or call upon a jet for contact. He also carries shurikens and daggers, not much a gun fighter. Dusksmoke is still a mysterious figure whose weapons are yet to be fully showcased
Personality: Mostly opposite compared his younger brother, but shares some similar qualities, such as interest/smartness in technology, modesty and bravery. Connor is known to be sufficient and independent and adaptable facing the outside world. He is shown as being dark and secretive, but still has a sense of deadpan humour.
Felosa-poliglota
Beja-Portugal
2.5.2008
Com um agradecimento pela correcção ao Selvagemnooeste e um grande abraço!Um Mestre é sempre um Mestre!
Thanks to Selvagemnooeste!!! my first identification was wrong!Master is allways a Master!
This is a gorgeous bird. The same birds return to Sabino Canyon for years.
Here are two websites with good descriptions:
www.audubon.org/field-guide/bird/phainopepla
birding.about.com/od/birdprofiles/p/Phainopepla.htm
Common Name:
Phainopepla, Black Cardinal
Scientific Name:
Phainopepla nitens
Scientific Family:
Ptilogonatidae
Appearance:
Bill: Short, straight, black, fairly sharp
Size: 7-8 inches long with 12-inch wingspan, round wings, long tail, ragged crest
Colors: Black, red, gray, white, gray-brown, blue-black, orange, brown
Markings: Dimorphic species. Males are glossy black overall and can appear blue-black in bright sunlight. A broad white patch on the primary feathers is visible in flight. The ragged, pointed crest is often raised. Legs and feet are dark, and the eyes are red. Females are an allover slate or ash gray with fine white edging on all wing feathers. Their wing patches do not contrast as prominently as those of male birds, but they share the same pointed crest and red eyes. Juvenile birds resemble females with the same white wing edging but show a gray-brown plumage and dark orange or brown eyes. As juvenile males mature, their gray-brown plumage may become mottled with black feathers.
Foods:
Primarily berries; also insects, flower petals (See: Frugivorous)
Habitat and Migration:
These silky-flycatchers prefer dry habitats such as desert scrub, mesquite thickets and the canyon foothills of oak and other woodlands in southwestern North America, as well as riparian corridors in the driest regions. They can be found year-round from southern California to southwestern Texas and further south throughout the Baja peninsula and into central Mexico. During the summer breeding season, the phainopepla may range slightly further north into central Arizona and Nevada, as well as north-central California. Vagrant sightings are occasionally reported further north and east than the bird's expected range, with rare sightings great distances from their traditional southwest habitat.
Vocalizations:
The phainopepla has a complex, varied song that includes rattling warbles and buzzy trills, typically with a descending tone. The common call is a light, wispy “whihp” with a rising pitch. These birds are also accomplished mimics and have been noted as reproducing the calls of more than a dozen other bird species, including red-tailed hawks and northern flickers.
Behavior:
These birds are highly nomadic and range widely in search of food, following berry crops. They will defend their feeding areas, chasing other birds out of the vicinity. Depending on the crop size and food availability, they may be solitary or could be found in pairs or small groups, with larger numbers of phainopeplas likely where food is abundant. They forage in trees and bushes, only rarely foraging on the ground, and will hawk insects in flight, particularly when feeding nestlings. These birds are frequently seen perched visibly at the tops of bare trees, and during courtship displays, male phainopeplas will spiral or zigzag above their claimed territory to advertise their availability to females.
Reproduction:
These birds are monogamous, and the male builds a cup-shaped nest of twigs and plant fibers lined with down, hair and fur. He may build several nests ranging from 5-50 feet above the ground, but the female will choose which one she prefers to lay her eggs. Each brood contains 2-4 gray, splotchy eggs, and 1-2 broods may be laid each year, though a second brood is often laid far distant from the first, unlike other birds that nest in the same area when raising multiple broods.
Both parents incubate the eggs for 13-14 days, and both continue to feed the altricial young for 19-20 days until the chicks are ready to leave the nest.
Attracting Phainopeplas:
It can be a treat to see these silky black birds in the backyard, and birders can readily attract them in the proper habitat by providing plenty of berry bushes. Mistletoe berries are a favorite of phainopeplas, and other native plantings can help provide secure shelter and nesting areas for these birds. Unlike many birds, however, phainopeplas rarely visit bird baths, as they obtain most the water they need from the berries they consume.
Conservation:
The phainopepla is not considered endangered or threatened, though loss of mesquite brush habitat in Mexico may be responsible for slight population declines. Conserving habitat, particularly the mistletoe and other berry bushes this species prefers, is essential.
Similar Birds:
Gray Silky-Flycatcher (Ptilogonys cinereus)
Red-Whiskered Bulbul (Pycnonotus jocosus)
European Starling (Sturnus vulgaris)
Northern Mockingbird (Mimus polyglots)
Perhaps what is good about Cochin and much of Kerala is that it is different from the rest of the polyglot that is India.
It is May now and it will soon be June.
While the rest of the country literally bakes in the sun and undergoes application of dust to make you into crunchy hors d'oeuvre. This place is just divine. Even in the month of May, the ceiling fan whirls at the slowest speed and it is a pleasant day. A tad muggy but then it rains and it is fresh and beautiful.
This shot taken in June 2007 while the monsoon was in full swing in Cochin.
A boatman gently paddles his country boat to take 2 ladies with an over sized multicolored umbrella. The rain prisses gently on.
The magic of Kerala !
DSC_9049 copy anoop action final copy bright
Brussels/Belgium has grown from a 10th-century fortress town founded by a descendant of Charlemagne into a metropolis of more than one million inhabitants.The metropolitan area has a population of over 1.8 million, making it the largest in Belgium.
Since the end of the Second World War, Brussels has been a main centre for international politics. Its hosting of principal EU institutions as well as the headquarters of the North Atlantic Treaty Organization (NATO) has made the city a polyglot home of numerous international organisations, politicians, diplomats and civil servants.
Although historically Dutch-speaking, Brussels became increasingly French-speaking over the 19th and 20th centuries. Today a majority of inhabitants are native French-speakers, and both languages have official status. Linguistic tensions remain, and the language laws of the municipalities surrounding Brussels are an issue of much controversy in Belgium.
source: Wikipedia
Two moods: surprised - surprised-er haha!
I have to be somewhere after this so it was pretty weird walking with half of my hair wet (in a bun).
Anywaysss, I've been around this Korean art site posting my work and I'd have Korean peeps commenting to me in Korean. First, I don't speak Korean but I can understand a bit (thank you, Kdrama!).
Second, I plan on learning the Korean language but just not this year (not in the mood to memorize another set of alphabets).
Third, Google translate you wonderful, wonderful beast! Though I'm not sure how grammarly accurate you are I can't use you so I've been replying in English and appearing like a fish out of water among the Korean comments. lol
I'm telling you this is because I've been seeing a bit of progress in my French lessons so yeah!!! **sips wine** But I'm not a linguist, just a frustrated polyglot.
Hope your week is going well!! :D
Camera: Leica M9
Lens: Canon 1.2/50mm Leica Thread Mount M39
Location: Wörthsee
Nach längerer Zeit auschließlich analoger Fotografie habe ich gestern wieder einmal zu meiner Leica M9 gegriffen. Die M9 ist die einzige meiner digitalen Kameras, die mir ein analoges Fotografiergefühl vermittelt. Der Messsucher ist ganz ähnlich wie die einer analogen M, und das Display der Kamera ist so schlecht, dass ich es nur zum Einstellen der ISO benütze und mir die Bilder meistens erst ansehe, wenn ich sie daheim auf den Computer überspielt habe.
After taking exclusively analog pictures for quite a while now i took my Leica M9 out for a couple of pictures yesterday. Amongst my digital cameras the M9 i is the only one that gives me a kind of analog feeling when using it. The viewfinder is the same as with an analog M and the display at the back of the camera is so bad i normally don't bother to look at the pictures
Glen Ridge, NJ
4109 leads train #1009. This was one of two consecutive trains bringing Jersey Central Geeps over the former Lackawanna Montclair Branch (and the other polyglot pieces of the Montclair-Boonton Line).
Prints available at SmugMug: donaldwinship.smugmug.com/Rail-Photography/i-QfZhrtJ
What could Groningen and Lake Toba possibly have in common? It may come as a bit of a surprise that the first European to set eyes on Lake Toba in North Sumatra was the famous polyglot and linguist Herman Neubronner van der Tuuk, who for a time studied at the University of Groningen. Born in Malacca, then a Dutch possession, in 1824 of mixed European (Dutch and German) and 'Eastern' parentage (his mother was half Javanese), Van der Tuuk was sent from the Indies to Groningen to study law (1840). But he was more interested in languages and transferred to Leiden in 1845. Van der Tuuk became a formidable linguist and theoretician of language. He was fluent in Arabic, Persian, Sanskrit, Malay and a whole list of Indonesian languages among which Balinese, Kawi, and perhaps most importantly (Toba) Batak. He translated parts of the Bible into that language (1859) and also produced a dictionary (1861). To study the Batak language he became an explorer, visiting the Toba region in 1852-1853. In the course of his studies he even stayed with the mortal enemy of the Dutch colonisers, the priest-king Si Singa Mangaraja of the valley of Bakkara.
Franz Wilhem Junghuhn (1809-1864) - a hero of mine, as readers of this photo-chronicle may recall - had earlier explored what he called the 'Batalands', but he thought stories of a great lake in the interior of Sumatra to be spurious, and did not investigate further. Quite understandable given the harsh geography and the difficult to penetrate jungles even with today's transport and good health!
But he and Van der Tuuk did see eye-to-eye on the intellectual development of the Toba Batak. Far from being illitterate, they had developed their own script and most people were able to read. This script was not used for the codification of law - maybe it was just as well that Van der Tuuk did not become a legal scholar - nor for administrative purposes. From several sources it is clear that writing was primarily used for love-letters. Junghuhn writes that a typical love-letter measures 1.5 by 12 inches, writen on palm leaf. In these letters a young man starting from age 14 will write eloquently of the beauty of his love; and she will return his compliments. Visiting this area today, you will be asked to buy harmonica-style pieces of Batak writing.
This photo was taken in the direction of the way another early Dutch explorer ( J.A.M. van Cats, baron de Raet (1868)) crossed Lake Toba from the north to the southwest. To the right is Samosir 'island'. It's a magnificent sight and site, and if I were able I would write an Ode to it in Toba Batak!
Ah! Yes! What of Van der Tuuk? he settled on Bali, continuing his linguistic work but also becoming something of an excentric. Illitterate Europeans considered him laughable for he had - they said - 'gone native'.
9.4.09
The flight arrived on time; and the twelve hours while on board passed quickly and without incident. To be sure, the quality of the Cathay Pacific service was exemplary once again.
Heathrow reminds me of Newark International. The décor comes straight out of the sterile 80's and is less an eyesore than an insipid background to the rhythm of human activity, such hustle and bustle, at the fore. There certainly are faces from all races present, creating a rich mosaic of humanity which is refreshing if not completely revitalizing after swimming for so long in a sea of Chinese faces in Hong Kong.
Internet access is sealed in England, it seems. Nothing is free; everything is egregiously monetized from the wireless hotspots down to the desktop terminals. I guess Hong Kong has spoiled me with its abundant, free access to the information superhighway.
11.4.09
Despite staying in a room with five other backpackers, I have been sleeping well. The mattress and pillow are firm; my earplugs keep the noise out; and the sleeping quarters are as dark as a cave when the lights are out, and only as bright as, perhaps, a dreary rainy day when on. All in all, St. Paul's is a excellent place to stay for the gregarious, adventurous, and penurious city explorer - couchsurfing may be a tenable alternative; I'll test for next time.
Yesterday Connie and I gorged ourselves at the borough market where there were all sorts of delectable, savory victuals. There was definitely a European flavor to the food fair: simmering sausages were to be found everywhere; and much as the meat was plentiful, and genuine, so were the dairy delicacies, in the form of myriad rounds of cheese, stacked high behind checkered tabletops. Of course, we washed these tasty morsels down with copious amounts of alcohol that flowed from cups as though amber waterfalls. For the first time I tried mulled wine, which tasted like warm, rancid fruit punch - the ideal tonic for a drizzling London day, I suppose. We later killed the afternoon at the pub, shooting the breeze while imbibing several diminutive half-pints in the process. Getting smashed at four in the afternoon doesn't seem like such a bad thing anymore, especially when you are having fun in the company of friends; I can more appreciate why the English do it so much!
Earlier in the day, we visited the Tate Modern. Its turbine room lived up to its prominent billing what with a giant spider, complete with bulbous egg sac, anchoring the retrospective exhibit. The permanent galleries, too, were a delight upon which to feast one's eyes. Picasso, Warhol and Pollock ruled the chambers of the upper floors with the products of their lithe wrists; and I ended up becoming a huge fan of cubism, while developing a disdain for abstract art and its vacuous images, which, I feel, are devoid of both motivation and emotion.
My first trip yesterday morning was to Emirates Stadium, home of the Arsenal Gunners. It towers imperiously over the surrounding neighborhood; yet for all its majesty, the place sure was quiet! Business did pick up later, however, once the armory shop opened, and dozens of fans descended on it like bees to a hive. I, too, swooped in on a gift-buying mission, and wound up purchasing a book for Godfrey, a scarf for a student, and a jersey - on sale, of course - for good measure.
I'm sitting in the Westminster Abbey Museum now, resting my weary legs and burdened back. So far, I've been verily impressed with what I've seen, such a confluence of splendor and history before me that it would require days to absorb it all, when regretfully I can spare only a few hours. My favorite part of the abbey is the poets corner where no less a literary luminary than Samuel Johnson rests in peace - his bust confirms his homely presence, which was so vividly captured in his biography.
For lunch I had a steak and ale pie, served with mash, taken alongside a Guinness, extra cold - 2 degrees centigrade colder, the bartender explained. It went down well, like all the other delicious meals I've had in England; and no doubt by now I have grown accustomed to inebriation at half past two. Besides, Liverpool were playing inspired football against Blackburn; and my lunch was complete.
Having had my fill of football, I decided to skip my ticket scalping endeavor at Stamford Bridge and instead wandered over to the British Museum to inspect their extensive collections. Along the way, my eye caught a theater, its doors wide open and admitting customers. With much rapidity, I subsequently checked the show times, saw that a performance was set to begin, and at last rushed to the box office to purchase a discounted ticket - if you call a 40 pound ticket a deal, that is. That's how I grabbed a seat to watch Hairspray in the West End.
The show was worth forty pounds. The music was addictive; and the stage design and effects were not so much kitschy as delightfully stimulating - the pulsating background lights were at once scintillating and penetrating. The actors as well were vivacious, oozing charisma while they danced and delivered lines dripping in humor. Hairspray is a quality production and most definitely recommended.
12.4.09
At breakfast I sat across from a man who asked me to which country Hong Kong had been returned - China or Japan. That was pretty funny. Then he started spitting on my food as he spoke, completely oblivious to my breakfast becoming the receptacle in which the fruit of his inner churl was being placed. I guess I understand the convention nowadays of covering one's mouth whilst speaking and masticating at the same time!
We actually conversed on London life in general, and I praised London for its racial integration, the act of which is a prodigious leap of faith for any society, trying to be inclusive, accepting all sorts of people. It wasn't as though the Brits were trying in vain to be all things to all men, using Spanish with the visitors from Spain, German with the Germans and, even, Hindi with the Indians, regardless of whether or not Hindi was their native language; not even considering the absurd idea of encouraging the international adoption of their language; thereby completely keeping English in English hands and allowing its proud polyglots to "practice" their languages. Indeed, the attempt of the Londoners to avail themselves of the rich mosaic of ethnic knowledge, and to seek a common understanding with a ubiquitous English accent is an exemplar, and the bedrock for any world city.
I celebrated Jesus' resurrection at the St. Andrew's Street Church in Cambridge. The parishioners of this Baptist church were warm and affable, and I met several of them, including one visiting (Halliday) linguistics scholar from Zhongshan university in Guangzhou, who in fact had visited my tiny City University of Hong Kong in 2003. The service itself was more traditional and the believers fewer in number than the "progressive" services at any of the charismatic, evangelical churches in HK; yet that's what makes this part of the body of Christ unique; besides, the message was as brief as a powerpoint slide, and informative no less; the power word which spoke into my life being a question from John 21:22 - what is that to you?
Big trees; exquisite lawns; and old, pointy colleges; that's Cambridge in a nutshell. Sitting here, sipping on a half-pint of Woodforde's Wherry, I've had a leisurely, if not languorous, day so far; my sole duty consisting of walking around while absorbing the verdant environment as though a sponge, camera in tow.
I am back at the sublime beer, savoring a pint of Sharp's DoomBar before my fish and chips arrive; the drinking age is 18, but anyone whose visage even hints of youthful brilliance is likely to get carded these days, the bartender told me. The youth drinking culture here is almost as twisted as the university drinking culture in America.
My stay in Cambridge, relaxing and desultory as it may be, is about to end after this late lunch. I an not sure if there is anything left to see, save for the American graveyard which rests an impossible two miles away. I have had a wonderful time in this town; and am thankful for the access into its living history - the residents here must demonstrate remarkable patience and tolerance what with so many tourists ambling on the streets, peering - and photographing - into every nook and cranny.
13.4.09
There are no rubbish bins, yet I've seen on the streets many mixed race couples in which the men tend to be white - the women also belonging to a light colored ethnicity, usually some sort of Asian; as well saw some black dudes and Indian dudes with white chicks.
People here hold doors, even at the entrance to the toilet. Sometimes it appears as though they are going out on a limb, just waiting for the one who will take the responsibility for the door from them, at which point I rush out to relieve them of such a fortuitous burden.
I visited the British Museum this morning. The two hours I spent there did neither myself nor the exhibits any justice because there really is too much to survey, enough captivating stuff to last an entire day, I think. The bottomless well of artifacts from antiquity, drawing from sources as diverse as Korea, and Mesopotamia, is a credit to the British empire, without whose looting most of this amazing booty would be unavailable for our purview; better, I think, for these priceless treasures to be open to all in the grandest supermarket of history than away from human eyes, and worst yet, in the hands of unscrupulous collectors or in the rubbish bin, possibly.
Irene and I took in the ballet Giselle at The Royal Opera House in the afternoon. The building is a plush marvel, and a testament to this city's love for the arts. The ballet itself was satisfying, the first half being superior to the second, in which the nimble dancers demonstrated their phenomenal dexterity in, of all places, a graveyard covered in a cloak of smoke and darkness. I admit, their dance of the dead, in such a gloomy necropolis, did strike me as, strange.
Two amicable ladies from Kent convinced me to visit their hometown tomorrow, where, they told me, the authentic, "working" Leeds Castle and the mighty interesting home of Charles Darwin await.
I'm nursing a pint of Green King Ruddles and wondering about the profusion of British ales and lagers; the British have done a great deed for the world by creating an interminable line of low-alcohol session beers that can be enjoyed at breakfast, lunch, tea and dinner; and their disservice is this: besides this inexhaustible supply of cheap beer ensnaring my inner alcoholic, I feel myself putting on my freshman fifteen, almost ten years after the fact; I am going to have to run a bit harder back in Hong Kong if I want to burn all this malty fuel off.
Irene suggested I stop by the National Art Gallery since we were in the area; and it was an hour well spent. The gallery currently presents a special exhibit on Picasso, the non-ticketed section of which features several seductive renderings, including David spying on Bathsheba - repeated in clever variants - and parodies of other masters' works. Furthermore, the main gallery houses two fabulous portraits by Joshua Reynolds, who happens to be favorite of mine, he in life being a close friend of Samuel Johnson - I passed by Boswells, where its namesake first met Johnson, on my way to the opera house.
14.4.09
I prayed last night, and went through my list, lifting everyone on it up to the Lord. That felt good; that God is alive now, and ever present in my life and in the lives of my brothers and sisters.
Doubtless, then, I have felt quite wistful, as though a specter in the land of the living, being in a place where religious fervor, it seems, is a thing of the past, a trifling for many, to be hidden away in the opaque corners of centuries-old cathedrals that are more expensive tourist destinations than liberating homes of worship these days. Indeed, I have yet to see anyone pray, outside of the Easter service which I attended in Cambridge - for such an ecstatic moment in verily a grand church, would you believe that it was only attended by at most three dozen spirited ones. The people of England, and Europe in general, have, it is my hope, only locked away the Word, relegating it to the quiet vault of their hearts. May it be taken out in the sudden pause before mealtimes and in the still crisp mornings and cool, silent nights. There is still hope for a revival in this place, for faith to rise like that splendid sun every morning. God would love to rescue them, to deliver them in this day, it is certain.
I wonder what Londoners think, if anything at all, about their police state which, like a vine in the shadows, has taken root in all corners of daily life, from the terrorist notifications in the underground, which implore Londoners to report all things suspicious, to the pair of dogs which eagerly stroll through Euston. What makes this all the more incredible is the fact that even the United States, the indomitable nemesis of the fledgling, rebel order, doesn't dare bombard its citizens with such fear mongering these days, especially with Obama in office; maybe we've grown wise in these past few years to the dubious returns of surrendering civil liberties to the state, of having our bags checked everywhere - London Eye; Hairspray; and The Royal Opera House check bags in London while the museums do not; somehow, that doesn't add up for me.
I'm in a majestic bookshop on New Street in Birmingham, and certainly to confirm my suspicions, there are just as many books on the death of Christianity in Britain as there are books which attempt to murder Christianity everywhere. I did find, however, a nice biography on John Wesley by Roy Hattersley and The Screwtape Letters by C.S. Lewis. I may pick up the former.
Lunch with Sally was pleasant and mirthful. We dined at a French restaurant nearby New Street - yes, Birmingham is a cultural capitol! Sally and I both tried their omelette, while her boyfriend had the fish, without chips. Conversation was light, the levity was there and so was our reminiscing about those fleeting moments during our first year in Hong Kong; it is amazing how friendships can resume so suddenly with a smile. On their recommendation, I am on my way to Warwick Castle - they also suggested that I visit Cadbury World, but they cannot take on additional visitors at the moment, the tourist office staff informed me, much to my disappointment!
Visiting Warwick Castle really made for a great day out. The castle, parts of which were established by William the Conquerer in 1068, is as much a kitschy tourist trap as a meticulous preservation of history, at times a sillier version of Ocean Park while at others a dignified dedication to a most glorious, inexorably English past. The castle caters to all visitors; and not surprisingly, that which delighted all audiences was a giant trebuchet siege engine, which for the five p.m. performance hurled a fireball high and far into the air - fantastic! Taliban beware!
15.4.09
I'm leaving on a jet plane this evening; don't know when I'll be back in England again. I'll miss this quirky, yet endearing place; and that I shall miss Irene and Tom who so generously welcomed me into their home, fed me, and suffered my use of their toilet and shower goes without saying. I'm grateful for God's many blessings on this trip.
On the itinerary today is a trip to John Wesley's home, followed by a visit to the Imperial War Museum. Already this morning I picked up a tube of Oilatum, a week late perhaps, which Teri recommended I use to treat this obstinate, dermal weakness of mine - I'm happy to report that my skin has stopped crying.
John Wesley's home is alive and well. Services are still held in the chapel everyday; and its crypt, so far from being a cellar for the dead, is a bright, spacious museum in which all things Wesley are on display - I never realized how much of an iconic figure he became in England; at the height of this idol frenzy, ironic in itself, he must have been as popular as the Beatles were at their apex. The house itself is a multi-story edifice with narrow, precipitous staircases and spacious rooms decorated in an 18th century fashion.
I found Samuel Johnson's house within a maze of red brick hidden alongside Fleet Street. To be in the home of the man who wrote the English dictionary, and whose indefatigable love for obscure words became the inspiration for my own lexical obsession, this, by far, is the climax of my visit to England! The best certainly has been saved for last.
There are a multitude of portraits hanging around the house like ornaments on a tree. Every likeness has its own story, meticulously retold on the crib sheets in each room. Celebrities abound, including David Garrick and Sir Joshua Reynolds, who painted several of the finer images in the house. I have developed a particular affinity for Oliver Goldsmith, of whom Boswell writes, "His person was short, his countenance coarse and vulgar, his deportment that of a scholar awkwardly affecting the easy gentleman. It appears as though I, too, could use a more flattering description of myself!
I regretfully couldn't stop to try the curry in England; I guess the CityU canteen's take on the dish will have to do. I did, however, have the opportune task of flirting with the cute Cathay Pacific counter staff who checked me in. She was gorgeous in red, light powder on her cheeks, with real diamond earrings, she said; and her small, delicate face, commanded by a posh British accent rendered her positively irresistible, electrifying. Not only did she grant me an aisle seat but she had the gumption to return my fawning with zest; she must be a pro at this by now.
I saw her again as she was pulling double-duty, collecting tickets prior to boarding. She remembered my quest for curry; and in the fog of infatuation, where nary a man has been made, I fumbled my words like the sloppy kid who has had too much punch. I am just an amateur, alas, an "Oliver Goldsmith" with the ladies - I got no game - booyah!
Some final, consequential bits: because of the chavs, Burberry no longer sells those fashionable baseball caps; because of the IRA, rubbish bins are no longer a commodity on the streets of London, and as a result, the streets and the Underground of the city are a soiled mess; and because of other terrorists from distant, more arid lands, going through a Western airport has taken on the tedium of perfunctory procedure that doesn't make me feel any safer from my invisible enemies.
At last, I saw so many Indians working at Heathrow that I could have easily mistaken the place for Mumbai. Their presence surprised me because their portion of the general population surely must be less than their portion of Heathrow staff, indicating some mysterious hiring bias. Regardless, they do a superb job with cursory airport checks, and in general are absurdly funny and witty when not tactless.
That's all for England!
There is a swastika blighting this picture. Can you find it? It is on a flyer advertising the band.
Montreal is a delightful polyglot multicultural mess, that does not need the shadow of mass murder falling over it. Racism, of course, is everywhere, as are a mind-boggling variety of rationals for hatred. The French and the Quebecoise did not invent the concept of us-over-them-merely-because-we-are-us-and they-are-them, but they are subject to the disease. So far they are vaccinated against the brain disease by their multi-ethnicities and haven't succumbed.
For our friend Greg!
British postcard in the Greetings Series. Photo: Metro Goldwyn Mayer.
Mexican actress Linda Christian (1923-2011) was discovered by Errol Flynn. The sensuous, incredibly beautiful starlet starred with Johnny Weissmuller in his last Tarzan film, Tarzan and The Mermaids (1948). She was also the first Bond girl ever, in a TV version of Casino Royale (1954). But she became most famous as Mrs. Tyrone Power. Christian appeared in dozens of films, in Hollywood as well as in Europe.
Linda Christian was born as Blanca Rosa Welter in Tampico, Mexico, in 1923. She was the daughter of Dutch engineer and Royal Dutch Shell executive, Gerardus Jacob Welter, and his Mexican-born wife of Spanish, German and French descent Blanca Rosa. She had three younger siblings, two brothers, Gerardus Jacob Welter and Edward Albert Welter, and a sister, Ariadna Gloria Welter, who would become a well-known actress of the Mexican cinema. The Welter family moved a great deal during Christian's youth, living everywhere from South America and Europe, to the Middle East and Africa. As a result of this nomadic lifestyle, Christian became an accomplished polyglot with the ability to speak fluent French, German, Dutch, Spanish, English, Italian, and even a bit of haphazard Arabic and Russian. After she graduated from secondary school the beautiful girl played a small part in the successful Mexican film El peñón de las Ánimas/The Rock of Souls (Miguel Zacarías, 1943) starring Maria Felix. After working as a clerk in the British government office in Palestine, Christian relocated to Acapulco, where she was discovered by film star Errol Flynn. She made her film debut as a Goldwyn girl in the musical comedy Up In Arms (Elliott Nugent, 1944), co-starring Danny Kaye and Dinah Shore. (This was also Kaye's first film.) Signed to an RKO contract in 1944, she languished in bit roles for a year or so. At a fashion show in Beverly Hills she was spotted by Louis B. Mayer's secretary. He offered, and she accepted, a seven year contract with MGM. Her best-known film during her MGM years was as a loan-out to her old studio of RKO to appear in the Mexico-filmed Tarzan and the Mermaids (Robert Florey, 1948) with Johnny Weissmuller.
Linda Christian really became famous when she married matinee idol Tyrone Power. Reportedly they had met for the first time in Acapulco, where he was making Captain from Castile (Henry King, 1947), and she was filming Tarzan and the Mermaids. Their marriage in Rome attracted over 10,000 spectators. The publicity about the ‘marriage of the century’ improved her film career somewhat. She starred in films like Battle Zone (Lesley Selander, 1952) with John Hodiak, The Happy Time (Richard Fleischer, 1952) with Charles Boyer, and the adventure Slaves of Babylon (William Castle, 1953). Later she also often appeared on television. In 1954 she appeared in Casino Royale (William H. Brown Jr., 1954), an episode of the TV-series Climax! This was the first adaptation of one of the James Bond novels by Ian Fleming. In the TV film ‘Jimmy’ Bond was an American spy (played by Barry Nelson) who’s mission is to break the bank on Le Chiffre (Peter Lorre), a top Soviet operative in France. Linda Christian played Bond’s old flame Valerie Mathis. Several times, Tyrone Power and Christian were offered the opportunity to work together, but for various reasons each offer was refused or rescinded. The couple had two daughters: actress Taryn Power and singer Romina Power, one half of the famous Italian singing duo Al Bano & Romina Power. In 1956 Power and Christian divorced, which garnered international headlines due to Christian's then-enormous one-million-dollar cash settlement.
After her divorce, Linda Christian often worked in Europe. Among her European productions are the British drama Thunderstorm (John Guillermin, 1956) co-starring Carlos Thompson, the British thriller The House of the Seven Hawks (Richard Thorpe, 1959) with Robert Taylor, and the German aeroplane-thriller Abschied von den Wolken/Rebel Flight to Cuba (Gottfried Reinhardt, 1959) with O.W. Fischer. Christian had a supporting part in the British Oscar winning drama The VIP’s (Anthony Asquith, 1963) starring Elizabeth Taylor. She also appeared in the Italian-Spanish bullfighting drama Il momento della verità/The Moment of Truth (Francesco Rosi, 1965). She also starred in the Dutch thriller 10:32/10:32 in the Morning (Arthur Dreyfuss, 1966). Although most of her films were not a success, Christian was a favourite of the celebrity press. They loved to write about her tempestuous affairs with Spanish marquis Alfonso de Portago, Brazilian mining and metals millionaire Francisco ‘Baby’ Pignatari, and Spanish bullfighter Luis Dominguin. In 1962 and 1963, she was briefly married to the Rome-based British actor and playboy Edmund Purdom, and later she married a third time into an aristocratic European family. Christian published her memoirs, Linda: My Own Story, in 1962. She continued to appear on American TV and incidentally in films. One of her most notable performances was in the episode An Out for Oscar (Bernard Girard, 1963) of The Alfred Hitchcock Hour on TV. In the 1980s she made a brief come-back in the Italian cinema. Her last film was the Giallo Delitti/Delicts (Giovanna Lenzi, 1987). After that she lived quietly in Spain and Mexico. In 2011, Linda Christian passed away in Palm Desert, US. The 86-year old actress died of colon cancer.
Sources: Hal Erickson (AllMovie), Glamour Girls of the Silver Screen, Wikipedia, and IMDb.
This first edition of Between the Woods and the Water, published in 1986, is a travel book by Patrick Leigh Fermor, the second in a series of three in which he narrated his journey on foot across Europe from Holland to Constantinople (as he called it) in 1933 and 1934.
Widely regarded as the finest travel writer of his generation, Leigh Fermor (1915-2011) was also a distinguished Second World War soldier, serving undercover in the SOE in Crete where he commanded a number of audacious guerrilla operations against the occupying Nazi forces (his code name was Mihalis).
More than that, he was a translator, raconteur, adventurer, scholar, and all-round gregarious polyglot with a wide circle of friends from all walks of life. For much of their long married life, he and his wife Joan lived in the Greek village of Kalamitsi near Kardamyli in the southern Peloponnese, where their hospitality seemed boundless. He held the military OBE, the Distinguished Service Order, and was knighted in 2004.
Between the Woods and the Water rests upon Ghika, Craxton, Leigh Fermor: Charmed Lives in Greece – a souvenir book from an unforgettable British Museum exhibition in 2018.
♦ While you’re here… I have two Galleries that might interest you: a Bookshops gallery and a Public Libraries gallery. Happy browsing!
How we make friends
I am spending time in a wonderful port town named Bar (Montenegro). Yesterday I did a wonderful photoshoot right on the shore of Adriatic sea, under the waves and spectacular view of yachts in the distance.
As I walked back from the shoot I felt myself the happiest person in the world. I was smiling to everyone and received hundreds of smiles in return. I wanted to buy some products so I went to the shop. I saw a queue at the cash desk. I needed to wait. There was a lovely lady standing behind me. Unexpectedly she asked me something in Serbian. I asked her to address me in English. – ‘Could you please tell what time is it now?’- she asked in pure English. I suggested it was about six o’clock (at least it was so 5 minutes ago as I wend through the main street and saw clock on the small tower).
Here should be a lyrical digression, my dear readers. As it then turned out it was nearly 8 o’clock. Time has no meaning for Montenegrins. Nobody pays attention to time. Else how can you explain that the main clocks of the town show wrong time? I have gained a little bit of this time indifference from Montenegrins :) In my hometown Surgut my time is always subordinated to some schedule. At first work, then I have tutoring, then one more tutoring, etc. Delay in 10-15 minutes could easily break my schedule and I would be late to everything that day. Since that my life has changed. My time perception has been changed.
As I stood in the queue for about 5 minutes I found out a lot about my lovely interlocutor: she is from Bosnia, teaches English, a polyglot, speaks Russian well, she is on her vacation, plans to go to the mountains to meet her brother, she is 45 (looks no more than 35) and so on. Believe me, she found out a lot about me as well. At last she got me acquainted with her mother and asked me for my e-mail, delicately saying – ‘Now we can stay friends’. She wished me a lot of good things and unexpectedly touched me. My palm still burns of her touch. I have no idea if she ever writes me, but I am happy with this warm meeting.
This whole situation reminded me of random acquaintances I had and all the strangers I met through whole my life. My heart filled with warmth at once. I believe that all people we have ever met left something on our life road. Everybody has something to learn from. Every meeting isn’t random. All these meetings seemed to be as fallen fruitage from trees that leaves footprints on the ground. This fruitage can be picked, can be eaten, can be left to rot, but the ground will remember them. And I am so grateful to life for these unexpected and wonderful meetings.
| blog
By the time the Emperor Hadrian entered the purple, Rome controlled a vast area stretching from northern Europe to the Middle East. Sea trade and transport were vital to the functioning of the Empire and so numerous ports sprung up along the coast of Britannia. On the Tyne side of Hadrian’s Wall the fort of Arbeia (now known as South Shields) grew into one such port and was the destination of many supply shipments to the wall.
Trading ships, such as the one depicted in this scene, were common visitors to Arbeia and came from all corners of the empire. A funeral monument found at the site tells us much about what this trade meant to the area. It is dedicated to a lady called Regina and is unique in Britain for its bilingual inscription, written in Latin and Palmyrene. The inscription reveals that Regina was of the Catuvellaunian tribe while her husband Barates, was a Palmyrene merchant living at Arbeia, which had attached to it a substantial civilian settlement. From Barates’ own funeral monument we know that he supplied military standards to the cohorts along the wall.
Despite being on the edge of the Empire, the civilian settlement at Arbeia must have been home to a diverse polyglot population. Thanks to the trade bought by the Empire’s many ships, people, ideas and symbols must have circulated frequently, making it lively and interesting place to live.
By the time the Emperor Hadrian entered the purple, Rome controlled a vast area stretching from northern Europe to the Middle East. Sea trade and transport were vital to the functioning of the Empire and so numerous ports sprung up along the coast of Britannia. On the Tyne side of Hadrian’s Wall the fort of Arbeia (now known as South Shields) grew into one such port and was the destination of many supply shipments to the wall.
Trading ships, such as the one depicted in this scene, were common visitors to Arbeia and came from all corners of the empire. A funeral monument found at the site tells us much about what this trade meant to the area. It is dedicated to a lady called Regina and is unique in Britain for its bilingual inscription, written in Latin and Palmyrene. The inscription reveals that Regina was of the Catuvellaunian tribe while her husband Barates, was a Palmyrene merchant living at Arbeia, which had attached to it a substantial civilian settlement. From Barates’ own funeral monument we know that he supplied military standards to the cohorts along the wall.
Despite being on the edge of the Empire, the civilian settlement at Arbeia must have been home to a diverse polyglot population. Thanks to the trade bought by the Empire’s many ships, people, ideas and symbols must have circulated frequently, making it lively and interesting place to live.
9.4.09
The flight arrived on time; and the twelve hours while on board passed quickly and without incident. To be sure, the quality of the Cathay Pacific service was exemplary once again.
Heathrow reminds me of Newark International. The décor comes straight out of the sterile 80's and is less an eyesore than an insipid background to the rhythm of human activity, such hustle and bustle, at the fore. There certainly are faces from all races present, creating a rich mosaic of humanity which is refreshing if not completely revitalizing after swimming for so long in a sea of Chinese faces in Hong Kong.
Internet access is sealed in England, it seems. Nothing is free; everything is egregiously monetized from the wireless hotspots down to the desktop terminals. I guess Hong Kong has spoiled me with its abundant, free access to the information superhighway.
11.4.09
Despite staying in a room with five other backpackers, I have been sleeping well. The mattress and pillow are firm; my earplugs keep the noise out; and the sleeping quarters are as dark as a cave when the lights are out, and only as bright as, perhaps, a dreary rainy day when on. All in all, St. Paul's is a excellent place to stay for the gregarious, adventurous, and penurious city explorer - couchsurfing may be a tenable alternative; I'll test for next time.
Yesterday Connie and I gorged ourselves at the borough market where there were all sorts of delectable, savory victuals. There was definitely a European flavor to the food fair: simmering sausages were to be found everywhere; and much as the meat was plentiful, and genuine, so were the dairy delicacies, in the form of myriad rounds of cheese, stacked high behind checkered tabletops. Of course, we washed these tasty morsels down with copious amounts of alcohol that flowed from cups as though amber waterfalls. For the first time I tried mulled wine, which tasted like warm, rancid fruit punch - the ideal tonic for a drizzling London day, I suppose. We later killed the afternoon at the pub, shooting the breeze while imbibing several diminutive half-pints in the process. Getting smashed at four in the afternoon doesn't seem like such a bad thing anymore, especially when you are having fun in the company of friends; I can more appreciate why the English do it so much!
Earlier in the day, we visited the Tate Modern. Its turbine room lived up to its prominent billing what with a giant spider, complete with bulbous egg sac, anchoring the retrospective exhibit. The permanent galleries, too, were a delight upon which to feast one's eyes. Picasso, Warhol and Pollock ruled the chambers of the upper floors with the products of their lithe wrists; and I ended up becoming a huge fan of cubism, while developing a disdain for abstract art and its vacuous images, which, I feel, are devoid of both motivation and emotion.
My first trip yesterday morning was to Emirates Stadium, home of the Arsenal Gunners. It towers imperiously over the surrounding neighborhood; yet for all its majesty, the place sure was quiet! Business did pick up later, however, once the armory shop opened, and dozens of fans descended on it like bees to a hive. I, too, swooped in on a gift-buying mission, and wound up purchasing a book for Godfrey, a scarf for a student, and a jersey - on sale, of course - for good measure.
I'm sitting in the Westminster Abbey Museum now, resting my weary legs and burdened back. So far, I've been verily impressed with what I've seen, such a confluence of splendor and history before me that it would require days to absorb it all, when regretfully I can spare only a few hours. My favorite part of the abbey is the poets corner where no less a literary luminary than Samuel Johnson rests in peace - his bust confirms his homely presence, which was so vividly captured in his biography.
For lunch I had a steak and ale pie, served with mash, taken alongside a Guinness, extra cold - 2 degrees centigrade colder, the bartender explained. It went down well, like all the other delicious meals I've had in England; and no doubt by now I have grown accustomed to inebriation at half past two. Besides, Liverpool were playing inspired football against Blackburn; and my lunch was complete.
Having had my fill of football, I decided to skip my ticket scalping endeavor at Stamford Bridge and instead wandered over to the British Museum to inspect their extensive collections. Along the way, my eye caught a theater, its doors wide open and admitting customers. With much rapidity, I subsequently checked the show times, saw that a performance was set to begin, and at last rushed to the box office to purchase a discounted ticket - if you call a 40 pound ticket a deal, that is. That's how I grabbed a seat to watch Hairspray in the West End.
The show was worth forty pounds. The music was addictive; and the stage design and effects were not so much kitschy as delightfully stimulating - the pulsating background lights were at once scintillating and penetrating. The actors as well were vivacious, oozing charisma while they danced and delivered lines dripping in humor. Hairspray is a quality production and most definitely recommended.
12.4.09
At breakfast I sat across from a man who asked me to which country Hong Kong had been returned - China or Japan. That was pretty funny. Then he started spitting on my food as he spoke, completely oblivious to my breakfast becoming the receptacle in which the fruit of his inner churl was being placed. I guess I understand the convention nowadays of covering one's mouth whilst speaking and masticating at the same time!
We actually conversed on London life in general, and I praised London for its racial integration, the act of which is a prodigious leap of faith for any society, trying to be inclusive, accepting all sorts of people. It wasn't as though the Brits were trying in vain to be all things to all men, using Spanish with the visitors from Spain, German with the Germans and, even, Hindi with the Indians, regardless of whether or not Hindi was their native language; not even considering the absurd idea of encouraging the international adoption of their language; thereby completely keeping English in English hands and allowing its proud polyglots to "practice" their languages. Indeed, the attempt of the Londoners to avail themselves of the rich mosaic of ethnic knowledge, and to seek a common understanding with a ubiquitous English accent is an exemplar, and the bedrock for any world city.
I celebrated Jesus' resurrection at the St. Andrew's Street Church in Cambridge. The parishioners of this Baptist church were warm and affable, and I met several of them, including one visiting (Halliday) linguistics scholar from Zhongshan university in Guangzhou, who in fact had visited my tiny City University of Hong Kong in 2003. The service itself was more traditional and the believers fewer in number than the "progressive" services at any of the charismatic, evangelical churches in HK; yet that's what makes this part of the body of Christ unique; besides, the message was as brief as a powerpoint slide, and informative no less; the power word which spoke into my life being a question from John 21:22 - what is that to you?
Big trees; exquisite lawns; and old, pointy colleges; that's Cambridge in a nutshell. Sitting here, sipping on a half-pint of Woodforde's Wherry, I've had a leisurely, if not languorous, day so far; my sole duty consisting of walking around while absorbing the verdant environment as though a sponge, camera in tow.
I am back at the sublime beer, savoring a pint of Sharp's DoomBar before my fish and chips arrive; the drinking age is 18, but anyone whose visage even hints of youthful brilliance is likely to get carded these days, the bartender told me. The youth drinking culture here is almost as twisted as the university drinking culture in America.
My stay in Cambridge, relaxing and desultory as it may be, is about to end after this late lunch. I an not sure if there is anything left to see, save for the American graveyard which rests an impossible two miles away. I have had a wonderful time in this town; and am thankful for the access into its living history - the residents here must demonstrate remarkable patience and tolerance what with so many tourists ambling on the streets, peering - and photographing - into every nook and cranny.
13.4.09
There are no rubbish bins, yet I've seen on the streets many mixed race couples in which the men tend to be white - the women also belonging to a light colored ethnicity, usually some sort of Asian; as well saw some black dudes and Indian dudes with white chicks.
People here hold doors, even at the entrance to the toilet. Sometimes it appears as though they are going out on a limb, just waiting for the one who will take the responsibility for the door from them, at which point I rush out to relieve them of such a fortuitous burden.
I visited the British Museum this morning. The two hours I spent there did neither myself nor the exhibits any justice because there really is too much to survey, enough captivating stuff to last an entire day, I think. The bottomless well of artifacts from antiquity, drawing from sources as diverse as Korea, and Mesopotamia, is a credit to the British empire, without whose looting most of this amazing booty would be unavailable for our purview; better, I think, for these priceless treasures to be open to all in the grandest supermarket of history than away from human eyes, and worst yet, in the hands of unscrupulous collectors or in the rubbish bin, possibly.
Irene and I took in the ballet Giselle at The Royal Opera House in the afternoon. The building is a plush marvel, and a testament to this city's love for the arts. The ballet itself was satisfying, the first half being superior to the second, in which the nimble dancers demonstrated their phenomenal dexterity in, of all places, a graveyard covered in a cloak of smoke and darkness. I admit, their dance of the dead, in such a gloomy necropolis, did strike me as, strange.
Two amicable ladies from Kent convinced me to visit their hometown tomorrow, where, they told me, the authentic, "working" Leeds Castle and the mighty interesting home of Charles Darwin await.
I'm nursing a pint of Green King Ruddles and wondering about the profusion of British ales and lagers; the British have done a great deed for the world by creating an interminable line of low-alcohol session beers that can be enjoyed at breakfast, lunch, tea and dinner; and their disservice is this: besides this inexhaustible supply of cheap beer ensnaring my inner alcoholic, I feel myself putting on my freshman fifteen, almost ten years after the fact; I am going to have to run a bit harder back in Hong Kong if I want to burn all this malty fuel off.
Irene suggested I stop by the National Art Gallery since we were in the area; and it was an hour well spent. The gallery currently presents a special exhibit on Picasso, the non-ticketed section of which features several seductive renderings, including David spying on Bathsheba - repeated in clever variants - and parodies of other masters' works. Furthermore, the main gallery houses two fabulous portraits by Joshua Reynolds, who happens to be favorite of mine, he in life being a close friend of Samuel Johnson - I passed by Boswells, where its namesake first met Johnson, on my way to the opera house.
14.4.09
I prayed last night, and went through my list, lifting everyone on it up to the Lord. That felt good; that God is alive now, and ever present in my life and in the lives of my brothers and sisters.
Doubtless, then, I have felt quite wistful, as though a specter in the land of the living, being in a place where religious fervor, it seems, is a thing of the past, a trifling for many, to be hidden away in the opaque corners of centuries-old cathedrals that are more expensive tourist destinations than liberating homes of worship these days. Indeed, I have yet to see anyone pray, outside of the Easter service which I attended in Cambridge - for such an ecstatic moment in verily a grand church, would you believe that it was only attended by at most three dozen spirited ones. The people of England, and Europe in general, have, it is my hope, only locked away the Word, relegating it to the quiet vault of their hearts. May it be taken out in the sudden pause before mealtimes and in the still crisp mornings and cool, silent nights. There is still hope for a revival in this place, for faith to rise like that splendid sun every morning. God would love to rescue them, to deliver them in this day, it is certain.
I wonder what Londoners think, if anything at all, about their police state which, like a vine in the shadows, has taken root in all corners of daily life, from the terrorist notifications in the underground, which implore Londoners to report all things suspicious, to the pair of dogs which eagerly stroll through Euston. What makes this all the more incredible is the fact that even the United States, the indomitable nemesis of the fledgling, rebel order, doesn't dare bombard its citizens with such fear mongering these days, especially with Obama in office; maybe we've grown wise in these past few years to the dubious returns of surrendering civil liberties to the state, of having our bags checked everywhere - London Eye; Hairspray; and The Royal Opera House check bags in London while the museums do not; somehow, that doesn't add up for me.
I'm in a majestic bookshop on New Street in Birmingham, and certainly to confirm my suspicions, there are just as many books on the death of Christianity in Britain as there are books which attempt to murder Christianity everywhere. I did find, however, a nice biography on John Wesley by Roy Hattersley and The Screwtape Letters by C.S. Lewis. I may pick up the former.
Lunch with Sally was pleasant and mirthful. We dined at a French restaurant nearby New Street - yes, Birmingham is a cultural capitol! Sally and I both tried their omelette, while her boyfriend had the fish, without chips. Conversation was light, the levity was there and so was our reminiscing about those fleeting moments during our first year in Hong Kong; it is amazing how friendships can resume so suddenly with a smile. On their recommendation, I am on my way to Warwick Castle - they also suggested that I visit Cadbury World, but they cannot take on additional visitors at the moment, the tourist office staff informed me, much to my disappointment!
Visiting Warwick Castle really made for a great day out. The castle, parts of which were established by William the Conquerer in 1068, is as much a kitschy tourist trap as a meticulous preservation of history, at times a sillier version of Ocean Park while at others a dignified dedication to a most glorious, inexorably English past. The castle caters to all visitors; and not surprisingly, that which delighted all audiences was a giant trebuchet siege engine, which for the five p.m. performance hurled a fireball high and far into the air - fantastic! Taliban beware!
15.4.09
I'm leaving on a jet plane this evening; don't know when I'll be back in England again. I'll miss this quirky, yet endearing place; and that I shall miss Irene and Tom who so generously welcomed me into their home, fed me, and suffered my use of their toilet and shower goes without saying. I'm grateful for God's many blessings on this trip.
On the itinerary today is a trip to John Wesley's home, followed by a visit to the Imperial War Museum. Already this morning I picked up a tube of Oilatum, a week late perhaps, which Teri recommended I use to treat this obstinate, dermal weakness of mine - I'm happy to report that my skin has stopped crying.
John Wesley's home is alive and well. Services are still held in the chapel everyday; and its crypt, so far from being a cellar for the dead, is a bright, spacious museum in which all things Wesley are on display - I never realized how much of an iconic figure he became in England; at the height of this idol frenzy, ironic in itself, he must have been as popular as the Beatles were at their apex. The house itself is a multi-story edifice with narrow, precipitous staircases and spacious rooms decorated in an 18th century fashion.
I found Samuel Johnson's house within a maze of red brick hidden alongside Fleet Street. To be in the home of the man who wrote the English dictionary, and whose indefatigable love for obscure words became the inspiration for my own lexical obsession, this, by far, is the climax of my visit to England! The best certainly has been saved for last.
There are a multitude of portraits hanging around the house like ornaments on a tree. Every likeness has its own story, meticulously retold on the crib sheets in each room. Celebrities abound, including David Garrick and Sir Joshua Reynolds, who painted several of the finer images in the house. I have developed a particular affinity for Oliver Goldsmith, of whom Boswell writes, "His person was short, his countenance coarse and vulgar, his deportment that of a scholar awkwardly affecting the easy gentleman. It appears as though I, too, could use a more flattering description of myself!
I regretfully couldn't stop to try the curry in England; I guess the CityU canteen's take on the dish will have to do. I did, however, have the opportune task of flirting with the cute Cathay Pacific counter staff who checked me in. She was gorgeous in red, light powder on her cheeks, with real diamond earrings, she said; and her small, delicate face, commanded by a posh British accent rendered her positively irresistible, electrifying. Not only did she grant me an aisle seat but she had the gumption to return my fawning with zest; she must be a pro at this by now.
I saw her again as she was pulling double-duty, collecting tickets prior to boarding. She remembered my quest for curry; and in the fog of infatuation, where nary a man has been made, I fumbled my words like the sloppy kid who has had too much punch. I am just an amateur, alas, an "Oliver Goldsmith" with the ladies - I got no game - booyah!
Some final, consequential bits: because of the chavs, Burberry no longer sells those fashionable baseball caps; because of the IRA, rubbish bins are no longer a commodity on the streets of London, and as a result, the streets and the Underground of the city are a soiled mess; and because of other terrorists from distant, more arid lands, going through a Western airport has taken on the tedium of perfunctory procedure that doesn't make me feel any safer from my invisible enemies.
At last, I saw so many Indians working at Heathrow that I could have easily mistaken the place for Mumbai. Their presence surprised me because their portion of the general population surely must be less than their portion of Heathrow staff, indicating some mysterious hiring bias. Regardless, they do a superb job with cursory airport checks, and in general are absurdly funny and witty when not tactless.
That's all for England!
L'Hypolaïs polyglotte (Hippolais polyglotta) est une espèce d'oiseaux de la famille des Acrocephalidae. C'est un visiteur d'été en France.
Il a le dessus gris-brun olivâtre et le dessous jaune, plus net sur la gorge et le haut de la poitrine. Le ventre et les flancs sont lavés de gris jaunâtre. Petit sourcil jaune, pas toujours visible. Le bec, long relativement à la tête, et orangé.
Cet oiseau mesure 12 à 13 cm de longueur pour une envergure de 18 à 20 cm et une masse de 11 à 14 g.
9.4.09
The flight arrived on time; and the twelve hours while on board passed quickly and without incident. To be sure, the quality of the Cathay Pacific service was exemplary once again.
Heathrow reminds me of Newark International. The décor comes straight out of the sterile 80's and is less an eyesore than an insipid background to the rhythm of human activity, such hustle and bustle, at the fore. There certainly are faces from all races present, creating a rich mosaic of humanity which is refreshing if not completely revitalizing after swimming for so long in a sea of Chinese faces in Hong Kong.
Internet access is sealed in England, it seems. Nothing is free; everything is egregiously monetized from the wireless hotspots down to the desktop terminals. I guess Hong Kong has spoiled me with its abundant, free access to the information superhighway.
11.4.09
Despite staying in a room with five other backpackers, I have been sleeping well. The mattress and pillow are firm; my earplugs keep the noise out; and the sleeping quarters are as dark as a cave when the lights are out, and only as bright as, perhaps, a dreary rainy day when on. All in all, St. Paul's is a excellent place to stay for the gregarious, adventurous, and penurious city explorer - couchsurfing may be a tenable alternative; I'll test for next time.
Yesterday Connie and I gorged ourselves at the borough market where there were all sorts of delectable, savory victuals. There was definitely a European flavor to the food fair: simmering sausages were to be found everywhere; and much as the meat was plentiful, and genuine, so were the dairy delicacies, in the form of myriad rounds of cheese, stacked high behind checkered tabletops. Of course, we washed these tasty morsels down with copious amounts of alcohol that flowed from cups as though amber waterfalls. For the first time I tried mulled wine, which tasted like warm, rancid fruit punch - the ideal tonic for a drizzling London day, I suppose. We later killed the afternoon at the pub, shooting the breeze while imbibing several diminutive half-pints in the process. Getting smashed at four in the afternoon doesn't seem like such a bad thing anymore, especially when you are having fun in the company of friends; I can more appreciate why the English do it so much!
Earlier in the day, we visited the Tate Modern. Its turbine room lived up to its prominent billing what with a giant spider, complete with bulbous egg sac, anchoring the retrospective exhibit. The permanent galleries, too, were a delight upon which to feast one's eyes. Picasso, Warhol and Pollock ruled the chambers of the upper floors with the products of their lithe wrists; and I ended up becoming a huge fan of cubism, while developing a disdain for abstract art and its vacuous images, which, I feel, are devoid of both motivation and emotion.
My first trip yesterday morning was to Emirates Stadium, home of the Arsenal Gunners. It towers imperiously over the surrounding neighborhood; yet for all its majesty, the place sure was quiet! Business did pick up later, however, once the armory shop opened, and dozens of fans descended on it like bees to a hive. I, too, swooped in on a gift-buying mission, and wound up purchasing a book for Godfrey, a scarf for a student, and a jersey - on sale, of course - for good measure.
I'm sitting in the Westminster Abbey Museum now, resting my weary legs and burdened back. So far, I've been verily impressed with what I've seen, such a confluence of splendor and history before me that it would require days to absorb it all, when regretfully I can spare only a few hours. My favorite part of the abbey is the poets corner where no less a literary luminary than Samuel Johnson rests in peace - his bust confirms his homely presence, which was so vividly captured in his biography.
For lunch I had a steak and ale pie, served with mash, taken alongside a Guinness, extra cold - 2 degrees centigrade colder, the bartender explained. It went down well, like all the other delicious meals I've had in England; and no doubt by now I have grown accustomed to inebriation at half past two. Besides, Liverpool were playing inspired football against Blackburn; and my lunch was complete.
Having had my fill of football, I decided to skip my ticket scalping endeavor at Stamford Bridge and instead wandered over to the British Museum to inspect their extensive collections. Along the way, my eye caught a theater, its doors wide open and admitting customers. With much rapidity, I subsequently checked the show times, saw that a performance was set to begin, and at last rushed to the box office to purchase a discounted ticket - if you call a 40 pound ticket a deal, that is. That's how I grabbed a seat to watch Hairspray in the West End.
The show was worth forty pounds. The music was addictive; and the stage design and effects were not so much kitschy as delightfully stimulating - the pulsating background lights were at once scintillating and penetrating. The actors as well were vivacious, oozing charisma while they danced and delivered lines dripping in humor. Hairspray is a quality production and most definitely recommended.
12.4.09
At breakfast I sat across from a man who asked me to which country Hong Kong had been returned - China or Japan. That was pretty funny. Then he started spitting on my food as he spoke, completely oblivious to my breakfast becoming the receptacle in which the fruit of his inner churl was being placed. I guess I understand the convention nowadays of covering one's mouth whilst speaking and masticating at the same time!
We actually conversed on London life in general, and I praised London for its racial integration, the act of which is a prodigious leap of faith for any society, trying to be inclusive, accepting all sorts of people. It wasn't as though the Brits were trying in vain to be all things to all men, using Spanish with the visitors from Spain, German with the Germans and, even, Hindi with the Indians, regardless of whether or not Hindi was their native language; not even considering the absurd idea of encouraging the international adoption of their language; thereby completely keeping English in English hands and allowing its proud polyglots to "practice" their languages. Indeed, the attempt of the Londoners to avail themselves of the rich mosaic of ethnic knowledge, and to seek a common understanding with a ubiquitous English accent is an exemplar, and the bedrock for any world city.
I celebrated Jesus' resurrection at the St. Andrew's Street Church in Cambridge. The parishioners of this Baptist church were warm and affable, and I met several of them, including one visiting (Halliday) linguistics scholar from Zhongshan university in Guangzhou, who in fact had visited my tiny City University of Hong Kong in 2003. The service itself was more traditional and the believers fewer in number than the "progressive" services at any of the charismatic, evangelical churches in HK; yet that's what makes this part of the body of Christ unique; besides, the message was as brief as a powerpoint slide, and informative no less; the power word which spoke into my life being a question from John 21:22 - what is that to you?
Big trees; exquisite lawns; and old, pointy colleges; that's Cambridge in a nutshell. Sitting here, sipping on a half-pint of Woodforde's Wherry, I've had a leisurely, if not languorous, day so far; my sole duty consisting of walking around while absorbing the verdant environment as though a sponge, camera in tow.
I am back at the sublime beer, savoring a pint of Sharp's DoomBar before my fish and chips arrive; the drinking age is 18, but anyone whose visage even hints of youthful brilliance is likely to get carded these days, the bartender told me. The youth drinking culture here is almost as twisted as the university drinking culture in America.
My stay in Cambridge, relaxing and desultory as it may be, is about to end after this late lunch. I an not sure if there is anything left to see, save for the American graveyard which rests an impossible two miles away. I have had a wonderful time in this town; and am thankful for the access into its living history - the residents here must demonstrate remarkable patience and tolerance what with so many tourists ambling on the streets, peering - and photographing - into every nook and cranny.
13.4.09
There are no rubbish bins, yet I've seen on the streets many mixed race couples in which the men tend to be white - the women also belonging to a light colored ethnicity, usually some sort of Asian; as well saw some black dudes and Indian dudes with white chicks.
People here hold doors, even at the entrance to the toilet. Sometimes it appears as though they are going out on a limb, just waiting for the one who will take the responsibility for the door from them, at which point I rush out to relieve them of such a fortuitous burden.
I visited the British Museum this morning. The two hours I spent there did neither myself nor the exhibits any justice because there really is too much to survey, enough captivating stuff to last an entire day, I think. The bottomless well of artifacts from antiquity, drawing from sources as diverse as Korea, and Mesopotamia, is a credit to the British empire, without whose looting most of this amazing booty would be unavailable for our purview; better, I think, for these priceless treasures to be open to all in the grandest supermarket of history than away from human eyes, and worst yet, in the hands of unscrupulous collectors or in the rubbish bin, possibly.
Irene and I took in the ballet Giselle at The Royal Opera House in the afternoon. The building is a plush marvel, and a testament to this city's love for the arts. The ballet itself was satisfying, the first half being superior to the second, in which the nimble dancers demonstrated their phenomenal dexterity in, of all places, a graveyard covered in a cloak of smoke and darkness. I admit, their dance of the dead, in such a gloomy necropolis, did strike me as, strange.
Two amicable ladies from Kent convinced me to visit their hometown tomorrow, where, they told me, the authentic, "working" Leeds Castle and the mighty interesting home of Charles Darwin await.
I'm nursing a pint of Green King Ruddles and wondering about the profusion of British ales and lagers; the British have done a great deed for the world by creating an interminable line of low-alcohol session beers that can be enjoyed at breakfast, lunch, tea and dinner; and their disservice is this: besides this inexhaustible supply of cheap beer ensnaring my inner alcoholic, I feel myself putting on my freshman fifteen, almost ten years after the fact; I am going to have to run a bit harder back in Hong Kong if I want to burn all this malty fuel off.
Irene suggested I stop by the National Art Gallery since we were in the area; and it was an hour well spent. The gallery currently presents a special exhibit on Picasso, the non-ticketed section of which features several seductive renderings, including David spying on Bathsheba - repeated in clever variants - and parodies of other masters' works. Furthermore, the main gallery houses two fabulous portraits by Joshua Reynolds, who happens to be favorite of mine, he in life being a close friend of Samuel Johnson - I passed by Boswells, where its namesake first met Johnson, on my way to the opera house.
14.4.09
I prayed last night, and went through my list, lifting everyone on it up to the Lord. That felt good; that God is alive now, and ever present in my life and in the lives of my brothers and sisters.
Doubtless, then, I have felt quite wistful, as though a specter in the land of the living, being in a place where religious fervor, it seems, is a thing of the past, a trifling for many, to be hidden away in the opaque corners of centuries-old cathedrals that are more expensive tourist destinations than liberating homes of worship these days. Indeed, I have yet to see anyone pray, outside of the Easter service which I attended in Cambridge - for such an ecstatic moment in verily a grand church, would you believe that it was only attended by at most three dozen spirited ones. The people of England, and Europe in general, have, it is my hope, only locked away the Word, relegating it to the quiet vault of their hearts. May it be taken out in the sudden pause before mealtimes and in the still crisp mornings and cool, silent nights. There is still hope for a revival in this place, for faith to rise like that splendid sun every morning. God would love to rescue them, to deliver them in this day, it is certain.
I wonder what Londoners think, if anything at all, about their police state which, like a vine in the shadows, has taken root in all corners of daily life, from the terrorist notifications in the underground, which implore Londoners to report all things suspicious, to the pair of dogs which eagerly stroll through Euston. What makes this all the more incredible is the fact that even the United States, the indomitable nemesis of the fledgling, rebel order, doesn't dare bombard its citizens with such fear mongering these days, especially with Obama in office; maybe we've grown wise in these past few years to the dubious returns of surrendering civil liberties to the state, of having our bags checked everywhere - London Eye; Hairspray; and The Royal Opera House check bags in London while the museums do not; somehow, that doesn't add up for me.
I'm in a majestic bookshop on New Street in Birmingham, and certainly to confirm my suspicions, there are just as many books on the death of Christianity in Britain as there are books which attempt to murder Christianity everywhere. I did find, however, a nice biography on John Wesley by Roy Hattersley and The Screwtape Letters by C.S. Lewis. I may pick up the former.
Lunch with Sally was pleasant and mirthful. We dined at a French restaurant nearby New Street - yes, Birmingham is a cultural capitol! Sally and I both tried their omelette, while her boyfriend had the fish, without chips. Conversation was light, the levity was there and so was our reminiscing about those fleeting moments during our first year in Hong Kong; it is amazing how friendships can resume so suddenly with a smile. On their recommendation, I am on my way to Warwick Castle - they also suggested that I visit Cadbury World, but they cannot take on additional visitors at the moment, the tourist office staff informed me, much to my disappointment!
Visiting Warwick Castle really made for a great day out. The castle, parts of which were established by William the Conquerer in 1068, is as much a kitschy tourist trap as a meticulous preservation of history, at times a sillier version of Ocean Park while at others a dignified dedication to a most glorious, inexorably English past. The castle caters to all visitors; and not surprisingly, that which delighted all audiences was a giant trebuchet siege engine, which for the five p.m. performance hurled a fireball high and far into the air - fantastic! Taliban beware!
15.4.09
I'm leaving on a jet plane this evening; don't know when I'll be back in England again. I'll miss this quirky, yet endearing place; and that I shall miss Irene and Tom who so generously welcomed me into their home, fed me, and suffered my use of their toilet and shower goes without saying. I'm grateful for God's many blessings on this trip.
On the itinerary today is a trip to John Wesley's home, followed by a visit to the Imperial War Museum. Already this morning I picked up a tube of Oilatum, a week late perhaps, which Teri recommended I use to treat this obstinate, dermal weakness of mine - I'm happy to report that my skin has stopped crying.
John Wesley's home is alive and well. Services are still held in the chapel everyday; and its crypt, so far from being a cellar for the dead, is a bright, spacious museum in which all things Wesley are on display - I never realized how much of an iconic figure he became in England; at the height of this idol frenzy, ironic in itself, he must have been as popular as the Beatles were at their apex. The house itself is a multi-story edifice with narrow, precipitous staircases and spacious rooms decorated in an 18th century fashion.
I found Samuel Johnson's house within a maze of red brick hidden alongside Fleet Street. To be in the home of the man who wrote the English dictionary, and whose indefatigable love for obscure words became the inspiration for my own lexical obsession, this, by far, is the climax of my visit to England! The best certainly has been saved for last.
There are a multitude of portraits hanging around the house like ornaments on a tree. Every likeness has its own story, meticulously retold on the crib sheets in each room. Celebrities abound, including David Garrick and Sir Joshua Reynolds, who painted several of the finer images in the house. I have developed a particular affinity for Oliver Goldsmith, of whom Boswell writes, "His person was short, his countenance coarse and vulgar, his deportment that of a scholar awkwardly affecting the easy gentleman. It appears as though I, too, could use a more flattering description of myself!
I regretfully couldn't stop to try the curry in England; I guess the CityU canteen's take on the dish will have to do. I did, however, have the opportune task of flirting with the cute Cathay Pacific counter staff who checked me in. She was gorgeous in red, light powder on her cheeks, with real diamond earrings, she said; and her small, delicate face, commanded by a posh British accent rendered her positively irresistible, electrifying. Not only did she grant me an aisle seat but she had the gumption to return my fawning with zest; she must be a pro at this by now.
I saw her again as she was pulling double-duty, collecting tickets prior to boarding. She remembered my quest for curry; and in the fog of infatuation, where nary a man has been made, I fumbled my words like the sloppy kid who has had too much punch. I am just an amateur, alas, an "Oliver Goldsmith" with the ladies - I got no game - booyah!
Some final, consequential bits: because of the chavs, Burberry no longer sells those fashionable baseball caps; because of the IRA, rubbish bins are no longer a commodity on the streets of London, and as a result, the streets and the Underground of the city are a soiled mess; and because of other terrorists from distant, more arid lands, going through a Western airport has taken on the tedium of perfunctory procedure that doesn't make me feel any safer from my invisible enemies.
At last, I saw so many Indians working at Heathrow that I could have easily mistaken the place for Mumbai. Their presence surprised me because their portion of the general population surely must be less than their portion of Heathrow staff, indicating some mysterious hiring bias. Regardless, they do a superb job with cursory airport checks, and in general are absurdly funny and witty when not tactless.
That's all for England!