The Clermont stands corrected!
The Lively Albatross from the blogosphere has rightly pointed out that the Toronto Blue Jays played in and won the World Series in 1992 and 1993. And, of course, Toronto is ... just .... outside of the US. Well done... although I think my point is still valid.
It is also great to know that someone is reading your blog.
Let me see if I can do justice by linking or at least leading you to the Lively Albatross (great name by the way):
http://lively-albatross.blogspot.com/
Friday, November 30, 2007
Wednesday, November 28, 2007
Bats, Balls and Goals
One of the oddities of the American sports scene (my opinion) is the habit of calling the baseball championship the “World Series.” Let’s see – when was the last time an international team played in this event?
2007 Boston vs. Colorado
1997 Florida vs. Cleveland
1987 Minnesota vs. St. Louis
1977 New York vs. Los Angeles
1967 St. Louis vs. Boston
1957 Milwaukee vs. New York
1947 New York vs. Brooklyn
1937 N.Y. Yankees vs. N.Y. Giants
And so on...
You are sharp, dear Reader. The answer is never before has an international team played in the World Series. So why do we insist on calling it what it is not? Probably “tradition” or simply no one has thought of a better name.
Obviously, this is not important enough to bring to the attention of the presidential candidates’ debate so I’ll drop the topic here and now.
On the other hand, nearly every county in the world gets a shot at soccer’s [football] World Cup - now there's a name - that is contested every four year. The next edition is scheduled for 2010 in South Africa.
On a smaller scale – but no less exciting for football fans – is the Euro 2008 competition that is now underway. Forty-eight countries (this is Europe in the very broad sense from Kazakhstan in the east to Ireland in the west) have just finished the preliminary rounds that began in August 2006. The matches were a Big Deal in Euro-land when I was there earlier this month. If you ever want to blend in while travelling 'round the continent, know what's going on with the various football leagues. Fourteen international teams now remain to kick it out next June for the championship.
The draw for the early rounds in June will happen on December 2nd. Watch this space for another comment about Euro 2008.
2007 Boston vs. Colorado
1997 Florida vs. Cleveland
1987 Minnesota vs. St. Louis
1977 New York vs. Los Angeles
1967 St. Louis vs. Boston
1957 Milwaukee vs. New York
1947 New York vs. Brooklyn
1937 N.Y. Yankees vs. N.Y. Giants
And so on...
You are sharp, dear Reader. The answer is never before has an international team played in the World Series. So why do we insist on calling it what it is not? Probably “tradition” or simply no one has thought of a better name.
Obviously, this is not important enough to bring to the attention of the presidential candidates’ debate so I’ll drop the topic here and now.
On the other hand, nearly every county in the world gets a shot at soccer’s [football] World Cup - now there's a name - that is contested every four year. The next edition is scheduled for 2010 in South Africa.
On a smaller scale – but no less exciting for football fans – is the Euro 2008 competition that is now underway. Forty-eight countries (this is Europe in the very broad sense from Kazakhstan in the east to Ireland in the west) have just finished the preliminary rounds that began in August 2006. The matches were a Big Deal in Euro-land when I was there earlier this month. If you ever want to blend in while travelling 'round the continent, know what's going on with the various football leagues. Fourteen international teams now remain to kick it out next June for the championship.
The draw for the early rounds in June will happen on December 2nd. Watch this space for another comment about Euro 2008.
Saturday, November 24, 2007
Euro-Buzz: Bye, Bye Belgium
Stories sometime take on a life of their own.
In September, before I began this blog, I made a visit to some of the international schools in Holland and Belgium where I happened to see the news articles cited below. I was startled to read that a western European country was on the verge of … well… dissolving! Over the past few busy months I haven't had the time to think about this until I returned to Europe two weeks ago. En route from Brussels airport, my taxi driver, with a litle prompting, went into a rant (in guttural Dutch-English) about the lazy Wallonians to the south and how they were wrecking the country. Then, a few nights ago in Madrid, the subject of the Belgium “divorce” surpisingly popped up again during a casual dinner. Here’s a snippet of conversation you would have overheard, dear Reader, had you been there.
Can’t quite place your accent, I said.
Try, she said.
New Orleans, I said.
Try again, she said.
Quebec, I said.
One more, she said.
Paris, I said.
Wrong, she said.
Where, I said.
Belgium, she said.
BELGIUM, I said.
Belgium, she said.
And so Claudet –the wife of someone at the end of the table – told me about growing up in the French- speaking university town of Liège where she and her friends were discouraged from speaking Dutch. She indicated that her elderly parents who still lived there hoped Belgium would be split into two with one part being absorbed by France and the other by Holland. Go figure. Here is what I wrote before I ran into the taxi driver and Claudet:
A confession. I've never taken much of an interest in Belgium. It's my problem, of course, not the locals.
When we lived in neighboring Holland, Belgium was a place to go for a decent lunch (some white asparagus with mussels in wine sauce, perhaps?) or a romantic weekend in the Ardennes.
These pleasantries aside, my general recollection, perhaps unfairly, is a place of drab industrial estates and grey cement factories along side dank shipping canals. The criss-crossing highways seemed to be forever crowded with slow moving trucks. And then there was the rain. Go this way in the drizzle and the signs are in French. Go that way in the downpour and the directions are in Dutch. A cynic (not me) would say Belgium is where you get petrol on the way to Paris. Remember the sixties movie? If It's Tuesday, This Must Be Belgium? You see? It's not just me.
Now I read that Belgium is dying. The local English paper in my hotel writes: Knives come out for Belgium. The noted Economist asks: Is Belgium Necessary? The International Herald Tribune poses the question: Can Belgium Survive?
Yikes! This is like hearing that a long lost friend or distant relative has cancer. When did we last speak to Freddy, dear? He looked so well in 1983. That sort of thing.
What's happening? Well, nothing new really for this unhappy bilingual nation except the problems are getting worse. The linguistic and culture divide (Dutch Flanders in the north and French Wallonia in the south) means separate schools, churches and media. Apparently, the important local parliamentary elections last June were inconclusive so... oops... there is no federal government. Now people on both side of the linguistic divide want to go their own way.
Napoleon Bonaparte met his Waterloo in ....Waterloo ...a village about 10 miles east of Brussels where his illustrious career came to a crashing end.
Is Belgium headed for its own Waterloo?
In September, before I began this blog, I made a visit to some of the international schools in Holland and Belgium where I happened to see the news articles cited below. I was startled to read that a western European country was on the verge of … well… dissolving! Over the past few busy months I haven't had the time to think about this until I returned to Europe two weeks ago. En route from Brussels airport, my taxi driver, with a litle prompting, went into a rant (in guttural Dutch-English) about the lazy Wallonians to the south and how they were wrecking the country. Then, a few nights ago in Madrid, the subject of the Belgium “divorce” surpisingly popped up again during a casual dinner. Here’s a snippet of conversation you would have overheard, dear Reader, had you been there.
Can’t quite place your accent, I said.
Try, she said.
New Orleans, I said.
Try again, she said.
Quebec, I said.
One more, she said.
Paris, I said.
Wrong, she said.
Where, I said.
Belgium, she said.
BELGIUM, I said.
Belgium, she said.
And so Claudet –the wife of someone at the end of the table – told me about growing up in the French- speaking university town of Liège where she and her friends were discouraged from speaking Dutch. She indicated that her elderly parents who still lived there hoped Belgium would be split into two with one part being absorbed by France and the other by Holland. Go figure. Here is what I wrote before I ran into the taxi driver and Claudet:
A confession. I've never taken much of an interest in Belgium. It's my problem, of course, not the locals.
When we lived in neighboring Holland, Belgium was a place to go for a decent lunch (some white asparagus with mussels in wine sauce, perhaps?) or a romantic weekend in the Ardennes.
These pleasantries aside, my general recollection, perhaps unfairly, is a place of drab industrial estates and grey cement factories along side dank shipping canals. The criss-crossing highways seemed to be forever crowded with slow moving trucks. And then there was the rain. Go this way in the drizzle and the signs are in French. Go that way in the downpour and the directions are in Dutch. A cynic (not me) would say Belgium is where you get petrol on the way to Paris. Remember the sixties movie? If It's Tuesday, This Must Be Belgium? You see? It's not just me.
Now I read that Belgium is dying. The local English paper in my hotel writes: Knives come out for Belgium. The noted Economist asks: Is Belgium Necessary? The International Herald Tribune poses the question: Can Belgium Survive?
Yikes! This is like hearing that a long lost friend or distant relative has cancer. When did we last speak to Freddy, dear? He looked so well in 1983. That sort of thing.
What's happening? Well, nothing new really for this unhappy bilingual nation except the problems are getting worse. The linguistic and culture divide (Dutch Flanders in the north and French Wallonia in the south) means separate schools, churches and media. Apparently, the important local parliamentary elections last June were inconclusive so... oops... there is no federal government. Now people on both side of the linguistic divide want to go their own way.
Napoleon Bonaparte met his Waterloo in ....Waterloo ...a village about 10 miles east of Brussels where his illustrious career came to a crashing end.
Is Belgium headed for its own Waterloo?
Monday, November 19, 2007
Euro-Buzz: The Drooping Dollar
Clack, clack, clack.
I’m writing this on the 14:35 intercity train from Amsterdam to Antwerp with stops, as they say, in Leiden, Rotterdam and Dordrecht. At this very moment (clack, clack, clack) we are crossing the Rhine estuary where the big river runs out to the North Sea. A typical November day: rain and fog so I assume there is something out the window.
Unless you’ve been living under a rock or spending all your vacation time at Disneyworld, you'll know that the U.S. dollar is getting hammered against the Euro. Really hammered. Not just on the nightly financial report but in the wallet - my wallet as a matter of fact.
Remember all those little bags of coins you carried when visiting Europe? Dutch guilders, Italian liras, German marks, Spanish pesetas and French francs? Well, just one bag now. The Euro makes traveling around the continent so much easier these days. However, the American traveler needs lots of ‘em. Bags of ‘em. Big bags. A few years ago the Euro was at $0.82 and is now about $1.48. That half bottle of wine at the station (a little tipple is most appropriate on a European train journey) costs $4.25 now instead of $2.50 just a few years ago.
Water, anyone?
I’m writing this on the 14:35 intercity train from Amsterdam to Antwerp with stops, as they say, in Leiden, Rotterdam and Dordrecht. At this very moment (clack, clack, clack) we are crossing the Rhine estuary where the big river runs out to the North Sea. A typical November day: rain and fog so I assume there is something out the window.
Unless you’ve been living under a rock or spending all your vacation time at Disneyworld, you'll know that the U.S. dollar is getting hammered against the Euro. Really hammered. Not just on the nightly financial report but in the wallet - my wallet as a matter of fact.
Remember all those little bags of coins you carried when visiting Europe? Dutch guilders, Italian liras, German marks, Spanish pesetas and French francs? Well, just one bag now. The Euro makes traveling around the continent so much easier these days. However, the American traveler needs lots of ‘em. Bags of ‘em. Big bags. A few years ago the Euro was at $0.82 and is now about $1.48. That half bottle of wine at the station (a little tipple is most appropriate on a European train journey) costs $4.25 now instead of $2.50 just a few years ago.
Water, anyone?
Friday, November 16, 2007
Euro-Buzz: Revisiting The Hague
Few place names around the globe begin with an article.
How do these sound? the Berlin? the Chicago? the Lima? These names might suggest an upscale restaurant or worse - perhaps a seedy bar behind the train station.
Occasionally, when I tell people that I lived in The Hague they give me a funny look. The what? As though it were some sort of rare psychological condition ... rather than a geographical location. Try this: from 1982 to 1993, I lived in The Fog. Ok, John, whatever you say.
Although Amsterdam is the capital of The Netherlands, The Hague is the seat of government. This country is one of just a few you’ll see on the map with two stars in different places and only those who reside locally might understand that little cartographic fact.
The Dutch parliament meets here and the embassies are scattered around town. Naturally, there’s a plethora of international schools to serve this busy community of foreigners and English speaking Dutch students. The Hague is perhaps most famous for the International Court of Justice or World Court, to use another name, which is housed in a formidable building known as the Peace Palace.
Actually, finding The Hague is tricky if you are wandering through this corner of Europe. There is a small downtown which is easy to miss. What gives the place its ambience is the numerous quiet and sedate neighborhoods, many astride canals. There is old Dutch money here, as they say, and it shows.
Between The Hague and the sea is a green zone of parks, woods and lakes. The beach extends for miles up and down the North Sea and there are walking and bike paths along the dunes. It is all very healthy - even in the rain.
If you ever move this way, just remember what the Dutch say:
Work in Rotterdam
Play in Amsterdam
Live in The Hague
Tuesday, November 13, 2007
Euro-Buzz: My Albanian Waiter
International schools are sprouting up all over the place, including this backwater of southern Europe. Albania.
Ah. My hosts would be appalled! Let me insert the word "former" before backwater. There we go - including this former backwater of southern Europe.
In case you've forgotten, dear Reader, Albanian suffered a double plague: one of communism and then - total isolation. This was brought on by its xenophobic leader Enver Hohxa. So paranoid was he that Hohxa built, at vast expense to the state's already meager coffers, 750,000 concrete bunkers to ... keep out the hordes (who was trying to get in - anyway)? As a monument to this colossal folly, there is a string of these ugly things out by the new airport.
Many cities in relatively properous eastern Europe (Budapest, Prague, Warsaw) sustain several international schools given the high level of foreign investment, trade and commerce. Now the trickle-down effect is being felt here in Tirana and other Balkan capitals such as Belgrade and Sofia where schools are prospering. Even Pristina and Skopje - arguably places off the beaten path - have schools.
Albania is receiving massive aid from the European Union, the United States and other donor countries. Turkey - long a surrogate father during the Ottoman times - provides fresh vegetables, energy, doctors and teachers. There are several exemplary Turkish sponsored bilingual schools here.
Speaking of languages: Mehmet, my waiter last evening, told me he speaks Albanian (naturally), Italian, Turkish, Greek, some Spanish and a little Russian. Don't you love it? He told me this in perfect English, of course.
Ah. My hosts would be appalled! Let me insert the word "former" before backwater. There we go - including this former backwater of southern Europe.
In case you've forgotten, dear Reader, Albanian suffered a double plague: one of communism and then - total isolation. This was brought on by its xenophobic leader Enver Hohxa. So paranoid was he that Hohxa built, at vast expense to the state's already meager coffers, 750,000 concrete bunkers to ... keep out the hordes (who was trying to get in - anyway)? As a monument to this colossal folly, there is a string of these ugly things out by the new airport.
Many cities in relatively properous eastern Europe (Budapest, Prague, Warsaw) sustain several international schools given the high level of foreign investment, trade and commerce. Now the trickle-down effect is being felt here in Tirana and other Balkan capitals such as Belgrade and Sofia where schools are prospering. Even Pristina and Skopje - arguably places off the beaten path - have schools.
Albania is receiving massive aid from the European Union, the United States and other donor countries. Turkey - long a surrogate father during the Ottoman times - provides fresh vegetables, energy, doctors and teachers. There are several exemplary Turkish sponsored bilingual schools here.
Speaking of languages: Mehmet, my waiter last evening, told me he speaks Albanian (naturally), Italian, Turkish, Greek, some Spanish and a little Russian. Don't you love it? He told me this in perfect English, of course.
Thursday, November 8, 2007
Airport Codes
Harley, the scary black cat you met at Halloween, always hides under the bed when he sees the cat-carrier. He doesn't travel well.
I'm getting that way, too. My olive green suitcase - with its bright you'll-never-get-it-off orange security sticker from Warsaw airport - sits empty on the bed awaiting fresh shirts and socks.
Time to roll again. Work beckons. Last week's post can be renamed "islands in a dream."
Here is where I'm going in airport code-speak if you are interested:
RSW -ATL - AMS - MUC - TIA - MUC - AMS - BRU - MAD - ATL - RSW.
MAD, indeed.
These long trips are getting tougher on the body and soul.
I'll try and write from Europe. Let's see if I can find my way to TIA. This will be a first-time visit.
I'm getting that way, too. My olive green suitcase - with its bright you'll-never-get-it-off orange security sticker from Warsaw airport - sits empty on the bed awaiting fresh shirts and socks.
Time to roll again. Work beckons. Last week's post can be renamed "islands in a dream."
Here is where I'm going in airport code-speak if you are interested:
RSW -ATL - AMS - MUC - TIA - MUC - AMS - BRU - MAD - ATL - RSW.
MAD, indeed.
These long trips are getting tougher on the body and soul.
I'll try and write from Europe. Let's see if I can find my way to TIA. This will be a first-time visit.
Saturday, November 3, 2007
Islands in the Stream
On the quiet, dear Reader. A whisper if you will.
Get this. We spent last weekend in St. Barts. No, sir, not the church across town. The island. The little island near Antigua, Montserrat and Guadeloupe. St. Barth. St. Barthelemy to be precise.
The fabled French West Indies. Turquoise waters. Gorgeous, drop-dead National Geographic sunsets. Christopher Columbus. Sir Francis Drake. Pirates! Another tot of rum, matey.
Dream-like we descend onto the little runway. A driver takes us to the end of the island where there is a high hill and atop the hill is a lovely – a very lovely villa. It looks out over a cerulean sea. The view is so wide and deep that it is nearly impossible to discern the horizon. At night tiny lights twinkle out on St. Kitts.
The architect blended the villa into the hill: low, open and airy. A lily pond separates the main house from the bedrooms. The pond is filled with tall green reeds, small floating flowers and orange and black fish – some swimming, others just lurking. The deck is surrounded by yellow buttercup whatnots.
[There is more dear Reader. Bear with me. Today’s post is not about humility].
Mon dieu! The villa comes with a French chef. Presenting… Christine. Our own gourmet magician. A light lunch? There is fresh goat cheese tart or salmon with fenel and pink berries in terrine. But please don’t overdo it as tonight we are having beef in red wine sauce provençal style. Merci, Christine.
If the storm on the first night was memorable, the one on the following evening was biblical. Prospero (nothing original here) would have called it a Tempest. Honestly. Within minutes a light breeze becomes a major gale. Booming claps of THUNDER! Bolts – indeed big bolts – of lightning just beyond the pool. Rain slashing sideways into the villa and out the back (clever architect – that’s why half the villa is open). A few lamps knocked over.
The big storm is cathartic and brings in clear air and a sunny, bright morning. That afternoon we hire a sailing boat for a few hours. Hemingway (thanks for today’s title) may have seen it this way:
From the sea, the island appeared green and fresh and majestic in the afternoon breeze. You could smell the land and see great white gulls circling overhead. The captain’s girl, tanned and with a nice chest, served rum in big cups and told us her father had fled Corsica for Paris many years ago. She tired of the Sorbonne and started sailing first from Cannes and then Amalfi and finally St. Barts-by-the-Sea. She called it that – St. Barts-by-the-Sea as though the place were some cheap resort reached by train from the big city.
Thank you, Papa. Yes, imitation, even a poor effort, is the sincerest form of flattery.
A few postcards home? There’s a good idea. To the poste centrale. Ah. What’s this? Closed on weekends, Mondays and Tuesdays. On Wednesday the postmaster is in St. Eustatius. Open for stamps on alternating Thursdays. Friday is the postmaster’s day to rest.
Old France is alive and well here. Attitude, attitude.
Why complain? This is paradise.
[With very sincere thanks to Mr. Rowdy and Joan for the kind invitation and accompanied by good friends Paul and Denise]
Get this. We spent last weekend in St. Barts. No, sir, not the church across town. The island. The little island near Antigua, Montserrat and Guadeloupe. St. Barth. St. Barthelemy to be precise.
The fabled French West Indies. Turquoise waters. Gorgeous, drop-dead National Geographic sunsets. Christopher Columbus. Sir Francis Drake. Pirates! Another tot of rum, matey.
Dream-like we descend onto the little runway. A driver takes us to the end of the island where there is a high hill and atop the hill is a lovely – a very lovely villa. It looks out over a cerulean sea. The view is so wide and deep that it is nearly impossible to discern the horizon. At night tiny lights twinkle out on St. Kitts.
The architect blended the villa into the hill: low, open and airy. A lily pond separates the main house from the bedrooms. The pond is filled with tall green reeds, small floating flowers and orange and black fish – some swimming, others just lurking. The deck is surrounded by yellow buttercup whatnots.
[There is more dear Reader. Bear with me. Today’s post is not about humility].
Mon dieu! The villa comes with a French chef. Presenting… Christine. Our own gourmet magician. A light lunch? There is fresh goat cheese tart or salmon with fenel and pink berries in terrine. But please don’t overdo it as tonight we are having beef in red wine sauce provençal style. Merci, Christine.
If the storm on the first night was memorable, the one on the following evening was biblical. Prospero (nothing original here) would have called it a Tempest. Honestly. Within minutes a light breeze becomes a major gale. Booming claps of THUNDER! Bolts – indeed big bolts – of lightning just beyond the pool. Rain slashing sideways into the villa and out the back (clever architect – that’s why half the villa is open). A few lamps knocked over.
The big storm is cathartic and brings in clear air and a sunny, bright morning. That afternoon we hire a sailing boat for a few hours. Hemingway (thanks for today’s title) may have seen it this way:
From the sea, the island appeared green and fresh and majestic in the afternoon breeze. You could smell the land and see great white gulls circling overhead. The captain’s girl, tanned and with a nice chest, served rum in big cups and told us her father had fled Corsica for Paris many years ago. She tired of the Sorbonne and started sailing first from Cannes and then Amalfi and finally St. Barts-by-the-Sea. She called it that – St. Barts-by-the-Sea as though the place were some cheap resort reached by train from the big city.
Thank you, Papa. Yes, imitation, even a poor effort, is the sincerest form of flattery.
A few postcards home? There’s a good idea. To the poste centrale. Ah. What’s this? Closed on weekends, Mondays and Tuesdays. On Wednesday the postmaster is in St. Eustatius. Open for stamps on alternating Thursdays. Friday is the postmaster’s day to rest.
Old France is alive and well here. Attitude, attitude.
Why complain? This is paradise.
[With very sincere thanks to Mr. Rowdy and Joan for the kind invitation and accompanied by good friends Paul and Denise]
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