universal language of sport

Dmitry was from Volgograd. "That was Stalingrad, wasn't it?" I asked. "Very good", he said, "most people think of Leningrad".

"St Petersburg", I thought, "I've nearly been there."

"There's the big statue in Volgograd", he continued, "It's the one of the Motherland".

"THAT big statue", I thought, "It's spectacular". We chatted about the battle of Stalingrad in the second World War, the way his Russian cities had been renamed and then how he wound up in this part of America. Dmitry had learned his English from books. "Oxford books", he added, "So I would learn proper English. I can tell the difference between an American and a British accent immediately, although Scotland and Glasgow can be difficult".

"You must like soccer?", he asked, "We have some great Russian players in your teams now, in Tottenham and Chelsea." I nodded, "Many of the players in the major English teams are from overseas nowadays, and the coaches and managers. The team names are more of a brand."

He could sense I was out of my depth trying to talk soccer. "Go over that causeway", he pointed, "There are some great views".

separated by a common language

I havn't been back in the USA for over a year, whereas in some years I'd be here pretty much every month. The gap is long enough to re-examine some little day-to-day differences, which initially stick out like a Hopper lighthouse guarding the shoreline, but soon assimilate into the way things are around here.

Remember I work with quite a few Americans and we all get along just fine, but here's a few observations from the last couple of days

• ordering a coffee provokes a response of "awesome". Not quite sure why, but its certainly very friendly


• getting commments about "not being from this town" in many places on account of my accent


• remembering that television comes in ten minute bursts interrupted with commercials on most of the 60-100 channels provided in hotels.


• knowing that all tablets and health remedies have a page of disclaimers and that special people are paid to recite these characteristics very fast in adverts.


• being reassured that objects are still closer than they may appear


• flicking around the radio dial and being surprised at just how many country music stations there are


• needing to be especially careful when ordering anything with multiple options on account that I could be misunderstood with entirely unpredictable consequences


• being pleased now that most electronic devices are multi voltage so I can take one plug adapter and a UK powerstrip instead of lots of plugs.


• being surprised at the fragility of some US domestically produced items. Thin metal designed for short MTBF.


• remembering that food comes in industrial quantities in many restaurants. Moderation required.


• being able to do calculations of tips for all manner of services. Everyone gets paid, etc.


• remembering that the temperatures indoors are no guide whatsoever to the temperatures outdoors


• the sheer number of American flags on display everywhere


• hating that after landing if I don't use my usual car hire company then there's an undignified argument about extras, insurance, upgrades and why the car I've been allocated looks as if its a repo thats been in a car chase.


• noticing that, charmingly, just about everyone has a story (Just finished chatting to Dmitry about his exploits since he left Russia)


• hearing debates about Dubya and Barack and how Republicans are trying to make all of what Obama says sound like spin.


• needing to drive at American speeds, which are both different and slower than Europe and in some states within a good 5 mph safety limit of the prevailing speed limit


• being still amazed that gas is only $2.59 per gallon.


• pleased that GSM and 3G coverage is finally pervasive after years of irritaingly poor coverage

I know these are all trivial points, but they are things that pop up in the first couple of days and make me smile. By tomorrow I'll be taking it all for granted.

hold your breath 'till the sun goes down

We've left the upscale tranquil splendour of our harbourside suite in Boston and headed North.

Quite a contrast between the sedate couples strolling the waterfront in our well-heeled part of Boston and the late night noisy swirl right outside our doorstep in the new place.

"You might want to come back to the bar at about eleven", explained the grinning lady at the check-in. "There'll generally be singing by that time." We headed off to our room across the road overlooking the landing where the lobster boats come in.

On the way here we did stop off at Salem although the cutesy candy coloured toy witches and occasional Wiccan symbols didn't really give a sense of the witch trials. In fairness there was also a museum but my own impression from the town gave mixed messages.

The original Salem events near the time of the new settlements lacked legislative balance with Puritans creating a claustophobic, oppressive and hysterical environment. A sub-text was that land could be reclaimed upon the death of widowed women.

So the rumour mill and use of pseudo spiritual accusations meant anyone slightly nonconformist could be accused as a witch with potentially material gains.

Around 150 were accused and nineteen received capital punishment before the use of spectral evidence such as the 'touch test' was abolished. The touch test was a way for an accuser to devine whether the person they accused was guilty based upon the lifting of pain following the touch. Hocus Pocus? The Salem trials were in 1692, only 10 years after the last witch executions in England.

Anyways, the lady at our waterfront stop was right. The local tap beer in the noisy lobster joint is great.

north under protection of sunlight

We are moving on today, further along the coast to somewhere with adjacent beaches.

Boston is a fascinating city and continues to undergo huge transformation. Not so many years ago, there was a complex, mystifying and rather ugly overground road system, which has now been replaced by streamlined tunnels. The wharves and harbour areas have also received significant makeovers and we are taking full advantage with our vista across from Battery Wharf.

In the centre of town, the once landmark Filene's store is now an empty shell with simply the facade left whilst a new mall, condominiums and office blocks are to rise from within its site.

But we're mixing some urban with some country and so its off to the homely delights of Salem famous for the witches and the adjacent coastal locations Stephen King seems so fond of in his novels. I have plenty of garlic.

no lions or unicorns here

Faneuil Hall is one of the spots from which Sam Adams caused the ruckus that eventually led to Independence for the Americans. Some call Faneuil the cradle of democracy but when I googled, it disappointingly presented itself as a shopping mall.

Boston's Freedom Trail laces the city with the varied sites of rebellion. Around 200 metres away from Faneuil Hall and Quincy Market is the Old State House site of the Boston Massacre. Riled British redcoats killed five protesting settlers who were part of a crowd angry at the British taxation of New England.

Years earlier, the English had rewarded the Italian explorer 'John Cabot' with a pension of £20 per year after he claimed the land in the name of Henry VII. After settlement it became a source of taxation without representation.

Sam Adams and Paul Revere were amongst those who campaigned to remove the British hold especially when George III kept increasing taxes and sending more militia to maintain order.

After the massacre a grudging peace ensued until Sam Adams and John Hancock threw a protest party, heaving hundreds of tea chests into Boston's harbour and further promoting the cause for independence.

A colonial congress, progressive arming of the locals and the famously thwarted attempt of the British to seize the arms, when Paul Revere and William Dawes rode through the night with a warning.

Soon afterwards came creation of the American Declaration of Independence read from the Boston State House and then a further six years of fighting for the establishment of the new nation.

talking italian

Our hotel is on the edge of the Italian district in North End.

A couple of streets away the roads have been closed and there is a big celebration in progress. There's a number of guys in white sports shirts with little italian flag flashes on them who seem to be in control of the street's proceedings.

The Boston Police barricades at either end of the street are also manned by more of the same guys and at one end theres a stage and someone singing Frank Sinatra songs.

In the middle is the church and the shrine with money attached.

Everywhere is busy and bustling with Italians and tourists. There's the locals standing on street corners chatting. Determined tourists follow the Freedom Trail maybe missing the main action in order to stay on the big red line on the sidewalk showing a route that links early American patriotic sites together.

Melancholy strains of a saxaphone waft from an alley. I recognise the tune. It's the theme from The Godfather. The restaurants all show pictures of famous visitors - film stars - singers - sportsmen - as well as family pictures from the old country. Everyone who owns a restaurant seems to have met Tony Soprano.

We take a left into the square by Paul Revere's house and spot Mamma Maria's. That will be our evening destination.

sun coming up on strange dreams

Watched the three tugboats pass the balcony and in their wake the sun rise.

Some scenes make me think of these Laurie Anderson lyrics best read in a voice like William S Burroughs(I am probably incurable).

Sun's coming up. Like a big bald head. Poking up over the grocery store. It's Sharkey's day. It's Sharkey's day today.

Sharkey wakes up and Sharkey says: There was this man... And there was this road...And if only I could remember these dreams... I know they're trying to tell me...something. Ooooeee. Strange dreams.

Oh yeah. And Sharkey says: I turn around, it's fear. I turn around again
And it's love. Oh yeah.
Strange dreams.

And the little girls sing:Oooee Sharkey.

He's Mister Heartbreak. They sing: Oooeee. That Sharkey! He's a slow dance on the edge of the lake. He's a whole landscape gone to seed. He's gone wild! He's screeching tires on an oil slick at midnight on the road to Boston a long time ago. And Sharkey says: Lights! Camera! Action! TIMBER! At the beginning of the movie, they know they have to find each other. But they ride off in opposite directions.

Sharkey says: All of life comes from some strange lagoon. It rises up, it bucks up to it's full height from a boggy swamp on a foggy night. It creeps into your house. It's life! It's life! I turn around, it's fear. I turn around again, and it's love.

Nobody knows me. Nobody knows my name.

Deep in the heart of darkest America. Home of the brave. Ha! Ha! Ha! You've already paid for this. Listen to my heart beat. And the little girls sing: Oooeee Sharkey. He's a slow dance on the edge of the lake.

Its the caffeine talking.

sam adams in boston

I'm sure blogging will become erratic for the next couple of weeks whilst we meander around Boston and environs. As a vacation flight, we were earlier at LHR than my customary timings, but that gave a chance to visit one of the posh lounges, spill coffee over clothing and recover from the situation all before we'd even boarded the plane.

I'm also pretty up to date with 6 month old movies again because the flight had one of those 200 channel Video on Demand systems so I could assess films quickly without necessarily watching them all the way through. I'd also taken the precaution of loading Green Wing onto my iPhone and I'll confess that a couple of episodes of that whiled away two hours of the flight.

So here we are in Boston. The car hire was needlessly stressful because the allocated vehicle looked like something you'd find on a demolition site with something unpleasant in the trunk in a bad 1970s movie. We changed it, which was a minor experience in its own right.

And now we are in the first destination, a hotel by the waterfront, where the kind staff have provided an upgrade to a mega-suite, with a panoramic deck looking to the harbour, and more rooms, showers and televisions than I know what to do with.

Its unseasonally early for me to be writing this because the combination of time zone and 'gourmet coffee' have worked in ways that don't usually affect me.

And yes, I'm writing this on the little toy computer I bought last year from ToysRUs,

calibrating the packing for weekend exit

Yesterday I started piling things into a heap ready for this weekend's departure. Its different from a biztrip, where I have a complete, compressed and more or less standard kit of parts, depending on the number of days.

My objective will still be to travel light so I'm already having to make decisions about which clothes/footwear/technology and general stuff gets included in the final pack.

I chickened out on the online check-in though...when it asked how many bags, I said 'two'.

Each.

long languid breakfast in the country

I drove to the country house to meet for breakfast and my Canadian friend who lives in Spain had already bagged the best corner table looking out into the garden.

We ordered toast and coffee and chatted amiably about English stately homes before our business guest arrived and we turned to serious charts and statistics. Our move to a room for a presentation was delayed so we wandered outside to the large garden, which included a croquet lawn next to the swimming pool and across from the discreet helipad.

My friend could hardly contain herself at this display of 'Englishness' with morning summer weather that looked sunny but was still slightly cool, necessitating her to unfold and wear a large pashmina wrap.

The lawns, the arcane game, a pond with a fountain, twittering birds and the lurking helicopter. All we needed was a sudden storm.

Yes, we managed that as well.

charge

Wednesday evening and I'm in that transitional phase between work and starting a vacation. By blasting away at work tasks I'm within sight of completing everything realistic before I leave for holiday at the weekend, and its unwise to start new things which will barely get under way when I take flight for a few days.

That's not to say that everything is finished.

This afternoon I have been on some rather condensed training and then tomorrow I'm off to a business breakfast at a posh country retreat before a workshop and then later in the day I'm hosting a European meeting.

But as I finish tidying my current tasks and telling the respective recipients that I'll be away, there will at least be a short gap before it all starts up again.

So whilst new meetings start to drift into my calendar, I'm quietly starting to look for luggage.

the field of pattern recognition

I've read two or three books about pattern recognition in its broadest sense.

PopCo by Scartlett Thomas and the one by William Gibson spring to mind.

They both include the idea of the person that spends their time divining the Zeitgeist and figuring how to repackage it for greater corporate profit.

Both stories include protagonists who are a little off kilter with their peers. In PopCo the heroine travels on a midnight train to avoid her co-workers and in the Gibson we see someone who has a phobia towards all brand labels.

They'd understand the little quote I heard today whilst travelling across the countryside, "I really want sunglass frames that colour", pointing towards the bales of hay in the field.