Long time no blog. We’ve had minimal internet access, and what little access we did have was committed to a long-distance war with UPS. I could be dull, and explain the whole thing, or I could just ask you to trust me when I say that if UPS and all its ugly brown trucks and all its ugly-brown-shorts wearing employees were to burst into flame all at once, it would be no bad thing. Even if you hated Tom Hanks in “Castaway,” go FedEx the next time you need something mailed.






Since the last entry, we’ve been to Glasgow, Edinburgh, London, Normandy, Paris and Venice.


Glasgow has a whole lot of Charles Rennie Mackintosh, which is nice; but, really, when you spend time around CRM, you realize that he really doesn’t like people very much. His genius is unquestionable, but it wasn’t so expansive that it included “cushions” or “people with bums.”




The fellow who invented bagpipes didn’t like people much either, but unlike Charles, he did understand cushions. A well-filled bagpipe would make an excellent pillow so long as you could keep it quiet. As Cara and I were leaving Glasgow, we arranged to have ourselves piped out of town. Quite special.







Britain, in general, was like a homecoming. I don’t mean because I have Old Albion in my genes; it’s because the British know how to form queues. Scandinavians don’t know much about queues. They’re Vikings, so they don’t smile, ask permission or wait their turn. If you dig an open grave anywhere North of 60 degrees, it’ll be immediately crammed with Scandinavians who, seeing an open space, will hurl themselves at it just so they can get through it before anyone else. The British, in contrast, queue with astonishing precision.



To illustrate: while in Edinburgh, we queued for a Fringe show, and the line began across the street and about a dozen yards from the entrance meaning that the back of the line was actually directly in front of the entrance while the front was some thirty people beyond it. In Iceland--had anyone been foolish enough to have begun a queue in the first place--the last people in line would simply have done the logical thing: run like hell for the door the second it opened before any of the luckless buggers in the front could figure out what was going on. In Britain, however, the most astonishing thing happened: when the attendant opened the door, the line bent double in one synchronized movement, crossed the street, and entered in precisely the correct order. It was like an Esther Williams movie. I nearly cried.

And if you think Canadians like to say “sorry” you should hear how the British go on about it. It’s like they’re still feeling guilty about the whole Empire thing, and they want you to know that, sincerely, just because they momentarily blocked your passage, they’re not going to install a Governor General in your country. Promise.


Now, let’s be honest, shall we? I know that many of you are just about to head back to the classroom after what I hear was a pretty crappy summer. You have my deepest sympathies, and for that reason, I won’t tell you about Paris or Venice. Yet. In the meantime, I’ll be thinking of you all, and I wish you the best semester yet.