Friday, December 1, 2023

Rules for walking in the UK. There are none . . . until there are.

 

Brits love to walk. It is one of the real pleasures of living here, and something we would never trade for a car-centred life. We walk everywhere—errands, visits, the pub—and a decent walk often doubles as exercise and casual community building. Some people take this further and become ramblers, which tells you something in itself.

And yet, while there is a deep affection for walking in the UK, they have far less enthusiasm for walking in an orderly way.

I have spent an unreasonable number of years trying to work out the rules for walking here. I have long suspected that doing so might offer a window into British social life. It might. It is also possible that I am simply a grumpy middle-aged man who struggles to enjoy a walk without becoming annoyed.

One clarification before going further. Queuing and walking are not the same thing. Brits queue impeccably.

Walking—whether on a crowded city pavement or a quiet country path—follows a different and much less obvious logic. This has little to do with how much space there is to walk, or where you are in the country. I have watched two people collide on an empty rural path.

The logic of walking in the UK is cultural. A way of moving through shared space that relies less on explicit rules and more on quiet self-regulation—asking people to work it out for themselves, without making a fuss.

So, what follows is an attempt to see whether that impression holds up—or whether I am simply overthinking a perfectly ordinary walk.

 

Rule 1: When it comes to walking in the UK, there is no explicit, stable rule… until suddenly there is one.

 

Most people in the UK move through shared space with little visible concern for collective flow. There is no equivalent of ‘keep left,’ nor a stable expectation that pedestrians will organise themselves in advance. People walk, drift, pause, and change direction as they please, even in places where the layout seems to suggest otherwise.

 

Until, abruptly, a rule appears.

 

For people from countries with clearer pedestrian or traffic norms, this is infuriating. Elsewhere, movement assumes a certain kind of attention: you scan for flow, adjust early, and treat motion as a shared coordination problem. When Brits don’t do this, it is easy to read the behaviour as selfish, incompetent, or rude.

 

But that reading misses the point.

 

Under Rule 1, people are not expected to manage the system in advance. They are expected to move as they wish, avoid asserting priority, and respond only once a social signal appears. In that context, scanning for flow is unnecessary, pre-emptive coordination looks pushy, and confidently anticipating others’ behaviour can feel intrusive. People appear ‘oblivious’ because nothing yet requires their attention.

 

Until it does.

 

The rule becomes visible only through disruption. A look. A tone. A comment. A sudden tightening of the atmosphere. The rule was apparently there all along, but it existed only as an expectation, not an instruction. Its purpose is not to organise movement smoothly, but to correct disruption after the fact. 

 

This is better read not as dysfunction but as reactive moral governance.

 

This same logic explains why conflict escalates so quickly when someone explicitly asserts a rule while walking. For example, a pedestrian continues straight ahead on a narrow pavement, expecting others to fall into single file. Or someone holds their line in a crowded station corridor (staying to the left, as indicated by the signs), assuming there is an obvious direction of flow. In both cases, the expectation may be widely shared—but it is not meant to be stated, enforced, or insisted upon.

 

In those moments, the problem is not simply disagreement about priority. It is that the deeper rule has been violated: do not make the rule explicit; do not force recognition; do not turn tacit negotiation into open confrontation. When that happens, irritation that has been quietly managed suddenly erupts as anger.

 

To outsiders, this feels perverse. They are trying to prevent friction, reduce risk, and keep things moving efficiently. Brits, by contrast, are trying to avoid overt assertion, avoid policing others, and avoid ‘making a thing of it.’ These goals are fundamentally incompatible.

 

The result is the same behaviour being read in two very different ways: as polite restraint from the inside, and as staggering obliviousness—or even aggression—from the outside. Rule 1 explains that mismatch.

 

Rule 2: When a collision occurs, responsibility is managed through repair or deflection—not clarification.

 

Rule 1 explains how coordination is deferred until disruption. Rule 2 explains why that disruption so rarely leads to improvement.


When people collide while walking—or otherwise negotiating shared space—the moment is not treated as information. There is no pause to recalibrate, no attempt to clarify what should happen next time. Instead, the overriding aim is to contain the disturbance and restore social calm as quickly and quietly as possible.

 

This is why collisions feel both frequent and unresolved. The system is not designed to learn from disruption. It is designed to absorb it.

 

In practice, three moves are available.

 

The first is to ignore the collision even took place. People carry on as if nothing happened, even when it clearly did. No eye contact. No acknowledgement. No recalibration of behaviour. The moment passes, unresolved. This is not rudeness so much as an attempt to prevent the situation from becoming socially real.

 

The second option is to apologise, often reflexively and sometimes regardless of fault. The British ‘Sorry’ functions less as an admission of responsibility than as a social lubricant. It smooths over the disruption without requiring anyone to explain themselves or renegotiate how the space should be shared. The apology ends the interaction rather than clarifying it.

 

The third option is to blame the most vulnerable e.g., immigrants, women, people with disabilities, working class. Who is the most vulnerable is situation-dependent, but the entrenched hierarchy (the key phrase here) is familiar. A posh couple may expect a male labourer to step into the road to make space; he, in turn, expects a minority woman to yield on the same pavement.

In these situations, what is striking is what does not happen. People rarely stop to articulate what the rule should have been. There is no collective pause to clarify priority, direction, or right of way. The interaction closes, but the ambiguity remains intact.

In pedestrian systems built around explicit rules, disruption is informative. It reveals a failure of coordination that can be corrected through clearer norms or enforcement. Here, disruption is treated as noise—something to be dampened rather than analysed. Order is restored moment by moment but never consolidated. Social peace is preserved, but at the cost of cumulative learning. 

Rule 3: Do Not Be a Disturber of the Peace

 

Taken together, these small frictions of walking point to something larger. The patterns described in Rules 1 and 2 are not accidents, and they are not confined to pavements. They reflect a deeper moral orientation in British public life: the overriding cultural commitment to keeping the peace.

 

This commitment explains why ambiguity is tolerated, why coordination is left implicit, and why disruption is absorbed rather than learned from. Clear rules invite assertion, assertion risks conflict. Better, from this perspective, to allow people to adjust quietly, even if the result is inefficient or mildly chaotic. Social calm is preserved not through explicit coordination, but through restraint.

This logic becomes especially visible when someone makes judgement explicit rather than quietly absorbing the system’s inefficiencies. Recently, I was walking along a narrow pavement where people were repeatedly bunching, stopping, and colliding. After several near-misses, I said somewhat loudly, ‘It might work better if we all keep to one side.’ The effect was immediate and hostile. No one responded to the suggestion. Instead, I was met with tight smiles, sharp looks, and a palpable shift in atmosphere, as if I had committed a social offence.

What was being resisted by my statement was not the substance of the suggestion. It was the act of making explicit what people were already negotiating silently—and what most preferred to keep unspoken in order to avoid disruption. The problem is not whether a rule exists, but whether it is named. Coordination is expected to emerge quietly, through mutual adjustment, not through articulation. Saying the rule out loud alters the social situation by forcing recognition, judgement, and response—precisely the things the tacit system is designed to avoid.

That is not traffic reasoning. It is moral panic about explicit judgement.

 

What This All Produces: Stability, and Its Costs

 

Seen at a slightly wider angle, the moral logic visible in everyday walking does not stop at the pavement. The same three rules can be seen operating across major parts of British life. This combination has clear strengths—stability, restraint, and social ease—but it also generates persistent blind spots and entrenched difficulties that are harder to address precisely because they remain unspoken. This is where the rules of walking become analytically useful: they allow both sides of that pattern to be seen at once, not just on the pavement but, more widely, across public life in the UK.

 

Here are some examples:

 

On the positive side, one consequence of this moral arrangement is a remarkable capacity for settlement. When big collective decisions land in Britain, society often absorbs them and gets on with the work of living—even when bitter disagreements hold – and without endlessly re-fighting the basic settlement. Brexit is one example. Whatever one thinks of the decision, and despite widespread dissatisfaction and quiet policy recalibration, the vote itself has been treated as settled. Parts of it are being softened, adjusted, or worked around, but the decision has not been directly undone. The country has adapted around it rather than reopening it. 

 

The same pattern can be seen with same-sex marriage and abortion: once legislated, it became part of the moral landscape, with support now overwhelmingly high. Even the NHS—despite record dissatisfaction with how it is currently run—still commands striking loyalty to its founding principles. Public life benefits from this capacity to settle, adapt, and carry on. It is one of the reasons living here can feel stable, workable, and—at its best—quietly humane.

 

But the same logic has real costs: once peace is prioritised over clarity, power does not distribute evenly. What emerges is a structural asymmetry. In a culture where most people are socialised to avoid making a fuss, those willing to ignore conventions, push boundaries, or escalate gain leverage. This can be seen in contemporary politics, where movements such as Reform (amongst others) have learned to exploit the fact that provocation and confrontation travel further than restraint in a system slow to push back. It is also visible in long-standing patterns of social hierarchy and elite insulation –remember our point about reversing blame to the most vulnerable? Those with secure status—political, institutional, cultural —act with an easy presumption of entitlement, taking space, bending rules, and reacting with indignation when challenged, confident that others will step aside rather than disrupt the peace.

 

In turn, the burden of accommodation, meanwhile, falls disproportionately on those with the least capacity to escalate: women, disabled people, ethnic minorities, and others already navigating vulnerability in public space. They adjust, apologise, reroute, or stay silent not because they agree, but because restraint is the safer option. And, over time, the system bends around those least invested in peace. The North–South divide offers a clear illustration: the North is repeatedly expected to absorb economic shock, austerity, and policy retreat, while investment decisions favour the South through opaque adjustment rather than explicit prioritisation, leaving those most affected to adapt quietly rather than contest the terms.

 

CONCLUSION

It seems we may have wandered a bit from our walk. So let’s return to it. What walking in the UK offers, in the end, is not a theory of British society but a rehearsal space. It is a small, repeatable situation in which strangers briefly share space, negotiate movement, and part again without ceremony. The stakes are low, the encounters fleeting, and the consequences minimal—which is precisely why the patterns are easier to see, if you are paying attention.

 

There is a Jungian intuition hovering behind all of this: that the points where irritations arise are rarely incidental. They are often where unconscious expectations collide with a system that does not quite organise itself the way you assumed it would. Frustration, in that sense, is diagnostic.

 

Seen this way, the awkward moments of walking—the hesitations, collisions, and forced reroutings—are not failures but clues. Almost Derridean ones: small disturbances that mark constitutive tensions in the system itself, tensions that are necessary to how it functions but never fully resolved. The pavement does not explain the culture, but it does let you feel, quite literally, where it rubs.


Sunday, July 3, 2022

Taking the Ferry to Buy Bikes in the Netherlands

Reprising the role of travel agent!

Hello all,

Let's just say it has been a while since last I posted. During this time my family and I moved to the UK, where I took a job at Durham University -- which, if some of you recall, was the reason I started this blog, as I came to Durham in 2012 on Sabbatical. Well, I guess we liked the place. As of August 2022, I will have finished my fourth year here. I also recently passed the Life in the UK test and sucessfully applied for Settlement, or what is more technically called Indefinite Leave to Remain! So, I can basically live here. Next year (after twelve months of settling) I can apply for citizenship. For those of you who are in love with "all things UK", you should give a practice test a go. My British friends have enjoyed seeing how well they can do. I am great at the history but terrible on sport.

No sooner did we move to the UK when the pandemic hit and travel was postponed for a rather long time. The pandemic is still here, and we are still vigilant -- wearing our masks, staying out of crowded indoor restaurants and crowded spaces and places, regularly testing, and trying to do our small part to protect those who are vulnerable or putting themselves out there everyday to keep our world running! Much thanks to you all!!!! We support our local restaurants (or when traveling) by getting take-away and eating in outdoor spaces, even when it is 4 or 5 Celsius/40-45 Fahrenheit.  

Inevitably, however, our worlds have begun moving again, and travel is a part of that. So, with a rather significant degree of nervousness, we started traveling and found out that, yes indeed, you can travel rather safely if smart, and you can reduce risk, do the work you traveled to do, and still have a lot of fun.

Case in point, taking the ferry to buy bikes in the Netherlands.


How to buy Dutch bikes and get them to the UK -- Oh, and do so in 36 hours!

Maggie (my wife), Ruby (my daugther) and I do not own cars. We either walk or use public transportation, which is one of the top five reasons we moved to Europe. There are those days, however, when having a bike would be nice, particularly a nice City Bike, on the back of which we can put groceries and various other purchases. We have had our eyes on a Gazelle City Bike, the crème de la crème, the volvo of city bikes.


With such credentials comes a high price tag! In the UK we are talking about new bikes starting at £1.5k to £2k, and even used bikes being over £700, if you wanted something higher-end. There is a land, however, where bikes outnumber people, and where living on a bike is similar to growing up in car country. The Netherlands!

Rotterdam Central

I spend a lot of time in the Netherlands as a function of the work I do with colleagues at the Institute of Advanced Study, University of Amsterdam, and because of a book I am writing with one of my best friends and colleagues, Lasse Gerrits, who is at the Erasmus University, Rotterdam.


Do not get me wrong, Amsterdam is beautiful. It is one of my favourite cities. Its history is just as rich. The massive impact the Dutch have had on the world does not get the attention it deserves. I highly recommend Amsterdam by Russell Shorto. Absolutely brilliant! The IAS gave me a copy as a parting gift for one of my chats and I could not put it down.

Still, I love Rotterdam.



Rotterdam reminds me a lot of Cleveland, Ohio, in the States, where I lived for 30 years. Rotterdam is a working-class city that had to rebuild itself. Unlike Cleveland, it took post-industrialism, global warming, and the collapsing environment seriously, and transformed itself into a green place. When folks say to me, "Oh, well, sure, of course they do that in the Netherlands; but it is not possible here." I respond back, "That is not true, it is all about making hard decisions." For an overview, here is a BBC article.

Case in point: bikes!

The Deal

Two weeks ago I traveled to the IAS and then Rotterdam for work. I told Lasse that Maggie and I wanted to buy used bikes while there. 

"What?," he said. "Why would you do that?" 

"Because, this is the capital of bikes and used bikes here are like used cars in the States . . . they are everywhere. So you can get something high-end for cheap as it is not as precious."

"Makes sense. . .  but how are you going to get them home?"

This may sound slightly mad, but I thought: I can buy two used bikes in the Netherlands and transport them to the UK and still spend less money then if I bought them new or used in the UK. Prior to traveling to Rotterdam, Maggie and I found a number of really excellent websites that, for a rather small fee, would box and transport your bike from Rotterdam to York, where we live in the UK. The problem was that you needed one day of stting around at a hotel or flat for them to deliver the box. Another day doing the same for them to be picked up. Plus a day to actually see some shops and buy the bikes. I did not have that kind of time. Maggie and I decided to give up on the idea. Perhaps we could just go to Rotterdam and look at the bikes and get inspired. 

So, on our lunch break from work, Lasse took us bicycle sightseeing. He took us to this brilliant shop near the University, called 010 Bikes. It was a blast. 

Then we did what we said we absolutely would not do. We bought two used upscale Gazelle bikes -- one for Maggie and one for me -- for a grand total of £430. A dream of a lifetime! We test rode them, Lasse rode them as well and gave us a "thumbs up"; the shop gave the bikes a quick once-over; we paid for the bikes; and rode them back to campus.

"So," Lasse asked again, "How are you getting them home?"

A long painful pause of silence. . . .

"I've not figured that out yet."

Another rather long moment of pause. . . 

Maggie said, "You know Brian, if there is a will there is a way."

After storing our bikes at Lasse's place, we went to lunch with another colleague and friend, Sophia, to chat about all-thing qualitative complexity methods and social science. At lunch I brought up the bikes. We went round and round about how to get the bikes home. Trains? Post? Finally, Sophia said, "Have you considered taking the ferry? Lasse agreed.

"The ferry?" For real?

 

Taking the Ferry

A little known mode of travel to us newly arrived immigrants in the UK -- which our European friends knew about and have taken -- was the ferry. The best way to cross the channel, they say! I have never been on a ferry, let alone a sea-worthy boat. This was all new territory. On the last day of our trip to Rotterdam, at the airport, with five hours of waiting on our hands, Maggie and I started looking at ferries. 

The ecological imprint of flying is an aspect of my work I am burdended by. Trains are a great alternative, but the Eurostar presently does not allow you to transport bikes. I needed to do this trip the following week, and I needed to do it quick and cheap, and in less than 36 hours!

That is when we found P&O Ferries.

Given it was recently Father's Day and I was looking for something fun to do with Ruby, we decided she and I would go the following week. We put together our plan.

One of the main ferry crossings from the UK to the Netherlands is from Hull (an hour from where we live in York) to Rotterdam. The Ferry leaves Hull almost every day at 8:30PM. So, a week later, on a Monday evening we headed out. We took the train from York to Hull, picked up some groceries, and got to the port. You check-in a minimum of 90 minutes beforehand, you get a standard bunk (see below), they have cheap entertainment, coffee shops, duty free, restaurants, and a few places to walk about. You have dinner, drink a bottle of wine, and go to bed. You get up the next morning, reasonably rested, no jetlag, eat a full English breakfast in the dining hall, grab your stuff, go through passports, and then catch a shuttle to Rotterdam. 

Easy peasy, right? It was a total hoot! The Ferry was full of pensioners, truck drivers, and motor bike enthusiasts. Short of a few families, everyone was 50 years or older. The first leg of the trip was brilliant! 

Well almost! Sea sickness, it is a real thing. There were times when I thought my head was going one way and the ship the other. The key seems to be to forget about it and get on with it. Stay Calm and Carry On.

Arriving at Lasse's place, we went to lunch, chatted about work a bit, and then got the bikes. It was 1PM. We were 17 hours into the trip. We had the bikes and were ready to go. 

Here, however, was the first of several problems we had to solve. Public transportation does not go to the Rotterdam P&O Port and a taxi would run around €110 or more. But, being it is the Netherlands, there are bike paths all the way there, including going over massive motorway bridges!


Lasse printed out the map. It said 27 kilometers. I have not ridden a bike that far in decades. But we do regularly walk 5 miles a day and Ruby not only walks that much but also bikes to work. I figured, okay, it is a bit much but it is a flat ride, paths exist along the way, and I will be tired, but we will be okay. Plus Lasse said we could do it, giving us the confidence we needed. . . "That is," he said, "As long as you don't get a flat tire or something."

And so we set off. 

Fififteen minutes into the ride I got a flat tire! Urgggggggh! Time was ticking, we had a lot of miles to make up and we were stopped flat. What to do? Try to get air and keep riding? Nope. It immediately went flat again. We went to the first bike place. They could fix it but not until the next day. Sorry, that is not going to work.

We decided to go back to the shop where we bought the bikes. A two mile walk back. They would fix the bike on the spot! Awesome guys! A nail the size of a pin had punctured the tire. What luck! 

We waited for them to fix the bike, found an ATM machine to pay in cash (VISA does not work often in the Netherlands) and made our way back to the route to start all over again. 

We had lost an hour and a half. It was now 3PM. I also forgot to mention that it was about 23 Celsius/74 Fahrenheit and, despite Google Maps in hand, we really had no idea where we were going. Backpacks on our bike racks, we once again set out on our route.

After about two hours of traveling, we seemed to be getting nowhere. We were dehydrated and starting to become sun burnt. Ruby asked, "How far are we?" I looked at the map. How could we have only gone only three miles in two hours? We still had 18 miles to go. What was happening? 

That is when we realised I had read the map wrong. Fu*K!!!! The map said 41 kilometers, not 27 kilometers! That is 25 miles, not 17. How are we going to do this? Panic set in. "Time to dig deep and ride," Rudy said, "We need to pick up the pace." 

The second problem was that Google Map does not provide bike routes. Instead, it kept giving us ways to walk there, including taking a few stairwells -- a major statement on where we are regarding travel. So we had to stay fully alert and adjust for errors, which we made. All-in-all, it was 18 miles of mental and physical courage. But also pure joy! I know it sounds cliché, but it was one of those bucket-list experiences. Ruby and I had such a wonderful time!


Through the Dutch suburbs we rode -- which are absolutely gorgeous, by the way! -- then onward into the port district, with massive factories all around and nothing but motorways on either side of us. It was surreal. We even had to pause while this massive lift bridge on the major motorway lifted to let a ship pass. Believe it or not, but the bridge had a two-way bike lane! Two bridge guards stood watch, drinking a cup of coffee and busting our chops as they could see we were novices. But, they did laughingly acknowledge our focus. We were going to make it!

Four hours later, around 7PM, we could see light at the end of the tunnel. More correctly, we could see the Ferry! It was still three miles away, but there it was, in plain sight. Peddle, peddle, peddle, knees hurting, sweating everywhere, hungry, tired, and . . . if I am honest, . .  a bit of chaffing!

Finally, we arrived at P&O Ferry, amongst cars and truckers, gas fumes and all, with little time to spare. We checked in our bikes. Exhausted, we each ate an entire pizza in the pub, drank our wine, watched a movie, crashed, woke the next day, ate our full English, got on our bikes, rode them three miles to the Hull station in the rain, secured them on the train, rode to York, met Maggie, and then walked them to our flat. All in less than 36 hours.

Bikes (£430 total) + Ferry tickets (£430 total) + food etc (£40) + UK train (£30) = 860£k. What a trip!

 


Sunday, June 25, 2017

Travling to Kosice Slovakia




My brother, Warren, and I are headed to Hungary, Slovakia and The Czech Republic this year to explore further our ancestry -- my mother's parents are from the area (Ocenas), as are my father-in-law's (Rusnak).  Our two cousins, Joyce and Lynn, have been through the area, including Poland, back in the late 1990s and helped us with lots of information about where we might travel -- mainly to learn more about the world in which our grandparents lived prior to immigrating to the States.

I've been to Budapest before and traveled, by train, through Slovakia to Prague, with my other brother, John, en route to a world health conference in Vienna.  We decided to go to Budapest because it is the home city of one of my friends, a fellow complexity science colleague.  We loved it there, happening to arrive on St. Stephen's Day.  For more on my trip with John, CLICK HERE.
  
This time, however, Warren and I plan to travel from Budapest to Prague via a different route.  One destination, which we may well take, is to Kosice -- the largest city in eastern Slovakia.  We are not sure, but my cousins remember the city in stories told by our grandparents.  It is unsettling how fast the past of our immigrant grandparents becomes lost (including the language), within only a generation or two -- a typical story-line for those in the States and elsewhere.  The joy, however, is found in the real experience of traveling back to these places, if only to catch the slightest glimpse of our larger family history, no longer active in memory, but perhaps as a lived dream, as we stand there, in such a town as Kosice, wondering....  

With that said, my brother, Warren, came across this excellent blog post of a similar journey to explore one's family past: 2 Days in Kosice, Slovakia.





Wednesday, October 14, 2015

EVERYTHING COMES WITH CHIPS! Another Fun Blog on the Joys of the UK



Knowing that I am always looking for first-person summaries of travel abroad, a friend of mine -- a Brit living in the States -- just sent me along the following post, which seems to have gone viral.  It is a set of one-liner observations made by an American, Scott Waters, who has made several trips to the UK.

Overall, it is not bad and, I must admit, many of his observations resonate with mine, and it made me glad that I leave for the UK again in a couple weeks, for my tenth trip to this wonderful country!

CLICK HERE TO READ HIS BLOG 


Monday, August 3, 2015

Motherhood Around the World




My wife recently came across this blog -- Motherhood Around the World, which is run by Joanna Goddard and her excellent Cup of Jo blog -- and sent it to me.  It is really interesting, as it explores, from a first-person perspective, the oft unique and also common challenges women face raising children around the world.  I find particularly interesting the posts where someone has moved to a different country and are raising kids in a place culturally foreign to their originally known way of life.

To go to the website, click here!  

Monday, December 8, 2014

Take this Test to Determine Your American Dialect

Continuing the topic of dialogues, I came across this Dialect Test at the New York Times website.  I was impressed, as it has yet to fail in predicting where you are from in the States, based on how you talk.  Check it out.

CLICK HERE


Sunday, December 7, 2014

A Whole Bunch of British-isms, Care of Yorkshire!

As those who read my travel blog know, I am as much obsessed with the nuances of vocabulary across different countries and regions as I am behavior.  My wife recently sent me this link, and I just love it.

It is by Daniel Dalton, titled:

26 Words That Have A Totally Different Meaning In Yorkshire!



Saturday, October 18, 2014

We Live in a Globalized Society and Yet Americans Don't Travel Abroad

My wife and I at the Colosseum
My wife and I recently returned from a two week conference and vacation in Italy and were sharing some of our stories at a party when one of our friends said, "You know, I really need to go abroad!"  To which I responded, "Yeah!  You really do.  I mean, you already travel to Mexico and the islands, so why not go somewhere different?"  At which point the guy sitting next to us jumped in saying, "But there is already so many things to see in the States; why would I travel to see other peoples's countries first?  Do they come here?"  "Sure they do," I replied -- thinking in my head, oh god, how did the conversation turn into this -- "But, wouldn't you want to see the Sistine Chapel for yourself, or the Sognefjord or Budapest or Chennai  or Taipei?  I mean, those are rather fantastic places as well."

They both just looked at me. "Oh, look," I said, "I think I need to refresh my drink…."

Driving home I said to my wife, "I just don't get it; with all the latest advances in global travel, going places is as easy as it can get.  So, why don't more Americans travel abroad?"  Then, just this past week, I came across a possible answer: it was a 2011 article by Natalie Avon titled, appropriately enough, "Why More Americans Don't Travel Abroad."  A quick read, it is very insightful.

According to Avon, only about 30% of Americans have a passport, and of those who do, 50% only go as far as Canada or Mexico.  Why?  According to the experts, there are a handful of reasons which, when combined, help to explain why more Americans don't travel abroad.  She states:
Tourism experts and avid travelers attribute Americans' lack of interest in international travel to a few key factors, including: the United States' own rich cultural and geographic diversity, an American skepticism and/or ignorance about international destinations, a work culture that prevents Americans from taking long vacations abroad and the prohibitive cost and logistics of going overseas.
While the explanation seems reasonable -- for example, one of my friends, an Engineer of some 25 years, only gets two weeks of vacation a year -- it is, nonetheless, sad.  As best as anyone has figured, heaven or not, we only get one go-around in this life.  For those fortunate to gather enough coins together to actually travel, it seems a pity not to see another corner or two of this incredibly diverse and beautiful planet on which we live!  But, that is just the opinion of one lonely traveler.  
    


Tuesday, October 14, 2014

Would You Please Mind those British Phrases in Your American Vocabulary!

I just read a recent blog post by Maraithe Thomas, a Deputy Production Editor for the Gaurdian US -- click here to read it!

It is, as the Brits say, Brilliant!  In fact -- as someone who spends a sizable amount of time in the UK -- I remember the first time a Brit called something I did "brilliant," and thought, "Wow!, somebody finally recognizes how smart I am!" Then I heard them say the same thing about a cup of coffee!  Oh well…

But, it does go to the point of Thomas's blog post.  For Americans sympathetic to the joys and idiosyncrasies of British language and culture, one cannot help wanting to move into that space where American and English blur and where one has fun playing off the Derrida-like differences/différances of language, both spoken and written.

The only problem is that, once you do, you are in a very small group, as either side of the pond finds your speech odd; or, worse, they see you as a bit of a poser!

"What," they'll say, "you think you are a Brit now?"  Or, worse, "Who the hell says that?"

Well, actually, I do!  And, I enjoy it!

C'mon folks, admit it, everyday life gets a bit boring -- or at least for me it does.  So why not have a bit of fun and start mixing up expressions and trying on new words?  Why not pretend one is having a cup of tea in in Whitby, rather than drinking machine coffee in one's windowless office space?  Or here's one: drop the article "the" in front of hospital, university, grocery store and other such words that Americans love to treat as proper nouns, and see what people say!  Or, say egregious American things to Brits, like "Git r dun!" when up against a deadline that everyone is desperately trying to complete!

It's funny, or at least it is funny to me.  And if they get ticked at you, just say, "Ah mind your own language!"





  








Thursday, May 16, 2013

Started a Food Blog

Hello folks!

Well, if running two blogs and three websites is not enough, I have added another blog.  Two of my friends and I started a food blog on eating great food on the cheap in Cleveland Ohio; and also blogging on all things food: cooking, other food blogs, food books, you name it.

We just got started.  It is called What the Phở Boys Food Network.  The Pho is pronounced, Fa, by the way.

That is us, down below, to the right--Rob, Kevin and me!

Click here to read more.

Sunday, April 14, 2013

Taking the Lift to the top of La Tour Eiffel

I am not usually one for the tourist trap.  In fact, when traveling, I look to see where everyone else is and then go the other way.

However, during our Christmas stay in Paris, 2012, my daughter decided to do a report on La Tour Eiffel. And, I have to admit, as she worked on the report, I became increasingly interested in this odd piece of French architecture.  For example, I was amazed to learn that, despite the incredible size and scope of the project, La Tour Eiffel was completed with a work force of only a hundred people. (Take a peek at the Tower's Wikipedia article; it is worth a quick read.)

So, on our second day in Paris we took the subway over to the Eiffel Tower.  It was beautiful; everything one would imagine it to be!  Plus, it was a wonderfully mild, sunny, winter day, light breeze, about 55 degrees Fahrenheit.

But, then we saw the lines!  Oh, god, you know from my previous post how I feel about French lines!   And there were three of them--yes, that is right, three lines, not one!  And they appeared to just 'snake around' for what looked like miles.  And the tourists, for reasons that I have always struggled to understand, seemed all-too-happy to get in these lines and just stand there.  From where I was standing, for example, about half-way back, the average wait was three to four hours!  What?

I tell you, as I stood there, it dawned on me that if the zombie apocalypse does take place, it will be the people in these lines who will go first, as they will not know where to run.  What, zombies are coming?  But where is the line to escape?

As I stood there looking at my wife, I said a little too out loudly, "C'est la vie," only to see, at the same time, the look on our daughter's face.  Disappointment... Ugh!

I looked at my brother John, who had taken the tower lift to the second level on a previous trip. "What do you think, John?"  "I'm sorry, Ruby," he said.  Looking at me, "You need to get here early."

And so we did.  Two days later, rising at 6:30am in the morning, espresso and croissant in hand, Ruby and I took the subway to see La Tour Eiffel.  We got there around 7:45am and, already, there were the expected three different lines.  But, nothing to worry about.  Opening time for the lift was 9:00am.  And, to our surprise, for reasons that I could not entirely make clear, our lift line was going all the way, today, to the tipsy, nipsy top.  Yes!, double score in the parenting category.

Another big score: standing in line went fast. Ruby got one of her beloved croque-monsieurs, which is French for cheese and ham and more cheese baked to perfection on white bread!  And, I got more coffee.  An hour later there we were getting onto the lift.

As the video I have included here shows--click here to see video--once on that lift we just kept going up and up and up and up.  I had chills down to my feet, and I am not usually afraid of heights!  It was, like just about everything else we experienced in Paris, tasteful and, well, as good as life gets!  


On the whole, this was, for me, I am sure, one of those moments I will remember just before the lights go out for good.   










 













  
  




Tuesday, February 19, 2013

Lines, Lines and yet more Lines

There has to be a joke somewhere about the French and their lines?  I imagine it going something like this.   

Gogo: "Bonjour mon ami Didi; do you know what you find at the end of a French line?"
Didi: "Je ne sais pas, ce qui?"
Gogo: "Another line."

(Suddenly a French mime appears, making a silent rimshot on a drum)

The Louvre

We went to the Louvre, leaving to get there at a reasonably early time.  We get there and what do we find?  A line.  I start to grumble, falling fast into my middle-aged rant.  My wife, Maggie, sees the need for a psychiatric intervention and stops me with a small pill of positive thinking.  "It's okay," she says, "it will move along."

However, no sooner does she say this when an employee of the Louvre stands near us with a sign that says "An hour wait from here."  "See," I say, being a complete jerk.  Suddenly, Maggie gives me that look--you know, the one that only couples married for over 20 years have, which says, if you want to stay married, back down, because there are lots of cute French guys around here.

"Back, back, neurosis," I whisper to myself,  "Cause, losing it in front of your family and a bunch of sophisticated Parisians at the Louvre, during Christmas, is not the photo album you want to take home."  Phew!

Okay.  No big deal.  Have fun, laugh, we are in Paris, right?

Little did we know, though, that standing in this line was only the beginning of our Absurdist experience here, in the most beautiful city in the world. Later, I would come to think that, perhaps, the French, in every line they create, think themselves performing some sort of Breton/surrealist-inspired play, complete with nobody but us stupid tourists actually thinking that lines exist for a purpose.  See, the French like to create lines, but then not use them.  I saw lines at various places form, watch them suddenly, without warning, branch into two lines--going, I might add, to the same destination of a door--only to find, minutes later, that our line now went to a different door: the wrong one.  And, I watched, with nerves slowly coming undone, as the Parisians around me paid no attention to the lines they formed.  This, to me, is picture perfect Paris: an odd juxtaposition of Gaullist/Napoleonic/bureaucratic order coupled with a blatant, resistant, disregarding, laissez-faire attitude of, "You want us to do what?"

Okay, perhaps I am being a bit ridiculous.  But, you be the judge.  And so I shall proceed. Back to our line at the Louvre.

So, forty minutes later, we are closing in on the pyramid door to the Louvre.  "See," says Maggie.  Okay, she is right.  But then I see it, slowly coming into focus. "What is that?" I say, starting to whine again.  My daughter, who has the best vision of us all exclaims, "Oh no, Mom, it is another line!"  Noooooo!

See, the first line was just to get in the door.  The next line was to get scanned for clearance.

Finally, we are through both lines, going on about an hour and a half.  We quickly descend one of the most beautiful staircases in the world, the glass pyramid above our heads, almost giddy, into the Louvre.  But, then we see it.  You've got to be kidding me.  Five different ticket booths with five different lines.  Another Noooooo!

Okay, a bit of background.  Maggie, being an art librarian, has this uber-nerd card that allows her free access to most museums in the world--rather sweet. So, as Ruby and I stand in line to get our tickets, Maggie goes and scopes out the situation.  She comes back.  "The woman said that I get myself and Ruby (our daughter) in for free, as she is under 18 years of age."  Great, so we are standing in line for me.  Forty-five minutes go by.

I get up to the ticket person and, because i may be an idiot but not a fool, I ask her.  "Excusez-moi madame. Ma femme a un pass musées. Combien de personnes peuvent entrer avec sa carte?" (Excuse me madam.  My wife has a museum pass.  How many people can get in with her card?)

She looks a the card.  "All of you get in for free."
"(que) What?"
"(oui) Yes!"

So, I just stood in line for 45 minutes to find out I did not have to be in line.  Great!  I take a deep breath and proceed.  But, guess where we are going?  You got it.  To another line.  This time it is the line that takes you to the particular part of the Louvre we want to see.  Finally, we get to yet another ticket checker person.  Maggie shows the woman her card.  The woman responds.  "Excuse me Madam, but that card only gets you in for free, and your daughter, who is under 18 years of age.  Your husband needs a ticket!"  WHAT?????????

My wife, who, up to this point, has been a bastion of calm, looses it. "No!" she says, "That is not going to work.  We just stood in line for 45 minutes.... bla bla bla" The women is just looking at her.  "I am sorry Madam..." "No.  You do not understand.  We are not standing in that line again.  You see that guy right there?"  (My wife is pointing to the line we were just in)  "You need to talk with him." And what does the woman do?  She takes us over to the guy.  They go on,.. bla, bla, bla in French, back and forth.  Finally, the woman let's us in.

Funny thing.  As the woman takes us back to, what we hope, is our last line--it isn't, by the way, as there is another line to see the Mona Lisa (see me above looking at the paining)--I notice an absurd number of ATM machines, a good ten of them, against the wall, with small lines of maybe two or three people.  I say to the woman, "Excuse me, but why so many ATM machines?"  "Oh no, sir, those are not ATM machines, they are museum ticket machines, you can just go over to them and get a ticket and go right in!"

WHAT?  Why didn't somebody tell us that in the first place?  

By the way, the Louvre melted my mind and heart.

The Pompidou

Now, I know what some of you are thinking.  "Brian, you are an idiot.  Why don't you just buy tickets online; or go later when the crowds die down?"  Okay, all good points.  But, you evidently have never been in Paris, as that is only wishful thinking.  Being punished to see objects of beauty, which you have traveled several thousand miles to experience, is all part of being in France.

Don't believe me?  Let me provide another example.  The next place we have on our list is the Pompidou--one of the great museums of modern art.  Given our last "line experience," we decide to but our tickets online. But, being that all the computers in Paris are French, they say to our request: "No, perhaps not today. Come back tomorrow and the system might work.  Okay, if you want a ticket for Christmas 2014, we can give you that. Oui?"

"No."

So, we leave for the Pompidou, this time even earlier.  And what do we find?  Remember my rant about splitting lines?  That is what we find: two lines.  Yes, two lines.  But guess what?  They both go to the same door?  You have got to be kidding me.  We pick one, hoping we made a good decision. We did not.  An hour later, just as the doors open, we find ourselves in the express, pre-purchased tickets line, which also, by the way, Maggie is allowed in, because of her nerd-card.

Now, given no choice, we have to go to the back of a line that we could have been first in.  Finally, with Maggie and Ruby waiting inside for us, we get in.  Now to the tickets. This time, however, we will not be fooled.  We see the ATM machines and purchase our museum tickets.  Oh, we think to our arrogant selves, those poor tourists standing in line. In fact, we are so giddy we even take a break for all of us to use the rest rooms.

So, altogether again, we proceed up the escalator..

"Wait, wait, Monsieur; but where are you and your petite family going?"

"To see the museum, duh!"

"Oh, no, Monsieur, I am so sorry, you have to go over there and wait in that line."

I look up to the second floor. God, how could i have not seen it? Another line, stretching for miles. What? Yes.  And what is the line for?  It is a very long, forty minute line just to get to the stairs and elevators....

Okay, we can do this.  We all take a deep breath and proceed to stand in line. However, remember my earlier point about the French liking to create lines, only to not use them?  Well, check out this one.

So, I am patiently standing there in our line, talking with Maggie and doing the typical line thing: looking around.  Looking to my left and right, nobody.  A minute or so later, I again look to my left.  This time, however, there is a French woman standing there giving me a dirty look.  I look away, turning to my right.  There, suddenly is a French couple.  I give myself a few second and look left again.  Now the woman is gone.  Where did she go? She is standing in front of us.  What?  I turn to my right.  The French couple is now also gone.  In fact, as I keep looking for them, I run right into them not realizing they are now standing in front of me.  They also give me a dirty look and ask me to back up.

I think to myself, "I need an espresso."

Finally, through some act of a god, we are let free.  I revel in the taste of my new-found freedom. Again, we are ignorantly giddy. Why?  Because another line is awaiting us.

As I stand there, though, I have this sudden realization, as everything around me goes dark.  In the dark, I realize I am in a 1950s theatre house in Paris.  On stage, the actors are performing Beckett's Waiting for Godot.  That is when it hits me.  Beckett was an Irish ex-patriot, who lived most of his life in Paris.  Godot is a joke, a very funy French joke about lines.  Remember, when I began this post, I said that such a joke had to exist.  Well, there it was, staring me in the face.


Gogo: "Bonjour mon ami Didi; do you know what you find at the end of a French line?"
Didi: "Je ne sais pas, ce qui?"
Gogo: "Another line."

But, now I know what the next line of the joke is. 


Didi says to Gogo, "Well then, we might as well eat, laugh, drink wine, sing songs, exchange hats, sleep, love and enjoy our family, friends, and life!"

This joke has become Paris to me.


By the way, the art at the Pompidou melted my mind and heart.