Random Photo of the Day

My paternal grandfather with his 1932 Chevy roadster packed for a camping trip. Both of my grandparents emigrated to the US from England after the Great War. The little guy just visible over my Pop's hand is my dad. This is what my dad has to say about the car:

I'm pretty sure it is a 1932 Chevy roadster, complete with rumble seat. That's Pop at the wheel. He drove us from Nova Scotia to Miami in it. On the trip to Halifax the corduroy dirt roads shook the luggage rack on the rear so badly we had to stop and get it welded. The camping gear was in another rack on the running board. The car had isinglass curtains as needed for weather. I can remember coming home at night snugged down in the closed up rumble seat.

Remember we bought this car during the Depression when few had cars and even fewer had roadsters with spare tires in the fender wells. We didn't have a garage, living in an apartment, but rented one from a toff who was finding it difficult to meet the monthly bills.

My mother managed the finances and how she saved the dough, as Pop paid cash for the Chevy, I'll never know. That Chevy was the most impractical model sold, but Mom knew what put the neighbors off.

In my own time, about 25 years later, my dad would end up packing my mom, sister and I into a 1950 Ford sedan and driving from upstate New York to our new home in Oregon, taking time to visit Mt Rushmore, Yellowstone Park and every other interesting location along the way. Entertainment consisted of punching my sister, playing the alphabet game (I'm sure she cheated most of the way across country) and reading Burma Shave signs. Five years after that, we reversed the trip (in a station wagon, I'm pretty sure) but swung through the Southwest, Texas, Arkansas, Kentucky and Tennessee. It's too bad I never tried this stunt with my kids, but I probably would have strangled us all halfway through the trip.

Drinking in the UK, Part Two

Not enough credit can be given to breakfast and specifically to the UK emphasis on breakfast, especially to a Yank planning on drinking. With the pitiful showing of the US dollar against the pound, travel in the UK is brutally expensive. Having essentially wiped out my savings to take this vacation, I found the bed & breakfast to be the one economic bright spot. Fortified by a "full Scottish (or English) breakfast", I rarely needed a real lunch and was generally well-grounded for an afternoon and evening of beer. At my b&b in Glasgow, a "full Scottish breakfast" consisted of eggs, bacon (not streaky bacon), sausage, freshly cooked mushrooms and tomatoes, odd little "hash browns", juice and tea. (It's apparently the one meal of the day not requiring chips, which is another positive note.) And the Scots have apparently avoided the vile addition of canned baked beans to the plate, yet another reason to applaud them.

On my first morning, well-stuffed with breakfast, I made several false starts along the Byres Road looking for the subway into central Glasgow. Known to locals as the Clockwork Orange, this tiny rail line runs on two concentric ovals between downtown and the westside, providing a cheap and quick service. They're not keen on photographs, though, or at least that seemed to be the gist of the warning I heard over the PA. I should have told them I was in the business and not bent on terrorism; much more interested in the displays of real-time arrivals than blowing things up.

After puttering around for a few hours along Buchanan Street with all its shops and shoppers (kilt and all the basics, starting at £500, thank you very much), I met my trusty native guide at the Central Rail Station (where I had to pay 20P for a pee). In short order we were around the corner at the Horseshoe Bar, billed as possessing the longest bar in the UK, and dating back to 1870. I had my first mild, Moorhouse Black Cat. As a Yank, milds have been the most mysterious of British styles for me and I've yet to meet anyone, including the native guide, who could offer a precise definition of the term. I found my pint quite delicious, by Peter proclaimed the beers "too warm". And then, in true Peter Alexander fashion, we were out the door and off to another pub.

Next on the list was the Pot Still, for a pint of Mordue (damn notes written after the fact fail to mention which, but probably a bitter). I'd been intrigued by the Good Beer Guide reference to the Pot Still's list of whiskies, but we discovered the supply badly depleted. Probably just as well, so that I stuck to ale. Peter and the bartender launched into a discussion about our next destination, a new brewpub, and how best to get there by bus. After about 10 minutes of this, Peter turned to me and grinned, "You probably didn't get any of that, did you?" and, indeed, I was lost entirely as the Glaswegian rolled over me.



We did manage to catch a bus well over to the other side of the city, near Glasgow Green, as seen here. Peter was relying on his instincts, and soon found West Brewing, located in new construction attached to a gorgeous Victorian carpet factory. The pub itself looked like every American brewpub I'd ever visited, complete with exposed ducting and chilly ambiance (some of which can be observed in this previously- unreleased video below). The beers, intended as faithful versions of German styles, were adequate at best. More to the point, they simply weren't Real Ales, which was all I was craving. I had something called a festbier, which was a boring amber lager. Peter tried a couple of other beers and, as I recall, proclaimed the weissbier as reasonable. Still, no point in hanging about here, is there? Off we go then, back to central Glasgow.

Next stop on the tour was my first Wetherspoons, the Counting House, a huge pub in a converted bank just off George Square. At the time, I had no idea what "Wetherspoons" meant, or the sort of emotions the name could generate in the hearts of real ale lovers. We stood up at the bar for some well-served beers, and I had my first Timothy Taylor's Landlord, which the brewery calls a Pale Ale. It was delicious, I remember that. The pub was cavernous and loud, as we were somewhere around the end of the workday. From there, we shuffled off to the State Bar, also listed in the GBG, which was something of a disappointment. Somewhat shabby and dark, but the beer (Kelburn Goldihops?) was in good shape. In search of dinner, we stumbled across the street to another Wetherspoons, which had none of the character or charm of the Counting House. The "special" was a burger and a pint at a reasonable price, with the catch being a limited offering for the pint. Mine was a fairly ghastly Green King Abbot, washed down later with a much more satisfying Caledonia Champions Ale, which was a seasonal offering.

After which, I tottered off to my bed, and Peter off to his mum's for the night.

Drinking in the UK, Part One

What eventually became The Greatest Vacation Ever started with a wedding announcement. My friend David B., who had been professoring in Holland for several years and lately in Plymouth, England, determined that he would marry an Englishwoman and that he intended doing so in England, located rather inconveniently far from Oregon. This would also be occasion for a gathering of, not eagles so much as beer geeks, scattered across the US and as far east as Germany. I decided that it would be foolish to travel all that way and not visit something beyond Plymouth and that I could stretch the whole trip to a fortnight (already practicing British-isms).

After considering altbiers in Dusseldorf and serious pubcrawling through Belgium, I chose the undeniable pull from Scotland, eventually focusing on Islay, with its concentration of great distilleries. The most logical jumping-off point for Islay is Glasgow, and my friend Peter's offer to travel up from Manchester for a few days in town was the final selling point. Having grown up (to some extent--opinions on the subject will vary) nearby, Peter is practically a native guide, and proved to have an unerring nose for the best pubs and the best ales. He has been heavily (heh) involved with the Campaign for Real Ale (CAMRA) for years; he knows his stuff.

Over the weeks and months before my trip, David and Peter schooled me in the arcana of UK pubs and their surroundings. I would arrive prepared for the correct approach to ordering (up at the bar, none of this lurking about at the table) and the correct approach to paying (no tips, and count your change thoroughly). I learned about black cabs, which ATMs to avoid (those in pubs) and the difference between proper (Northern) and improper (Southern) dispense. No one mentioned, however, that the Scots print their own pound notes and, worse, issue them from three separate Scottish banks. You're sure this is real money? This one's got an engraving of a distillery!

Glasgow turned out to be a lovely city, one that has scraped off most of the industrial soot to reveal huge and beautiful Victorian architecture. My bed & breakfast was on Belhaven Terrace, a neighborhood of winding streets and gorgeous old flats, with high ceilings, huge windows and marvelous clay chimney pots. Arriving there completely knackered after an endless flight through San Francisco and Heathrow (bah), I summoned the strength to make the 10-minute hike down to Tennents, which fulfilled all my fantasies of British pubs. A big u-shaped bar surrounded by lots of floor space and "snugs" all around, serving 8-10 beautifully cellared and conditioned real ales--and a surprise to me, a chalkboard listing each of the ales on tap, along with their alcohol content and price (which varied according to the former).

My first real ale was a Deuchar's (Dooker's Jew-chers) IPA, followed in short order by two pints of Caledonian 80' and dinner: shepherd's pie, served with peas and what I was to learn were the ubiquitous British chips. Meat & gravy covered with mashed potatoes and served with . . . chips. (Chips are inescapable in the UK and most, quite honestly, are not overwhelming goodness. There is, presumably, an enormous surplus of them and pubs and restaurants everywhere are required to offload them whenever possible. The wise traveler learns to tuck them under napkins or onto someone else's plate.) The beer was superb. Over the next few days I developed a real taste for Scottish beer, especially the maltier varieties and continued to marvel at how much flavor could be tucked into beers of what I would consider low-alcohol content, often under 4% a.b.v.

On my walk to the pub and over dinner, I got my first real tastes of something else: Glaswegian, the nearly-incomprehensible language of the locals. This, although a cartoon, is a damn good representation of what I mean. As David had warned me when I rang him on my mobile (UK speak for "cell phone"), "They don't come with subtitles." The friendly young couple that sat next to me during dinner did their best, but the fellow may as well have been speaking Urdu. The young woman made the effort to speak more slowly and was willing to repeat herself so that I could get the gist of it. I'm pretty sure I could live in Glasgow for a decade and never really get it.

Next: the intrepid guide takes me in hand.

Random Photo of the Day

Experimenting with a macro lens. Depth of field is miniscule and without enough light (and a dog tugging on the leash) it's difficult to tell what's in focus and what isn't. And difficult to know in advance what the camera is going to see that I didn't, like the drops of water in this image. More research is definitely required.

I promise to do better

It appears I haven't posted a damn thing for a month and not much previous to that. Premature New Years Resolution: post more frequently, and think of something worthwhile to write about.

At any rate, to my thousands upon thousands of loyal readers: Merry Christmas.

The photo is from a wicked storm in January 2005(?): most welcome sight of the day, as a nice warm bus rolls toward me.

Ranting after rush hour

Are bicyclists just stupid, or do they have a death wish? Or, charitably, have they simply never driven an automobile at night, in the pouring rain, in heavy traffic? Perhaps this is it, and they lack the essential knowledge of what, exactly, an automobile driver can SEE through a rain-streaked window, reflected from a rain-streaked sideview mirror. Maybe this is why bicyclists persist in assuming that they're just as visible as a 16-wheeler with dozens of running lights--especially to someone trying to merge into traffic from a parking spot in the pouring rain, in heavy traffic, in the dark while not either hitting another vehicle, bicycle or being struck by same.

I have a lot of respect for Portland's cyclists, especially the die-hards who commute every day regardless of how crap the weather is: rain, sleet, cold, even snow (the truly mad among them). But, BUT, bicyclists have to remember they're jousting with big heavy moving masses of steel while they have nothing but a cheesy helmet and bravado in return. If you ride a bike, for God's sake, you have to assume that everyone in a car is blind, stupid and self-involved. You cannot assume that just because you happen to be in The Bike Lane! that you're visible, even if you also have one of those really cool blinky lights on the front. Always assume you're invisible and split seconds away from death.

For that matter, get the hell off the main drag (Hawthorne Blvd, in this case) even if it does have a bike lane and even if it is the most direct route. It's also where all the damn cars are!

It's OK. I'm home safe, not having killed one of you through no real effort of your own. We've survived another commute.

More eating and drinking in Eugene

I guess I am in a rut. Last weekend, I drove down to Eugene just to attend an afternoon party at Ryan and Jenaya's. Pear cocktails, sparkling wine, more wine, beer, delicious ham, sweet potato fries . . . and some serious cognacs rescued from the evil clutches of Hurricane Katrina. Ryan reports that consumption reached 7.67 drinks per person, which seems a bit excessive, especially since some people were clearly not doing their share. Perhaps the fellow sneaking out the back with a couple of cases of wine skewed the curve?