Airports bug me, they always have. I’ve never been one for enjoying the departure or arrival process. Mostly I think the issue is one I have faced with any large gathering of people. I have a pretty low tolerance for stupidity and lack of forward planning. This unfortunately manifests itself in a lot of ways with regards to air travel. For example:
Have your reservation ready. – You’ve been waiting to check in for half an hour, why when you get to the front of the line are you having to check every pocket of your coat/bag/suitcase for the printout.
Have your documents ready at all times. – Seriously, you need your passport and boarding pass until you board the damned plane (and your pass slip til you sit down) stop putting them away behind three zippers every single time you pass a checkpoint.
Have your liquids ready for security. – The liquid restrictions have been around so long at this point that they’re fodder for hackneyed comedy routines and bad sitcom plots. Even if you haven’t taken a flight in the past fifteen years there are at least 10 different signs, a table with plastic bags, and a stern eyed tsa type person pointing this out to you as well. Yes this includes your coffee even if you “just bought it in the airport,” as well as sealed bottles of any type. If you are surprised by this after passing through the scanner you are a moron, I hope that bottle of perfume cost $200 (seriously, why are you bringing that much perfume on a one week holiday?) – In a bit of happy news apparently new MRI tech for airports may soon allow them to scan and pass liquids. That will be lovely for those of us travelling home from wine regions.
Have your laptop ready to take out for security (and for that matter just plain know where everything in your bag is for quick presentation.) Just common sense, again this rule has been around forever at this point.
Look ahead at security, if everyone else is having to take off their shoes, take the flying leap that you might have to as well.
This 30 seconds here and there may not seem like a lot but it all adds up. It’s the willfully ignorant that consistently ignore all of this that cause us all to have to get there 2-3 hours before our flight.
Number one rule of air travel: HAVE YOUR SHIT READY!
Reading this article on plane loading brought to mind my other pet peeve though. That loading process is always such a colossal clusterfuck and whatever the airlines do it’s the morons back in coach that make things worse. First we load the first class people, the old and infirm and those travelling with small children. You know what I’m fine with that, provided that…
I learned pretty quickly that diving can make a person hungry. When I certified in Australia the cook always had the galley counter filled with sweets and cheese when we came back from a dive. The quick burst of energy from the sugar helps you readjust quickly to the topside world and is especially crucial if you’re diving again in a bit. That’s the route I went on the morning of our dive. A bowl of fruit loops, a couple croissants with jam and some random custard donuty thing. Carb load ahoy! I wanted to avoid my usual omelette though lest I get burpy or worse on the ride across the bay. Besides I’m never that inspired to eat a big breakfast early and this was by far my earliest morning of the trip.
By the time we arrived at the Marina it was still only 8:30ish and the crew was loading the boat for our trip out to into the Bahia de Banderas. Thankfully my friends Chris and Jodi had already been out the week before so I knew it was a good crew. In our case we had our local boat captain Carlos, and British ex-pats Sue (who I believe was the company’s head instructor), other Sue (a relatively new instructor I believe) and Marc. All were knowledgeable as well as chatty and personable. On a sidenote though I do wonder why I seem to always get Brit dive leaders. My pool instructor in Cairns being a Frenchman is the only exception. Also on board were three people from Washington state an experienced diver and his brother in law who was certifying as well as a 16 year old family friend with a regrettable Mike Tyson henna face tattoo. I’m not sure if the young man was certifying or doing a discover scuba dive.
Boat leaves from the Marina Vallarta docks near the Airport. Variety of tours available and discounts for booking online in advance. Private tours available.
Cost: $105 USD for a two dive trip inc. equipment and tanks
My Rating: 5/5
There’s little question in my mind that diving with a smaller crew like this makes for a far superior experience. Horror stories of the big boats leaving someone behind aside you can still feel like part of a swarm. You have no guarantee of partners of similar skill, in fact you may end up in a group of people who take half of your air supply just to get to the bottom of the anchor chain. Add on the fact that you’ll usually have your equipment moved and assembled for you (and in this case even lifted out of the water for you) and I have no idea why you’d go out on one of the cattle boats.
The Miss Marie heading towards Los Arcos
The boat itself was a comfortable 30 odd foot vessel with decent stability and reasonable speed. Despite all the gear on board there was plenty of room for the 10 of us and our personal stuff and the seats were well cushioned for the ride. Mostly importantly for us pale assed northerners there was a canopy to give us some respite from the sun. The trip out of the marina was the usual exercise in yacht gaping that one general indulges in a tropical port. First there were the yachts. Gorgeous forty foot boats, some older but all gleaming and gorgeous. Then came the super yachts with their fancy flying bridges and mounted sea-doo’s. Of course the truly impressive (and outright sickening) mega-yachts came into view soon after that. Ships so large that they contain garages for three jetskis and a launch as big as our dive boat. Ships so large they have smartly uniformed staff cleaning everything in sight and a Robinson on the helipad. In other words ships so large that they cost more than I (and my entire family, any children I might have, and their children as well) will ever make in a lifetime.
Words can’t really describe the unending horror of this winter. As I write this post the temperature is hovering just under the zero and there is a strong chance of flurries at some point over the coming weekend. It is April the sodding 11th, what exactly did we do to deserve this torment? It was inevitable that this winter would be feel harsh after the mild reprieve of 2013, but months of -30 temps and snow quite possibly lingering in spots until May seems like massive overkill on the part of the weather gods.* Is it any wonder then that I was looking forward to this Mexico trip with a slavering anticipation that approached apple fanboy at a new product launch levels?
Anticipation of warm weather, sun and girly drinks (and parlor games) aside, early morning flights are the devil. 4:15 AM wakeup, at the Airport at 5 for an 8 AM flight (also not really necessary imo.) I must say my first experience of the new airport was a mixed bag as well. Everything’s very pretty but also very stupidly laid out. Only restroom in the departure area is at the far opposite end of the hall from the security entrance and the Stella’s café that many people have breakfast at pre-security. This means everyone uses the private stall family restroom located here instead of what it’s actually for. There’s plenty of space for another restroom here but the architects went for style over substance. Oddly enough I ran into my friend Kymberly leaving for another destination wedding at the same time in PV. I’m fairly sure she was even more of a zombie than I was at that point though. The flight itself was quite surprising. I hadn’t flown with Air Transat in probably fifteen years and I was really surprised to walk on to an A310. As far as I can remember it’s the only time I’ve flown on a widebody out of Winnipeg direct. A quick check of Wikipedia tells me that they’re planning to phase out their A310s by the end of next year as well so I suppose I’m way behind the times. I definitely missed having the seat back tvs of all my other recent trips, things are obviously never going to be Air NZ or even Westjet quality on a charter airline though.
I’ve been in love with the idea of scuba diving since I first really understood the concept. I’ve always loved the water and even as a small child thought about becoming a marine biologist and living on the coast somewhere. The thought of being able to stay underwater for hours (tanks last for hours right?) floating weightlessly and chasing fish was something to strive for. I didn’t let the fact that it wasn’t recommended for asthmatics get in the way of those dreams
Somehow that dream got lost along the way. Perhaps it was the fact that I didn’t end up the coast, or perhaps the fact that I ended up in computer science that kept me from diving. More likely it was the fact that diving training in West Hawk or Lake Winnipeg has very little appeal (and still doesn’t really.) I was never going on a warm weather holiday with anyone who wanted to dive so why bother taking the training? Suddenly I was thirty and something I’d been planning to do as soon as I was able to had sat on the life list forever (damn you Mme. Plamondon.)
It wasn’t until Australia came around that I had zero excuses. Suddenly my dreams came back and learning to dive on the Great Barrier Reef as my friends Chris and Jodi had was of paramount importance. I booked a class that started in the classroom and ended with a three day liveaboard course out on the reef. Yet as it came closer I have to admit I started to get nervous. I knew I’d have to pass a medical and all those warnings about asthmatics kept rising in my mind. I can swim reasonably well but I’m no endurance type, would I pass the swimming tests? Even if I passed, what if I freaked out and couldn’t handle it. I had one friend who had bailed on his training the first time he tried to go under the water with a regulator. He wasn’t one to wimp out from a challenge but something about the experience just wasn’t for him and he knew it instantly. Lastly of course despite the fact that I love sharks this was Australia after all. All these worries (minus the shark/jellyfish thoughts really) were weighing on me as I arrived in Cairns. This was supposed to be highlight of my trip, the culmination of years of dreaming. What was I going to do if I couldn’t get in the water, sit around Cairns for a few days being taunted by all the dive shop signs? I couldn’t help but check out the prices for a quick trip to Alice Springs on the way back to Sydney in case I “suddenly found myself with the time.”
The dive school was fantastic. I’d sprung for probably the best in Cairns and it showed. The instructors were funny but serious when needed and the class was structured well mixing pool and class time to best focus attention. I aced the classroom stuff, passed my medical (required by law in Queensland) and was starting to feel a bit more confident until my first time I the pool with a regulator. Most people who have dived will know what I mean but the feeling of having to train yourself to breathe in and out regularly, mouth only, through this contraption was incredibly weird. I felt weird, and for the night afterwards I considered taking the out and getting the rest of my money back. I think the mask exercises were what really threw me. I was having serious issues doing the exercises to clear my mask of water while still breathing regularly. I was worried that if I was having that much trouble in the pool I’d get myself hurt out on the reef. After a (couple) beer(s) that night I managed to talk myself into going back.
That next day I got over the hump. I can’t remember the exact moment it happened but by the end of the day the instructor was telling people in my half of the group to watch how I was controlling my breathing (and depth level as a result) and my dive buddy and I were having fun practicing the “oh my god I’m out of air” manoeuvres without any worries at all. That night a few of us went to a lecture on some of the creatures we might see out on the reef and I absolutely couldn’t wait. In the end I loved every minute of every dive (see my travelogue for more details) and didn’t feel a bit of panic out there. I would have enjoyed actually having my wetsuit though dammit Pierre. The deep dive got a little cold in just a stinger suit.
Despite my promises to myself to the contrary I haven’t been diving since. Again, despite having plans to maybe finish off my next level of certification the lure of diving the icy waters of West Hawk Lake just isn’t there. My lack of funds while freelancing combined with my lack of vacation time while starting my current job more or less kept me without any options for other dives as well. Thankfully that will be changing this coming week as I head down to Bucerias Mexico for a wedding. We’ve got a couple dives booked, I got a shitty generic dive enclosure for my camera for some new photos (hopefully) and for a few hours at least I’ll get to be that wide eyed kid once more.
Sometimes you just feel like you’re spinning in place at work don’t you? Vacation starts in roughly 63 hours and every non-sleep moment is going to feel endless.
Death is a constant fixture in our lives. It’s a shadow looming in our futures, the end of all stories, even for those who believe in a next chapter. We are faced with our own mortality every day. Death is the ‘sexy’ part of the evening news, the neighbour who succumbed to cancer or the family member taken out of nowhere by a drunk driver. The world can be a callous and unforgiving place and what seemed briefly so permanent can be shattered in an instant. Small wonder then that so many of us handle things poorly when death comes knocking, yet how we face death is at least as important as how we face life.
Academically I know this. Perhaps deep inside I do as well. Yet as I sit here reading the memorial wall postings for a friend it all seems shallow. My friend was not a close friend in the conventional sense. We had met only twice in the real world but had shared many late night conversations online. Whether it was live chatting a sporting event or awards show, sharing a recipe/cooking tip, or bullshitting over the terrors of our love lives we generally caught up at least a couple times a month and in truth she probably knew me as well as any of my long-time friends.
When she went into the hospital for the last time she’d known the end was coming. There was no “I’ll be out in a week” show of bravura from her. Though she was still fighting she was definitely at peace with facing the end. She made me promise to ask out a girl I’d had a crush on and told me to make sure I made a success of school this time (one of those went really well, one of them not so much.) She’d dreamed of travelling once she finished her masters and so, when I reached the top of the Tongariro Crossing in March 2011 I felt as if I’d conquered something on her behalf. For a long moment I thought of my friend and wondered what she would have thought about the beautiful view of New Zealand that stretched out before me. When our online group of friends shared our grief after the notice came we realized she’d given us each a mission of sorts. Make that one little effort to live on her behalf, to do something in her memory. Even now thinking of it makes the room a little dusty.
She’s been gone a number of years now, taken far too soon. Every so often I find myself here at her memorial wall online. Now as then I wonder at the new things I learned about my friend from her other friends. I did not know for example that her older brother had died young as well, or that she’d won multiple scholarship offers for college. How we never once talked about both being High School band dorks I’ll never know. I want her back terrible if only to tease her about the photo of her in the canary yellow marching band outfit with its shiny epic epaulets and rocking plume.
More than anything else I wonder at the grief of her friends. Comments number in the hundreds, most are lengthy and heartfelt. So many lives touched and brightened by a friendly spirit with a pixie’s grin. Even now regular posts of “miss you babe” let me know that I’m not the only one who still comes back here for a reminder of my friend. She led an outsized life for her brief time on earth and I can’t help but think that were I to die tomorrow I wouldn’t have had nearly the same impact in people’s lives. In fact, I know I haven’t.
I’ve been in a morbid mood the past couple weeks. A general feeling of malaise has been weighing on me only occasionally lifted by thoughts of my upcoming warm weather getaway. An interminable winter, lack of contact with friends and a frustrating sense of boredom with all facets of my life have left me rather depressed. There was something else however and oddly enough it was the death of GWAR leader Oderus Urungus (Dave Brockie) reported today that clued me into the upcoming anniversary of her death. She’d always loved the bizarre nature of the (shall we say) rather theatrical band. She always tried to convince me catch one of their energetic live shows but I had never managed to find that chance. Now I suppose I never will.
We can’t look for reasoning behind death. Why did my friend have to die in her late twenties when so many monsters manage to gasp into their nineties? Sadly, nothing more than chance. One tiny chromosome in her body just didn’t feel the need to work properly and took down the whole team. I wish I’d gotten the chance to know her better. I miss my friend.
“Aw, jeez. And you got the stink lines and everything.”
We’ve all had a stinky co-worker in our workplace. Usually it’s a guy, usually it’s a lack of showering issue and usually it’s persistent. Not always though. I’ve had stinky female co-workers and I’ve had co-workers of both sexes who over use terrible scented products (be it AXE or Perfume.) Everyone has an occasional stinky day, most people aren’t going to fault you if you overslept, missed your shower and your deodorant is losing the battle come 2:30. Unfortunately there’s also the true stench goblin, the person who has so little understanding of how much they reek that eventually there has to be a truly awkward conversation about soap and water.
In my high school and early university retail days I’d run into a number of smelly people, particularly when I worked at Superstore. We had the usual couple guys on a large staff who simply didn’t get that showering on a regular basis was necessary. There were also other special cases, for example: the poor bastards who worked at the fish counter who would clear out the staff room whenever they came in for their lunch break smelling of mackerel. Even worse were the days where the produce guys were chucking a giant basket of rotted tomato or cabbage and the juices would saturate their aprons completely. Given that I usually worked Saturdays we usually had a platoon of hungover or still drunk/high employees arriving straight from whatever car seat or couch they’d slept on as well, usually emanating a cloud that you could put a match to. Lord knows I don’t blame them, I hardly found the dank world of late 90’s superstore worth any massive effort in the personal hygiene department. Hell I always felt the need to scrub myself down in the bathtub after every shift to get the stench of desperation and broken dreams off my skin.
Even other places weren’t much better. Early days at University brought the occasional walk past the old computer science student’s lounge and the stench that it expelled. CS is a hell of a lot less nerdy and insular these days but in those days 95% of students in the department didn’t dare set foot in their own lounge. It was a dreary little warren nestled in the bowels of the science section. If you ventured within you would find a selection of trolls engaged in semester long tournaments of Magic the Gathering, Goldeneye and Warcraft II as well as a never-ending Warhammer or D&D campaign. If the stench of the rarely unoccupied furniture wasn’t enough to make your eyes water then you had the citizens themselves. If I had to guess I’d say the room probably averaged a daily shower only if you spread it out across all of the regular residents. I’m just glad that back then were were close to the (only by comparison) less disgusting general science lounge.
This is all lengthy preamble to say that I’ve smelled some disgusting people in my time. I’ve done work in hospitals and care homes for the old and disabled. I’ve been to music festivals and terrible hippie coffee bars. I spent a week at a scout jamboree where the rain was so bad that the portapotties overflowed, hell, I’ve visited a sugar beet processing plant. Nothing, not even driving into Brady Landfill on a hot, humid day compares to one of the night janitors in my building.This man’s stench should have its own area code.
Your brain shuts down and all you can smell for an hour after escaping is stale sweat, tobacco and hatred.
It’s like something out of a John Carpenter film. The scent creeps up on you. At first you say to yourself, “that can’t possibly be B.O.” but you slowly begin to realize that it’s truly one human being producing that odour. Your smell receptors scream for mercy, your entire body struggles not to breathe but the cloud is simply too large to cross without inhaling and the last thing you want to do is gasp for air. Finally you give in and take as small a sip of air as you can but it’s too late. Your brain shuts down and all you can smell for an hour after escaping is stale sweat, tobacco and hatred.
You may think I exaggerate but let me step you through just how bad it is. Our building seems to have a severe air pressure differential from outside. The front doors face directly into our elevators and cold air regularly rides up to the upper floors and getting into the elevators in inside clothes is sometimes unbearable in the dead of winter. As far as I can tell this man only works nights as I see him when I stay at work late to go straight to an event. It begins when I walk to the elevator, thankful to finally be leaving the office. I get in the elevator and my nose twitches. It’s not until the door closes and the entombment is complete that I realize I should have taken the stares. His stench has ridden up 6 floors and is surrounding me, yet our creaking elevator will take so long to get to the ground floor that I simply can’t just wait to breathe. Small breaths, I try not to use my nose but it’s so pervasive that I can’t help but smell. Then the doors open at the main level. I can’t help but expect to see some sort of green haze as if a video game monster has used a poison attack. Nope. There’s simply one man, usually at the far end of the vast atrium but with his odour so pungent it’s as if I was buried in his armpit. Because it’s late I can’t just dash out the close door but instead have to head across the entire atrium to the back of the building. Nor can I run because he’s freshly polished the floors and I’d no doubt fall, smash my head and be faced with the prospect of mouth to mouth. The security guard usually ensconced in the corner is nowhere to be seen, no doubt doing extra outdoor rounds until the janitor moves to another floor (I’ve seen them do 4 laps of the perimeter rather than go inside, even in weather touching minus 40 celsius.) I eventually escape but it really is the truth, I keep tasting that smell in the back of my mouth for a while afterwards. Thankfully when I stay late I’m usually heading someplace with a bar and I can wash away the horror with a few pulls at a beer. The question always lingers… how does this man not get sent to the basement showers by his supervisor when he shows up smelling like that? Our union really is too powerful.
In the end I’m repeatedly struck by one simple fact: This man is in some way responsible for cleanliness and hygiene in my building. The thought is truly horrifying.
While I know Wes Anderson’s movies rub some people the wrong way I am personally an unabashed fanboy. I remember my first glimpse of the trailer for The Royal Tenenbaums while sitting in the sticky darkness of Cinema City. I was on a first or second date with some girl whose name I can’t recall. I turned to her afterwards as the last commercial for drinks in the lobby played and said something like “that looks interesting” and I still remember her replying but a really, almost valley girl “nah, looks dumb.” Pretty much from that moment I knew things were doomed. If I remember correctly she confirmed that assumption with some pretty stupid comments during the post movie drinks. It was our last time out together.
Since then I’ve seen everything that he’s put out (and gone back to catch Rushmore and Bottle Rocket) and I am waiting rather impatiently for The Grand Budapest hotel to debut here in Winnipeg. Unfortunately it arrives in theatres the day before I leave on holiday and may be gone by the time I have free time again two weeks later. In the meantime however I am very tempted to try the recipe for what is apparently the film’s signature dessert, a “Courtesan au Chocolat.” A mountain of chocolate and choux pastry intricately arranged in a very Anderson manner, it’s clearly a ton of work but I’m dying to try one.
Thankfully the recipe has been released as a video, shot as an in universe demo (perhaps it even appears in the movie as is, someone feel free to say so in the comments.
I’ve always loved corned beef. Something about the salty tang of the meat and the zing of a fine hot mustard between two thick slabs of proper rye bread just speaks to my soul. As a result one of the first things I tried during my journey into Charcuterie was a from scratch home-brined brisket of corned beef in honour of St. Patrick’s day. Here’s what I wrote last year over on the sister site.
For the record, I do know that Corned Beef actually isn’t that traditional an Irish dish. It certainly is a transplanted Irish dish however and has always been popular as a St. Paddy’s treat on this side of the pond. Personally as a Winnipegger it’s always been a favourite for sandwiches as well. Give me a proper Winnipeg Corned Beef on Rye with hot mustard over almost any other sandwich in the world (Montreal Smoked Meat being an exception of course.) Yet for some reason it had never occurred to me to try making it from scratch. I guess I’d always assumed it was something for which a commercial kitchen was required.
Since that magical day I’ve been spreading the gospel of the home made corned beef but it’s been a while since I’ve done it myself. I couldn’t let St. Patrick’s pass without doing one and so last night I pulled from the brine a delicious 4 lb brisket, boiled it up and when I get home tonight it’s time for corned beef, cabbage and new potatoes.
If you’re interested in trying it out at home you really only need one special ingredient (that you can order online, or skip with some reprecussions) and the total active time and effort involved is more or less an hour.
