This weekend was about nesting, making my new apartment almost as functional as home. I discovered how complicated and labor-intensive simple tasks can become in an unknown city, where everything shuts early, taxis have to be called and I don’t have access to a Communauto. Sometimes it feels like I’m back to pre-industrial times. Tasks that take me half a morning in Montreal become whole-weekend pilgrimages here.

Marie-Ève doesn’t have a cellphone so I got to remember what it was like to lose someone in a crowd in pre-cellphone times when we became separated at Ikea, where we had gone by taxi (my second visit in as many days, because we couldn’t get everything done in one load). Then I tried putting together the furniture but had no tools. Destroyed my hand trying to twist screws without a screwdriver, and hammering with a shoe. In the end the furniture was held together mostly by hope, and I actually feared leaving the window open lest the wind blow my Billy shelf apart.

Even if I didn’t have about 12 different screwdrivers at home in Montreal, buying one would have been a matter of crossing Mont-Royal street to one of three nearby Ronas. Not so in Newcastle. After running around town in search of tools, and finding everything closed (at 4:45 PM!), I remembered a 24-hour Tesco located out of town. Walked 40 minutes to get there (for a &?%$#@ hammer!), past billboards boasting its opening hours with slogans like “Tesco - Still Open!”. Got there and found it closed. Ah ben SACRAMENT! On a bright, cheerful sign that shouted “Open 24 Hours!” at me, were also listed the actual opening hours (10 am - 4 pm Sundays, and not one day where it doesn’t shut). What?

The washer/dryer with whom I’m living a lie (I suspect it of just being a washer) is covered in forgotten, obscure Runic symbols instead of text, and locks my panties inside if I don’t enter the right incantation combination of buttons.

With the months all this will probably become familiar and I can carve out an efficient life for myself. However, the Buddha on my Billy would say that for the time being, it’s probably best to let go of such opulent luxuries as a dépanneur.

UPDATE: I can’t make this shit up. I found the washer/dryer manual online at work, and sent myself the link at home. Get home and set up the laptop nearby, click the link, and it’s blocked as inappropriate content. If I was high I’d be seriously paranoid right now.

I was wondering how people here would react to England’s elimination. Found people in the pub strangely philosophical about the whole thing, kept saying they didn’t deserve to win.

Dr Wank says: “That’s the brits for you: Keep Calm and Carry On (i.e., unless you’re actually AT a football game, in which case freak out and beat the shit out of everybody).”

So I’ve moved to Newcastle in the UK for a few months, to work on this with them. It all happened quite quickly… so here I am and after 3 days pretty much offline I’m like a very relieved addict getting a fix. Even doing a blog post.

Newcastle looks like an old town that’s had a lot of investment to modernize it, full of Edinburgh-like brownstone, spires and ancient cathedrals, mixed in with a lot of modern “culture centre” buildings. The result is schizophrenic, but not without charm. In some areas the understated modern signs work well with the stone walls, in others (a huge sculpture of DNA made of shopping carts next to a wall built by the Romans), it’s a stretch. A search for a Tesco (UK version of Loblaws) took me for a walk down Quayside near the water last night, and it was quite beautiful.

The apartment is great. Centrally located, clean, bright and modern, with huge windows and a view over the city. Enough groceries were waiting for me to make dinner and breakfast stuff, as well as a bottle of red. Strange priorities, though: there are puzzles in case I get bored, but no alarm clock. Gardening stuff including earth and seeds, but no hair dryer. Along with the absence of an Internet connection or TV service, it seems this trip is intent on connecting me with my inner Zen.

Have already hit a few of the UK required milestones: Friday night at the pub, Tesco, curry and Antiques Roadshow. Football tomorrow!

When I went to Indonesia in 1996, I remember seeing an ornate “window” in a hostel, which was essentially a nicely-shaped hole right in the concrete wall, with no glass or screen. I saw this and had the thought, “but what do they do in wint-? oh… right”. It’s those little things that make you realize that a lot of what we take for granted are really special features of Canada.

I was in Scotland over the holidays and I made a lot of fun of the country for being paralyzed by so little snow. Snow that grass poked through created enough havoc to cancel some of the family’s holiday festivities, including a dinner. But although it was a wuss of a winter (-8C at worst I saw there), it was definitely harder to live with than here. I remember feeling and hearing drafts in every pub and house I entered, and in most places the heating couldn’t cope well enough to warm the interior completely. Ever since I’ve been back, I’ve been appreciating the simple fact of being able to actually be toasty when inside, or walk confidently on the sidewalk (on which abrasives are used). If Britain is so unused to what little winter I saw there, I’m not shocked that the prolonged frost they’ve been getting is screwing them up completely, and I feel for them.

My friend Charles, on a sabbatical in New Zealand, has noticed that the doors there are often left wide open, leading to birds often being seen in cafés. He adds, “nobody seems to consider this a public health hazard”. That fear that beasties, including domestic ones, are unsanitary, seems typically North American. Everywhere I’ve gone (including Europe), I’ve seen owners bring well-behaved dogs to restaurants, and on trains. There were at least 5 dogs (leashed, not caged) in our one crowded compartment on the train to Glasgow. In Indonesia I dined in a restaurant where I could see a rat walking on the awning of the bar. My hotel in Venezuela, the same one where the UN Secretary General had recently stayed, had cockroaches. Sure, I wouldn’t like to eat next to rats and dead birds, but I think we’re a little overcareful when it comes to dogs, cats, birds, squirrels, geckos, and the like. People aren’t that afraid everywhere. They really are especially afraid here.

I was recently talking to my friend Thierry, who moved to L.A. last year, about the American healthcare reform. He felt that a key difference between American and Canadian attitudes with respect to this was that in America, it’s accepted as common sense that a public figure or richer person should get better and faster treatment than the rest of the population, in all things. Conversely in Canada, according to my friend, we expect all to be equal, for better or worse. This is definitely supported by the indignation we saw when Claude Dubois jumped the H1N1 vaccination line this fall, and last week when Halle Berry skipped the queue at Trudeau airport. One commenter said that the outrage over this is strictly Canadian, as in most places people expect stars to get VIP treatment everywhere, including at security checks.

This is how travelling makes you know your own country better. Some things others may soon have to learn from us, while for some other things… I wish we’d learn from them.

Got to St. Peter’s in the early morning, and without waiting, made it into the grandest church in Italy. It was spectacular simply by virtue of its the sheer size. I’ve seen big churches with little chapels off to the side, this had big churches off to the side. After exploring the tombs of countless saints and popes, I got the guidebook out to see if there wasn’t some famous art somewhere in here. Oh yeah! Michaelangelo’s Pietà. Paused for a second in the spot where Charlemagne was crowned, then moved on back into the sunlight.

Stood in line 55 minutes to get into the Vatican museums, whose sole feature of interest to me was the Sistine Chapel. Going through the museum to the chapel, even by the most direct route, is an exercise in human herding, sweat and anticipation. The multicultural crowd jostles cattle-like through majestic corridor upon majestic corridor, each time thinking the Chapel is next, barely noticing the world-class works all around. Only exception to this for me: Raphael’s rooms, where I was excited to see one of my favorite paintings of all time, the huge School of Athens, in which all the great minds of Antiquity are reunited: Plato, Aristotle, Euclid…

At long last the human wave emerged into the Sistine Chapel. Although the sweat-march and its preceding 55-minute wait in the sun had ensured everyone was properly subdued and exhausted, I conjured some awe at the ceiling and at Judgment Day. The latter is a huge fresco wherein the dead are torn from their graves to face the maker, intended to scare you into obedience. I’m sure I would have been humbled if not surrounded by German tours.

Upon emerging I admit I rejoiced at the thought that my to-see list was now completed. I could spend the rest of my Roman stay sitting in the shade nursing my blistered feet.

I’d been warned that the Vatican would make me “vomit in my mouth” a little considering the difference between its opulence and Jesus’ life. I have to say, though, that every time I’ve seen a ridiculous, over-the-top site, be it Versailles, Borobudur, Hagia Sofia or even the Vegas strip, part of me has been happy that someone had the nerve, the vanity, the impracticality, the recklessness (and yeah, sometimes the faith) to build it. I’m glad extreme places like these exist, though yes, I’m glad they’re rare.

Today was marble day. The house of Octavian (emperor Augustus), the Senate, the Vestal virgin houses, the Colosseum (frankly overhyped), and countless arches and temples. The Romans had lots of gods, and Octavian had an impressive hippodrome adjoining his house (but no Wi-Fi).

Lunched at a trattoria, apprehensively watching a ray of sun the width of the alley slowly creeping towards me. Right before it reached me, I was getting ready to move on but the waiter brought me a glass of cold white wine on the house. I can make an exception today and let myself roast a little, I thought. My new friend kept refilling my glass, and I kept reading and writing well beyond the point when the sun had come and gone, several hours.

In my sunblasted euphoria, my mood seemed to have ranged from the metaphysical to the stupid, judging from my notes.

“Old man smoking pipe on Vespa hilarious!

Older religions think everything always starts all over again. Christians see time going in a direction.

I hate that my left brain never shuts up. I love that the manhole covers in Rome still say SPQR.

Everywhere you go in the world outside n america the coffee’s great and there’s soccer on TV

After 3 days I still don’t know if I go in the Signore or the Signori. Neither seem to have urinals.

Tomorrow, the Vatican. Be nice if God talked to me.”

Great price to quality ratio, those hours. I even got a tan in the bargain.

Spent the day canvassing the “historical district” (as opposed to what?) on foot, and baking in the heat. I find it interesting that historical accounts of Rome tell the story of Romulus and Remus with as much seriousness as they do of the Emperors and Popes that came afterwards. The twins, descendants of Gods and supposed founders of Rome, were abandoned to their own fate as babies but were found and suckled by a she-wolf. This is recounted as normally as the Caesar’s crossing of the Rubicon. I did find one account that suggested they may have been found by a hooker nicknamed “she-wolf”, but I guess it lacks the panache befitting Rome.

I read last year that each city can be described by one word and that the word for Rome is Sex. I don’t find that really accurate. Sure, there are ridiculously muscular, tanned and gelled studs on every corner, some of them priests. Maybe the pigeons seem to court their mates a little more insistently than in Montreal. And yes, gift shops sell close-ups of the choicest parts of nude statues with captions like “WOW!!!” on them, but if anything that’s cartoon sex to me.

If I had to choose a word for Rome it would be Sun. Ever powerful, ubiquitous sun. I can’t remember ever being so conscious of it, as in trying desperately to get out of it (and I’ve been in the Sahara). The Roman sun bakes you as soon as it hits; it washes the city in its crazy bright light, and it blasts away all the colors in any picture I take.

Others might describe Rome as Food, too, but the heat makes it impossible to think of pasta. Or of fucking, for that matter.

A direct flight has its advantages, but it really doesn’t make you feel like you’ve travelled at all. Slept deeply through the night flight then was in my hotel, seemingly in minutes. My mind knew this was Rome but I didn’t feel the journey in my bones. It felt more like I’d taken a bus to Québec City, if that.

Did, however, find myself unable to breathe upon seeing the Colosseum this afternoon. It wasn’t so much the poor Christian bastards who met their end there, nor the Gladiators whose blood I probably would have smelled from where I stood, just a connection to everything that’s happened before my little life and everything that comes after it. That feeling is always short and fleeting, but immensely comforting.

Finished the day the way you imagine a typical moment in Rome. Panacotta and espresso at a trattoria on a square, a fedora’ed quartet playing songs that make everyone sway from side to side, a group of perfectly dressed older Italian men at another table clapping along.

Will head back now, planning to fall asleep in front of bad Italian TV.

The Duchess True-story period drama that actually managed to change my level of appreciation of Keira Knightley from white-hot hatred to tolerance bordering on admiration.
Eagle Eye Brain-turned-off action flick where poor bastard Shia Labeouf has to follow instructions from mysterious female voice on phone or everyone dies. Great bullshit computer interfaces throughout. Very stupid, but does the job it sets out to do. I still white-hot hate Shia Labeouf.
Body of Lies A surprisingly weak and unsatisfying Ridley Scott Iraq-war thing starring Leo DiCaprio and Russell Crowe. Starts off good enough but gratuitous romance sub-plot totally fucks up the pacing.
Nights in Rodanthe End-of-flight bottom-of-the-barrel scrape where Diane Lane and Richard Gere play damaged middle-agers who find a second chance at life through their sickly-sweet romance. An assault on intelligence, and even more on consciousness.

The people of Greenland pass a referendum regarding greater autonomy from Denmark.

Here’s a crappy picture I took of Greenland on the way back from Scotland last September.

There’s people there?