Saturday 18 October 2014

Ottawa - The Ride That Wasn’t

It’s one of those moments...should I, shouldn’t I? I have to go to Ottawa (or as it’s pronounced by Anglophone Canadians “Oddawah”), to attend a conference. I know this sounds terribly exciting, it is after all a conference for accountants, more specifically accountants involved in the public sector, but I am trying to decide if I should make it even more exciting by riding my motorcycle there and back.  A few weeks ago this would have been a no-brainer, I’d have been on that Boulevard like white on rice, but now I waiver, it’s the weather you see. I can handle a bit of rain, I can handle some cold, I can handle wind, but I am not sure that I want to ride nearly 500 km there and the same back through rain, cold and wind and that is pretty much what www.theweathernetwork.com is saying about Sunday through to Tuesday. Friends and family urge caution, Iron John inside me wants to ride the storm. I am sorry to admit that I wimp out. Shameful admission though it is, I will not pretend that I braved the storms on the Boulevard, instead I drove the Dodge Caravan – sad old joker that I am.

I manage to leave a little later than intended (as bloody usual), so decide to take the 401 motorway. Before leaving home I grab a few CDs from the collection and toss them onto the passenger seat – actually it’s been a long time since they saw service, what with YouTube and iTunes, CDs have gone the same way as vinyl. Some classic Eric Clapton and a more recent album where he does Country and even a bit of Reggae, the man has talent and like Keith Richards all the drugs in the world can't silence him. Koos Kombuis reminds me of a previous life, the haunting sounds of the soundtrack to the movie The Mission (Robert De Niro, Jeremy Irons and a very youthful Liam Neeson before all that Taken shit), and a still wonderful compilation CD from 1999 – Radio 94.7 Highveld Stereo – featuring songs like Maria by Blondie, Simply Red and The Air That I Breathe, Savage Garden To the Moon and Back, and Perfect 10 by Beautiful South, keep me company. It is marvelous, but tame, oh so tame, however I seem to be vindicated, the weather is really foul. I stop at an Onroute for gas and the wind knifes icily through me, I have seen not a single motorcyclist since turning onto the motorway. Contrast to when I rode to the Adirondack, just a week or so before, man the weather changes fast at this time of year.

Driving along listening to music I realize something that hadn’t come to mind about riding my motorcycle. Driving in a car one has the need to be interacting with the world outside your head, listening to music or chatter on the radio, talking to passengers, assuming you have any. When I’m on the Boulevard, it’s just me and my thoughts, it’s become my quiet time, paradoxically I suppose, considering all that’s going on when you ride. It’s meditation of sorts, Zen at 130 Km/h. This is the time that I’ve been able to put so much into perspective. It has been humbling and empowering at the same time. I wouldn’t swap the hours on my motorcycle for a hundred times those hours more living, because that living is filmed in sepia and riding a motorcycle is in Technicolor.       

Just past Kingston I take Provincial Road 15 north to Smith Falls, ultimately to join up with Highway 7 at Carleton Place. Smith Falls holds a few powerful memories for me, it feels like a million years ago, but was just in the spring that Helena and I rode to Rigaud in Quebec for a memorable few days. It started to rain just after Smith Falls, we were travelling east on Provincial Road 43, not particularly heavy rain, but we stopped on the hard shoulder, such as it was, and donned the rain gear. Our mistake was to only put on the jackets, foolishly thinking that the trouser part was not really necessary, actually it’s the trousers that are the most important part of the outfit. We hadn’t gone far when it became evident that the rain strikes you on the shins, goes straight through the cotton of your jeans and runs down your legs into your boots, very unpleasant. Today I am going north through Smith Falls and it is raining cats and dogs – is it ever dry here?

Eventually I meet up with Highway 7, which is by now a dual carriage way, the sun has set and according to my Dodge Caravan’s instruments the external temperature is 4 degrees C. I tell Iron John that really, riding this on the Boulevard would have been hell, he tells me that I’m just a mommy’s boy… I deal with that, fuck him and his testosterone issues. Highway 7 becomes Highway 417 that takes me into Ottawa. After a bit of getting lost, not unusual for me, I am a little dyslexic when it comes to left, right and east and west, eventually I find the guest house. For some reason north and south does not present me with any issues.  Alexander House on Besserer Street turns out to be a really great find. My hosts, Sharon and Stephen, are an interesting and very pleasant couple and the room and indeed guest house is full of beautiful antiques. My only complaint is the weak Wi-Fi signal in the room, when I move my laptop to the dining room it is fine. Sharon is also ok with serving me breakfast at 7.00 a.m. a ridiculous hour dictated by some overeager accountant who wants the day to start  with registration at 8.00 a.m. Breakfast is served on Sharon’s lovely collection of white and blue crockery – Spode, Delft and Willow Pattern – a great meal with pleasant conversation, despite the uncivilized hour. 


Besserger Street



Modestly Prosperous 

Ottawa is a city of civil servants, a bit like Pretoria and I suppose like Washington and Canberra, but perhaps less contrived, at least it seems to be less designed and more accidental. It has that prosperous, yet modest air of a government town. I pass several embassies, confirming this is the capital. The Angolan embassy pulls a bit at my heart strings, sometimes when I’m reminded of Africa I get a powerful longing to return to the tropical heat and wilderness. I miss African people (black people) the most, their inherent kindness and capacity to survive and enjoy life despite terrible poverty, lack of opportunity and very often horrendous oppression.


Angolan Embassy 

As things turn out I don’t get a lot of time to explore the city other than the 25 minute walk from Alexander house to the Ottawa Conference Centre, but I find myself drawn to this city. This is a city of great compromise, an Anglophone Canadian city that realizes that it must accommodate, nay embrace, Quebec, and is truly the better for it. Ottawa has a sophistication that is more encompassing than any other city that I have been to in Canada. The balancing act that Canada performs to keep the interests of the Quebecois and the rest of Canada in sync seems to me to be symbolized here. I understand that the city was selected to be the capital city of Canada by Queen Victoria mainly as it is about equidistant between Toronto and Quebec City, a good compromise. My walk eventually brings me to the entrance to the Conference Centre, I know it is supposed to resemble a tulip, but frankly I don’t see it. It’s a moderately interesting glass building attached to a shopping centre, slightly out of character with the surroundings, but does not clash too much.  I sign in and conference away for the next two days.



The City of Gold, with Tulip in Foreground

Tuesday afternoon arrives and the coven of accountants breaks up, all of us much wiser and our craft honed to perfection. I bid farewell to my hosts in Besserer Streey and navigate the Dodge Caravan to Highway 417 westbound. It’s cold and rainy and as I leave the city the heavens open, I travel through a downpour of biblical proportions that even Moses would have been proud of it. Visibility is cut to 50 metres and the highway becomes a river. I am glad not to be on a motorcycle, this would be a profoundly dangerous ride, not to mention how uncomfortable it would be. The storm does not last and by the time I reach Highway 7 it is dry and the sun has come out, I wish I was on the Boulevard again. Driving, compared to riding a motorcycle, is like eating chocolate with a condom on the tongue, now there’s a mixed metaphor for you!

My plan is to follow the Trans Canadian and retrace the road that Helena and I rode to Rigaud and back in the spring. It was our first long ride and we were both a little nervous when we set out. We had originally planned a longer trip, Rigaud was intended to be merely the first stop, then onto Île d’Orléans via Trois-Rivières. From a base in Île d’Orléans we planned to day trip down the Saint Lawrence and return home on a route that would have taken us through Maine, Vermont and the Adirondack. It would have been absolutely fabulous and I’d like to do it sometime, but we realized that it was overly ambitious and would take more time than we had available. I suspect Helena was also reluctant to leave the chubby little dachshunds to the tender mercies of the younger generation for the week or so, lest we return to emaciated little dachshunds. In stages we moderated the plan, and in the end it was just to Rigaud, day trip in the area, stay a second night and ride back. Modest in comparison to the original idea it was nonetheless a great three days and actually just the right distance, there is a type of fitness that one needs to build up to handle long rides. If you are not used to it you get tired and make stupid mistakes.  

Helena on her Harley D (883 Sportster) and I on the Boulevard B.O.S.S., we left home at about 8 in the morning. We took a slightly longer route to get to the Trans Canadian Highway in order to go through the Kawartha Lakes Region. Up until that point a long ride for us had been to the town of Lindsay, the main town of the Kawartha Lakes District, now it was just a coffee stop on the way – Tim Horton’s and a few double espressos. We picked up the Trans Canadian just after Lindsay and headed towards Peterborough through Omemee, home town of Neil Young, currently grumpy looking grandpa, once the fourth wheel of Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young. We bypassed Peterborough, travelling on a short stretch of dual carriageway. Our exposure to motorways had been limited and it was an exciting, if slightly scary, experience. Back on normal roads, the Trans Canadian traversed farmlands, but these soon gave way to forests, this is the Canadian Shield and there is not enough topsoil to do much intensive farming. It was late spring and all around the world was in the process of reawakening. It still blows me away how in the winter the plants die away and snow covers everything, then spring arrives and by June, Southern Ontario looks more like a tropical paradise than anything else. Helena is a keen gardener, and works hard to plant, mulch, mow and do all the other earthy pursuits involved in making our garden look as great as it does, but out here it’s all the workings of nature – just wonderful.            

We followed the Trans Canadian to Madoc where we took a coffee break and gassed up the motorcycles. Just before the gas station we passed the mad guy of Madoc’s place, at least that’s what we think of him – reminiscent of Howling Mad Murdock. From Madoc to the town of Perth the Trans Canadian goes through the loveliest stretch imaginable. Even now as I drive back from Ottawa on this road in the fall it is an absolute gorgeous stretch – lakes, rivers and ponds uncountable, now the forests are red and yellow tinged, rather than light green of spring that Helena and I rode through. We parted company with the Trans Canadian at Perth, where we took the provincial road 43 to Smith Falls. As we rode there was a sense that we were riding just ahead of a storm, it was chasing us eastwards, but as Hollywood will attest, nature will catch up with you, and we were forced to deal with the rain, poorly as mentioned earlier.



Howling Mad Madoc's Place

We crossed from Ontario into Quebec just after the village of Alexander. I have Anglophone Canadian friends that refuse to travel through Quebec on the grounds that they cannot abide the French. I have dealt with French speaking Canadians that refuse to speak English though they can. People, really, are we Canadians or not? Ok so I’m going to say something unpopular here – WAKE THE FUCK UP! The French and Indian War ended in 1763… that is a QUARTER OF A MILLENIUIM ago!  Underlying all divisions between human tribes is self-interest of one or other politician. I absolutely love to visit Quebec, it’s like taking a trip to Provence, without the expense of a transatlantic flight. The guesthouse in Rigaud is situated high up on the hill (mountain?)  Le Point de Vue - see www.lepointdevue.net. It is run by a gay couple that make you feel really welcome, even though we speak no French and they speak little English. The room is tastefully furnished with a stunning view over the Ottawa valley. We were tired, cold and hungry and after a shower we took a taxi into town in search of a nice French meal, it was still raining. It turned out that although Rigaud is a skiing resort and a university town in a French speaking province, it is cursed with a complete dearth of decent restaurants. I could not believe it, the best place to have dinner had pictures of the dishes on the menu (always a bad sign) and the food was pretty disappointing.


Breakfast the next morning was, however, a very different proposition. I hadn’t read the literature properly so was unaware of the treat in store, like it or not we were in for a six course breakfast. Helena and I are poached eggs and coffee fans, as far as breakfast is concerned, but for fear of offending our hosts we soldiered through – it was really good, just more than we could handle. We waddled out from the breakfast room at about ten, sleepy and at least an hour behind schedule, never mind it was fun, so who cares.  Our planned route for the day took us to Grande Île, down to Ormsville, through Franklin and eventually north through Huntingdon. It was a great day trip, lots of twists and turns and fabulous countryside – agriculture, but on a smaller scale and less industrial than Ontario.  Our route back to Rigaud was intended to take us onto the Autoroute De Souvinir west, then get on the provincial road 325 and up through the countryside to Rigaud. Unhappily Helena and I got separated and I ended up taking the motorway almost into Montreal. For once I was relieved to encounter a tollgate stop. The guy in the booth, in broken English pointed out the road I needed to follow. I was eternally grateful and once again realize that the myth of the arrogant, unhelpful Quebecois is just that, a myth. Fifty hair-raising kilometres later I arrived in Rigaud. The road to the guest house from the motorway went past a supermarket. I stopped to buy salad stuff, olives, cheese, hummus, tortillas and some wine. In the meantime Helena had followed the intended route and got to ride through some stunning countryside and enjoyed the twists and turns of a quiet country road. The distance for the day, about 350 Km.  We dined on my purchases on the balcony overlooking the Ottawa River Valley – absolutely gorgeous.   


Scenes from  Highway 7


 Even the water lilies change colour


Canadian Shield 


Really lovely - on Highway 7 

We left the guest house early the next morning dressed in full regalia, it was rainy and cold so the rain gear was on. Now I am as keen as the next guy on a six course breakfast, but there was no way we could make it home by a reasonable hour had we stayed for that, instead it was tea biscuits and espresso at Tim Horton’s in Alexander. We followed the same road home that we had come by. Not always a bad idea, the view coming is very different to the view going. I suggested we go through Peterborough instead of bypassing on the motorway, which wasn’t my brightest moment, stop-start traffic for 5 kilometres through the ugliness of Walmart, Home Depots and other cookie cutter emporiums that ruin all Canadian towns. We made it home before six o’clock to the boundless joy of the dachshunds, you would swear that we had been away for weeks and weeks. Poor little buggers, their needs are so simple and straightforward you just can’t help loving them.


My route home from Ottawa is much the same, it is rainy and cold with intermittent sunshine. Fall instead of spring, red and yellow leaves versus light green of the newly sprouted, only driving the Dodge Caravan is such a poor substitute. This is Canada, I deal with the downs because it has such ups. The riding season is coming to an end, but there is always next year. Older, but no wiser, I’ll ride again, assuming I’m still here and capable.   

Friday 10 October 2014

Donnelly’s Sunset Point Cabins - Adirondack

The road doesn’t take me quite high enough or close enough to the mountains to entirely satisfy the yearning, actually just awakens the mountain man in me even more. I really will have to ride some mountains next year, if not the Rockies, then at least I’ll go a bit deeper into the Appalachians. Maybe Vermont and follow the mountains south, retrace the battles of the Civil War where the Grand Army of the Potomac suffered at the hands of General Lee, yet finally prevailed. Perhaps tomorrow I’ll take the Road 28N and go further east to where it seems there’ll be more views from up on high. But now it’s cooling down and evening is coming so I’d better find somewhere to stay for the night. I’m not keen to ride these roads at night, hitting as much as a raccoon can do more than just spoil the ride.

The road takes me over a bridge, around a corner and into the Village of Long Lake, and where I’d intended to find a place to sleep at reasonable rates. My heart sinks a little, the place is pumping, well in a very sedate way, but enough to make me realize that with weather this good, in a place famous for its gorgeous autumn colors, I really ought to have had the foresight to book ahead. I haven’t even brought a groundsheet and sleeping bag. I try the Adirondack Hotel, but even as I mount the steps I have no real hope. The verandah is full of people partaking of sundowners and outside in front of the hotel, a large gang of motorcyclist are making a noise with their Harley Ds. If they didn’t actually look like an outing from Shady Pines Retirement Home they may have been quite intimidating. As it turns out there is indeed no room at the inn… damn.


Adirondack Hotel - sans Sons of Arthritis 

I am, however, not entirely daunted as I have noticed a few signs for cabins and motels. Back on the Boulevard as I pull away from the Hotel, with the ruckus still going on, courtesy of the Sons of Arthritis gang, the scariest moment of the day happens. I discover that I have managed to trap a yellow jacket wasp inside my visor. Picture this - there is a bloody frightened and angry little creature with a ferocious sting corralled between a bubble of Plexiglas and my eyes, cheeks and nose and I am balancing on a motorcycle, just pulling away into a busy street. Resisting the urge to leap off, sending my precious riderless into the traffic, and rip off my helmet takes every ounce of self-control I possess. Zen Buddhist monks be damned, this is in another league.  Perhaps it’s the presence of such a large audience to witness the events, but ever so calmly I manage to ease the motorcycle to a halt, deploy the kick-stand and flip open the modular helmet. Out of the corner of my eye I see it fly off. Had it started to actually sting me, I don’t know if I could have kept it together. These yellow jackets wasps are a real curse, they seem to be attracted to the motorcycle, often harassing me at traffic lights. I have since done some Googling and discovered that whilst the females like sugar, the males are after protein and the remains of spattered bugs on the windshield (and maybe on my visor) are the attraction.    

Once my composure returns, and despite the concern of finding somewhere to doss down for the night, I notice what a lovely little village this is, nestled in the narrow valley and hugging the shores of the lake. The main road is lined with interesting looking shops that include an old fashion style general store – it’s a little touristy, but not bad. Across from the hotel, where the geriatric delinquents have thankfully moved off, a couple of seaplanes are berthed, and there is a beach where some people are sitting in Adirondack chairs staring over the lake. It’s that human fascination with water I’ve written about before.   (Note to my Canadian readers - an Adirondack chair is known in Canada as a Muskoka chair, according to Wikipedia “…a simple rustic wooden chair for outdoor use. Originally made with 11 flat wooden boards, it features a straight back and seat and wide armrests.)


Seaplane on Long Lake 


Long Lake Village - main street

The village looks like a nice place to spend a few days, but by the looks of things it will not come to pass, as I ride past the motels they all have little signs that read “No Vacancies”. I decide to try my luck at Blue Mountain about 11 Km south, if I luck out there, then my options become very limited, and the later it gets the less chance I have of finding accommodation. The road follows the valley along the lake, slightly elevated and the view is spectacular when not obscured by trees. Then as I get to the end of what could be considered to be the outskirts of the village, I spot a sign for Donnelly’s Sunset Point Cabins and beneath it is a little board the reads “Vacancies”. As fast as I safely can manage the maneuver I do a U-turn, I am not going to get gezumpt with this one. Down a somewhat treacherous little road and through a lovely piece of forest, I find the equally lovely proprietor standing outside the office. It turns out that I get the last cabin, definitely the last place to stay in Long Lake, maybe the last place for miles. It is a wonderful find and I seriously recommend it, if I come this way again I'll stay here. 


The Cabin 


After moving in, now "No Vacancies" 

The feeling of relief is palpable, although it is a bit more than I had budgeted for, at $100 for the night it is expensive in absolute terms, but if you consider that the cabin actually sleeps seven people, has a fully equipped kitchen, bathroom, sitting room and verandah, it is dirt cheap. The cabin is spotless and well maintained, if somewhat oddly furnished with an incongruous mixture of lovely antiques, like real bentwood chairs in the kitchen, and cheap plastic veneered chipboard Walmart cabinets. The proprietress tells me that they are lighting a fire down at the lake and I am welcome to join them. It sounds all very pleasant, but I am really hungry, the pencil eraser salad I had for lunch in Watertown has long since ceased to sustain me. After unpacking I head back to the general store, I am not in the mood for sitting in a restaurant, but a home cooked steak and salad seems like a good idea. The general store has sirloin steaks packed on Styrofoam as big as both my hands, I buy one plus eggs for breakfast, a tomato the size of a baseball, ripe avocado and a small bottle of olive oil. Then to my horror, my debit, then credit cards, get declined. I had already parted with all my US Dollars except for $20 that is earmarked for gas, to Donnelly’s Sunset Point Cabins, shit there must be something wrong with the banking system. I ask if they will take Canadian money, and after some hesitation we agree on a very unfavorable exchange rate, but that’s okay an extra five dollars is not important – I have dinner, breakfast and a place to stay.


Evening at Donnelly’s Sunset Point Cabins,

The steak and tomato/avocado salad that I make is really good. With a glass containing a double Jack Daniels, ice and water I go down to the fire and watch the sunset. This is extraordinarily pleasant. For a time I am alone, then I’m joined by the couple that apparently got the second last cottage. Tom and Wendy. Nice people. Slightly older than me, retired and their children have left home. They are from Vermont and have been travelling around from Vermont, Maine and now Adirondack, for the past week. Going where they feel like, stopping where they want, I envy them the freedom they have.  Having emigrated at age 50 from a country with a weak currency, the probability of retirement before I am really decrepit is extremely low. Still I take the moments that I can get with both hands, and this is one of those great moments. We chat about this and that, the good old, bad old days before cell phones, PCs and Google. Then a young family join us with two young children and they roast marshmallows over the fire. The proprietress and her husband stroll down the beach arm-in-arm and join the group. They tell us about moose tracks they found on the beach. It has been years since I sat around a fire having pleasant conversation, vaguely I realize that this is about as good as it gets, and that makes me profoundly sad, but perhaps it’s just the Jack Daniels.   


Tom and Wendy


Roasting marshmallow 



 Sunset on Long Lake 

I’m up at seven, poach a few eggs for breakfast and drink a Redbull in lieu of coffee, clean up and pack. The Boulevard is wet from the dew and it is misty. Mmmm, the mist presents a dilemma – it is not too thick as to make riding dangerous, but that is here, I have no idea what it is like a kilometer down the road. I know that I won’t be seeing much in the way of mountains with this mist in the way, and who knows how long it’s going to take for it to clear. I wait a half hour, but there is no perceptible change so I decide to leave, going east does not seem to be a good option. I have over 600 Km to ride so I really must get moving and taking the road south makes the most sense.  The mist has a muffling effect so that the world seems to be a very quiet place, a little unreal, bit like I imagine it would be like back in the womb. I head south towards Blue Mountain and wonder how many ‘Blue Mountains’ there might be dotted all over the planet.



 The road away from Long Lake in the misty morning


I see a sign for Buttermilk Falls and turn off the road, a name like that can simply not be resisted, it is a must see. Buttermilk Falls turns out to be worth the detour even though they are not much more than a few rapids. A brief consultation of the map confirms that the road I am on ends up in a cul-de-sac at the wrong side of Raquette Lake. It looks like a lovely ride, but not one that I am going to do today, not enough time. I head back the way I came and resume the journey towards Blue Mountain. The mist varies in density from 500 metres visibility, to as little as 50, and for a few glorious kilometers I find myself high up and above the mist, looking down on the valleys covered from edge to edge with fluffy white clouds and get to see the mountains reaching for the sky in the crisp morning light. This is what I came to see, wonderful.



Buttermilk Falls 


Then the road takes me down and back into the mist and through the Village of Blue Mountain and lots of “No Vacancy” signs. I stop at the Adirondack Museum. Tom and Wendy were telling me last night what an excellent little museum this is. Unhappily it is still closed and I can’t wait until 11.00 a.m. for it to open. I have since looked at the website http://www.adkmuseum.org/ and it does look like a place to spend several pleasant and informative hours, featuring as it does a rustic privy (looks just like a ‘long-drop’), rustic arch and a rustic gazebo. The word ‘rustic’ seems to be used a lot in this part of the world. I am really keen for a cup of coffee, but there seems to be nothing open and the mist lends an air of desolation.



Shop sign in Village of Inlet - can't agree more

 By the time I reach the Village of Inlet the mist has started to lift and things here are a lot livelier. The prospect of getting some decent coffee seems good, but all the places that are open are so full, lots of other people have the same idea as I have. I decide to push on, coffeeless. The next stop is Old Forge, according to the map, it is a reasonable size town so there is a good chance of finding a decent cuppa, not a dead cert, but I am hopeful that good things will come to those who wait. And so it comes to pass, after a very pleasant ride I arrive in the town and find a great coffee bar that isn’t overrun with customers and have two double espressos back to back – just wonderful. Old Forge is not far from the border of the Park, and it seems that for anyone approaching the park from New York, Philadelphia, Washington, Pittsburg (pretty much anywhere except  New England, Vermont, Maine and of course Canada), this is the first town you would encounter inside the Park. Naturally it’s billed as the gateway to the Adirondack. For me it is not the entrance, but rather the exist point. I am sad to be leaving and linger over the second double espresso. This has been an absolutely fabulous experience, but I have a long way to go to get home and as much as the Adirondack needs a lot more time, it’s going to be for another time.

My route home takes me through Watertown, approached from a different direction it looks a little nicer than my first impressions, but still not somewhere I’d choose to live. From Watertown I retrace the route I came in on, north on Interstate 81. I notice every few miles there is a place to pull off the road and fiddle with your cell phone, big signs “Text stop 2 miles – it can wait.” What the fuck are we becoming? Sometimes I long for the days of proper letters sent via the mail service, land lines (in those days we just called it telephones) and telegrams. I know that this dates me terribly, but I recall the excitement I felt when I received my very first business related telex and the wonder of sending my first fax. Okay I do take advantage of communications technology when it suits me, but all the communication that seems to be expected these days’ tires the bejesus out of me. I really don’t want to Tweet, Lync, Yammer, LinkedIn, Tiny Pulse, Skype message, Facebook message and so on. E-mail, text message and WhatsApp seems to me to be quite enough communication. There are two real problem with all this instant communication, the end of real privacy, and enough time between formulating the idea and making it public, hence politicians tweeting pictures of their dicks and fucking over their careers in the matter of milliseconds. I am sure that in the old days there seldom was a memo that went into the internal mail in a buff envelope, “Subject: Picture of My Penis”, any decent secretary (or PA if you must), would surely have stopped that in its tracks.

The Canadian border produces another tough guy with silly questions, whatever happened to, “Welcome home Mr. Williams, I hope you enjoyed your trip.” After all my taxes do pay this guy’s salary. Maybe the question should be, “Have you encountered anyone that recently has been in West Africa?” Anyway, as much as I do like to visit our BFFs down south, I always get a thrill out of coming back into Canada, especially since becoming a full blown Canadian citizen and learning the words to Alouette.

The French sounds better, but the English is more hilarious:  

Refrain
Lark, nice lark,
Lark, I will pluck you.

1.
I will pluck your head. x2
And your head! And your head!
Lark! Lark!
O-o-o-oh
Refrain

2.
I will pluck your beak. x2
And your beak!  x2
And your head!  x2
Lark!  x2
O-o-o-oh
Refrain

3.
I will pluck your eyes. x2
And your eyes!  x2
And your beak!  x2
And your head!  x2
Lark!  x2
O-o-o-oh
Refrain

4.
I will pluck your neck. x2
And your neck!  x2
And your eyes!  x2
And your beak!  x2
And your head!  x2
Lark!  x2
O-o-o-oh
Refrain

5.
I will pluck your wings. x2
And your wings!  x2
And your neck!  x2
And your eyes!  x2
And your beak!  x2
And your head!  x2
Lark!  x2
O-o-o-oh
Refrain

6.
I will pluck your legs. x2
And your legs!  x2
And your wings!  x2
And your neck!  x2
And your eyes!  x2
And your beak!  x2
And your head!  x2
Lark!  x2
O-o-o-oh
Refrain

7.
I will pluck your tail. x2
And your tail!  x2
And your legs!  x2
And your wings!  x2
And your neck!  x2
And your eyes!  x2
And your beak!  x2
And your head!  x2
Lark!  x2
O-o-o-oh
Refrain

8.
I will pluck your back. x2
And your back!  x2
And your tail!  x2
And your legs!  x2
And your wings!  x2
And your neck!  x2
And your eyes!  x2
And your beak!  x2
And your head!  x2
Lark!  x2
O-o-o-oh



Notice the Lark’s enthusiasm to all this plucking... "O-o-o-oh, oh fuck!"


I’m home by sunset.