Blog – Page 12 – only here for the cricket

Decision Time

Westin O’Hare Hotel

15 September, 6am CDT

I know objectively that this life change I’ve undertaken is a big decision, but when people point that out to me, while acknowledging that it’s true (it must be), I’ve felt like shrugging and smiling.

This has been one of the easier decisions I’ve had to make in my life. I’ve had more stress trying to work out what to do with a free Saturday morning (ok, I need to get this, this and this done…would make more sense to have breakfast at home, save time and money…BUT I would really like to have brunch at Indigo Yard…but that’s going to take up a bit of time, agh, agh AGH!) than I have making the decision to sell most of my worldly assets and head to the States.

This decision has been signposted by God to me through various means since the beginning, and he has smoothed the way all along. It has taken faith, but my experience has always been, and never more so than now, that he rewards you for stepping out in faith for him.

This morning I am faced with another big decision. My bag didn’t make it to Chicago (never mind Nashville) last night, and in my carry-on luggage I have a number of life’s necessities (such as a baseball mitt) but no underwear.

So, yesterday’s pants or go commando? Uncomfortable grottiness or the risk of being deported for indecent exposure at airport security when I have to take my belt off and my trousers fail to stay up..?

—-

Chicago O’Hare Airport

15 September, 8am CDT

Now in O’Hare having a breakfast burrito and Pepsi. I feel it’s important to try to embrace American culture early on.

It’s tempting to say everything went wrong on yesterday’s journey, but the reality is that all the important things went right. That is, they let me in the country. And so two delayed flights and one missed flight, a missing bag with all my clothes and an important chocolate consignment for chez Jones in it, don’t seem so bad after all. And I got an overnight in a Westin hotel, which Alyn informs me is an upmarket Sheraton, and certainly felt like it, courtesy of AA. American Airlines, that is, just for clarification.

They also supplied me with a voucher for breakfast, which upon arrival at the hotel restaurant, I realised totalled $7.

“What can I get for $7?” I asked my server.

“Uh, a coffee is $5.50, more like $6 including tax.

“Ah.”

I had to resort to the Starbucks outlet in the lobby. The day can only improve from here 🙂

Chicago, April

There are a number of things I like about the USA. The relentless optimism, the excellent customer service, the efficient and decisive organisation. The outstanding breakfast menus.

And this last one is where I felt a little let down on my most recent trip across the pond, to Chicago last week. It seemed that all of Chicago was intent on having eggs, preferrably scrambled, for breakfast, and very little else. At one establishment, my colleague (for it was a work trip, lest any of you think I was holidaying again) and travelling companion Shona, found the breakfast menu had two sections, headed SCRAMBLED EGGS and SCRAMBLED EGG SANDWICHES. Now, I don’t mind eggs, but on the whole, if I’m going to go beyond a bowl of cereal for breakfast, would prefer some pancakes, with perhaps the odd slice of bacon and a sausage here and there. These were hard to find. We usually ended up in a cafe/deli called Cosi, which was a decent place, and baked its own stuff. Cosi now have a chain of such places, but they started out with one, which they claim they based on a small Parisian café. I would contend that the similarity is hard to spot, but such is the way of things. Certainly the coffee doesn’t quite stack up, despite their lofty claims.

At Cosi, they serve their own proprietary bagels, square rather than round in shape. Called Squagels. Indeed. Shona asked for one of these, and was met with a typically American barrage of options.

“Which type of Squagel? Wholegrain, Plain, Cinnamon Raisin, Poppyseed, Everything, the Asiago Cheese is particularly good?”

I could sense Shona’s knees beginning to buckle here, but the girl kept going…

“Cranberry Orange, Sesame, Chocolate Chip, Basil Parmesan, Jalapeño Cheddar…?”

“I’ll have the one you thought was good” replied Shona, after a brief and futile attempt to compute all that information. (I had the chocolate chip one myself).

Wednesday night we went to watch some ice hockey. The United Center, where the Chicago Blackhawks play, is known as the Madhouse on Madison. It certainly was a bit mad, no more so then during the national anthem before play began, which was cheered and applauded by the capacity crowd all the way through. To a man, as the anthem was sung, the crowd turned to face the end of the arena to our left. I looked up there to see two giant flags hanging from the roof – the Canadian Maple Leaf, shrouded in semi-darkness, and the Stars and Stripes, brilliantly lit by spotlights.

When the crooner they had wheeled out for the occasion reached the line “… and does that star-spangled banner still wave…” someone turned on some sort of a hairdryer behind it and it started to billow. The cheering reached fever pitch.

The game was good, but it never had a chance of matching the build-up. Our other tenuous brush with American sport while we were there was a regular view of Soldier Field, where the Bears play, on our way to and from the convention centre. In their wisdom, someone (the architect? stadium authority?) has decreed that the space-age main stands be underpinned by faux Roman pillars, which gives the whole thing the appearance of a space-ship having crashed into a Greco-Roman temple.
But the music was wonderful. Chicago considers itself the home of the blues, by which I think it means the electric blues. At the Kingston Mines club, we saw a couple of outstanding local bands, featuring Joanna Connor and Eddie Shaw, the latter having played with Muddy Waters and Howlin’ Wolf.

America. Always fun to visit, but it’s good to be back in the UK, a country where the phrase “small coffee” doesn’t equate to “large beaker”. And where proper sports are played. Cricket season almost upon us now. Bring it on!

Curry and corn on the cob

On my final night in France, Tahar took me to what he described as the best Indian restaurant in Chambéry, which turned out to be a Pakistani Halal outfit, but who’s going to quibble over such small details (apart from Indians and Pakistanis, obviously).

There were a total of four of us in the restaurant. Me, Tahar, a solitary French diner, and the proprietor. “You like cricket?” I asked him, to which he replied with a stream of Pakistani-accented French, from which I picked up that he had watched cricket every day while growing up in Pakistan, but in France all they show is “le foot, le foot, le foot!”. After yet another smoking break involving Tahar and the other diner (the restaurateur took his smoking breaks separately) they returned to the obligatory coffee. I declined. “The French – they drink a lot of coffee, right throughout the day,” I commented in my best GCSE French. “They drink a lot, they smoke a lot…”

This tickled our friend at the other table. The scene reminded me vaguely of Desmond’s, with Porkpie chuckling away in the corner. “And in England, you drink tea instead.” I explained that I didn’t live in England, and I much preferred coffee, but at 10pm? I would never sleep. Doesn’t seem to be a problem that’s occurred to the French.

In an intriguing mix of our native languages, with much hand-waving and the odd break for a cigarette, the three of us discussed any number of topics, including family, DC’s situation, religion, the deterioration of educational and healthcare standards in France and the UK, French food (not as good as it used to be), Sarkozy (he’s an idiot), Muslim fundamentalism. It was quite a night.

I am in Sheffield as I write this – at a conference for the next couple of days. Had my first experience of Nando’s Peri-Peri chicken tonight. iColin and I opted for a corn-on-the-cob accompaniment. Corn-on-the-cob is great for getting your teeth into, I find, and it returns the favour by getting right into your teeth. Will be picking sweetcorn out for days, I expect.

DC was eventually repatriated to Scotland on Saturday, after a false start or two (try and avoid MapFre if you can when choosing travel insurance), and is recovering gradually in an Edinburgh hospital. I saw him this morning before I headed south. He seemed in good form, albeit dog-tired from lack of sleep. Not a good place for light sleepers, hospital. I brought him some earplugs.

Chambéry, Wednesday

Hannibal wuz ere

Yet another sunny day in Chambéry. The air was crisp and cold as I walked into town and found a café. I have learned some important skills on this trip to France. The French for “what is the password for your wi-fi?” for example, and the word for doughnut. Both have come in very useful.

Yesterday was the third full day I have spent in this town in the last 2 weeks, but the first where everything was open. Everything shuts down on a Monday, it would seem. Encouraged by places actually being open for business, I explored a bit more of the town, and it’s a great little place. Lots of old winding streets, Savoyard architecture and the odd castle and cathedral popping up when you least expect it.

A lovely thing about being in Chambéry is that, contrary to one’s typical experience of a French ski resort, it feels like being in authentic France, among the French. An American girl walked past me on Monday night, talking to her friend in English (or what passes for it among the North Americans), but the only British voice I’ve heard (apart from DC, of course) is from some relatives of the guy in the adjoining hospital room – who suffered an accident in Tignes a few days after him.

DC continues to make good progress in his recovery. The highlights so far have included his reaction to my informing him I’d brought him the Guardian and Observer for reading material, and a purple patch yesterday morning when his humour was in full flow. A male student nurse called Tahar, pronounced ‘Tar’, at least by me, had a few questions for DC, which the big man attempted to answer, not always in the most helpful way imaginable. Replying to the question “Have you any children?” he replied “No.” before adding “Apart from the people I used to live with.” I convulsed. Tahar just looked bemused.

Tahar went on to explain that his name was Algerian in origin, and that his mother is French but his father Algerian, which provoked a robust comment from DC, which, while not especially racist in the great scheme of things, invoked a certain favourite French stereotype of his, involving surrender. I daresay Tahar, had he understood the comment, might have found it a change to have the French side of his family targeted by a racial slur…

It’s just after 11am here. Visiting starts at 12. Time for another coffee, I reckon.

Chambéry bis

Back again.. the opportunity having arisen to come back for a few days to spend time with DC, and my employer having been kind enough to permit it.

Back in the same hotel. It’s a different room, but they’re all identical, so it feels rather familiar. This time, though, there is no Wiseman to bicker with about who uses which coat hooks, I get the double bed, and there is no-one snoring up in the top bunk.

Flew into Geneva at 6.20pm today, and had to wait for the 8pm bus. Found a food vendor. Swiss sausage rolls, it turns out, are none too shabby, although not really a patch on Greggs. There were no chicken and bacon lattices, fudge doughnuts or yumyums either. The bus left at 8.02pm. Felt slightly let down by such a flagrant lack of efficiency in Switzerland.

Arrived at the bus station in Chambéry just after 9. So many memories came flooding back – the anxious taxi journey exactly 2 weeks ago.. the hospital waiting room, the trudge to the hotel through darkened Chambéry streets.

These are happier times. Val and John, who have been with DC for the last few days, kindly delayed eating until my arrival, and we caught up over dinner. The big man continues to make good progress. Looking forward to chatting with him tomorrow.

A return to form

I have it on good authority from my reporter in Chambéry that DC is making a good recovery. This is evidenced by his increasing irritation with the lack of food coming his way. having to make do instead with water and some stuff coming down a tube stuck unceremoniously in his nose. There is unlikely to be a more resounding demonstration of DC’s possession of his faculties than hearing him complain about lack of food, or delayed food, or food arriving in the wrong order.

This has helped raised the spirits of those of us now back in Edinburgh, already buoyed by being reunited with our luggage a day or two late. Wiseman, having already had to make an emergency pants-buying trip in Chambéry, on a day when the only shop open was an expensive department store, was staring the bleak prospect of a second underwear-acquiring expedition in the face, when everyone’s luggage arrived.

I must say, having travelled back from France with my rucksack, ski-boot bag, skis, DC’s rucksack and DC’s boot bag, having them delivered to my door was a good option, one day late or not.

Feels odd to be back in Edinburgh when there is what feels like unfinished business back in France. However, DC has even more people out there looking after him now, and is looking at a return to the UK soon, hopefully.

Thank you to all who sent messages, and especially to those who prayed.

Les Menuires, Thursday

Lynne, Mark and I went back on the slopes for a few hours yesterday afternoon. Mandy joined us as we went out this morning, and headed up to Val Thorens. After a couple of runs up there we headed over to the Orelle valley, and made our way up two slow chairlifts to the top of the Pointe du Bouchet. The lift station there is at 3230m, and is the highest accessible point in the 3 Valleys. The day was clear and bright again, with only some high level cloud, and the views were outstanding.

However, DC’s absence from our group meant the pleasure of such a gorgeous view was diminished, and the carefree joy usually experienced while skiing was missing. Our mood wasn’t lightened by the sight of a helicopter taking off from the side of the piste during a run late in the day. We stood and watched, no-one spoke. Then we pointed our skis down the slope and headed down to the bar where Mark was waiting with a canine acquaintance, name unknown.

Sleep hasn’t been coming easy. All of us have done our bit to lighten the mood and keep the spirits high, but it’s been an uphill battle at times. I think the tunes on my laptop have been cheering everybody up, because of their largely “shiny happy” nature. And Wiseman and I have been growing goatees, for no apparent reason other than it seemed like a good idea at the time. Mine is.. there’s no good way to put this.. more ginger than his, although it does include a grey component, which lends it a certain gravitas. Which I feel his is missing. Not that it’s a competition. Wiseman considered removing the centre section tonight to leave a ‘bandido’ handlebar moustache, perhaps in honour of tonight’s chilli, but mercifully he was persuaded not to.

Crystal Ski, our tour operator, have continued to be tremendously helpful and supportive, and we remain extremely grateful for the texts and calls from friends and family at home.

DC is due to have a scan tomorrow, and will possibly be brought round from the coma over the weekend. By that time, we will be back in the UK, and, I suspect, glad to be home, if upset to be returning without him. Our thoughts and prayers will continue to be with him and his friends and family in Chambéry.

Chambéry, unexpectedly

“Let’s have a look at the map, Mark.”

Wiseman pulled the map out of his pocket, unfolded it and spread it out on the table. Two days into a skiing holiday this should have been a piste map, but instead it was a street map of Chambéry. Mark had acquired it earlier in the day, approaching the desk in the Office de Tourisme with no little confidence and a pre-learned French phrase ready to go. The nice lady behind the desk smiled and enquired if he would prefer to continue in English.

“But I wanted to improve my Freeeench…” wailed Mark. She smiled again, and started pointing out landmarks on the map in French. A blank expression descended upon Mark’s face, but he persisted manfully.

The day before was our first day skiing, and dawned bright and sunny. After a few, icy lower runs Lynne, Mandy, DC and I headed higher and skied the red Venturons run down towards Mottaret. It was a good run, with better snow than we’d encountered so far, so we went straight back up and did it again. DC remarked that the Venturons was a good run to Venture On. This is the standard of joke we’ve come to expect from him. At the end of the second run Lynne, Mandy and I waited for the big man to appear. He was bringing up the rear. After a couple of minutes, we started to get concerned, but remained confident that all was in order. Waiting for the last skier’s arrival at a lift station is not unusual. Frequently something happens that causes a hold-up – often a wipeout, with the accompanying delay retrieving skis and getting them back on. It’s common, too, for a skier to take the wrong turn at a junction, and end up somewhere else on the mountain (Filipideedoodaa is especially good at this last one). A quick text message or phonecall usually sorts this out. We called DC’s mobile, but it went straight to answerphone.

We agreed I would go back up on the chairlift and ski down. Halfway up on the lift I saw a prone figure just off the side of the piste, with four skiers clustered around him. It was DC, no doubt. Fingers beginning to shake, I tapped out a quick text to let the girls know. I skied off the lift and back down the run, without stopping, thighs burning, panic rising. He was surrounded by five or six members of the piste patrol, and had taken a serious knock to the head.

In due course a helicopter arrived, landing on a flattish area between pistes. The medics took some time to sedate him, and then it took off. One of the piste patrollers with pretty good English kept us updated throughout with what was happening. He was headed for Moutiers, and then on to Grenoble. This later changed to the Centre Hospitalier in Chambéry.

We have been receiving a steady stream of text messages and phone calls from home ever since. Under normal circumstances, this would become wearing, but under these abnormal and distressing circumstances, they have been an immense source of strength and encouragement. Except that the text message alert on Lynne’s phone makes a noise like a distressed budgie complaining in your ear. Helpfully, it makes this noise on both sending and receiving text messages.

We made our way to the bus station in Les Menuires, passing après ski bars, viewing the revellers with a curious sense of detachment. The world just keeps spinning.

A bus and taxi ride later, we arrived in Chambéry and found DC in the Réanimation unit (ICU). Scans had revealed bleeding in his head. He was in an induced coma, and was lying, with his lower shins and feet protruding beyond the bed, wired up to a multitude of monitors. His face was swollen. They had shaved his head.

We stayed a couple of days in Chambéry, sleeping at a hotel within walking distance from the hospital, found via some sharp Google work by my sister back in London.

Jo, Paul and Derek, relatives and friends of DC from Edinburgh, arrived on Monday, and joined us in our hotel. They stayed on while we returned to resort.

Now back in the mountains, to ski or not to ski? Numbness, confusion and grief make this a difficult one to answer, and we haven’t answered it yet. Having considered packing up and coming home early, I think we are decided on sticking together here in resort. Crystal Ski have been extremely helpful and kind to us. Further, we are grateful to all the folks who have called, emailed and texted, and are praying back home – mainly for DC, obviously, but also for us as we try to come to terms with what has happened. Your support is greatly valued.

Public Transport and T.B.

Still a decent amount of snow in Edinburgh’s suburbs, with a corresponding lack of car parking available in Balerno, where I go to church, and so I took the bus out this morning. Felt quite virtuous, and texted Wiseman accordingly. In due course, after he’d woken up, he replied and we agreed to meet for lunch in town.

“No idea when I’ll be there, like, what with this transport for the common people”

“Any bus journey you make without contracting T.B. is a total success in my book” he replied.

Inveterate snobs, both of us, although he at least speaks from experience (of buses, that is), being a frequent user of public transport, with a couple of Driving Lesson vouchers still lying unused on his increasingly crowded Unwanted-Christmas-Presents-From-Andrew-Shelf. I’m not remotely bitter about this.

Anyhow, the contraction of T.B. will remain unconfirmed until the next visit to my GP, likely date sometime in 2013, when I’ve amassed a number of complaints, none of which, on their own, would justify troubling him with, but put together, I feel, generate a composite condition worthy of investigation. I usually consider three complaints to be the minimum number for a GP visit, but suspect that T.B. might be worth at least two minor complaints, possibly more.

Passed NJ’s flat the other day on my icy walk/slide home from work. Her immediate neighbour appears to be outdoing her on the ostentatious Christmas decorations front, and I pointed this out. Perhaps she could stand in the window with Christmas tree lights wrapped around her and perform the Sprinkler of an evening. I think it would brighten up the journeys of many a passerby.

Last night I met up with a number of Holy Cross teammates for a drink in the St Vincent. Our most recently-acquired resident Aussie, Pat, had been drinking since 3pm, possibly in an attempt to numb the pain of being 1-0 down to the Poms in the Ashes. I’m not sure it helped. He repeatedly stated that on paper, the Aussie team is better than England’s. Cue raised eyebrows all round, and several discussions on mental strength vs talent, and how much easier it is to be mentally strong when playing in an outrageously talented team. Highlight of the evening may well have been an arm-wrestling bout between Smudger and Shifty (see above), the prize being the captaincy of the first XI in 2012. Not entirely sure whether the winner or loser got the prize…

Bus journeys appear to provide good blogging time, must take them more often. Disease contraction-permitting, of course. I think I feel a cough coming on…

Surreal

It’s been a surreal week. The snow in Edinburgh has been deeper than anyone can remember. The Forth Road Bridge was closed, and avalanche warnings were issued for the Pentland Hills and Arthur’s Seat, of all places. It feels like the only difference between Edinburgh and an Alpine ski resort right now is the lack of big mountains nearby. And perhaps the fact that ski resorts don’t always have this much snow.

Even more surreal has been England’s dominance in the Ashes down under. Bob Willis, possibly the grumpiest man in cricket, tonight described England’s performance in the Second Test as “absolutely first-rate”.

I don’t know whether it was the bat-dominated last two days of the First Test, and the promise of more to follow at Adelaide, but I didn’t bother to stay up to watch any of the first day’s play live. And so it was only natural that it would be “the most exciting start to an Ashes Test in history (D Gower)” with three wickets falling in the first three overs.

Perhaps my lack of Ashes-watching stamina was just down to the Tests being back-to-back, and not having recovered fully from the late nights watching the First Test. This staying up into the early hours lark is proving tricky. The BBC very helpfully posted an article on how to stay up through the night, including such advisory gems as “One way to stay awake is to drink coffee intermittently.” Thanks for that one, Auntie. And for the important safety message. “Anybody going without sleep and then trying to go to work should not do anything like driving or other tasks where an accident could be dangerous.” Presumably falling asleep in front of a client won’t lose me my job, then. Excellent news.

So accustomed to touring England teams being in disarray, it’s frankly confusing to witness Australia in trouble during a home series. It appears to be a commonly-held view that this Ashes series is pitting two mediocre teams against each other, lest we should get carried away. I’m not about to get carried away, but I think England are better than that. Anderson has always been rated as a high-class bowler, but has been dogged by the damning caveat “when he fires”, or “when the ball swings”. He now bowls brilliantly, regularly, on all manner of pitches. Strauss is a class player at the top of the order, although he’s done his best to hide this in two out of his three innings so far. Trott is a solid number 3, KP now has runs under his belt (and a wicket!) and the strut has accordingly returned, and Bell, critically, now no longer needs to put on a show of confident body language, as the confidence is already there from some high-quality knocks in pressure situations. Swann is world-class and can bat, Broad is ever-improving, although now sadly lost to this series through injury, and Finn is the real deal. What cannot be coincidental to all of this individual success is that the core of the team has been together for a decent time, they are clearly well-managed, and they play as a unit.

Australia, by contrast, have some very good players, but are desperately short of confidence, unity and direction. And no wonder, with their trigger-happy selectors. I couldn’t help but feel sorry for players like Marcus North – trudging off after another low score knowing that their international career might well be over. Granted, North has had his chance, but Xavier Doherty? It’s been hard not to feel sympathy for him, preferred as Australia’s spinner to Hauritz by the selectors, apparently only to buy Pietersen’s wicket. Which he did in the Second Test, but not until KP had racked up a double-ton. Doherty will now surely be dropped for Perth. He has experienced the kind of morale-shattering selectorial caprice that so undermined England in the nineties.

England now go to Perth knowing they can effectively wrap up the series with a win there. Just like Australia did in 2006…