The goose invasion redux

I had forgotten (it's been a while) quite how much bird life there is surrounding Lake Merritt, and how big it was, until I went running there this morning.

I wrote the following maybe eleven years ago, but I think it is good for an outing here:


Three perspectives on the goose invasion

I

A gloomy evening, dreary streets
Out in search of simple treats
I saw a van, I saw police
They were apprehending geese

II

The world's a dungeon, strange and wild
Home to many beasts reviled
Travellers beware! The evil goose
Is once again upon the loose

III

I couldn't see, I couldn't hear
My brain was seized with a fit of fear
I tried to resist, but they were too many
They wanted bread, but I hadn't any

Advice for visitors to California

Friday's Guardian offered some words of advice on surviving in California to one particularly high-profile British visitor. I think others of my fellow countrymen could do well to digest them, in case they were to wash up on these shores. For example, as a aid to mastering the vernacular, we have:

3. Like. Like is, like, the valley mantra. If you say the word like, like every few words, you are totally telling your listeners that you are from, like, the valley.

(There is much more where that came from, of course.)

My name is not…

"Garrett Flummings", for whom some post arrived this morning.

My name is…

Over the past five days, my name has attracted unprecedented interest from middle-aged ladies in the customer service industry. From the supervisor at U-Haul who laughed out loud at Hugo about the hilarity of my name as I was lurking between bundles of flat-pack boxes, to the pleasant lady on the phone at PG&E as I was trying to transfer service to the new house (which is awesome, by the way, and the furniture is almost reassembled), who asked me at length about its genesis.

As an attempt to stave off any more speculation, I should state as a matter of record the following points:

1) Gareth is a Welsh name.

2) I am not Welsh, but my father is. (He often wonders aloud where he 'went wrong' with me, his 'half-Welsh' son.)

3) In their Grand Slam season of 1976, the year of my birth, the outstanding player for Wales (and indeed in the world) was their scrum-half, Gareth Edwards. In fact, given the relative timing of the final game of the Five Nations rugby championship and my birthday, it is somewhat likely that the occurrence of the one, directly affected the occurrence of the other, although I have never found the appropriate moment to ask my father about this.

Des res

Well, eleven hours, two van loads, one car load, one sunburnt arm and two nosebleeds later, the pieces of dismantled furniture which were strewn all about the house in Berkeley are now strewn all about the house in Oakland. I have managed to reassemble my bed (which took up about 90% of the space in my old room, and now is utterly dwarfed by the mahoosiveness of my new one). I am now going to lie in it.

Massive thank yous to Abby for her sparkling all-round performance (lifting, loading, unloading, backing in, picking up and dropping off) and Zan (for sparing us the 40 minute walk back from U-Haul). Thank you and goodnight.

Des res

Today is the day of The Big Move. (I sincerely hope that it is not another savagely hot day; I am from pasty white Northern European stock, and have been in very real danger of melting over the last few days. Up the fog!) Over the course of the past week, Eunice St has been completely dismantled and/or packed up in boxes, which is as depressing to behold as it is tedious to undertake. Still, it is all for the best - Oakland awaits, and with it (surely) a life much more interesting...


My new abode. (One of them is, anyway.)

Lung butter

I note that even though I have spent the day sneezing and hacking and coughing like a geriatric, had to put twice as much garlic as normal in this evening's curry just to taste it (mmm), and am currently subject to the sensation of someone trying to drill out of my cranium from the inside, I am not having any trouble smelling the effects of a skunk attack outside, and it is far worse than anything else I have to deal with.

Wank week on Channel 4

I'm not sure whether the one country is more puritannical, or the other more degenerate, but I can't imagine that a US network would ever attempt what Channel 4, back home, are proposing:

The broadcaster - once led by Michael Grade, dubbed "pornographer in chief" by the Daily Mail - has commissioned a documentary about the UK's first "masturbate-a-thon" as part of a series of programmes dubbed "Wank week", MediaGuardian.co.uk can reveal.

In what must surely be one of the summer's more bizarre events, hundreds of people are expected to gather in a hall in central London on August 5 to pleasure themselves in aid of charity...

"Following on from the success of 'Penis week', we feel this is exactly the type of provocative and mischievous programming that Channel 4 should be covering in the 11pm slot. Masturbation is something many people do but not many people talk about," [a Channel 4 spokesman] told MediaGuardian.co.uk.

Clearly, any sarcastic comment I try to make is not going to do the original article justice.

Eunice St catchphrases for the weekend

"The horse should not have been on the launchpad." (http://www.theonion.com/content/node/50100?issue=4227&special=1996)

"With my new Ultimate Muscle, I can perform Muscle Millennium WITHOUT ropes!" (http://www.tv.com/ultimate-muscle-the-kinnikuman-legacy/tatami-or-not-here-i-come/episode/243809/recap.html)

"The big boys are in the butchers." (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7w6lQA96TSE)

Oaktown here I come…

The saga ends. Barring alien invasion, syphillis or acts of God, I shall not be homeless when my lease expires at the end of the month. Rather, I shall be moving next week to a rather spiffing tri-level, modern-architect-ed, super-spacious 21st Century bachelor pad in north Oakland, with a remote control gate and a funky little sun-balcony and three toilets and everything. According to the lease, there is the option to have one indoor cat, which I would consider simply so that I could swing it around airily in the upstairs closet.

il retorno (the return)

Two trains, two flights, one van, and nine time zones later, I am back in the People's Republic of Berkeley. And feeling somewhat loopy. I am not sure if the pub is necessarily the best forum for recovery from jetlag, but three attritional pints later, I am still conscious, if not particularly sentinent.

There is more to be said of Italy, when I can get enough of it together to cut and paste the words into the right boxes. (Currently, judging by the amount of time it's taken me to write this, 'it' is still somewhat dissipated.)

la mattina dopo la notte prima (the morning after the night before)

After a car horn/scooter symphony which lasted into the wee small hours, Verbania post-World Cup what-the-hell-was-Zidane-thinking-and-in-any-case-if-you're-going-to-headbutt-someone-and-get-sent-off-you-might-as-well-hurt-them-not-just-knock-them-over-victory was in something of a subdued mood. The streets were barren, as if the whole town had gone on holiday a month early, with only the occasional Italian flag draped over a balcony to suggest a more likely state of events. My worst fears of an Italy so hungover that all practical infrastructure would be sacrificed in exchange for another couple of hours in bed were not realised, however, and bus, train and metro were safely negotiated with such efficiency that I found myself back in sweaty Milan by late morning.

The building over the road from that of my collaborators' had been divested of rather a large quantity of glass overnight, most of which had seemingly been redeposited on the pavement in front. "You see the consequence of the victory of Italy," said Alfio quietly with a wry smile as I walked up the stairs into a muted office.

il Monte completo (the full Monte)

A combination of factors (6.30 am start, drinking too much wine and Ginepy - whatever the hell that was - with some geologists from Liverpool) meant that despite a second night of pleasantly cool air and comfortable sleeping conditions, this morning was a little more difficult than those previous. The god of clouds had evidently erred on the side of opacity overnight; the glorious views of the day before replaced by indistinct silhouettes against a thick white wall, the broken rocks that littered the ground now under a fading snowy blanket.

Despite all this, or maybe because of it, the temperature outside was rather temperate, and highly agreeable for mountain hiking. We set off, the field party wending its way up the trail like a malcoordinated snake, Professore Giorgio, our imported Alpine expert leading the way, pausing every couple of minutes to gesture with his hiking pole at some subtlety in the minerals of the bedrock, or some fancy folds or somesuch. Every time the party stopped, they would bunch up and block the trail, inevitably blocking some ice-axe bearing heroes in nylon trousers who were looking to yomp up Monte Rosa so they could whack some lumps off of its glaciers by lunchtime, or something like that.

The rocks were generally pretty, and occasionally gneiss. They were also rather comfortable (see below). The snow was thigh-deep in places, as we picked our way past some disused gold mines (complete with open air privy), and up towards the peak of Monte Rosa proper. In ten years, the glaciers had receded many hundreds of metres, and exposed many rock outcrops which had hitherto gone unseen - a boon for field geology, although no one was particularly enthusiastic about the reasons why it had happened. Eventually, we reached our final field stop, a blob (technical term) of eclogite (a rock that had been down to 60 kilometres' depth, and was somewhat mangled by the pressure) - conveniently near a cable car station - and were soon creaking down the mountainside back towards Alagna where the coach was parked.

The ride from Alagna back to Verbania was rapid - whereas on the way up we had tentatively tip-toed our way through the narrow streets and tiny villages, now we hurtled through them, bullying the other traffic out of the way (and inducing travel sickness in at least one member of our party). Our Italian bus driver was seemingly in something of a hurry to get back home, for some reason.

The Alpine Nappes

Thanks to Sang-Ho for the picture.

Forza Azzuri! (Come on the Blues!)

Geology writ large

What you can see: three Italian Alpine experts, the remains of a geological car crash w/ lower crustal rocks, a chunk of the ocean, and a big slice of the mantle (see diagram). What you can't see: the Matterhorn, lurking behind the big cloud, right of centre.

stanza con una vista (room with a view)

(or corridor, actually)

il refugio selvaggio (the savage hut)

In yesterday's briefing, our field trip leader Guilio described our accommodation for the next two nights, an Alpine refugio at the not-inconsiderable altitude of 2870 m, as a "savage hut". Being a stated fan of all things of a savage bent, I instantly warmed to it, furthermore believing that a little rough living might be a relief after the overfed, overwatered and overheated week I had experienced in Verbania. Having envisaged a leaky wooden shack, with no lights, heat or water, and inhabited by burly bearded Germans in lederhosen, I was somewhat surprised to be greeted upon entry by a full bar with an espresso machine and cakes in a display cabinet, tended by a well-to-do English blonde. (I must remember to ask her how the hell she ended up there; definitely a bonus, though, as a) she ain't too shabby, and b) it makes ordering drinks rather easier.) I had clearly misunderstood the form of savagery that occurs in the Italian Alps.

Dinner being a full four-pronged attack on the waistline as experienced for every meal in Verbania (suppo, primo, secondo, dulce), washed down by litres of decent Piemontese wine and mineral waters, my re-education on these matters continued apace. In fact, adding in the total lack of biting insects, the absence of obnoxious humidity, a couple of roaring fires and a panoramic view of Monte Rosa and its attendant peaks, I am gradually forming the opinion that Giulio is either a master of understatement, or a man who aspires to exceptionally high living standards; either way, he is clearly a man after my own heart.

In a manner of speaking…

Several of Earth Science's finest young minds (and in at least one case, bodies) have put it to me this week that I have an accent; I disagree. Whatever crude regionality my voice may have tried to adopt under the pernicious influence of a London lying so close by was beaten out of me by my mother and great aunt as a young 'un. In the final analysis, I speak with the moderated tones of received pronunciation, as practised by BBC announcers and the less retarded members of the Royal Family (Windsor, of course, being about six miles down the road from my hometown). This is English as it is meant to be spoken. Therefore I don't have an accent. It's everyone else that does.

Comments jotted down at a geology conference whilst waiting for a lecture to start

coming atcher live from the back row (almost)

waiting for something to happen here, guys

oh, our first speaker is missing

they've found him!

getting bored now. hook up the projector, already. (americanism)

seriously, i've been sitting here for 20 minutes

the screen showed something for a split second... it's working!

yay

--

talk title: Composition and evolution of the lithosphere - Matthias G Barth (Mainz)

--

he has a very german voice

can't get past the first slide. comical.

powerpoint is fucked. or the pc is. (viva la mac!)

guess someone should have tested this before the session started, no?

there are some pretty girls here, i am noticing. hooray for geology!

and a new computer enters the fray... seems to be working

eyes down for the full house:

--

(smattering of applause)

talk begins: "The world is like a boiled egg, or a giant onion..."

Verbania (Verbania)

The journey from Milan to Verbania is an hour and a half by train - an hour and a quarter of flat, nondescript countryside and dilapidated stations, then a bridge over a wide river, with a sand beach and people bathing, and then fifteen minutes of blockbuster views of the hills and waters of Lake Maggiore. For the latter part, I was out of my seat, standing at the window and gawping at the dramatic hillside-to-water landscape, the red tiled roofs, the often-very-swanky architecture and all the yachts and seaplanes messing about on a Sunday afternoon.

Having installed myself in a room on the fourth floor in the Hotel Castagnola (with private sun-terrace!), I decided to kill the time until dinner by exploring (= getting lost in) Verbania. Seems like an agreeable place, with its complement of narrow cobbled streets, washing hanging from the balconies, that sort of thing. On a more commercial note, there are multiple bars with outdoor seating (for to separate the sunburnt tourist from her money), and at least one accomplished gelateria. I definitely approve of tiramisu ice cream.

It appears that my luggage has not seen it fit to join me yet.



The view from my balcony. Nobbad.

Rigore (penalties)

I am done with valiant defeats, I really am. The story of the (England-Portugal) match is almost as uninteresting and gruelling to relate as was trying to find somewhere to watch it (big screen, you let me down today). Supporting England is almost like a curse: disappointment is inevitable; if there is a close game to be lost, we will endeavour to lose it; someone on our team will certainly lose it; there will be some kind of injustice that will lodge in the collective memory and be quoted in mitigation, but will not change the result one jot.

The Italian word for 'penalties' is very apt, I think.

As in the afternoon, so in the evening - I arrived home in a state of exhaustion. Poleaxed by the heat and the sudden loss of so much invested emotional capital, I lay down on the floor, and promptly fell asleep.

i saldi (the sales)

As luck would have it, my visit to Milan coincides with the start of the summer sales - time, perchance, for some judicious refinforcement of my wardrobe? With vague aspirations towards buying 'interesting' jeans, 'Italian' shirts and 'cool' T-shirts, I set off on the metro at 9.30ish with a wallet full of Euros, and let nature take its course.

First up: Il Salvagente (it means 'the safety belt', heaven knows why), located in a rather distant neighbourhood way out east. Around the back of a nondescript hairdresser's on a nondescript street, you find an Aladdin's Cave of bankrupt stock from the city's ever-expiring boutiques. Deploy elbows and start rummaging. Prices are way cheap anyway (one third off the original, or thereabouts), but today, because of the sales, there was a further 40% off everything, putting the prices in the realm of the ohmigodthisisinsane. Half of Milan showed up - the checkout queue was so lengthy, and the wait so long, that we probably could have formed our own government in there.

Impressively hefty carrier bag in hand, I then headed north to Porta Venezia, hopping from shadow to shadow like a sunburnt ninja apprentice. On Corso Buenos Aires the pavement seemed to be melting underfoot; with temperatures in the mid-thirties, I had my sympathies. The money flowed freely, just like the tarmac - the rest of my spending allowance duly found its way into the coffers of Sisley and Zara. Having ticked off my shopping list several times over, I bought a very large bottle of cold water and slumped onto a metro train the hell out of there. In the circumstances, stripping off in front of the air conditioner in the apartment seemed like a very sweet idea.

Italia 3, Ucraina 0 (Italy 3, Ukraine 0)

I had arrived on Monday in time to watch Italy dive their way to victory over Australia on the projector in the meeting room. No such opportunity today, however, so I decided to go and mix it with the locals downtown. The scene on entering Piazza del Duomo this sweaty Friday evening was something akin to a nationalist rally - Italian flags absolutely everywhere, facepaint and bare torsos. Stalls set up throughout the crowd were doing a roaring trade in air horns, which were being let off indiscriminately at anything and everything that appeared on the screen (e.g. the appearance of the Ukraine mascots). Pug faced, leather-skinned vendors were ploughing carts laden with water, coke and beer through the throng, who, judging by the fervour of the chanting, jumping and honking were fairly well oiled (although not by British standards). A lone Ukraine flag was being waved tentatively towards the back of the crowd; I felt quite sorry for it.

5 minutes: GOAL! Well that's ruined it - the Italians, being Italians, will defend and waste time for the rest of the game now. Strong driving run from Zambrotta on the right wing, cuts inside the defender and wellies the ball into the bottom corner from 20 yards. Rather a lot of horn, as you might imagine. I discreetly cram my fingers in my ears.

11 minutes: The battery of horns behind me, having been sounded non-stop for the last 20 minutes, are beginning to squeal and die. Hah! (Of course, such satisfaction is short lived - next time I look over my shoulder, I see that the main horn bearers have at least three of the things each.)

13 minutes: First Italian time wasting - Gattuso falls on his back and it is a whole minute before he decides he isn't hurt after all, and gets back up again.

19 minutes: A second Ukrainian flag appears next to the first one.

c. 22 minutes: After a series of shoddy fouls puts him in the spotlight, I realise that the Ukraine no. 15 is a dead ringer for Bobby Gillespie. I hope for his team's sake that he's not been at the disco biscuits.

25 minutes: Gattuso wastes another minute by falling over clutching his wrist. He returns to the pitch with an improbably large bandage on his forearm. Wuss.

c. 35 minutes: Totti is everywhere this evening. From where I'm standing, at least.

Half time: Whistle blows; horns are sounded.

46 minutes: Cannavaro gets one in the knackers and crumples to the turf. More horns.

57 minutes: GOAL! A set piece move that Toni nuts in from six yards. Following the obligatory horn symphony, my section of the crowd start singing a wordless tune that sounds very like the baseline to 'Seven Nation Army' by the White Stripes. Poor old Ukraine, they were just beginning to look threatening, too.

72 minutes: The TV picture disappears, an error message flashes up. A howl rips through the crowd. There may be a riot.

74 minutes: Picture is back, and almost straight away... GOAL! Totti leads the Ukraine defence a merry dance, Toni taps in from two yards. There may be a riot.

80 minutes: Three nutters clear a space in the crowd in front of me, and let off green, white and red flares. Two more dissipated individuals grab a massive Italian flag and run around in a circle carrying it and each other.

87 minutes: The crowd have noticed the Ukranian flags (now numbering four) and have turned around and started chanting and pointing en masse. Bullies.

90 minutes: Andriy Shevchenko has a legitimate appeal for a penalty turned down. The Italian crowd stop venting at the Ukraine fans and instead start singing 'Shevchenko bastardo!' to the tune of the baseline to 'Seven Nation Army'.

90 2 minutes: There are so many flags being waved, I can no longer see the screen.

Full time: Horns. Time to get out of here.

12.30 am. I can still hear car and scooter horns screaming in the distance, even from my secluded apartment.

la trama si ispessisce… (the plot thickens…)

I have determined that my suitcase has made its way to Malpensa airport. Since that was my original destination (I was diverted to Linate, via Rome), it could well be that my luggage caught the connection that I only just missed. (This was not my fault - it seems that Continental Airlines have a relaxed attitude towards timekeeping.) The stage is set for an emotional reunion with my socks and what have you in Verbania on Sunday, although doubtless something else will go wrong before then.