CanUK

“Always Fresh” is the infamous motto. But I wonder how fresh a Tim Horton’s donut can be on a sweaty afternoon in Trafalgar Square. I’m nibbling the icing and rainbow sprinkles off the top of my import – making a gooey mess of my face and hands – amidst a Great Lake-sized sea of sun-kissed Canadians who have found a sort of “home away from home” here in London.

It is Canada Day and the UK’s capital is hosting a celebration for its commonwealth compatriots (http://www.canadadaylondon.com/do/default.asp).

Alongside the Tim Horton’s stall I see a maple syrup stand, and smell bison burgers on a grill across the square, and spot a line up around the corner of a Molson Canadian tent. I was hoping for poutine – I don’t even really like poutine – but nothing screams Canada like poutine. My craving persists.

Pearly-toothed people, clad in Salomon sneakers, carrying MEC packs (decked, traditionally in post-9-11 style, with maple leaf lapels) surround me. A sea of red and white is spread afoot the steps of the National Gallery, facing a stage where a trio of Canadian artists are singing to a fiddle.

“Has anyone here ever been on a river?!” shouts the lead singer who was hauled in all the way from Yellowknife.

My heart sinks, because the Thames in London, England, although majestic in comparison, doesn’t bring on the nostalgia that the Thames in London, Ontario somehow does. Along the river runs my favourite cross country course at the Thames Valley Golf Club, where I’ve trodden plenty of turf.

But I would shame other Canadians to think only of the dirty, winding Thames, at the sound of the word, “River”. And let's not talk about Detroit. But since I’ve left home, indeed for a few years now, I have wanted little more than head north for a breath of fresh Algonquin air and practice my j-stroke then while someone else (any takers?) takes the brunt of the work at the front-end of a canoe.

My homesickness is relieved by another mouthful of melting donut icing.
The band makes their exeunt and Jian Ghomeshi from The Hour keeps the show rolling. Love that guy.

That reminds me – I do miss the CBC.

Behind the stage rises Nelson’s Column, a mini-CN-like-tower (without the ugly bulge at the top) and as my eyes scale the pinnacle, I see airplanes heading in all directions, some doing victory laps around Heathrow before landing. It’s not often I wish I were flying, but for a fleeting moment my thoughts wander westbound, and suddenly the idea of an emergency landing in a cornfield in Essex County doesn’t seem so threatening. So long as I can slide off the airplane – oxygen mask still stuck to my face, floating device not yet inflated (for those who listen to the emergency instructions, you’re supposed to wait until your near-drowning in panic before you pull the inflatable cord) – and run from the wreckage until I collapse with my face in (worm-free) Canadian soil.

Then I realise, Canada is only a short flight away. And I’m here, among other like-minded “Can-UKs.” Canadians at heart, with a UK home. And that’s alright with me, on any other day besides Christmas, Thanksgiving, and the First of July.

I've been abroad for 11 months already, and recently moved to London. I love it here, but can't help missing home, from time to time.
I was still in Windsor when I started this blog, a year ago today.
I wrote a piece about “Canada House” (see http://3sixty6.blogspot.com/2007/07/0701-canada-house.html) which I hope someone has kindly paid homage to in my absence this year. I realised then, that a year would quickly pass – and that my circumstances would be flipped upside down come 366 days (http://3sixty6.blogspot.com/2007/07/countdown-begins.html).

I can assure you they have, despite failing to document the day to day process that has found me here today. In February, my camera failed me – a technological glitch that left me without means to capture the banalities of my life here – and the not so ordinary adventures. So I have left a gaping hole in my online dialogue – my diablog. But I figured I should at least finish what I started with this closing remark.

Happy Canada Day.
Hope the Fireworks were a blast.
Let me know when Tim Horton’s goes global.

Melissa

02.05 WALKAHOLICS

Dion walk everywhere. And he smokes.

It brings me back to the research I've done with retired mailmen, lifelong dogwalkers, and octogenarians who never had a drivers license but still have blockages in the arteries feeding their legs. Claudicants. Or people with claudication to be academically appropriate.

Not all of these walkaholics were smokaholics too. But many were.
It speaks to the power of nicotine over exercise, vices over virtues, and paints a grim picture for the smoking walkaholic.

A walk in the park isn't as easy as it sounds for some...

02.04 HAIR DONATION

This brings me back to that haircut in July. I am donating my locks for a cause, though not as honourable as kids with cancer nor as valiant as a donation to science, I do hope that my most recent donation to the visual arts will contribute somehow to human kind.

Last week I mentioned Sean's artistic endeavours and creative quirks and I have now been sucked into his world, both by curiosity and by charity. He is working with sound and vibration and small particles, like sand, salt, liquid - and hair - to choreograph a multi-media film project.

It's a shame he came asking so soon after Salma un-shagged me. I feel I'm getting closer and closer to that mohawk.

02.03 SUNDAY SPORT

As though I hadn't had enough of rugby after a Saturday, I paused to watch the Sunday players out in the Forest. Every weekend teams gather for pick up and practice. I usually stop and watch for a while, just barely long enough to get into the game and spend my afternoon procrastinating in disguise as a spectator.

02.02 SIX NATIONS

They say the world is getting smaller. But it's down to six nations as far as the Rugby universe is concerned. We spent the afternoon at Walkabout - a shanty but accomodating sports pub in town where all the fans hang out. The massive theatre-size screen makes it feel like the movies and the actors aren't so bad looking.

I rooted for Wales on behalf of Dion - and selected my team well since they took the lead in the second half to beat France in their first game of the league championship.

I have to admit, France's team is glittering with good looking blokes and I might have to shift favour next week. I do love rugby for all the wrong reasons.

02.01 NOTTING-HAM ROCKS

The night kept rolling inspite of the fatigue and we ended up at Dogma for a live gig that Gareth promised to be worth the wait. Aesop Rock, rap artists from NY, had it going until they sent a shout out to Nottingh-HAM and apologized on behalf of the shit their president has disturbed. The mention of George Dubya on any occasion tends to kill a good mood. Besides that, it's getting pretty old - no need to be overapologetic.

01.31 BROWNS

After barely surviving the law exam without falling into an incapacitating delerium, we followed the boys to a barren curry house where a host welcomed us over demoralising music. Turned off by the scene a few of us headed to Browns for some eats before dragging our weary minds and bodies to Dogma for a live gig.

It was a fun night. Just tiring. We were giddy at points.
Media law sucked the juice outta my brain.

A bottle of pear cider replenished some bits. Sleep and the gradual vacating of parts of my brain ridden with details of court cases and law lords should do the trick though.

01.30 CALM BEFORE THE MEDIA LAW STORM

They look almost like a pack of deer in headlights.
Stunned. Stupefied.
I've interrupted the calm before the medial law storm.
A little out of focus - both my camera and my mind.

I expect the day and everything I've learned up to it to depart my memory soon after the exam, and figure its worth capturing on film.

01.29 MEDIA LAW MOMENTS

There is something about group study that makes media law easier to take in. It might be Rob's roundabout ramblings that eventually articulate the right answer to each question. It seems to make a lot more sense to me when translated from legalese to plain English. It could be Salma's cryptic rhyme and rhythm that leaves images of white-collared workers with torn ties and suitcases stomped on in fits of angry rage - absolute privelege?
Maybe the collective numbs the anxiety about the inevitable - a four hour regurgitation of everything I know about British Law relevant to reporting for news media. A little social support never hurt.

01.28 IRANIAN UMAMI

I'm not sure what the dish was called. Steamy saffron rice on a bed of fried crisp bread, chicken breast and sweet-sour berries. Somehow filling and probably fatting but doesn't leave you feeling stuffed. Belly warming and refreshing at once.

Iranian umami.

Persian perfection.

Brain food before a bout of law review. Sigh.

01.27 NEW DO

I have a history of random and sporadic hair cuts.

Like the time I hit the barber shop on a Saturday night in hamilton. Out of romantic tension an urgency for distraction and need for a change I raced to the only open venue for a new do. Tured out to be one of the best hair cuts I'd had for a while. Didn't come with a shave, unfortunately.

Or there's the time last summer I knocked 14 inches off the back of my head. Done for the benefit of hairless chemo patients, there was simply no remorse. Still, it was a peculiarly emotional experience in itself - you grow attached to your hair, as long as it is attached to your head. And the longer it grows the stronger the bond that develops between you and the length of dead body cells trailing your back.

This afternoon, Salma came over, promising a decent do depite she is an amateur at hair cutting. Apparantly she was borne into the skill and has mastered a generic cut after watching her mom and practicing on a few friends.

What the heck? I figured I'll give it a go. Who could pass up a free cut anyhow?

Turns out she did a wicked clean up of the near-mullet that was accidentally growing down my neck, although it was removed in the tiniest of snippets that left my back and neck littered with bits of hair just tiny enough to cause an unyielding itch - even after 2 showers!

I like the new look though. Might even let her have a go at the mohawk i want for the summer.

01.26 ADIOS AMIGA

Today Maddy moved to Barcelona. She'll be there on exchange for six months, which means by the time she returns I will probably be nearing the end of my lease here, if I've not already moved out.

A few fond memories:

Deeebenhams, the art of popping corn, spanish ham, knock-me-out vodka slushies, Rioja, the simple spanish omelette, a motor and a pedal, cowgirls, late night journey to ikea...

Despedida vaquera!

01.25 SUPERSIZE

A night at the show with Maddy means, inevitably, enough popcorn for an epic.

We saw the 11:30 PM screening of an American Film, The Valley of Elah. For all I remember it was enduring - but my judgement of time is skewed by the movies anti-climactic plotline and the fact that it was way past my bedtime.

Then again, the seemingly bottomless bag of kernels was gone before the credit lines - but I suppose that doesn't speak much for the film's length since it was a super-sized portion.

If anything was epic tonight it was the finger-licking, salty, buttery goodness.

1.24 FULL HOUSE

What ever happened to predictibility?
The milkman, the paperboy, evening TV...

This is our full house - the photo captured beyond the boundaries of the Premier residence, however.

I can picture us now, piled into our minivan, cruising over the Golden Gate Bridge. Franci and Maddy, the twins, exchanging roles mid-season. Dion, the rock star unc who doesn't want to grow up, Jake, the responsible father figure, Sean everybody's favorite goofy uncle.

Well, maybe make that two goofy uncles and a Rockstar grandpa. I guess that leaves me with the role of the hot-for-her-age in-law...

01.23 CLOCK STRIKES TWELVE

...and Wednesday rolls around. Its the wee hours of the morning and I haven't turned into a pumpkin. But I'm sure to feel like one when I roll into shorthand later on today.

It happens on a Tuesday, sometimes, that suddenly and without warning it is well into Wednesday.

Time flies...(when you're onto Redbull and dancing and its ladies' night out...).

01.22 FRANCI & MADDY

A night on the town with Franci and Maddy. Its the only week that the three of us, though housemates, will actually be in Nottingham together.

A good enough reason to make it to Bar 11 on a Tuesday before a very busy Wednesday at school...

01.21 FOR ART'S SAKE

Where I feel accomplished having uploaded digital photos to this site, my housemates never fail to astound me in their artistic efforts.

Sean, of all of them, goes to the greatest lengths to merge media with materials of all sorts. More often than not at least one of those materials stains, leaks, pours, or sticks permanently.

The mess of the month always turns into something outrageous and ingenious and is well worth the high you get inhaling ink for a week or the ringing in the ears after hours of incessant base replayed over and over and over at volumes loud enough to capture microscopic vibrations in sand on film. In this project he combined black ink and stereo sound for a film project he's taking on.

I consider myself a creative sort, but in such a different and blunted way than the other egg soldiers.

In any event its great to be surrounded by art in the making - even if the bathroom looks like an octopus exploded out of the drain.

01.20 PIGGY BACK

...later that night.

Partying like a rockstar wearing my (once) favourite black pumps proved devastating for my pumiced and tender feet. Could barely make the walk home and might have found myself stranded if I hadn't been rescued by one valiant egg soldier.

A piggy back ride up through the forest wasn't the fastest or most efficient method of transport...but I didn't mind. I'm always game for hitching a lift on someone elses shoulders.

March two steps forward. One step back.
Forward soldiers.

01.19 DISCO BALL

Partied like a rockstar under the discoball at student union.
Ah, student life...

01.18 SCARVED STUDENTS

It is widely held that students wear scarves.

As it stands this stereotype is true among journalism students.

As you see, it is perpetuated by Juliette and Dave among others at the table whose adams apples and collarbones were hidden under folds of wool and silk.

I wonder why?

01.17 UNDER THE STARS

I didn't realise what a strange thing it is until I said it outloud.
I sleep in a sleeping bag in my bed under the stars (but usually the clouds).
This is partly to stay warm when the night grows cold.
And largely to appease my long-running urge to go camping.
Instead of a tarp overhead, I have a roof though. A sun roof.
And I don't have smores for dinner, though I should. Or TVP.

Full moon tonight. Hope the spiders aren't biting.

01.16 COWGIRLS BABY

So you wanna be a cowboy baby.

No kiddin', gun slingin', spurs hittin' the floor
Call me Hoss, I'm the Boss, with the sauce in the horse
No remorse for the sheriff,
in his eye I ain't right
I'm gonna paint his town red,
and paint his wife white. Uh.

Bang Bang Baby.

01.15 MAPPERLEY BRICKWORK

HISTMG

A HEAVY topic was discussed by members of a special interest history group.

Elizabeth R, a resident of Mapperley Park, explored the evolution of brick making in this area of Nottingham from medieval times.
The meeting took place in light of the current restoration of the Belle Vue Reservoir on Mapperley Park Road. The project, run by Severn Trent Water, involves the repair of a 150-year-old valve.

Of particular interest to the history group is the glazed brick lining the interior of the well. The brick was manufactured using the abundant materials from Mapperley’s old clay fields.

Elizabeth, 61, has had an interest in history since childhood when her father would tell her stories about buildings in the city. Later, while studying fashion and textiles at college, she started paying close attention to brick work.

Elizabeth’s discussion of the topic followed the trade in Nottingham from the earliest hand-made methods of working clay through the mid 19th century when the old reservoir was established.

Around this time, demand for brick led to a surge in production made possible by the introduction of mechanised brick making and improved railway systems which enabled a wider distribution of local bricks.

Although the reservoir’s underground bricks are not easily seen, Elizabeth recognises an inherent value in the material used. With Nottingham’s newer developments and more perceptible infrastructure in mind she said: “I think it’s important that we look out on brick and that we continue to look out at brick, rather than offices and flats made of modern materials.
Modern building materials would be so incongruous. They would jar.”

Work at the Belle Vue reservoir is expected to continue into the new year. For more information call project manager CM at 0133 268 3307.

01.14 OFF THE SAUCE

This is my latest culinary discovery.
Brown sauce.
A malt vinegar base with fruity extracts and seasonings.

Its best drizzled over potatos or squeezed on a sausage roll.
Apparantly I have discovered the generic HP.
It did taste a lot like steak sauce to me.


Steak sauce?
Yeah, steak sauce?

My friends look repulsed.
Brown sauce and steak apparantly don't belong in the same sentence, let alone anywhere along your gastro-intestinal tract at any singular point in time. A slap on my wrist.

I took a pack home to admire and contemplate.
A simple sauce with a simple name.
I wondered why ketchup shouldn't be called red sauce, and mustard yellow.
But then its simply not like the Brits to be so simplistic in their etymology.

HP, invented by a grocer in Nottingham in 1896, is far more suitable - it tells a story.
The humbled patent holder, Fredrick Gibson Garton, named what would soon become the sauce of all sauces after the House of Parliament where he learned it was being served.
I think GG Sauce might have stuck just as well.

But who am I to say. I'm off this sauce.

01.13 MODEL PLANES

This is Michael.
Every now and then I see him in the Forest.
He always carries a model airplane, or a wing, or some fragment of a craft.
By his side is a wooden toolbox.
This afternoon I noticed him, stationary, in the middle of the field.
He stood with a sloppy slouch on bended knees, ready as though a gust of wind might carry him away on the wings of his airplane.
Reluctantly, but overtaken by my curiosity, I walked up to him and asked about his model plane.

"Oh this," he said. "I'm testing out a new area-by-weight ratio. And waiting for my hands to warm up before I give it a go."
I noticed a pair of black fleece gloves, wet with frost on the grass beside his toolbox.
I looked at my hands, my blue gloves tattered from cycling in them, and decided not to offer. They'd never fit and I'd freeze a lot sooner than he.

Michael introduced himself and then pinned my accent to a town in Southern Ontario. Impressive.

Turns out he left his home in Scotland, and found residence in Canada for nearly 30 years after serving in the military. He moved from place to place but spent most of his time in Quebec and northern Ontario.
Small world.

He has been building model airplanes for years and competes in championships across the globe. The competition requires only that the craftsman meets a specified weight requirements. Any material and design can be used to craft the fastest, most efficient, and robust model plane. He's written books on the physics of it.

Michael has actually flown aircraft during his service. I briefed him on the consecutive emergency landings my family and I endured and told him I just don't appreciate the thrill anymore. I'd rather take the aisle seat.

His airplane was marvellous. Its joints pieced together like a boot to the ski - locked in tightly to remain in tact but in such a way that a crash landing would enable it to detach from the body of the plane to avoid serious damage. Very cool.

He told me that the kids at the park torment him sometimes. He gets anxious when they try to pick up pieces of a landed plane - the slightest bend in the material will render it grounded for life. A moment passed before the wing slipped from his hand.
My instinct was to reach for it and rescue it from the cold, hard ground.

Apologizing, I told him it was simply reflex.
He laughed and promised I had done no damage to the wing.
I left soon after, warmed by our conversation but chilled from the cold wind that dampened the old man's greyish beard.

01.12 WHILE YOU WERE SLEEPING

...in the meantime.

Kindly, my housemates documented, moment by moment, the rambunctious fun they were having whilst I got my beauty sleep.

01.11 MIX MASTER

In a joint effort to welcome Franci home and dismiss Maddy, on six-months leave, from the Eggs Soldier Regiment, we threw a party.

In the comfort of our own kitchen, Maddy hosted a full on tapas and wine event complete with Spanish coldcuts and aged cheese. To wash it all down, and with the misguided intention of being healthful, she blended a scintillating concoction of frozen berries, vodka and wine.

In the comfort of our own kitchen, I indulged, and without leaving my seat for several hours became unknowingly inebriated. It happens.

I stood up for a mingle, lasting a good five minutes before the pool of exceedingly alcoholic blood at my feet swiftly rushed to my head, rendering me incapable of socialising coherently.

Just as suddenly, I found my alcohol stricken head hitting the pillow in the comfort of my own bed, while the party continued, the mix master mixing...

01.10 SOAKER

I got stuck in the rain on my bike.

Like two rubber garden hose, the whirling tires whisked a jet-stream of muddy rainwater along my front and back sides.
That was besides the intermittent deluge of puddle-running, pedestrian ignorant cars that blew me by.

The shot is an afterthough and the wide smile only exhibits my giddy relief in arriving home before dissolving like the wicked witch of the west.

Another rainy day...

01.09 THE SHERIFF

Franci brought with her a sherrif badge. It was a gift for Maddy who was enraptured by the gesture and tore open the package in a motion made swift by the number of times she's practiced drawing an imaginary revolver after walking 10 yards from an imaginary felon.

But there's only one sherrif in this here town of Nottingham.

And that's fine with Maddy. Tracking Robin Hood and his merry men isn't her cup of Texas tea. She'd rather take over a fort where there lie many more cowboys than in Notts.

She is set on the hunt for her Dallas dreamboy and otherwise will settle for a cutie from Calgary. I say she forgets the chase and gets herself a bucking bronco - that'll have them crawling back to the girl who wears the leather stirrups in these parts.

Yeeehaw.

01.08 FRANCI

Franci arrived and unloaded stuff, lots of stuff, into her previously vacant room.

She returns from exchange studies at Deakin in Melbourne - the same uni where I wasted more brain cells than I developed only four years ago.

(I do remember one challenging assignment on watersports injury where I learned that you can lacerate your legs if you're not gripping the cord correctly. Ick. I'd rather swim with the tiger sharks on Fraser Island.)

Likewise, she had an amazing time.

The experience of an overseas exchange, at her age - at my age minus four years - is remarkable, not for what you learn in the classroom but from what you manage to absorb alongside the steady stream of red wine.

It is equally overwhelming. And I can see that she's a bit stressed about reverting to her usual and no unusual ways. I hope she finds some solace in sharing her travel stories with me. Likewise, I dont mind looking back at my own antics in Australia.

It is a coincidence that we have the Deakin exchange in common, that we've travelled the same Great Ocean Road, that we've partied at the same campus pub - and now our path's cross again. Only this time we're in the very same place at the very same time.

We spent the arvo chatting over bickies and tea.

01.07 POSER

Not sure what the heck Dion was doing in this picture - but I do remember asking him to pose for the camera.

If I recal this is how excited he will be when his sister, impregnated, makes him an uncle.

Or maybe he's just thrilled that I've let him borrow off my bookshelf Andrew Keen's latest, which I read over the summer.

He might also be describing the astonishing size of the mammoth pigeon in our backyard.

Or maybe, he, the self-titled "Living Legend" is professing his supremacy over all other photographers in our Eggdom.

I'm not sure. What do you think?

01.06 ONLINE

I show my age when I marvel at modern day technology.

(And I am but a spring chicken in comparison to the global mean age. )

Still I grew up in a world of Commodore 64s, played Super Mario Bros, and taped my favourite cartoons on VHS.

That's going back a few decades.

This afternoon, I signed onto Skype. It was marvellous. Despite the generation gap, my parents and I were made simultaneously giddy by the fact that we could chat live and audibly anytime, any day.

It was two years ago in my offline photo-journal that I have a similar snapshot when my mom first logged onto Messenger. That got old fast, though, and we reverted to telephone calls, generously and thriftily initiated from their line to my own.

By the look on my mother's face this time though, there's no going back.

01.05 WINDING UP

Back in the city.

I met up at Costa's (the British version of Timmy-ho's, though nothing even resebles the Timbit) with Salma and Juliette.

We got all caught up on our Christmas holidays and a little caught up in woes about the upcoming term - but stopped ourselves before we went too far and spent our entire coffee break (over which I did not have a coffee) stressing about school, deadlines - and searching for a lifeline in our mutual anxieties.

We've got a whole weekend before we pick up academically where we left off three weeks earlier. Hold the caffeine until then.

Right now its time to chill.
I sipped contently at my fruit smoothie.

01.04 HONEYBEE

Aside from real people, there is nothing better to come home to than a package in the mail.

This one was an unexpected gift from Noelle. The package contents, identified as push pins, had me guessing if that was some kind of cryptic clue for what was actually inside.

Indeed, the contents were push pins - a fancy kind with honeybee pegs.

Years ago, when I opened my first e-mail account I used the Greek translation of my name as a username. At the time, the honeybee became a collectors item for me, not so much because I wanted it to be, but because everybody assumed my online person was synonymous with my identity. The next thing I remember I was getting honeybee paraphernalia from tissue to tea mugs.

It got old, but this is a refresher. Its been ages since anybody bestowed a bumbling gift unto me. And it's just like Noelle to bring me back to 'the good old days' as we have a tendency to get caught up in reminiscing every time we hang out.

I pushed the pins here, there and anywhere I could find a spot in my hive.

01.03 ST GEORGE

The sun is setting on my holiday in Prague.

I travel today.

In the likes of St George, I might have charged valiantly homeward (home now being England!) on my noble steed.

But with all that luggage and all those lebchuken I ate, I wouldn't want to burden a horse.

Back to the real world. Daydream days are over.
I boarded a train, then a plane, then a train, then a tram back to Notts.

Ho!

01.02 KAFKA

The Jewish quarter of Prague was home to Franz Kafka, literary genious who put his psyche down on paper to become this nation's most revered writer.

I went to the Kafka Museum during my visit and learned about this author's sardonic existence. The "little ravachol" was led to school each morning by the family chef, he worked his way up in a public health and safety office and grew old, unmarried, but existed in the realm of four loves throughout his life.

The museum was dark, a reflection - or non-reflection - of the writer's style and character. The multi-media effects were dizzying, the author's biography depressing a shadowy mark on your soul.

I exited the museum, my vision strained by the daylight, emotionally exhausted - but enthralled at the same time. I would find this same effect in Kafka's writing once I finally got my hand on a copy of The Metamorphasis and dug my nose in deep.

One of his most intriguing pieces (in my opinion!) is A Hunger Artist - the story of a man allowed to die of starvation, in vain, amidst a bustling city centre. I'm pretty sure Kafka died of tuberculosis. In any event, he suffered a long, slow suffocation - and starvation - as his pipelines slowly collapsed.

The whole notion of the hunger strike, to me, is fascinating. It has been, historically a very powerful method of political movement and protest in a strangely ascetic way.

Dark, like the bottom of a barrel. Like the pit of an empty stomach. Like the hole where this sculpture's head should be.

I digress, but I will curtail this piece before I am overcome by the peculiar and suddenly onset sense that I need some comfort food:

This sculpture Jaroslav Rona is a memorial to FK. It is the artists interpretation of a figure in Kafka's story "Description of a Struggle."

A strange piece, yet it fits like the missing puzzle piece in this otherwise modest square.

01.01 ...MEANWHILE IN THE CITY

...later that night I got a dose of familiarity after all.

We made our way back toward Miss Sophie's, parking it at what has become somewhat of a home away from home for me: Banditos.

The way back was a remarkable journey, however. After departing the island, the now apparant refuge from the rest of the city, we meandered through the streetways nearby Wenceslas Square.

It was havoc.

Beleaguered drunks slept standing in shop doorways.
Bloodied bystanders were bandaged by medics.
A woman, passed out, was towed across my path on a cart, her arms dangling, lifeless at her side.

Have I got a resolultion for her.

The streets were invisible under layers of debris.
Shards of glass and remnants from firework crackers littered the streets.
Only the odd in-tact champagne bottle revealed this was a celebration and not a war-zone.

It was remarkable. What we had experienced by the waterfront was so far removed from the chaos and kurfuffle of the square centre. I suppose our experience was mild in comparison, but still truly authentic. The glimpse I got of the other Praguish new years had little appeal.

Must be getting old.

Anyhow, passed out bodies, beer bottles and trash were among the obstacles that made our trek back to Banditos epic. A few pit stops along the way to poke our heads into bars in the hopes we might find a table were in vain and eventually we beelined for what we already knew would be a good place to end the night and start a new year.