Island Blog

2004-07-27T22:09:00.000-03:00

Okay this will sound like I'm obsessed with my haircuts, but I'm not.

It's just that I keep running into the woman who used to cut mine. I was kind of embarrassed the first time, but it's happened so much now that I can greet her like an old friend - not the kind of friend you stop and make plans to see each other that neither of you have any intention of following through with, the kind where you say Hi, and your pace never slows down.

Funny I never ran into her when she was still cutting my hair. Of course that's when she was calling in sick all the time, which is the reason I had to go to someone new. If it had been a long term illness I might have felt that I had to keep going to her regardless of how ugly I was starting to look between cuts, but the rumors were that her sick days were all self induced, so I didn't have to feel guilty at all for going to someone who showed up every day.

Who'd have guessed someone's attendance record would ever count in the world of haircutting.

2004-07-25T22:05:00.000-03:00

And I haven't been banned from getting my hair cut.

In fact I was even able to get in early because someone else canceled.

Wait a minute. I was so releived to be allowed in the chair, that I never thought about the fact that somone else had canceled, and that she wasn't being nice to me at all.

2004-07-24T22:01:00.000-03:00

I got caught up in a drug raid last night, and it was not as exciting as you’d think.

It was early in the evening so the bar wasn’t very crowded and I was talking with a middle aged couple and (I later found out) a guy who’d been a member of the reserve police.

The cops came barging down the stairs in full riot gear, yelling out “this is a raid”. We all just stared at them with a slightly confused look. Clearly we all understood the words, but it made so little sense that someone actually said, “What do they mean”.

The cops were yelling at everyone to put their hands on their heads, but we couldn’t see why as there are no guns in Bermuda and there is no place to hide a machete under our summer clothes.

One cop took my drink (presumably so I could then put my hands on my head), and put it down on a speaker. She told us to follow her, and then she led us towards the front gate. She must have figured we were low risk as she just sent us out the door. They wouldn’t even let me collect my credit card from the bar, where I’d been running a tab.

When we got to the street we ran into other people who were on their way in, and told them of our adventure. Eventually other people started coming out who said they’d been searched before being released. The cops were looking for drugs, and apparently they weren’t looking our way.

I was completely insulted by this. It was a good thing I was already outside when I found out that the police considered me safe. If I’d still been inside, I’d might have acted on my feelings and cried out in defense of my being cooler that my father was a rock star and that I’d been experimenting with drugs since before they were born. (and I do see the irony of using experience in a vain attempt to claim a long gone coolness).

In the end it was much better that I just went out the door blissfully unaware that I’d been profiled as harmless.

2004-07-17T16:46:00.000-03:00

I had the perfect dinner the other night.

I ordered a tuna stake and then when the meal arrived, I watched my friends get their giant platters of prime rib, lobster tail, and some kind of baked pasta dish. With very sad eyes I watched the waiter put down in front of me the grilled tuna on a bed of greens I had ordered. With a combination of self- pity and regret, I dug into my healthy dinner.

And then I hit pay dirt.

Under the bed of greens were roasted fingerling potatoes in a light cream sauce. It was sublime. No one would have known they were there if I hadn’t been so noisy about finding them. And best of all the cream sauce tasted great with the baby lettuce leaves and the tuna thereby ruining the virtue of eating both.

Big Brother

2004-07-15T17:17:00.000-03:00

I have a new theory.

Recently I was asked to participate in a government survey. The goal of this one is to establish a new basket of goods, which the government can use to calculate the consumer’s price index. At first I felt this was an honourable duty and took on a bit of civic pride. But after talking with friends I found that everyone in Bermuda gets asked to participate in all kinds of surveys. It might have to do with having such a small population that to get a reasonable estimate they have to ask nearly everyone. A friend of mine was much worse off as she was subjected to the literacy test. Apparently many folk, not wanting to be found illiterate, refuse to participate.

I didn’t know that was an option.

A very nice, but insistent woman came to my house to ask me all the questions in person. I was not allowed to write down my most personal information in private. She would ask me how much I’d spent on rent during the last year, and I would have to tell her. And then she would write it down with her pencil. At the time it seemed strange, but since then I’ve heard about the failure rate of the literacy test so this procedure now makes more sense to me.

I was supposed to divulge every dime I had spent during the last year. I did my best to recall how much I spent last June taking my Dad out for dinner in Montreal, convert it from Canadian dollars to Bermuda dollars at the historically correct exchange rate. And then she told me I had to separate the food cost from the wine cost. A year later, I was pretty much just guessing. It didn’t occur to me until afterwards that I could have lied my way through all of it, and in the process help to create a fascinating basket of goods. I felt honour bound to tell them the truth to help them with their noble goal no matter how silly it made me look. It turned out that during the last year I’d spent nothing on furniture or anything for my house at all, but had spent a tiny fortune on clothes. I could see her thinking “if you spend that much money on clothes, why are you dressed like that?”

The truth is I don’t spend more on clothes than furniture. I moved into an unfurnished house six years ago and had to buy everything. Being that most of my stuff is still unbroken, there has been no need to replace it. As well, I can’t live in Bermuda forever, so I wouldn’t buy furniture just for the sake of changing things. Now to explain about the clothes: I buy them like I buy my furniture. One day I notice that my shoes are shabby so I buy a few new pairs. This year I happened to realize that all my suits were really horrible (threadbare low vent double breasted eighties power suits) at the same time a local upscale store was having an incredible sale. Okay maybe I noticed the sale first, and then how shabby my suits were. What seemed to me at the time like a sensible kind of stocking up, appeared on paper to be some kind of reckless attempt at bankruptcy.

They’re not fools. They ask for receipts, but it’s easy enough to separate embarrassing stuff, or to just not buy it for a week. If they really want to know the truth, they’re going to have to go the route of reality shows and require lie detector tests. Then they could ask the important questions like, do you really buy this much spinach every week? Did you buy the spinach to impress me? Have you ever eaten more than one vegetable at the same time? When you eat the spinach are you thinking about the carrots?

It’s a good thing she comes in person as I would have lost interest in the whole project long before it was over. Recording every dime it dull, and writing down the sizes and quantities of each item is extremely tedious, even if it was a learning experience. Everything in Bermuda is expensive. It all has to be either flown in or shipped in which gets added to the cost.

When I was first here I would make guests go to the store with me and guess what the groceries would cost. That was before the Canadian dollar really fell. These days it’s just too mean. Now I try to hide the cost from visitors, and apparently from myself too. I did know how much I was spending in total, but I never realized I was paying $3.75 for a litre of skim milk, and buying four litres at a time. That’s $15.00 per week for milk for one person. And my cottage cheese bill makes me look insane.

Several years ago I friend gave me a copy of Body for Life for my birthday. Yes I seem to have the kind of friends who are happy to provide confirmation that I’m getting old and fat. One of the meals suggested in the book is mixing cottage cheese and yogurt together. Flavoured yogurt, not plain like my Dad insists on punishing himself with. I like it mostly because I can make it for breakfast before I’m functioning. I don’t even know if I’m tasting it yet. As you can see with four liters of overpriced milk, and four containers of cottage cheese, and eight cherry yogurts, the dairy group was really over represented in my grocery cart.

And this is where my theory comes in. As my diary started filling up with the details of my life it started to seem more like a confessional. I then realized that anyone reading it had an unfiltered view of what I’m really up to. By casually mentioning the occasional fact absorbed from watching the food channel, and buying overpriced pots, I might be able to fool my friends and family into thinking I can cook, but now the government knows that what I really eat is limited to cereal and sandwiches which combined with my liquor bill, pretty much lets them know I think I’m still in college.

I’m starting to think that the point of the survey was not as noble as I was told, but instead that it’s the government’s way of seeing what I’m doing with the money I make and if the country is better off having me here spending it

I’ll have to see just how widespread this conspiracy goes. Will customs be more or less careful when inspecting my bags? Will immigration happily approve another work permit knowing that I give my entire paycheck back to the local merchants?

I’ll keep you posted.

2004-06-18T12:51:00.000-03:00

I think I've been banned from getting my hair cut.

I tried to get an appointment for Friday, but the only time I could get was a half hour before a meeting that I had to attend (it involved cocktails so I couldn't miss that, even if it meant turning into Grizzly Adams).

Well my meeting got postponed so I called up to see if the slot was still open. The receptionist asked me who was calling, and after I told her, said that it was full.

This can't be a good sign.

2004-05-11T17:55:00.000-03:00

Yesterday, I did one of those free online IQ tests. I was a little bored and curious to see how quickly my brain cells have been dying. I fear that like most things in the tropics, my brain is rotting at a quicker pace - like all that fruit and meat in those Peter Greenaway films.

To no one's surprise the results showed that I'm brainy, not because I'm actually smart, because they must boost everyone's score as an way of luring you to pay for a more thorough analysis of the test results.

I can't see anyone wanting to give them money to better understand results like, "You will enjoy the challenge of mastering the cash register at your local 7-11", or "Your aptitude for math makes you well qualified to handle the new economy of triple digit gas prices".

So while it may appear to be flattering, like almost all flattery it hides an agenda.

2004-05-09T14:15:00.000-03:00

Last night, this young guy says to me "You know, you're not a bad looking guy, you just need to join a gym".

Anyone who's ever met me already knows, I go to the gym six days a week. I did Body for Life a few years ago, and have been a gym rat ever since.

I started Body for Life when a "friend" gave me a copy for my birthday. For some unknown reason, I was not offended when I opened the present. Only later did I realize what it implied, and made sure I never missed an opportunity to point this out to my "friend".

But I did the program and then after my success, like all cult members in good standing, I tried to get new recruits. I too gave the book as a present, offered sample shakes to friends, and talked about its theories of diet and exercise non-stop.

These days I keep going to the gym because I'm afraid of what will happen if I don't. Probably how Michael Jackson feels about his surgeries. Hmmm....using Michael Jackson to explain something, probably means I should reexamine it more closely.

Today I was thinking about going to the beach, and realized I was too fat and too white. It was an unusual thought and I wondered if it was inspired by that comment.

Anyway it got me out of the sun and into a spin class, so what I will save at the dermatologist and doctor, I can afford to spend at the shrink.

2004-05-07T17:26:00.000-03:00

I'm not sure what to think about Emma Thompson now. I'm sure the interview I saw (in which she was glamorous, intelligent, and passionate) was taped after the movie was filmed. I was thinking how odd it was that she seemed so dowdy in the movie compared to how she is in real life, and then remembered she's acting.

D'oh.

Then I was struck by how frivolous it is to use someone of her talent in a movie like Love Actually. She does become a different person entirely, in this case, one who is a bit flaky and dowdy and not as interesting as Emma Thompson is in real life. It's a remarkable transformation, but for no real purpose as the movie doesn't warrant the effort.

But then, maybe it's too much of a leap to think of this harmless diversion as being sinister for its squandering of talent.

2004-05-06T08:15:00.000-03:00

Tonight I will be one of the seventy eight people not watching the Friends finale.

My own friends don't watch the show and have decided we should get together to watch a movie instead. Curiously they've chosen Love Actually. Frankly I don't see much of a difference between the two, so their snotty attitude seems a little misplaced.

However, I'm not complaining as I get to watch Emma Thompson, which I could do endlessly. She was on Hard Talk discussing important stuff to do with famine and other horrible atrocities, but I was so dazzled by how she spoke that I couldn't really tell you what she said. She radiated intelligence, which is so attractive it's unintentionally beguiling.

2004-05-05T08:12:00.000-03:00

It gets worse.

My dinner last night was a bowl of cereal, followed by a bowl of ice cream.

I had a forty minute nap when I got home from work, and was still in bed before 10:00.

I think I've turned into a senior citizen.

2004-05-03T20:59:00.000-03:00

Weather: Foggy (well, at least inside my head).

Yesterday was my Dad's last night here so I made a dinner for him and some friends and everything seemed like it would go pretty well. Everyone was liquored up just enough to think the food tasted delicious, but not so much they revealed anything personal.

And then I brought out the port. I know exactly what port does and can't explain why I thought we would each have a single glass and be done with it. As always happens, we drank the whole bottle and while we were still well behaved, I still ended up paying the price. Not with a hangover, but that fuzzy brain thing that only comes from port.

After dinner my Dad once again washed all the dishes and cleaned up my horrendous mess. My kitchen is only three feet by six feet, so everything ends up in two very tall, but not very stable piles, making the clean up a daunting task - maybe the port made it seem possible.

Today I came home to an empty place. It's probably nice to have some time alone to catch up on my sleep and stuff, but right now I can't really tell.

Now I seem to be watching a movie that was only moderately interesting the first time I saw it.

That can't be a good sign.

"Good Morning"

2004-04-30T08:22:00.000-03:00

....

In the city we employ a lot of methods to convince ourselves we're not so crowded together. When I stand on my balcony I don't see the guy with a 42" waist propped up by his size 36 shorts, even if he is only fifteen feet away. If someone comes out on the balcony with me, we may talk about the guy, but we'd never yell over to him.

Another technique is to never acknowledge the people you recognize but don't know. By this I'm not referring to celebrities, but regular folk you pass on your way to the subway or see in the bank. Being in the city, there is a good chance this person is on probation, in rehab, or just out on a day pass. Only when someone whose judgment you trust introduces you, will you start speaking to the stranger. I don't recall if I learned this from my Mom, or from personal experience, like trying to explain to the Scientology recruiter why I didn't want to take his free personality assessment.

In Bermuda it is customary to say "Good Morning" to everyone you see. No exceptions - everyone, everywhere. This is a difficult adjustment for some of us to make. Greeting everyone indiscriminately seems like the first step to becoming the crazy guy, the one the whole neighborhood warns their guests to avoid. You know the guy, he wears nothing but a bathrobe to sweep the front stairs - yet again, while explaining how the government works to the neighbor's cat.

Here in Bermuda this 'friendly' custom is often used by locals to remind us expats just how rude we really are. Once, I was checking in for a 7:00 morning flight. I walked up to the ticket agent, said Hi, explained where I was going and asked for some help rebooking something. She waited for me to finish, paused, and then said "Good Morning, and how are you today". There is no way she wasn't being rude to me, but because it was early and because I know the custom, I accepted her admonishment, and apologized for only saying Hi before treating her like a ticket agent.

The reason for being so formally polite becomes clear around your third week on the island. The island is so small that you'll see the same people over and over again. If you follow custom and say Good Morning right away, then it's easy to just keep saying it every day. However, if you make the mistake of copping a big city attitude by saying nothing and looking away, then for the rest of the time you live here, every time you cross paths, (and you will cross paths - often) you will have to pretend either that you can't see them, or that you've never seen them before. Neither is very convincing in a four person elevator.

I thought I learned my lesson while still a freshman. After I moved houses, I started taking the ferry and I made a point of greeting everyone at my ferry stop, even after a surly teenager just stared at me without responding. At my stop there was never any extended conversation, just a quick Good Morning before we all adopted our subway faces (that glazed over stare into a non existent space that says simultaneously, I can't see you so don't bug me, and I'm watching so don't try anything).

The other stops were very different. My guess is that those passengers have been riding together for years, so every morning they update each other on what's happened since they saw each other on the ride home the night before. They were so rowdy you could hear the whooping and hollering before the ferry even pulled up to the dock.

And here is where I made my next mistake. It seemed all wrong to try and greet a big cheery crowd. Okay less wrong than asking soccer hooligans for directions to an art museum, but still wrong. Sometimes there would only be one or two of them, but after ignoring them when they were in a crowd, it was out of the question to try and befriend them when they were alone. That's what the guy from Scientology does.

The problem is that by definition, a crowd is more than one person. So after going to all the trouble of damage control with the few people at my own stop, I managed to offend whole groups from other stops. Now I have a slew of people I have to avoid eye contact with in supermarkets, post offices, restaurants, and the aforementioned four person elevator.

At this point it's probably easier to recreate my self image as a crank than to rehabilitate my character with these folk. Of course the easiest thing is to just stop taking the ferry, but I'm pretty sure this kind of reasoning leads to becoming a hermit.

2004-04-29T08:20:00.000-03:00

The film festival was a hit.

I'd forgotten what an a-hole the writer of "The Limey" is. It's not surprising that he hasn't worked again with Soderbergh, but it is surprising that Soderbergh would want to sit down with him for ninety minutes to listen to all his complaints. Curiously, Soderbergh never seems to make his commentaries alone, which is a shame as he makes really interesting observations which are constantly intererupted by stale beefs or moronic comments about the obvious.

My Dad's comments about Solaris were mostly about how dumb James Cameron is, and that George Clooney can't act. And he doesn't think Clooney is handsome. Of course in Solaris he's not, which I admire him for...a clear demonstration of his lack of vanity (or huge delusions), kind of like those horrible shirtless pics in Vanity Fair that revealed what's going on underneath those expensive suits he usually wears.

I tried to convince my Dad that Clooney's forte was urbane banter, but it didn't sell.

And worse he said that Clooney looked too much like Terry David Mulligan. I don't get what that's about, but I know TDM would be very pleased, Clooney, once someone showed him a photograph of TDM would be merely perplexed, like the rest of us.

2004-04-28T17:40:00.000-03:00

Crappy day weather wise. It shouldn't make any difference as I'm in my cubicle working (well clearly not very hard). However, as I have errands to run, I wil be forced to face the rain. At least this morning's ride in on my mo-ped was dry.

I've promised my Dad to pick up some more Steven Soderbergh movies for tonight. The bad weather has enabled me to force a Soderbergh film festival on him. I think "encouraging" him to review the director's commentary on "The Limey" finally converted him. Next we'll tackle the riskier viewings of "Full Frontal" and "Solaris". I loved them both, but I guess I'll see if my father is truly a convert.

No more codfish and potatoes for British Airways passengers.
Bermuda Aviation Services is no longer in the business of supplying food to planes. Apparently the US and Canadian airlines have always brought their own food for the return flight, so only BA passengers will no longer eat the local cuisine.

Now, with a minimum of math I can see that my airplane meals are not old like I was thinking, but old in a way I hadn't imagined. If it takes my meal as long to get on the plane as it take my luggage to get off the plane, then we start with 1-2 hours. Next we add a half hour of runway taxiing, followed by a three hour flight, two hour layover, and finally another half hour while it waits for me to reach cruising altitude.

This means the poached fresh salmon, presented with much fanfare by the exectuive class flight attendant at 2:30, really hit the plate seven hours before.

Yum.