International Man of Mystery

It is ten pm and I'm in a bar, again.

Now I've been getting comments about the amount of time I spend on bars,
but when you consider that the alternative is to hide in your hotel room
watching CNN, getting out and being social is a much better option. Also,
if you look at the frequency of these posts, you'll realise that it isn't
really that often.

However, I digress. I was stuck in downtown Milwaukee and rapidly
discovering that it isn't the most happening place in the middle of
winter. Fortunately, just around the corner from the hotel was a watering
hole that purported to be the headquarters of the Press Club. Now I've
worked in newspapers for a few years and know that journalists have the
best stories, So I figured I had nothing to lose by hanging around for a
while.

I was wrong.

Instead of walking into a plush smoky den with old school wood furniture
and a Chesterfield in the corner, I found myself somewhere that was
decorated like a Mexican cantina, it was Karaoke Night, and they had
declared Open Season on classic R&B numbers.

While a pair of twenty-somethings gracelessly murdered a Wilson Pickett
number, I asked the waitress if there was 'somewhere quieter'. She told
me to head to the back and turn right.

Two turns later I was not only in a back room, but a real 'hidden back
room' that was much larger than the original pub and was one giant homage
to the world of 'spy-craft and Espionage'. Actually It was many rooms and
as I settled in I got the history from the bartender and a harsh dose of
reality. While he made me a drink he filled me on on when were the busy
times and what kind of people came here.

'We occasionally get real agent types here." He said "The secret service
were in here the other week for the President's visit, for some reason
they like the place. But mostly all we get here is tourists and guys on
business."

Unfortunately I knew what the next question would be. But I let him ask.

"So, what brings you here ?"

"Oh, I'm here on business." Damn.

So we talked some more, I checked a few emails, made a few calls and then
we got to the point when the bartender had to ask the next most
uncomfortable question of the evening. It's not that the answer is hard,
but if you aren't in my line of business the details are just too
difficult to explain in a short answer. Fortunately my phone rang at just
the right time and well, given where I was, I couldn't help myself.

"So, What do you do anyway ?"

"Um. well, I travel a lot, I guess I could say I'm a consultant. Excuse
me, that will me my agent on the phone confirming my flight to London next
week."

I resisted the temptation to order a vodka martini and made a mental map
of all the exits.

And, yes, it really was my travel Agent. Next week I'll be in the UK.


Tags travel,london,hotel,restaurant,milwaukeeairline

I'm not alone

It seems that I'm not the only one who has bad experiences in Chicago. Gridskipper reported this article from a columnist for the St Louis Post-Dispatch

I particularly liked this line :

"Airport bars are strange places. They're the only bars in the world where nobody has any fun. Drinking at an airport bar is like trying to start 'the wave' in a graveyard."

Night Of The Beautiful People

Sydney, Summer, Sunday, Sunset

Sooner or layer you will find yourself alone in a bar killing time. This
is a perfect opportunity to make the most of your environment and observe
your surroundings. Find a good seat, either at the bar or somewhere you
have a good view and settle in.

Then, get to know the bartender, he is the source to any number of
discounts and special favours. Better still, if it is a quality
establishment, get to know the waitress. She will ensure that you never
actually have to wait for a drink or risk losing your good seat by
stepping near the bar.

Sufficient bribery will also get you a reserved sign for your space. This
not only gives you freedom to roam occasionally, but also let's you be
selective about who sits next to you.

Now that you are settled in it is time to observe what people do, it is
very interesting. Australia is the land of the cafe society and the great
unwashed. And one thing we do (mostly) well is go out and have a drink.

The 'Friday afternoon booze-up', 'Beer O'Clock', 'Working Lunch', whatever
you want to call it, best example I've found is the 'Sunday Afternoon at
the Pub'. This is the magic hour of Australian society. It is something
you evolve into and never forget.

It probably started from a protestant work ethic that made sure you
'downed tools' on the seventh day. But then it was then mixed with the
general European migrant mentality that meant if it was too hot to do
anything else, you took a siesta or caught up with friends.

Either way, on Sunday afternoons, as the sun sets and the beaches start to
cool off we do the sensible thing and go out drinking and socialising. We
get out of the house, get some fresh air and down a few beers before the
work week kicks back in.

Unfortunately, we do it in surprisingly odd ways.

Sydney is a very insular society. Maybe it takes stepping away for a few
years to notice, but people live in very small worlds here.

Firstly, everyone is in a big group, four at a minimum. They go out, but
always with the same group of friends and their social universe never seem
to expand. They meet the same friends, they tell the same stories and,
well, don't get any variety.

Secondly, They also never make eye contact, with anyone.

Thirdly, they all dress alike. Exactly alike. It is as if they all share
the same brain.

The girls, the poor things, only seem to wear clothes that they saw on
famous people, regardless of how well it fits them ( Paris Hilton seems
to be to blame for todays melange ). And it all looks mostly the same. It
really must take incredible co-ordination to wear things that look so
alike, yet nothing is exactly identical.

It is, however, harshly sobering to then notice that the guys dress even
worse. They don't try to be different. I swear that they must all call
each other up to check on the dress code :

"Mate what are you wearing ?"

"Distressed jeans, deck shoes, and a dress shirt untucked, with the
collar turned up, saw Brad Pitt wearing it last year"

"Cool. I'll wear the same. Stripes or spots on the shirt ?"

"Spots"

The good thing is that it makes it easy to identify the groups, gangland
uniforms have more variety and colour.

It is like no one wants to trust their own judgment. They are one big
race of people blindly following whatever is in the lead.

Lastly, and here's where I get really bitter and twisted, everyone
smokes. They really still do. I have not seen a woman under twenty five
here who didn't, at some point, light up a cigarette. Again, I'm sure
peer group pressure is to blame.

Still, everyone is happy and the place of full of laughter. I guess folk
just like staying inside their boundaries.

Hasta luego

Good Bye Yellow Brick Road

I'm foolishly trying something simple, All I need to do is get on a plane
and fly back Australia. Of course, as we all know, finding the road to OZ
isn't that easy.

In my case, the Wicked Witch of the West as actually the Goddess of
Time, and she was doing her best to screw with everything.

Being the good, environmentally conscious guy that I am, I thought I could
take my time in a quiet Saturday afternoon and get the train to the
airport. The last time is did this I rapidly got frustrated when I
discovered that the air-train missed the connections with the normal train
by about 20 minutes and it, in general, took far too long and too much
frustration to make this a practical exercise.

So I did my due diligence and actually checked the timetables this time
and found that, for once, they had synchronised things, and it was,
theoretically, possible to make the journey.

Of course, this small fact also depended on everything running on time.

Now it's not so much that I was worried about being late, but my frequent
flyer status entitles me to free champagne in the club lounge. And I hate
things to get in the way of that.

So, naturally, it all went rapidly downhill from the moment I left the
house.

I decided that a leisurely thirty minute walk to the station was
tolerable and actually had the ticket in my hand before I realised that I
had forgotten the power supply to my laptop. So I had to hot foot it into
a cab, swing back to my house, and abandon plans for dinner.

A short time later I was at the station a second time when my phone rang.
It was my B-Plan. This was a friend that I was going to convince to drive
me the the airport, but had failed to answer his phone ( twice ) and so I
actually had to commit the the whole public transport exercise.

"Yeah, you rang, you want to join us for dinner ?"

Now, instead of thinking through this alternative, I fobbed him off with
lame excuses, and found myself at the station staring at a very bright
digital sign that was telling my to 'stay off the tracks'. This was not
entirely helpful because what it wasn't telling me was why the train was
15 minutes late. I actually had to call them to find out that there was
engine trouble.

Dorothy never had it so bad.

Eventually we were on the train but I don't think we'd gone more than 3
miles before we ground to a halt and were informed that there would be
another slight delay because there was a Car overturned on the tracks.
The announcer actually said,

"...How it got there, we don't know"

How ? I'll tell you how. Because people in California can't drive their
cars. In fact I'd be willing to believe that it is actually a requirement
to be able to do something that stupid just to get a license.

"...Now, one last question before you pass the test. If you tried really
hard, could you over turn this monster on the railroad tracks ?"

"Um, Yes, I think I could."

"Good, you pass, here's your license."

(Actually, all it really takes is a pair of teenagers and some alcohol but
this story is already getting too long). So suitably frustrated, late,
unfed, cranky, and waiting for the flying monkeys, I did my best to endure
the ride while sitting behind the kind of mentally ill person who thinks
that humming to themselves off key is perfectly acceptable.

"I'm the Tin Man, He calls himself the scarecrow, and the guy in the
corner is a Lion with no courage"

Yeah, Sure you are.

When I got to the airport, the Club lounge was out of champagne.

Next time I'm taking a cab.

Please don't get blood on the equipment.

I've been at a customer site for 3 days trying my best to sane. It isn't
working.

It is now the afternoon before we're due to go live and we're running
around chasing down a cabling problem. Of course we've been doing this
for the last 3 hours. What was supposed to be a simple "lets just run
down to the server room and install the devices before lunch" has become
an ordeal. It is not helped by the fact that none of us have eaten and
our blood sugar is so low we're probably not thinking clearly.

We actually moved the stuff around 3 times before we were actually able to
make it fit and I was in such a rush to get the crap in place that I cut
my hand in 2 places and can now only type with about 3 fingers.

People who think that this whole 'geeks and sodas' think is just some weird
cultural throwback haven't had to endure this kind of life.

So I know that we will be here all night and there is no way we're getting
out of here by Beer O'Clock.

Luckily, last night, we anticipated such a debacle and planned
accordingly. Being stuck in a hotel in the 'Burbs was just too much to
endure for another night so we piled into my car and headed downtown in
search of food, booze and gross denial.

Switching into our usual 'lost and a long way from home' mode, we stumbled
into the first place that had a decent menu to discover that it was
actually a live band venue. We spent the bulk of the meal fighting off
the waitress who kept asking if we wanted to pay to see the show. Only
around desert were we were finally able to explain that we had no clue who
the acts were and we really wanted a sample before we committed to
anything as solid as actually paying for our entertainment.

She didn't help the sales pitch by saying that the second act was was a girl
who did acoustic numbers, was very popular with the locals, and "wasn't to
whiney". Yeah right.

In the end we just paid her off and got special dispensation to stay for
the evening. We had a job to do the next day and we need to pretend that
we had a social life for at least a few hours.

Well, the bands didn't actually suck, the girl wasn't too whiney and she
was popular with what I think was the entire lesbian community of the
town.

Carpe diem.