I would like to issue an unreserved apology to Gavin, who recently suffered a crisis of confidence on re-reading my Sunnyvale column. I’ve been assured that his hissy-fit had nothing whatsoever to do with the fact that he is getting older while his girlfriend is getting younger.
After some not-so-successful negotiation on the wording, I would like to rephrase the offending sentence to clarify that Robert Downey Junior is the hottest man on the planet only “after the South African deity” that is Gavin.
As Gavin, himself, so aptly put it: “Fancy preferring a cocaine-addicted midget to the incarnation of Balder the Beautiful.”
Indeed, Gavin. What was I thinking?
I can merely thank you for your shrewd observation and hope that this small gesture makes up in some way for the “calumnies and insults” you have suffered. And the food vouchers are in the post.
Poilin
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
Sunday, September 13, 2009
Buenos Aires: Probably the Worst Meal in the World, Ever
On Janella’s last night in Buenos Aires, we decided we’d slap on the makeup and go scare the locals by hitting the town for dinner. Little did we know at the time, however, that our fun and memorable evening would be kicked into the realm of the totally unforgettable for another reason entirely – probably the worst meal either of us had ever eaten, ever.
Just to put this in context. I’ve had people at street markets in Asia feed me grasshoppers on a stick (crunchy and hideous). A street chef in Beijing offered to cook me a kitten. I was served a chicken’s head in Florence that caused the woman at the next table to faint. I’ve eaten unrecognisable delicacies in indescribable places. I’ve been poisoned in joints from Jakarta to Jutland. But not one of these culinary nightmares held a candle to this particular repast in terms of sheer bloody awfulness.
The restaurant itself was spectacular, an old townhouse in Palermo Soho on Costa Rica, called Lélé La Troya. The decor was funky meets shabby chic, with chandeliers set against vibrant colours and enormous gilded mirrors, tables interspersed with sofas and coffee tables, big French doors leading onto Juliet balconies and just enough plush fabric to make it feel sumptuous, but not brothel. We liked it immediately, not least when we were shown straight to a table.
Never ignore the warning signs
Maybe the fact that we hadn’t needed a booking should have been a sign, but we figured we were eating early by Argentine standards (we rolled up just before 11pm) and put the easy availability down to our non-Latin mealtime clocks and insipient charm. What’s more, a number of people staying at the guest house had raved about this place, saying we had to try it before we left town. And the restaurant wasn’t empty by any means, so we thought we’d give it a go.
I was so hungry, I could have eaten a small horse, so pretty much any half-decent meal would have made me happy. Janella, though, had had what she described as the best meal she’d ever eaten the night before, so her palate was craving perfection. We took the edge off our hunger and expectations with an excellent bottle of Rutini sauvignon blanc, while we perused the considerable menu. We then took off our clothes and stood on our heads trying to attract the attention of a waiter. But that got us nowhere, so we redressed and waited. And waited.
Finally, a very sweet if somewhat harassed young chap appeared and we clamped him to the table so he couldn’t run away without our order. Shortly after we unleashed him, he reappeared, this time with only a little prompting, carrying a basket of bread thingies and an astonishingly good tapenade that would have tasted like a sate sauce, had sate sauce been made of fruit.
The food of love
We were impressed. If this was an indication of gastronomic delights to come, we’d made a good choice. It was at this point, though, that we observed that nobody in the restaurant appeared to be eating. At least, not the food. Two nigh-on horizontal couples on sofas were devouring each other (apparently, serious making out in public is de rigeur) and everyone else seemed only to be drinking wine. This should have been another sign of culinary things to come, in all likeliness, but we were on our second bottle of wine at that point, so we didn’t really care.
The starters eventually arrived. I had ordered what I thought was supposed to be a light and fluffy Argentine twist on Mexican tortilla chips with guacamole. What I got was three-day old cold chunks of fried potato with something green, which might have been guacamole, except that it tasted solely of lemon, and something white, which wasn’t exactly sour cream. It might have been yoghurt. But, maybe not. And all this served on a bed of three-day-old lettuce. Or maybe it was grass.
Janella, meanwhile, was pushing what was supposed to be a morcilla salad (a bit like black pudding) around her plate, wondering what exactly to do with it. We’d expected to get a big plate of greens, with the local blood sausage crumbled over it, sprinkled with chunks of apple and walnut. She got a handful of limp lettuce, half an apple and two not-very-well-cooked sausages. Uh, yeah.
We pretty much left our plates untouched and figured it was probably just as well, as the main courses looked to be fairly substantial (one couple had stopped snogging long enough to eat). We also agreed it had been a good thing that we hadn’t opted for a sofa table, as the sofas appeared designed to throw any diners thereupon actually onto of each other – and though we were becoming fast friends, that might have been just a touch too much too soon, to put it mildly.
Chef alert
Eventually, we had to turn our gaze from the live soft-porn show to the main course. Mistake. It immediately became apparent that the waiter’s favourite and recommended dish on the menu – pork with cashew nuts (hey, it wasn’t my choice) – was decidedly off. I mean, really off. E-coli and salmonella off. We smelled it long before it reached the table. The chef actually agreed with us when we sent it back. Shame he didn’t notice beforehand. But, then again, Argentina is a beef, not pork country. So maybe he didn’t know. Yeah.
I felt much more secure, therefore, in my choice of fillet of beef, wrapped in filo with spinach and mushrooms. I mean, you can’t screw up a steak in Argentina, surely? Well, apparently so. The parcel resembled a steak wrapped in Pampers. The pastry was uncooked, the spinach undrained, the meat unseasoned and the whole thing a great, big, sodden mess. It was horrible.
When the waiter finally dared to hover near the table again, we cornered him. We gently suggested that the chef might want to sneak out by the back door. We told him it was the worst meal we had ever had and demanded liqueur coffees to kill the taste. Which they did, thankfully.
In true Argentine fashion, though, they still brought us the bill. At least they had the decency to not charge us for the pork – though bad cooking wasn’t a sufficient reason not to charge us for the rest of it, apparently. Still, we had a great time. Leave the food out of the equation and it’s a cool place.
Glutton for punishment
I actually went back to the restaurant a few days ago, dragged reluctantly by my hosts and another couple of fellow guests, in a bid to convince me that the food wasn’t as bad as I’d thought. This time, I shied away from anything I thought the kitchen might screw up and ordered a plate of spaghetti with a parmesan and walnut sauce. This, I have to admit, was very good. But was it enough to make me want to go back there again? Nah. Next time, I’ll just grab a waiter and bags a sofa.
© Poilin Breathnach 2009
Just to put this in context. I’ve had people at street markets in Asia feed me grasshoppers on a stick (crunchy and hideous). A street chef in Beijing offered to cook me a kitten. I was served a chicken’s head in Florence that caused the woman at the next table to faint. I’ve eaten unrecognisable delicacies in indescribable places. I’ve been poisoned in joints from Jakarta to Jutland. But not one of these culinary nightmares held a candle to this particular repast in terms of sheer bloody awfulness.
The restaurant itself was spectacular, an old townhouse in Palermo Soho on Costa Rica, called Lélé La Troya. The decor was funky meets shabby chic, with chandeliers set against vibrant colours and enormous gilded mirrors, tables interspersed with sofas and coffee tables, big French doors leading onto Juliet balconies and just enough plush fabric to make it feel sumptuous, but not brothel. We liked it immediately, not least when we were shown straight to a table.
Never ignore the warning signs
Maybe the fact that we hadn’t needed a booking should have been a sign, but we figured we were eating early by Argentine standards (we rolled up just before 11pm) and put the easy availability down to our non-Latin mealtime clocks and insipient charm. What’s more, a number of people staying at the guest house had raved about this place, saying we had to try it before we left town. And the restaurant wasn’t empty by any means, so we thought we’d give it a go.
I was so hungry, I could have eaten a small horse, so pretty much any half-decent meal would have made me happy. Janella, though, had had what she described as the best meal she’d ever eaten the night before, so her palate was craving perfection. We took the edge off our hunger and expectations with an excellent bottle of Rutini sauvignon blanc, while we perused the considerable menu. We then took off our clothes and stood on our heads trying to attract the attention of a waiter. But that got us nowhere, so we redressed and waited. And waited.
Finally, a very sweet if somewhat harassed young chap appeared and we clamped him to the table so he couldn’t run away without our order. Shortly after we unleashed him, he reappeared, this time with only a little prompting, carrying a basket of bread thingies and an astonishingly good tapenade that would have tasted like a sate sauce, had sate sauce been made of fruit.
The food of love
We were impressed. If this was an indication of gastronomic delights to come, we’d made a good choice. It was at this point, though, that we observed that nobody in the restaurant appeared to be eating. At least, not the food. Two nigh-on horizontal couples on sofas were devouring each other (apparently, serious making out in public is de rigeur) and everyone else seemed only to be drinking wine. This should have been another sign of culinary things to come, in all likeliness, but we were on our second bottle of wine at that point, so we didn’t really care.
The starters eventually arrived. I had ordered what I thought was supposed to be a light and fluffy Argentine twist on Mexican tortilla chips with guacamole. What I got was three-day old cold chunks of fried potato with something green, which might have been guacamole, except that it tasted solely of lemon, and something white, which wasn’t exactly sour cream. It might have been yoghurt. But, maybe not. And all this served on a bed of three-day-old lettuce. Or maybe it was grass.
Janella, meanwhile, was pushing what was supposed to be a morcilla salad (a bit like black pudding) around her plate, wondering what exactly to do with it. We’d expected to get a big plate of greens, with the local blood sausage crumbled over it, sprinkled with chunks of apple and walnut. She got a handful of limp lettuce, half an apple and two not-very-well-cooked sausages. Uh, yeah.
We pretty much left our plates untouched and figured it was probably just as well, as the main courses looked to be fairly substantial (one couple had stopped snogging long enough to eat). We also agreed it had been a good thing that we hadn’t opted for a sofa table, as the sofas appeared designed to throw any diners thereupon actually onto of each other – and though we were becoming fast friends, that might have been just a touch too much too soon, to put it mildly.
Chef alert
Eventually, we had to turn our gaze from the live soft-porn show to the main course. Mistake. It immediately became apparent that the waiter’s favourite and recommended dish on the menu – pork with cashew nuts (hey, it wasn’t my choice) – was decidedly off. I mean, really off. E-coli and salmonella off. We smelled it long before it reached the table. The chef actually agreed with us when we sent it back. Shame he didn’t notice beforehand. But, then again, Argentina is a beef, not pork country. So maybe he didn’t know. Yeah.
I felt much more secure, therefore, in my choice of fillet of beef, wrapped in filo with spinach and mushrooms. I mean, you can’t screw up a steak in Argentina, surely? Well, apparently so. The parcel resembled a steak wrapped in Pampers. The pastry was uncooked, the spinach undrained, the meat unseasoned and the whole thing a great, big, sodden mess. It was horrible.
When the waiter finally dared to hover near the table again, we cornered him. We gently suggested that the chef might want to sneak out by the back door. We told him it was the worst meal we had ever had and demanded liqueur coffees to kill the taste. Which they did, thankfully.
In true Argentine fashion, though, they still brought us the bill. At least they had the decency to not charge us for the pork – though bad cooking wasn’t a sufficient reason not to charge us for the rest of it, apparently. Still, we had a great time. Leave the food out of the equation and it’s a cool place.
Glutton for punishment
I actually went back to the restaurant a few days ago, dragged reluctantly by my hosts and another couple of fellow guests, in a bid to convince me that the food wasn’t as bad as I’d thought. This time, I shied away from anything I thought the kitchen might screw up and ordered a plate of spaghetti with a parmesan and walnut sauce. This, I have to admit, was very good. But was it enough to make me want to go back there again? Nah. Next time, I’ll just grab a waiter and bags a sofa.
© Poilin Breathnach 2009
Saturday, August 29, 2009
Buenos Aires: My First Tango in Paris
The night before last, I survived my first tango lesson.
Apparently, I have potential. For what, exactly, I’m not sure. But, seemingly, my feet go mostly where they’re supposed to. Except, of course, when they don’t. And I have a problem remembering to breathe. But I didn’t dislocate a hip, or dislocate my instructor, so I consider this a triumph.
There’s something exhilarating about dancing (and I use the term very loosely) on a rooftop in sultry, steamy Buenos Aires, this Paris of the South, with the music floating out into the night and your tattooed, mohawk-sporting tango teacher yelling, “feeeeeeeeel it, feeeeeeeeel it!” I mean, under such circumstances, how could you not?
A tango shared is trouble doubled
I had happily linked up with fellow guest, Janella from California, for a class organised by our lovely hosts. We figured that the whole experience would be less painful if we both made complete and utter fools of ourselves at the same time. We also share a penchant for Dutch courage, which came on this occasion in the form of a bottle of ice-cold Tomero sauvignon blanc and couldn’t go down quick enough.
Gustavo and Jorgelina, our incredibly patient and good-humoured instructors, started off by showing us what an Argentine tango was supposed to look like. After we’d scraped our jaws off the floor, the panic set in. I’d looked up the Argentine tango (not to be confused with the stuffy and stiff ballroom one) on Wikipedia earlier in the day and had been informed that it was “essentially walking with a partner and the music”. If this was walking, I clearly needed a Zimmerframe. Or euthanasia.
Gustavo was 5’6” of solid muscle, with rippling pecs and buns like two plums in a hankie. He went to great lengths to try to put us at ease in a mixture of Spanish, Italian and English, even though he must have been a very nervous man indeed. In his dancing shoes, I would have been terrified.
Jorgelina, meanwhile, looked like she had wafted in off a movie set, with a cascade of long, black curly hair, calf muscles that could stop a truck, a clingy red dress and heels that would make you dizzy if you even saw them in a shop window. She was a doll. I, as usual, was underdressed. Right down to the fact that I wasn’t wearing any shoes. But she waved off my concerns in surprisingly good French, which meant we could all communicate, a bit like a United Nations cocktail party, without the politics and the cheese on a stick.
Don't look back
They started by making us walk backwards. Hah, I hear you say. Easy. Oh, do you think?
Well, you’re not allowed look where you’re going. You look at your partner. Or, if you’re me, you squeeze your eyes tightly shut and try to count without moving your lips. Now, those of you who know me are fully aware that I’m not very good at looking where I’m going at the best of times. I can’t even walk in a straight line. I fall over stuff, up stuff, down stuff, through stuff, into stuff. I trip over tramlines, fall down stairs, disappear into holes. At any given time, about 15% of me is bruised. So, just imagine me being as much of a clutz in reverse and you’ll get the idea. Sexy, huh?
Anyway, you’re supposed to glide-slide-walk backwards (if you’re a woman), on the ball of the foot, legs stretched, bringing your feet together, brushing your knees and ankles, but never actually pausing. Depending on the step, you dance at arm’s length to your partner, or chest to chest (or everything to everything, if you’ve drunk quite a bit and let the mood grab you). And you’re not allowed to bob up and down or sway from side to side. And it’s not salsa, so you can’t move your hips. You’re supposed to relax. But don’t lean back. And don’t fall over. And avoid the aloe vera plant. Ouch.
At this point, we were only three minutes in. Even still, our hoots of laughter had managed to draw an audience from the guest house, which thought it might be fun to stay and watch the show while getting hammered on the local brew. At least we were being entertaining – Janella in an impressive way; me more in a monster-trucks-on-ice kind of way. But I was having a ball and didn’t give a rat’s patooty. What’s more, I was starting to get the general gist of it.
[I break off briefly here, friends, just to mention that as I sit and type this missive, there is a man on the street corner opposite, breaking what looks to be like a bidet into small pieces with a mallet, while his friend tries to fit the resulting shards of porcelain into a plastic suitcase. Intriguing.]
The last dance
Back to the matter in hand. Or, rather, afoot. Next, we were taught how to do a twisty, pivoty thingy, whereby you swish around on one foot, while looking like you’re swishing around on two, cross your legs and do it all again on the other foot (or was it the same foot?), without moving your upper body and without taking out your partner. After that, we were taught how to do it backwards. Well, we were shown how to do it backwards. The doing escaped us somewhat, but was highly amusing.
Then, Jorgelina (with, I guess, great relief) took to the sidelines while Gustavo cajoled, then coerced us in turn into dancing an entire tune with him. How anyone left with all toes intact is beyond me. But Jorgelina, bless her, kept making whooping sounds of encouragement, which made me think I might actually get through it and keep Gustavo out of the ER.
And so it came to pass. I felt like I’d finally finished my doctoral thesis and run a marathon. It was freaking brilliant. I had danced my first Argentine tango and I’d loved every minute. The hard-core tango clubs of the barrios don’t know what’s about to hit them. But that’s probably just as well.
© Poilin Breathnach 2009
Apparently, I have potential. For what, exactly, I’m not sure. But, seemingly, my feet go mostly where they’re supposed to. Except, of course, when they don’t. And I have a problem remembering to breathe. But I didn’t dislocate a hip, or dislocate my instructor, so I consider this a triumph.
There’s something exhilarating about dancing (and I use the term very loosely) on a rooftop in sultry, steamy Buenos Aires, this Paris of the South, with the music floating out into the night and your tattooed, mohawk-sporting tango teacher yelling, “feeeeeeeeel it, feeeeeeeeel it!” I mean, under such circumstances, how could you not?
A tango shared is trouble doubled
I had happily linked up with fellow guest, Janella from California, for a class organised by our lovely hosts. We figured that the whole experience would be less painful if we both made complete and utter fools of ourselves at the same time. We also share a penchant for Dutch courage, which came on this occasion in the form of a bottle of ice-cold Tomero sauvignon blanc and couldn’t go down quick enough.
Gustavo and Jorgelina, our incredibly patient and good-humoured instructors, started off by showing us what an Argentine tango was supposed to look like. After we’d scraped our jaws off the floor, the panic set in. I’d looked up the Argentine tango (not to be confused with the stuffy and stiff ballroom one) on Wikipedia earlier in the day and had been informed that it was “essentially walking with a partner and the music”. If this was walking, I clearly needed a Zimmerframe. Or euthanasia.
Gustavo was 5’6” of solid muscle, with rippling pecs and buns like two plums in a hankie. He went to great lengths to try to put us at ease in a mixture of Spanish, Italian and English, even though he must have been a very nervous man indeed. In his dancing shoes, I would have been terrified.
Jorgelina, meanwhile, looked like she had wafted in off a movie set, with a cascade of long, black curly hair, calf muscles that could stop a truck, a clingy red dress and heels that would make you dizzy if you even saw them in a shop window. She was a doll. I, as usual, was underdressed. Right down to the fact that I wasn’t wearing any shoes. But she waved off my concerns in surprisingly good French, which meant we could all communicate, a bit like a United Nations cocktail party, without the politics and the cheese on a stick.
Don't look back
They started by making us walk backwards. Hah, I hear you say. Easy. Oh, do you think?
Well, you’re not allowed look where you’re going. You look at your partner. Or, if you’re me, you squeeze your eyes tightly shut and try to count without moving your lips. Now, those of you who know me are fully aware that I’m not very good at looking where I’m going at the best of times. I can’t even walk in a straight line. I fall over stuff, up stuff, down stuff, through stuff, into stuff. I trip over tramlines, fall down stairs, disappear into holes. At any given time, about 15% of me is bruised. So, just imagine me being as much of a clutz in reverse and you’ll get the idea. Sexy, huh?
Anyway, you’re supposed to glide-slide-walk backwards (if you’re a woman), on the ball of the foot, legs stretched, bringing your feet together, brushing your knees and ankles, but never actually pausing. Depending on the step, you dance at arm’s length to your partner, or chest to chest (or everything to everything, if you’ve drunk quite a bit and let the mood grab you). And you’re not allowed to bob up and down or sway from side to side. And it’s not salsa, so you can’t move your hips. You’re supposed to relax. But don’t lean back. And don’t fall over. And avoid the aloe vera plant. Ouch.
At this point, we were only three minutes in. Even still, our hoots of laughter had managed to draw an audience from the guest house, which thought it might be fun to stay and watch the show while getting hammered on the local brew. At least we were being entertaining – Janella in an impressive way; me more in a monster-trucks-on-ice kind of way. But I was having a ball and didn’t give a rat’s patooty. What’s more, I was starting to get the general gist of it.
[I break off briefly here, friends, just to mention that as I sit and type this missive, there is a man on the street corner opposite, breaking what looks to be like a bidet into small pieces with a mallet, while his friend tries to fit the resulting shards of porcelain into a plastic suitcase. Intriguing.]
The last dance
Back to the matter in hand. Or, rather, afoot. Next, we were taught how to do a twisty, pivoty thingy, whereby you swish around on one foot, while looking like you’re swishing around on two, cross your legs and do it all again on the other foot (or was it the same foot?), without moving your upper body and without taking out your partner. After that, we were taught how to do it backwards. Well, we were shown how to do it backwards. The doing escaped us somewhat, but was highly amusing.
Then, Jorgelina (with, I guess, great relief) took to the sidelines while Gustavo cajoled, then coerced us in turn into dancing an entire tune with him. How anyone left with all toes intact is beyond me. But Jorgelina, bless her, kept making whooping sounds of encouragement, which made me think I might actually get through it and keep Gustavo out of the ER.
And so it came to pass. I felt like I’d finally finished my doctoral thesis and run a marathon. It was freaking brilliant. I had danced my first Argentine tango and I’d loved every minute. The hard-core tango clubs of the barrios don’t know what’s about to hit them. But that’s probably just as well.
© Poilin Breathnach 2009
Thursday, August 27, 2009
Biting the Bullet (Part II)
Well, how do I put this? Sigh.
Dressing up as a slightly dodgy-looking feminist militia was as far as we got. The gun club wouldn’t accept a foreign passport as a valid means of identification. And Gary on the desk said he had no other way of proving I wasn’t an ‘undesirable’. I told him I was highly desirable and that he could check for himself, but he wasn’t for turning. Gary was also unable to tell me whether Ireland was part of the Axis of Evil, as he didn’t have a current list, but he said he couldn’t rule it out. And, to be honest, neither could I, because it had never occurred to me to check. Indeed, I still haven’t.
As a consolation prize, I was told I could watch The green-carded Lovely C fire off a few rounds from a safe distance (safe for them, I reckoned, as opposed to safe for me), but she, understandably, had been more interested in watching me accidentally shoot an instructor than shredding a paper target I thought looked suspiciously like Maximus without the hair.
This was a darn shame, I thought, as how often does a woman have an opportunity to eviscerate a life-sized silhouette of her other half, then keep it tucked away at the back of the wardrobe for that one occasion on which she can say: “You did what? Okay. Let’s look at the kind of damage I can do to you in a matter of seconds and talk this through.” But, hey.
So, we gave up and went for Chinese food and cocktails instead.
Locked and loaded
In the end, it was probably just as well, as my US visa application form later asked if I had had any specialist firearms training and I was in the happy position of being able to report that I’d never even shot tequila, let alone a bullet. I assume this is the sole reason that this marvellous country is now allowing me to enter as a legal alien to take up a real job, as opposed to signing me up for freelance sniper duty in Albania. And I must say, the Chinese margaritas were pretty good too.
All this meant in terms of my bid to do something constructive in California, though, was that it was back to the drawing board, yet again. And at this stage, the drawing board was looking pretty full. I couldn’t learn to drive. I couldn’t learn to shoot. I couldn’t be bothered to stalk the governor. The Iron Man museum was about as scintillating as roadkill and my Church of the Chocolate Nut Martini had yet to receive its first donation. What’s more, I was starting to run out of time.
Thankfully, I still had four glorious days in Hawaii to look forward to. Where better to ponder my state of inertia than face down in the middle of the Pacific with a snorkel up my nose, or wherever you put it. Even better, I’d convinced my extraordinary friends, Maximus, The Lovely C and Le Grand Belge, to tag along for the ride as a kind of belated bachelor-ette-stag-hen thingy for the wily Walloon, who had managed to coerce someone into marrying him the previous December. The lucky lady, at this point, was still pondering said luck in Belgium, at what we canny single folk call “a safe distance”. So, one word: party.
The best laid plans ...
We were due to fly out on the Thursday morning and back overnight on the Sunday. And as I was scheduled to return home just a day later, we decided to throw a little going-away bash for the rest of the crew on the Tuesday evening prior to our departure. This basically meant that Maximus would do manly things at the barbeque while the rest of us depleted his wine stock. Perfect.
I should add that we had a pretty slick catering operation going during my stay. I’d pootle away many a happy hour by ploughing through, say, a pictureless Greek cookbook written in Swedish, then conjure up an approximation of what I thought it might or might not be in a quantity fit for a military campaign. The Crew would arrive back from work and proceed to eat this concoction for about three days and, bless them, even make appreciative noises. Eventually, the remnants would disappear into the unfathomable freezer to come back and haunt them on those days when I was missing in action and they could microwave it into tasty oblivion.
So, I spent the afternoon throwing together the makings of side dishes to make Nigella wince, then parked myself on the terrace with Le Grand Belge and a glass of wine to mull the meaning of life and the metaphysics of being a global bum, while Maximus lugged around bags of charcoal and waved very big pronged instruments in our general direction to emphasise his culinary machismo.
It was at this point that the Swedish chef and his damsel decided to drop the bombshell: “You know, we were thinking we might get married.”
Yeah, right.
“In Hawaii.”
Sure.
“On Friday.”
Well, paint me blue and call me Mary. Things were about to get interesting.
© Poilin Breathnach 2009
Dressing up as a slightly dodgy-looking feminist militia was as far as we got. The gun club wouldn’t accept a foreign passport as a valid means of identification. And Gary on the desk said he had no other way of proving I wasn’t an ‘undesirable’. I told him I was highly desirable and that he could check for himself, but he wasn’t for turning. Gary was also unable to tell me whether Ireland was part of the Axis of Evil, as he didn’t have a current list, but he said he couldn’t rule it out. And, to be honest, neither could I, because it had never occurred to me to check. Indeed, I still haven’t.
As a consolation prize, I was told I could watch The green-carded Lovely C fire off a few rounds from a safe distance (safe for them, I reckoned, as opposed to safe for me), but she, understandably, had been more interested in watching me accidentally shoot an instructor than shredding a paper target I thought looked suspiciously like Maximus without the hair.
This was a darn shame, I thought, as how often does a woman have an opportunity to eviscerate a life-sized silhouette of her other half, then keep it tucked away at the back of the wardrobe for that one occasion on which she can say: “You did what? Okay. Let’s look at the kind of damage I can do to you in a matter of seconds and talk this through.” But, hey.
So, we gave up and went for Chinese food and cocktails instead.
Locked and loaded
In the end, it was probably just as well, as my US visa application form later asked if I had had any specialist firearms training and I was in the happy position of being able to report that I’d never even shot tequila, let alone a bullet. I assume this is the sole reason that this marvellous country is now allowing me to enter as a legal alien to take up a real job, as opposed to signing me up for freelance sniper duty in Albania. And I must say, the Chinese margaritas were pretty good too.
All this meant in terms of my bid to do something constructive in California, though, was that it was back to the drawing board, yet again. And at this stage, the drawing board was looking pretty full. I couldn’t learn to drive. I couldn’t learn to shoot. I couldn’t be bothered to stalk the governor. The Iron Man museum was about as scintillating as roadkill and my Church of the Chocolate Nut Martini had yet to receive its first donation. What’s more, I was starting to run out of time.
Thankfully, I still had four glorious days in Hawaii to look forward to. Where better to ponder my state of inertia than face down in the middle of the Pacific with a snorkel up my nose, or wherever you put it. Even better, I’d convinced my extraordinary friends, Maximus, The Lovely C and Le Grand Belge, to tag along for the ride as a kind of belated bachelor-ette-stag-hen thingy for the wily Walloon, who had managed to coerce someone into marrying him the previous December. The lucky lady, at this point, was still pondering said luck in Belgium, at what we canny single folk call “a safe distance”. So, one word: party.
The best laid plans ...
We were due to fly out on the Thursday morning and back overnight on the Sunday. And as I was scheduled to return home just a day later, we decided to throw a little going-away bash for the rest of the crew on the Tuesday evening prior to our departure. This basically meant that Maximus would do manly things at the barbeque while the rest of us depleted his wine stock. Perfect.
I should add that we had a pretty slick catering operation going during my stay. I’d pootle away many a happy hour by ploughing through, say, a pictureless Greek cookbook written in Swedish, then conjure up an approximation of what I thought it might or might not be in a quantity fit for a military campaign. The Crew would arrive back from work and proceed to eat this concoction for about three days and, bless them, even make appreciative noises. Eventually, the remnants would disappear into the unfathomable freezer to come back and haunt them on those days when I was missing in action and they could microwave it into tasty oblivion.
So, I spent the afternoon throwing together the makings of side dishes to make Nigella wince, then parked myself on the terrace with Le Grand Belge and a glass of wine to mull the meaning of life and the metaphysics of being a global bum, while Maximus lugged around bags of charcoal and waved very big pronged instruments in our general direction to emphasise his culinary machismo.
It was at this point that the Swedish chef and his damsel decided to drop the bombshell: “You know, we were thinking we might get married.”
Yeah, right.
“In Hawaii.”
Sure.
“On Friday.”
Well, paint me blue and call me Mary. Things were about to get interesting.
© Poilin Breathnach 2009
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
Argentina: Cash, Cows & Creature Comforts
I knew Buenos Aires was going to be beautiful, bohemian and vibrant. I didn’t know the lunatics had taken over the asylum. The Argentine capital (echoing, I suspect, the rest of the nation) shamelessly gives the finger to anything vaguely resembling common sense and lures you into a world in which vegetables are viewed with suspicion, ministers stash their cash in government lavatories rather than in banks, and retailers try to give you sweets instead of change. I love it.
My home for the next two-and-a-half weeks is a gorgeous guesthouse owned by Zoe and David Deadman (www.abodebuenosaires.com), two UK escapees who genuinely seem to love what they do. My digs are huge – a bedroom, bathroom and enormous live-work area, with a balcony, a selection of books, fruit and water, closet space that would make Nancy Reagan hiss with envy and 24-hour access to a beautiful roof terrace with a well stocked honesty (honestly!) bar.
My hosts are not only friendly, informative and funny, with an innate understanding of the beneficial effects of good wine, but go to great lengths to ensure I'm having a great time. Breakfast this morning was vast, delicious and entertaining, and I was plied with gallons of excellent coffee. Tomorrow night, they’re hosting an asado, or barbeque, for a very reasonable fee, which appears to include half a cow and a barrel of vino per person.There was no mention of salad. Actually, if you’re a teetotal vegetarian, maybe you should think about rebooking your trip.
Right now, the sun is setting, there’s a flock of parrots on the tree outside my window and a frenzied cockerel down the road who can’t tell if it’s day or night and who has had his doodle-doo stuck on repeat for about 18 hours. I’m about to head up to the deck and catch the last of the sun’s rays prior to shooting the darn bird for tomorrow’s grill-fest. After that, I think I’ll have a typical Argentine evening, involving an empanada, a glass of malbec and an easily influenced dictator.
Lesson of the day
Yesterday, I very quickly learned that Argentina is a cash economy. The locals have heard of credit cards, but they find the idea of using them quite hilarious. And with little to no faith in their own currency, they prefer dollars, especially when it comes to buying substantial things like property, which is traded exclusively in the US currency. If you want to buy a house in Buenos Aires, you fill a large suitcase or three with greenbacks, hire yourself an armed guard and choose a relatively safe location to do the deal.
And you think I’m joking. In 2007, the country's economics minister saw her career come to an abrupt halt after being unable to properly explain how a cleaning lady managed to stumble across $64,000 in cash stuffed down behind the cistern of her parliamentary loo. She claimed she had borrowed it from her brother to buy a house and had wanted to put it in a safe place. Uh-huh.
Furthermore, for reasons that completely escape me, Argentina is chronically short of coins. People hoard them like demented piggy-banks, so much so that the one-peso coin is actually worth more than the two-peso note. People will turn down your business rather than hand over 50 centavos in change. Normal-looking people shriek with delight at a mere glint of metal – particularly ironic, considering the country's vast copper resources.
The public, not illogically, blames the federal government, which holds the monopoly on minting coins. It clearly hasn’t minted enough to go around. The government, however, blames the squirreling masses, as well as the country’s private bus companies, which only accept coins and, apparently, repackage and sell them back to the punters at a premium in a kind of black-market bus-fare sting.
The government has told the banks to hand over 20 pesos in coins to anyone who asks for them, but the banks, well, they don’t pay much attention to the government. Yesterday’s taxi driver offered to drive me around the block a couple of times to bring my fare closer to a round number, and when I declined, gave me a packet of biscuits rather than part with his pesos. I haven’t actually seen an Argentine coin as yet. And no-one will show me one, in case I mug them for it.
It’s also hard to break any kind of note, as the locals need the smaller denominations to give you instead of coins when you're not actually trying to break a note. It feels a bit like trying to buy a cup of coffee with a gold bar. So I can’t take a bus and am forced to buy wine in bulk. You can imagine how upsetting that is.
But maybe this glass will help.
© Poilin Breathnach 2009
My home for the next two-and-a-half weeks is a gorgeous guesthouse owned by Zoe and David Deadman (www.abodebuenosaires.com), two UK escapees who genuinely seem to love what they do. My digs are huge – a bedroom, bathroom and enormous live-work area, with a balcony, a selection of books, fruit and water, closet space that would make Nancy Reagan hiss with envy and 24-hour access to a beautiful roof terrace with a well stocked honesty (honestly!) bar.
My hosts are not only friendly, informative and funny, with an innate understanding of the beneficial effects of good wine, but go to great lengths to ensure I'm having a great time. Breakfast this morning was vast, delicious and entertaining, and I was plied with gallons of excellent coffee. Tomorrow night, they’re hosting an asado, or barbeque, for a very reasonable fee, which appears to include half a cow and a barrel of vino per person.There was no mention of salad. Actually, if you’re a teetotal vegetarian, maybe you should think about rebooking your trip.
Right now, the sun is setting, there’s a flock of parrots on the tree outside my window and a frenzied cockerel down the road who can’t tell if it’s day or night and who has had his doodle-doo stuck on repeat for about 18 hours. I’m about to head up to the deck and catch the last of the sun’s rays prior to shooting the darn bird for tomorrow’s grill-fest. After that, I think I’ll have a typical Argentine evening, involving an empanada, a glass of malbec and an easily influenced dictator.
Lesson of the day
Yesterday, I very quickly learned that Argentina is a cash economy. The locals have heard of credit cards, but they find the idea of using them quite hilarious. And with little to no faith in their own currency, they prefer dollars, especially when it comes to buying substantial things like property, which is traded exclusively in the US currency. If you want to buy a house in Buenos Aires, you fill a large suitcase or three with greenbacks, hire yourself an armed guard and choose a relatively safe location to do the deal.
And you think I’m joking. In 2007, the country's economics minister saw her career come to an abrupt halt after being unable to properly explain how a cleaning lady managed to stumble across $64,000 in cash stuffed down behind the cistern of her parliamentary loo. She claimed she had borrowed it from her brother to buy a house and had wanted to put it in a safe place. Uh-huh.
Furthermore, for reasons that completely escape me, Argentina is chronically short of coins. People hoard them like demented piggy-banks, so much so that the one-peso coin is actually worth more than the two-peso note. People will turn down your business rather than hand over 50 centavos in change. Normal-looking people shriek with delight at a mere glint of metal – particularly ironic, considering the country's vast copper resources.
The public, not illogically, blames the federal government, which holds the monopoly on minting coins. It clearly hasn’t minted enough to go around. The government, however, blames the squirreling masses, as well as the country’s private bus companies, which only accept coins and, apparently, repackage and sell them back to the punters at a premium in a kind of black-market bus-fare sting.
The government has told the banks to hand over 20 pesos in coins to anyone who asks for them, but the banks, well, they don’t pay much attention to the government. Yesterday’s taxi driver offered to drive me around the block a couple of times to bring my fare closer to a round number, and when I declined, gave me a packet of biscuits rather than part with his pesos. I haven’t actually seen an Argentine coin as yet. And no-one will show me one, in case I mug them for it.
It’s also hard to break any kind of note, as the locals need the smaller denominations to give you instead of coins when you're not actually trying to break a note. It feels a bit like trying to buy a cup of coffee with a gold bar. So I can’t take a bus and am forced to buy wine in bulk. You can imagine how upsetting that is.
But maybe this glass will help.
© Poilin Breathnach 2009
Friday, August 7, 2009
Biting the bullet for the American Dream
When somebody asked me recently if I had actually done anything constructive during my time in California, I was aghast, I tell you, aghast. Was getting a tan not constructive? Was searching for the ultimate pedicure not constructive? Sipping cocktails in Santa Cruz? Well, apparently not.
I had decided to use my long sojourn in the US to learn to drive, encouraged by the Californian crew, who (confident that it would never happen) offered to lend me their zippy little sports cars should I manage to pass my test. Apparently, you can learn to drive in America from the age of six, sooner if you can reach the pedals, so I figured this should be a walk (or drive) in the park. But, no. Turns out, you can’t learn to drive in California unless you’re a resident. Sheesh.
So I had to come up something else. Something I wasn’t likely to do at home. Something truly American.
I would learn to shoot.
Freeze, mutha!
To be honest, shooting is not a skill that I deem particularly constructive. Indeed, bullets tend to be rather destructive, to put it mildly. But I also figured that if I were to live my own personal American Dream and date the entire male cast of CSI New York (preferably consecutively), it might serve as a useful topic of conversation over those obligatory, if superfluous, pre-nookie dinners.
Now, you might think that my bulging collection of crime novels, penchant for anyone who can make their way around an autopsy table dressed in Armani and uncanny ability to spot a desperate man at forty paces would have done the job, but I didn’t want to take any chances. If they happened to turn up for our dates in character between takes (I think they call it rhythm-method acting), I could then knowledgably admire their piece. A girl needs to be able to tell her bazooka from her Beretta.
Furthermore, cops and CSIs and people in compelling legal drama series sometimes have guns strapped on in the most unlikely places, just in case their ‘primary weapon’ fails and they need to lay their hands on, say, a double-barrelled-sawn-off-rocket-grenade-47-colt launcher. While members of the National Rifle Association, I’m led to believe, haul their stockpile around in plain sight in pickup trucks belonging to their brother (and/or cousin) Billy Bob, a really good screen cop with undercover experience can secret as many as a dozen weapons about his person and look like he’s just stepped out of the shower.
Aside from being a gripping theme for discussion over dessert, such weaponry can be a real issue for the uninitiated, especially if said TV cop has, indeed, just stepped out of the shower (at which point, you should probably begin to suspect that you have skipped the crème brulée). Just as men have never figured out how to undo a brassiere without giving a woman whiplash, disrobing and disarming a CSI in a moment of passion without causing him or, indeed, yourself near-fatal injury would qualify, I think, as a rare skill. And you need to avoid killing the moment.
If in doubt, ask a European
Not having the faintest idea how to go about acquiring this expertise, though, I decided to consult with the Californian crew, who I thought might be versed in such matters. And, sure enough, as Continental Europeans, some of them having spent time in military outposts, such as Saint Tropez, counting paperclips in the name of king (or other personage) and country, they felt pretty comfortable around semi-automatics. Alas, they didn’t whip out their Heckler & Kochs then and there for my perusal. They did, however, suggest a shooting range, complete with instructors, on Something-or-other Avenue.
It only remained, therefore, for me to coerce someone into driving me over there (I couldn’t learn to drive, remember?), as you can’t walk anywhere in California (it’s punishable by death) and in case the gun club gave me a sniper rifle with which to practise at home and I had to lug it back. Maximus was the obvious choice, as he has done some sports shooting (possibly, I fantasised, while clad in Iron Man-like latex, on skis, against a snowy Nordic backdrop) and is very unlikely to kill me, being very fond of my mother and regularly plied with whiskey by my father.
Being a man of keen mind, however, he shrewdly assessed that there was a sliver of a chance that I might actually shoot him should he criticise my technique just once too often, so he gamely volunteered his other half, The Lovely C, in his stead. Any participation by Le Grand Belge, incidentally, was ruled out by the fact that he’s a registered conscientious objector and could be thrown into a dungeon in Flanders for laying a trigger finger on anything resembling a conscientious object.
A somewhat different day out
Now, The Lovely C and I have gone and had our legs waxed together, braved Macy’s at sale time, even debated the merits of blue versus yellow tortilla chips, but this was a new departure. Incredibly, she knows her way around a rifle, but as it’s politically incorrect to ask a German where they gleaned such knowledge, I settled for raising an eyebrow and giving a brief nod of assent. I then rang my lawyers, Glock, Smith & Wesson, to double-check that I couldn’t be sent to Guantanamo for endangering random people on a firing range, even by accident, and was told I was good to go.
I should mention, at this point, the potential hitch in my cunning plan: I hate guns. Guns kill people. I detest being around them. I grew up in a country where the police consider a large potato a lethal weapon. The merest glimpse of Charlton Heston makes me want to reach for a bottle of vodka and lie down in a darkened room. Nor am I too keen on blood, something that put a conclusive end to my parents’ hopes of a doctor in the family. In short, I abhor the very thought of guns, which is not really what an instructor wants to hear when you roll up to a shooting range and ask to be given a firearm.
The other problem, of course, is knowing what to wear on such an occasion. Trinny and Susannah’s handy pocket-sized, fail-safe fashion guide doesn’t exactly spell out what goes with a Magnum PI, or whatever it’s called. Having a limited wardrobe with me in any case, I decided to dispense with the high heels in case I got vertigo, fell over and shot someone, and opted for sensible black boots, thinking that if anyone disagreed with my choice, I could always threaten them by waving my soon-to-be gun. Up our fashionably tailored sleeves, though, we had the ultimate accessory – Maximus’ car (Maximum Ride).
There’s comfort to be had in driving towards your first bullet wound in a sleek and shiny Corvette, with the top down and the stereo giving the San Andreas Fault a run for its money. It’s a bit like flying Business Class when you hate flying – at least you know you’re going to go down in classier flames with a glass of Champagne or two already down your gullet.
So I got on the blower to book us in.
(To be continued ...)
© Poilin Breathnach 2009
I had decided to use my long sojourn in the US to learn to drive, encouraged by the Californian crew, who (confident that it would never happen) offered to lend me their zippy little sports cars should I manage to pass my test. Apparently, you can learn to drive in America from the age of six, sooner if you can reach the pedals, so I figured this should be a walk (or drive) in the park. But, no. Turns out, you can’t learn to drive in California unless you’re a resident. Sheesh.
So I had to come up something else. Something I wasn’t likely to do at home. Something truly American.
I would learn to shoot.
Freeze, mutha!
To be honest, shooting is not a skill that I deem particularly constructive. Indeed, bullets tend to be rather destructive, to put it mildly. But I also figured that if I were to live my own personal American Dream and date the entire male cast of CSI New York (preferably consecutively), it might serve as a useful topic of conversation over those obligatory, if superfluous, pre-nookie dinners.
Now, you might think that my bulging collection of crime novels, penchant for anyone who can make their way around an autopsy table dressed in Armani and uncanny ability to spot a desperate man at forty paces would have done the job, but I didn’t want to take any chances. If they happened to turn up for our dates in character between takes (I think they call it rhythm-method acting), I could then knowledgably admire their piece. A girl needs to be able to tell her bazooka from her Beretta.
Furthermore, cops and CSIs and people in compelling legal drama series sometimes have guns strapped on in the most unlikely places, just in case their ‘primary weapon’ fails and they need to lay their hands on, say, a double-barrelled-sawn-off-rocket-grenade-47-colt launcher. While members of the National Rifle Association, I’m led to believe, haul their stockpile around in plain sight in pickup trucks belonging to their brother (and/or cousin) Billy Bob, a really good screen cop with undercover experience can secret as many as a dozen weapons about his person and look like he’s just stepped out of the shower.
Aside from being a gripping theme for discussion over dessert, such weaponry can be a real issue for the uninitiated, especially if said TV cop has, indeed, just stepped out of the shower (at which point, you should probably begin to suspect that you have skipped the crème brulée). Just as men have never figured out how to undo a brassiere without giving a woman whiplash, disrobing and disarming a CSI in a moment of passion without causing him or, indeed, yourself near-fatal injury would qualify, I think, as a rare skill. And you need to avoid killing the moment.
If in doubt, ask a European
Not having the faintest idea how to go about acquiring this expertise, though, I decided to consult with the Californian crew, who I thought might be versed in such matters. And, sure enough, as Continental Europeans, some of them having spent time in military outposts, such as Saint Tropez, counting paperclips in the name of king (or other personage) and country, they felt pretty comfortable around semi-automatics. Alas, they didn’t whip out their Heckler & Kochs then and there for my perusal. They did, however, suggest a shooting range, complete with instructors, on Something-or-other Avenue.
It only remained, therefore, for me to coerce someone into driving me over there (I couldn’t learn to drive, remember?), as you can’t walk anywhere in California (it’s punishable by death) and in case the gun club gave me a sniper rifle with which to practise at home and I had to lug it back. Maximus was the obvious choice, as he has done some sports shooting (possibly, I fantasised, while clad in Iron Man-like latex, on skis, against a snowy Nordic backdrop) and is very unlikely to kill me, being very fond of my mother and regularly plied with whiskey by my father.
Being a man of keen mind, however, he shrewdly assessed that there was a sliver of a chance that I might actually shoot him should he criticise my technique just once too often, so he gamely volunteered his other half, The Lovely C, in his stead. Any participation by Le Grand Belge, incidentally, was ruled out by the fact that he’s a registered conscientious objector and could be thrown into a dungeon in Flanders for laying a trigger finger on anything resembling a conscientious object.
A somewhat different day out
Now, The Lovely C and I have gone and had our legs waxed together, braved Macy’s at sale time, even debated the merits of blue versus yellow tortilla chips, but this was a new departure. Incredibly, she knows her way around a rifle, but as it’s politically incorrect to ask a German where they gleaned such knowledge, I settled for raising an eyebrow and giving a brief nod of assent. I then rang my lawyers, Glock, Smith & Wesson, to double-check that I couldn’t be sent to Guantanamo for endangering random people on a firing range, even by accident, and was told I was good to go.
I should mention, at this point, the potential hitch in my cunning plan: I hate guns. Guns kill people. I detest being around them. I grew up in a country where the police consider a large potato a lethal weapon. The merest glimpse of Charlton Heston makes me want to reach for a bottle of vodka and lie down in a darkened room. Nor am I too keen on blood, something that put a conclusive end to my parents’ hopes of a doctor in the family. In short, I abhor the very thought of guns, which is not really what an instructor wants to hear when you roll up to a shooting range and ask to be given a firearm.
The other problem, of course, is knowing what to wear on such an occasion. Trinny and Susannah’s handy pocket-sized, fail-safe fashion guide doesn’t exactly spell out what goes with a Magnum PI, or whatever it’s called. Having a limited wardrobe with me in any case, I decided to dispense with the high heels in case I got vertigo, fell over and shot someone, and opted for sensible black boots, thinking that if anyone disagreed with my choice, I could always threaten them by waving my soon-to-be gun. Up our fashionably tailored sleeves, though, we had the ultimate accessory – Maximus’ car (Maximum Ride).
There’s comfort to be had in driving towards your first bullet wound in a sleek and shiny Corvette, with the top down and the stereo giving the San Andreas Fault a run for its money. It’s a bit like flying Business Class when you hate flying – at least you know you’re going to go down in classier flames with a glass of Champagne or two already down your gullet.
So I got on the blower to book us in.
(To be continued ...)
© Poilin Breathnach 2009
Wednesday, April 29, 2009
Las Vegas: Atonement and the Wedding Planner (Part II)
Well, dang and darnit.
Turns out, both the bride and groom need to be present for a marriage to be valid in the state of Nevada, which I think is being a little picky. I mean, if someone has to get hitched in the Harley Davidson Chopper Chapel, then spend their wedding day traipsing through the dingy MGM Grand casino in their flouncy finery, trying to find a bar that serves actual Champagne rather than an approximation of paint stripper, surely forcing them to turn up for the legalities is a tad petty.
But it got me thinking, as The Lovely C and I strolled into the Bellagio in search of cocktails and some retail therapy to ease her dismay, that, surely, there must be somewhere in the US where Maximus doesn’t have to be physically present at own his wedding. There must be somewhere one of the two could embrace the spirit of Nike and Just Do It. And, it being America, of course there is.
Four weddings and a corral
In fact, there are four places: California, Texas, Colorado and Montana. O joy, o rapture. What if we could fill in a few forms and marry them off in their own kitchen? But, that, sadly, wasn’t to be. The California proxy marriage law applies only to members of the armed forces stationed far away (like Iowa) or serving in conflict. And Maximus’ long-distant bout of Swedish military service doesn’t qualify, making me think there’s potentially an interesting military discrimination lawsuit in there somewhere, especially if I can turn it into a class action and convince Denmark to join in.
Now, I’ve never been to Texas, which I understand is very large and Bushey, so when I couldn’t make head nor tail of the law governing proxy marriages there, I gave up. I think the law was written by George W, aged four. On to Colorado, where I have spent some time and which is rather lovely, unless you accidentally drive into Utah and are dying for a vodka martini. Even Colorado, though, won’t serve you alcohol after 2am, so you had better get married before noon.
Marriage by proxy is allowed in the Rocky Mountain state “if either the groom or bride cannot appear due to illness, is out of the state of Colorado, or incarcerated”, according to About.com. This is good. It gives us a number of options. We can arrange the wedding while Maximus is still on the other side of the pond, wait until he gets back and incapacitate him, or simply have him locked up. We just need his written permission. Or, at least, permission that satisfies whoever is conducting the ceremony, which, as I’m sure you know, is an entirely different kettle of fish (nod, wink).
But the front-runner has to be Montana, the only state in the Union in which neither party needs to be present for their I do’s. The only catch is that one of the parties has to be resident in Montana at the time of marriage, but I don’t see this as a major hindrance. There are ways and means, especially if you have a friend who lives on a ranch in said state and who, for a bottle of something cold and white, would turn a blind eye to a tent pitched in their paddock and a transatlantic flight diverted from San Francisco. So, basically, pretty much anyone can marry anyone in Montana, as long as they fill in a form and splash the connubial plonk.
The land of opportunity
Indeed, Montana Legislative Services confirms this in a section of legalese on About.com, saying “the solemnization of the marriage is not invalidated by the fact that the person solemnizing the marriage was not legally qualified to solemnize it if either party to the marriage believed that person to be qualified”.
Now, this is interesting. It made me wonder whether I could actually take my role as wedding planner a step further and just marry them myself. Well, of course I could. Montana says I can, as long as I'm convincing.
Not being a typical celebrant, though, I thought it would be a nice gesture to get myself some marriage credentials and be ordained somewhere. Naturally, I could do this on the internet. Still, being conscientious, I decided I should make sure that I could legally conduct marriages, even in Montana, where they don't let little things like the law get in the way.
This meant signing up to a recognised church of some sort, which www.universalministries.com informed me I could do by checking whether my group of choice had filed a tax return. Seemingly, you're not a real church unless you've chartered an accountant, as it were. And, it just so happened that Universal Ministries could legally ordain me for free, valid in all 50 states.
Pass the incense
Unfortunately, there is a lot of religious stuff on there too, which isn’t really my cup of cocoa. So I moved on to the Universal Life Church, which told me I could believe or not believe in anything at all and join its select group of 20 million already ordained ministers, also for free, though, strangely, it did suggest that my ordination may not be recognised outside of the US.
Still, for $5.99, on the church’s website, www.themonastery.org, I can buy an ordination certificate to wave at Montana officials (or the couple I am about to marry). For $7.99, I can become a certified Jedi Knight. And, for the astonishing price of $29.99, I can become a Doctor of Divinity or Doctor of Metaphysics, with a certificate to prove it. Helpfully, there is a button on which I can click in order to make a donation to the Universal Life Church legal defence fund.
It also offers an array of useful packages to enable me to carry out any ministerial task that might befall me (though I’m thinking I should probably steer clear of circumcisions and restrict the laying of hands to good-looking men of my own choosing). It touts an Emergency Minister’s Package for $64.99, for shotgun weddings, I presume, or a Minister’s Car Kit, complete with bumper stickers, a “Minister Window Cling” and a ministerial parking placard for just $19.99. For $139.99, I can get the whole kit and caboodle, plus extras, such as baby-naming certificates and a personalised ID card to assure the paying public of my good ministerial standing.
Upon this rock ...
I had a feeling, though, that were I to sign up to this prestigious organisation it might pursue me for all eternity. Much better, I thought, to look into setting up my own congregation, which I could put on the back burner if, say, I were ever to get a real job. There are plenty of expert guides on the web and you’d be amazed at the tax implications of running a non-profit organisation, especially if you need to build a 12-room ministerial mansion with a tennis court and swimming pool. I’m not sure, but I think the ministerial masseur (who bears an uncanny resemblance to Robert Downey Jr.) is tax deductible.
Wikihow.com gets down to the nitty-gritty. I apparently need to find two other founding members not related by blood or marriage (I assume to me or each other, rather than to anyone at all). I thought about co-opting Le Grand Belge, who looks distinguished most of the time, but then decided he might make a better Elder down the line, when I got bored with the task at hand and needed to hand over the reins to someone who could potentially pass for a cult leader.
The website also suggests I should specify at my first meeting that I’m founding a church. “If you do not,” it says, “then there is the danger of always being a social group and never growing into a church.” Fair point. The California crew has tended to gather over dinner and copious amounts of booze. While a religious experience on occasion, it could become confusing. Most importantly, though, I should “begin early in the meetings to take donations for the future of the group.”
So, my dear flock, you’re cordially invited to the nuptials of Maximus and The Lovely C at the Church of the Chocolate Nut Martini, Montana. You’ll need to make a donation towards my expenses and future love nest in Maui, but it’s all in a good cause. And I’d ask you to donate generously, so you can turn to those less generous than yourselves and say, “I upped my donation, up yours!”
© Poilin Breathnach 2009
Turns out, both the bride and groom need to be present for a marriage to be valid in the state of Nevada, which I think is being a little picky. I mean, if someone has to get hitched in the Harley Davidson Chopper Chapel, then spend their wedding day traipsing through the dingy MGM Grand casino in their flouncy finery, trying to find a bar that serves actual Champagne rather than an approximation of paint stripper, surely forcing them to turn up for the legalities is a tad petty.
But it got me thinking, as The Lovely C and I strolled into the Bellagio in search of cocktails and some retail therapy to ease her dismay, that, surely, there must be somewhere in the US where Maximus doesn’t have to be physically present at own his wedding. There must be somewhere one of the two could embrace the spirit of Nike and Just Do It. And, it being America, of course there is.
Four weddings and a corral
In fact, there are four places: California, Texas, Colorado and Montana. O joy, o rapture. What if we could fill in a few forms and marry them off in their own kitchen? But, that, sadly, wasn’t to be. The California proxy marriage law applies only to members of the armed forces stationed far away (like Iowa) or serving in conflict. And Maximus’ long-distant bout of Swedish military service doesn’t qualify, making me think there’s potentially an interesting military discrimination lawsuit in there somewhere, especially if I can turn it into a class action and convince Denmark to join in.
Now, I’ve never been to Texas, which I understand is very large and Bushey, so when I couldn’t make head nor tail of the law governing proxy marriages there, I gave up. I think the law was written by George W, aged four. On to Colorado, where I have spent some time and which is rather lovely, unless you accidentally drive into Utah and are dying for a vodka martini. Even Colorado, though, won’t serve you alcohol after 2am, so you had better get married before noon.
Marriage by proxy is allowed in the Rocky Mountain state “if either the groom or bride cannot appear due to illness, is out of the state of Colorado, or incarcerated”, according to About.com. This is good. It gives us a number of options. We can arrange the wedding while Maximus is still on the other side of the pond, wait until he gets back and incapacitate him, or simply have him locked up. We just need his written permission. Or, at least, permission that satisfies whoever is conducting the ceremony, which, as I’m sure you know, is an entirely different kettle of fish (nod, wink).
But the front-runner has to be Montana, the only state in the Union in which neither party needs to be present for their I do’s. The only catch is that one of the parties has to be resident in Montana at the time of marriage, but I don’t see this as a major hindrance. There are ways and means, especially if you have a friend who lives on a ranch in said state and who, for a bottle of something cold and white, would turn a blind eye to a tent pitched in their paddock and a transatlantic flight diverted from San Francisco. So, basically, pretty much anyone can marry anyone in Montana, as long as they fill in a form and splash the connubial plonk.
The land of opportunity
Indeed, Montana Legislative Services confirms this in a section of legalese on About.com, saying “the solemnization of the marriage is not invalidated by the fact that the person solemnizing the marriage was not legally qualified to solemnize it if either party to the marriage believed that person to be qualified”.
Now, this is interesting. It made me wonder whether I could actually take my role as wedding planner a step further and just marry them myself. Well, of course I could. Montana says I can, as long as I'm convincing.
Not being a typical celebrant, though, I thought it would be a nice gesture to get myself some marriage credentials and be ordained somewhere. Naturally, I could do this on the internet. Still, being conscientious, I decided I should make sure that I could legally conduct marriages, even in Montana, where they don't let little things like the law get in the way.
This meant signing up to a recognised church of some sort, which www.universalministries.com informed me I could do by checking whether my group of choice had filed a tax return. Seemingly, you're not a real church unless you've chartered an accountant, as it were. And, it just so happened that Universal Ministries could legally ordain me for free, valid in all 50 states.
Pass the incense
Unfortunately, there is a lot of religious stuff on there too, which isn’t really my cup of cocoa. So I moved on to the Universal Life Church, which told me I could believe or not believe in anything at all and join its select group of 20 million already ordained ministers, also for free, though, strangely, it did suggest that my ordination may not be recognised outside of the US.
Still, for $5.99, on the church’s website, www.themonastery.org, I can buy an ordination certificate to wave at Montana officials (or the couple I am about to marry). For $7.99, I can become a certified Jedi Knight. And, for the astonishing price of $29.99, I can become a Doctor of Divinity or Doctor of Metaphysics, with a certificate to prove it. Helpfully, there is a button on which I can click in order to make a donation to the Universal Life Church legal defence fund.
It also offers an array of useful packages to enable me to carry out any ministerial task that might befall me (though I’m thinking I should probably steer clear of circumcisions and restrict the laying of hands to good-looking men of my own choosing). It touts an Emergency Minister’s Package for $64.99, for shotgun weddings, I presume, or a Minister’s Car Kit, complete with bumper stickers, a “Minister Window Cling” and a ministerial parking placard for just $19.99. For $139.99, I can get the whole kit and caboodle, plus extras, such as baby-naming certificates and a personalised ID card to assure the paying public of my good ministerial standing.
Upon this rock ...
I had a feeling, though, that were I to sign up to this prestigious organisation it might pursue me for all eternity. Much better, I thought, to look into setting up my own congregation, which I could put on the back burner if, say, I were ever to get a real job. There are plenty of expert guides on the web and you’d be amazed at the tax implications of running a non-profit organisation, especially if you need to build a 12-room ministerial mansion with a tennis court and swimming pool. I’m not sure, but I think the ministerial masseur (who bears an uncanny resemblance to Robert Downey Jr.) is tax deductible.
Wikihow.com gets down to the nitty-gritty. I apparently need to find two other founding members not related by blood or marriage (I assume to me or each other, rather than to anyone at all). I thought about co-opting Le Grand Belge, who looks distinguished most of the time, but then decided he might make a better Elder down the line, when I got bored with the task at hand and needed to hand over the reins to someone who could potentially pass for a cult leader.
The website also suggests I should specify at my first meeting that I’m founding a church. “If you do not,” it says, “then there is the danger of always being a social group and never growing into a church.” Fair point. The California crew has tended to gather over dinner and copious amounts of booze. While a religious experience on occasion, it could become confusing. Most importantly, though, I should “begin early in the meetings to take donations for the future of the group.”
So, my dear flock, you’re cordially invited to the nuptials of Maximus and The Lovely C at the Church of the Chocolate Nut Martini, Montana. You’ll need to make a donation towards my expenses and future love nest in Maui, but it’s all in a good cause. And I’d ask you to donate generously, so you can turn to those less generous than yourselves and say, “I upped my donation, up yours!”
© Poilin Breathnach 2009
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