Algeria vs. England

One of the fantastic things about taking a trip around the world in mid-2010 was that we visited several of the participating nations of the World Cup that year, getting to really see firsthand what it feels like to experience the true emotion of the event. Full disclosure; yes, I currently reside in Australia, and the Socceroos are frequent participants in the tournament, but we're always honest about our chances. They're a team of plucky overachievers who consider it a success to escape the group stage. It has nothing on the pure ecstasy that washes over the nations of contenders.

We saw the outcry in London when Robert Green mishandled Clint Dempsey's light tap in the 40th minute, leading to a shocking 1-1 draw. We sat among a café of disillusioned Frenchmen in Paris as Les Bleus' dreadful campaign was capped off with a loss to South Africa. Alas, we arrived in New York one day too late to be amongst the Americans during their demise, but the effects were still being felt in the brief aftermath until soccer would again become irrelevant in the States.

For the innocent traveller, however, the impact of such a momentous tournament can be felt on a level that transcends football. Sometimes, it's in a way that's not very nice. Allow me to take you to France for a moment, and explain why, in 2010, the Americans became my favourite squad in the World Cup.

Paris, 2010
Despite having lived in Canada for almost seven years as a youth, I do not claim to speak any French. In my defence, I left the very year I would have begun learning it, and I confess that I still hold a desire to be able to speak it. During our visit to England, we made an admirable effort to familiarise ourselves with as many necessities as we could: 'excuse me', 'thank you', etc. From the moment we arrived in Paris via the Eurostar train, we were able to navigate through most conversations in a strange dance between French, English and cock-eyed stares. Despite their reputation, we found the Parisians to be absolutely friendly and helpful to us foreigners, and I think part of that is owed to the fact that we at least tried to speak to them in their native tongue. It's common courtesy, after all, and I implore anyone to at least try to learn the basics.

Regardless, there was a feeling of isolation stemming from communication roadblocks, and there was no worse time to feel like an outsider than on June 18th when England played Algeria, aka the 'night of the violent flag', as I have (just now) dubbed it.

Jessica and I were merrily sitting in front of a bar at the time, drinking our cocktails and blissfully unaware of the match unfolding between presumed titans England and super-underdog Algeria. At one point, Jess grew a hankering for popcorn chicken, and yes, I know that this is about as French as a bowl of ravioli. The heart wants what it wants, so we set off in search of le KFC. ...Does it sound more French now?

We noticed an air of celebration among certain people that night. Loud cheering, big groups massed together, and frequent appearances of a flag I didn't recognise at the time, but will never again forget. In case you were unaware, the game ended in a 0-0 tie, and such a result elicited incredible joy from the Algerian faithful. I don't know much about Algerians, but they sure are vocal about soccer.

We began to notice things going awry when a motorcyclist, stopped at a red light, was surrounded by a group of jubilant Algerians, who proceeded to smother him in their flag. Ultimately harmless, as they pulled it off of him before he sped off in a bemused state, but it probably should have been a warning sign for us to go home, lest we fall victim to patriotic suffocation.

Undeterred we proceeded down a street, passing by a bar where Algerian fans were having what appeared to be a heated discussion with the police. Jess hurried along, but I'm a stupid tourist who thought I'd film it as I passed by. I pulled out my camera and, as if on cue, one of the Algerians flung a chair at an officer. He pulled out his nightstick in response and began to strike the offender.

In case you're wondering whether I caught the dramatic series of events, the answer is... Well, kind of. Obviously, I hadn't intended to create a World Cup snuff film, so I immediately put the camera down. What I got was the most terrifying two seconds I've ever captured.

Could you make it out? You can't see the chair projectile, but you might be able to catch a glimpse of the officer opening a can of whoop-ass. What makes this film so scary? Take another look at the officer on the right.

...He looks directly at me with the most sinister glare in all of Europe. 'Désolé, Monsieur!' I said desperately, 'Désolé!' In my mind, I was apologising in perfectly acceptable French. In actuality, it was probably the equivalent of 'surry sars, suuuuurrryyyyy', which incidentally sounds exactly like Charles Barkley if you say it out loud.

Perhaps my terrible pronunciation led to him dismissing me as a dumb tourist; he fortunately let me leave the scene with all of my teeth intact. Now reunited with Jess, we decided we should perhaps make tracks back to the sanctuary of our apartment. We ambled through the side streets, noticing a large number of people walking in the opposite direction in a hurry. Some seemed to be coughing, others had tears in their eyes. Were they dejected England backers? Where had they come from? And what was that smell in the air, I wonder? I now noticed that I myself was having difficulty breathing, and my vision was blurred. A red-eyed man grabbed me by the shoulder and warned us to turn back, and it finally clicked.

Sacré bleu! We were walking right into a cloud of tear gas. We doubled back and headed in a new direction (admittedly a direction we felt was the least Algerian and therefore the most safe) and through complete dumb luck, ended up right at the doors of a KFC. Security waved us in, and swiftly shut and locked the doors behind us. That's right, security at a KFC, this chicken was in the hood, man. Having to be locked in this fairly crowded restaurant didn't faze us however, as we simply lined up like hungry consumers. At long last, Jessica got to the front and ordered a serving of popcorn chicken.

...Which, sadly, was not on the menu in Paris.

After settling on something else, we were let out and scurried on back to the apartment, people stumbling by in a bewildered state. Once we made it home safely, I observed the streets through the mailbox slot like a frightened child. I should have warned passersby to 'beware', but that might have made the whole situation even more alarming.

I've never really been in a riot before, but I think it's fair to say that I came pretty damn close to one. Chairs flying around, police giving you evils, tear gas in the air and a KFC in lockdown. ...Sure, why not? In case you're wondering what inhaling tear gas feels like, for us it was like eating too many hot chillies all at once; stinging your eyes and tongue, and filling your nose with a burning sensation that's akin to an allergic reaction gone haywire. I can't particularly imagine what it was like for the people in the direct impact area, but I can surmise that it was probably not their favourite thing that happened that day.

You could understand our nervousness when Algeria next played against USA in their World Cup finale, a match we chose to watch on the television in our apartment before daring to venture out into the streets again. The moment Landon Donovan hit the winning goal and the Yanks held on for the win, Jess and I were ecstatic. It felt like the result had won us our safety, and if I were to ever meet Mr. Donovan, I would most assuredly shake his hand.

...But what I've since discovered is that they reacted just as poorly from a bad result as they did to a good one. As per Vanity Fair: 'However jubilant American soccer fans were over Landon Donovan’s 91st-minute equalization today, fans of Algeria were proportionally enraged (to say nothing of the players themselves). A riot erupted in central Paris this evening following Algeria’s devastating loss to the United States in the World Cup, as 200 to 250 youths who had been watching the game on a giant screen at an inner-city stadium took to the streets. Shop windows were smashed and about 20 cars were incinerated or flipped over, among other incidents which spread to nearby neighborhoods. Police made several arrests around 8 p.m., and dispersed the crowds using tear gas. ...There is a significant Algerian contingent in France, and a majority of the Algerian soccer team’s players are French-born.'

Oh well. We were happy.

Hey, Kelsey!!

I've been sitting here for a while now, trying to decide where to start in my storytelling. There's a whole lot to cover, and the more I think about things I've done and places I've been, the fuzzier each individual memory gets. So I decided to open with one of my favourite memories.

New York City, 2010
The biggest and best trip I've ever taken began on May 20th, 2010 and ended some time in late August. Yes, that statement would sound better if I had the exact date of my return, but the final two weeks in Hawai'i made me lose track of time and space, and in exchange, gave me an awesome tan. Definitely a worthy tradeoff, even if my expanding waistline made me look a little bit like the Buddha.

Entitled 'The Great Escape', my then-girlfriend, now-fiancé, soon to be-wife (if I live long enough) Jessica and I set off for England, Paris, New York, Vancouver Island, San Francisco and Oahu. Saving up for the trip was easier than you'd think, because back then I was living at home and my day-to-day expenses were few. Dad did all of the shopping and never charged me rent, so other than splurging on Nintendo products every now and then, I was quite the adept saver. In hindsight, I was also a bum and my father deserved better. But that's neither here nor there.

Going to New York for the first time was both a shock to the senses and an absolute relief. A relief, because when I was a kid, my experiences of NYC were limited to what I saw in Ghostbusters and Ninja Turtles. Back when the streets were filthy, the subway was dangerous, and you were liable to be attacked by enormous mutant reptiles.

New York was cleaned up in the meantime, but nobody told me that. We were expecting to be mugged at the first street corner, plus excessive watching of SVU made me assume someone was sexually assaulted once every six minutes. I really didn't want to be mugged. Depending on the assaulter in question, maybe the second one wouldn't be quite so bad. On the shuttle from JFK, we were nervous as hell. The sky seemed grey and foggy. The buildings monotonous and dilapidated. The grass... frankly, nonexistent. Oh no! Was this New York?

Fortunately, we had nothing to fear. It was only Queens. Haha.

Once we hit Manhattan, and the visual spectacle began, our concerns were lifted. The first time you see New York up close and personal, it's an experience like no other - I certainly haven't felt like that since, though I imagine it might be similar when you arrive in Tokyo. Just with fewer chibis. Far, far fewer chibis.

Manhattan is a place where you feel like anything can happen. And despite all of the glitz and the sparkle, it's a place that has a lot of depth and soul. Some may think otherwise, but I certainly felt connected with New Yorkers, in spite of their terrible taste in sporting franchises.

And no more did that sentence ring true than the night we saw our first show on Broadway. As a precursor, let me advise anyone thinking of making a trip to NYC and intending to see a Broadway show, that it's best if you plan ahead. That may sound obvious, but getting tickets on-site can be a hectic experience. In our case, we knew we wanted to see something, but had no idea what, so we went to the infamous TKTS booth in Times Square.

To be clear, the TKTS booth itself is fantastic. You can get last-minute discounted tickets for just about anything, and the staff are super efficient and the lines are well maintained. However, the sheer number of people lining up means that you'll go from waiting around for ages, to having to make a split-second decision once you hit the booth. After all, you don't want to be the jackass holding everyone else up asking which show is most appropriate for children aged 4-12 and whether the pyrotechnics will damage your corneas. Screw it! Take them to the Book of Mormon and hope for the best.

Fortunately, while you're waiting there's literally thousands of digital billboards cycling through the musicals on offer, and tons of opportunities to see actors you'd admired on television, live! Would we be enthralled by Sean Hayes and Kristin Chenowith in Promises, Promises? Would we partake of the frightful fun of the Addams Family, starring Nathan Lane and Bebe Neuwirth? Or would we buy tickets for Lips Together, Teeth Apart from a nearby scalper and cry ourselves to sleep?

In the end, we went with La Cage Aux Folles for a few reasons, mainly because we love the Birdcage and... OMG Kelsey Grammer OMGGGGGGGG ~

Pardon me for that last paragraph. Grammer often leads to a lack of Grammar. To be clear, I love that guy. Love him. Enjoyed him immensely as Frasier, obviously, and always thought he would be the perfect casting for the Beast in X-Men. When the Last Stand came out, I was vindicated. For Kelsey was the Beast. Kelsey was the Best.

We arrived at Longacre Theatre later that night, ready for the fun and frivolity of a grandiose musical. We've seen a few shows around the world, but there seems to be a certain extra bit of energy around the Broadway foyer. Is it the notion that one of your favourite actors is only a few feet way from you? Or the gigantic man in drag taking a photo with your girlfriend, as he put it, 'face to face'?

The show itself was excellent. The story is great fun, the songs are catchy, and when Douglas Hodge delivered a rousing 'I Am What I Am' to close the first act, the theatre erupted. Hodge was the deserving recipient of the Tony for Best Actor for his portrayal of Albin in this show, and, most appropriately, Tony was enthralled on this night.

I would be loath to forget, however, one of the most memorable performances of the night. And it was of a young man seated two rows in front of us, a man whose enthusiasm was so expressive, even the actors took notice. During one of the early scenes, one of the jokes was delivered, and a laugh arose from the crowd. ...One particular laugh was louder and longer than all others.

It's hard to describe this laughter in text, but just picture the most unusual sounding guffaw ringing across the theatre, growing in volume like a symphonic crescendo, while the creator of said chortle is rocking wildly back and forth in his seat like he was the sole rider of an invisible roller coaster. He was bouncing, he was bobbing, he was capturing the attention of those seated around him. Grammer and Hodge paused for a moment, glimpsing briefly to see if this was some drunken clown who was trying to steal the limelight.

Nope. He was just loving it. To the point where the show may have possibly run longer than expected to allow for this guy to finish cackling. If only I liked anything as much as this guy liked La Cage Aux Folles. The world would be a much better place, I think.

When the show ended, we did the necessary thing: hung around the stage exit, trawling for autographs. Somehow, we had a prime position right towards the front of the barricade, though I don't recall how or why. It's not like we immediately shot out of the theatre once the curtain went down, throwing people aside in order to stake our glorious spot, but sometimes fate smiles upon us.

And so the actors came out. First, members of Les Cagelles. We had read in the program that one of them was Australian, so of course we had a discussion with him after the show, congratulating him and sharing some sort of deep connection as a countryman ('onya mate', or something similar).

Soon, a security guard of some description came out. He addressed the crowd with projection that would have made any actor proud. He said, quite simply, 'Kelsey will be signing autographs for a short period of time. You can take photos of him, but he will not be posing for photos. I repeat, he will not be posing for photos!'

There was an audible groan amongst the throng, but it made perfect sense to me. If Kelsey Grammer was taking photos with everyone, he'd be out there for hours. Hell, he'd need an intermission with the amount of time he'd be spending, appearing pensive and being forced to wish people 'good mental health'. Then, he emerged. The man himself, sporting a rather snappy striped shirt. He signed autographs for people, really taking his time and engaging them in small talk. People shouted out to him, 'you were wonderful, Mr. Grammer!' and 'we enjoyed the show, Mr. Grammer!'. In true Aussie form, Jess yelled out, 'Hey, Kelsey, have a good night!' - his response, with an amused look on his face, 'Oh! Thank you!'

But before he left, Kelsey noticed something. A woman in a wheelchair who was unable to reach over the barrier for her programme to be signed. And this, it seems, did not sit well with Mr. Grammer. And so, he manoeuvred around the barrier, jotted down his autograph, and bent down to take a photo with her.

Sadly, of course, his kindness was awarded with every jerk in the nearby vicinity also demanding he pose for a photo. Four or five, in succession, thrusting their camera at him like they were nets, as he attempted to make his way out of the melee.

And yes, I must confess... I was one of those jerks. Because, honestly, if he says no, ahh, at least I tried. He'll never remember me. And if he says yes, then sweet, I've got a photo with Frasier. So I took my heart in my hand, and as he passed me, I said, meekly, 'Excuse me, Mr. Grammer?''

He turned to face me. Unable to summon the words at first, I just held up my camera.

"May I, please?"

He looks at me for what was surely only a second, but felt like an hour. An hour of being stared at by Kelsey Grammer. Sounds romantic when you phrase it like that.

"Yeah, okay."

And so, we whip around to face the camera in my outstretched arm. I don't have time to mess around here, it's one shot, and it's either going to be amazing, or a blurry mess of a photo, indistinguishable between a photo with Kelsey Grammer, or a photo of a grinning gorilla posing alongside Dan Castellaneta. You decide who would be which.

...And there you have it. My photo with Kelsey Grammer. My first show on Broadway. My special night in New York. The city where anything can happen.

Once bitten

In previous blogs, I've often alluded to the notion that I'm a well-versed traveller. Now approaching my 30s (eep!), I've got a bevy of locales under my belt and no dearth of stories to tell. Anyone will tell you that travel is addictive, and the reason is simple: it's an escape. An escape from life's problems, monotony, responsibility, normality, you name it. You become a version of yourself from an alternate universe: one who is elbowing your way through the throng in Tokyo or fleeing from wild bulls in Pamplona.

This isn't you! This is new you. Better you. The you who does things people wouldn't expect. You feel licensed to adventure, simply because you're there. If you invited me to swim with sharks off the coast of St Kilda, I'd shoot you down before you'd finished your sentence. But if we were out on the beaches of Honolulu, high off the ecstasy that is travel? Suit me up, cousin.

Like it does for many things we love, sadly, life does get in the way. My vacationing days are far and few between now, because there are bills to pay and mouths to feed. My mouth, specifically, which has unfortunately developed a taste for overpriced meals that make my wallet thin and my belly fat. Over are the days of flitting about the Earth for months on end, and I wonder where the time has gone.

After all, I'm only 26... Why do I feel 50?

But I'll fight on as hard as I can. If I can't set foot on foreign soil, I'll at least revisit the holidays of my past. Call this blog self-therapy, if you will. The mental unshackling of an imprisoned man. It's my chance to get off the road to nowhere, and back on the travelator. Come along for the ride, yeah?