Ice hockey

Yesterday I went to see my first ever ice hockey game. One of the profs had two tickets for the BU Terriers (ranked 4th nationally) versus the UMass Lowell River Hawks game that he couldn't use, so I baggsied one. It was a home game for the Terriers, whose stadium is the Agganis Arena situated in the BU student village. I was aware that ice hockey is big at BU, as it doesn't have either American "Football" or Rounders teams, but I wasn't prepared for just how big. Clutching a slice of pizza and a pint of Sam I emerged into the stands, which turned out to be more packed for this university sports game than I've seen at some professional footy games back home. As I took my seat about a third of the way down one side of the rink a band positioned at the other end struck up, and an announcer reeled off a list of companies to which we had "gotta go!" because they had shelled out some brass to have their names emblazoned everywhere. The stadium is almost brand new, and was impressively decked out with flashing screens and flags denoting past championship wins. A cheer arose as the umpires/referees/officials/whatever emerged and skated some laps around the rink, presumably checking to make sure nobody had mischievously sprinkled grit on it or anything, but this rose to a roar when the players skated onto the ice. An ice hockey team is made up of six players, but I had been informed that this was a "slightly nebulous rule" as the squad was actually made up of about 15 players, who were allowed to chop and change an infinite number of times throughout the match. The players lined up on opposite sides of the rink and the announcer prepared to read off the starting line up for the River Hawks. Now, obviously playing away is always going to be psychologically tougher than playing at home, even in the gentlemanly rugby stadia of England, but I really wasn't prepared for the lengths to which this is pushed over here. As the announcer read out the opposition's names the entire student element of the crowd turned their backs to the rink, waving one hand above their heads, and after every name turned back, pointed and shouted "sucks!" and turned around again. Then it was the Terriers' turn. All the lights suddenly turned off and music started blaring out. The announcer was then back... "Eighty seven times world champions, the discoverers of cold fusion, the key to solving world poverty, and the only people who'll dare to drink a pint in this damn town.... it's the BU Terriers!" (or something along those lines). After the collective frenzy had died down, the announcer decided it was time we paid our respects to the country, and bid us stand for the national anthem. This was at a university sports match, remember. Now, I wasn't entirely sure what my etiquette as an alien was here, and I didn't really want to ask a stranger (the other ticket owner never arrived). I decided to stand on the grounds that I'd hope that foreigners in the UK would abide by our customs, albeit trying to do so in a nonchalant manner while continuing to sip my beer. The actual singer was of the 'urban' genre, and therefore was completely incapable of holding a note; she put so many warbles and embellishes in there that I could hardly make out the star-spangled tune.

Anyway, at the hooter they were off. The game was fast and furious, and as one would expect for a sport played on a sheet of ice, seemed always to teeter on the edge of control. One of the first things I noticed was that any player unlucky or dumb enough to have the puck and be skating near the side of the rink was an instant target for a seemingly legitimate shoulder-down-and-elbow-out-charge-into-the-wall manoeuvre. The stadium regularly rattled to the thumps of players hitting the side of the rink, but it probably didn't hurt because they were all wearing six inches of kevlar. The second thing I noticed was that using the stick seemed to be optional - palming a flying puck out of the air or blocking a shot with one's legs was also perfectly legit. The third was that whenever the game stopped the band would pipe up with a 20 second rendition of a well-known tune or the announcer would remind us to visit the sponsors' shops. The game was divided into three 20 minute periods, causing me to wonder in what direction the teams played during the third, and the River Hawks dominated the first, despite the crowd's best efforts. The Terrier goalie, who was apparently quite good, given the roar his name had got before the start of the match (although he was called Curry, so it might have just been that the crowd were hungry) and the fact that the student spectators kow-towed whenever he made a save, was tested a number of times and yet remained unbeaten. He made a number of startlingly good saves, some of which were one-on-one attempts on goal, and it was he who kept the score nil-nil at the end of the first period.

After a 15 minute break, in which two teams of five-year-olds played a mini game on the rink, the game restarted. Again the River Hawks dominated, and it wasn't long before Curry was finally defeated and the Hawks chalked up the first goal. It came on a break after a long range Terrier shot had rebounded off the woodwork and landed at the stick of a poaching Hawk, who was able to put it away before the defence organised themselves. This only served to raise the decibels of the crowd, urging the BU ice-dogs on, but they just didn't seem to be able to find the shots. They were almost caught out again during a sloppy changing of almost the entire team at once, which left the incoming defence scrambling back to cover an exposed Curry. The Terriers started to get frustrated, and gave away several sin-bin penalties. One or two punches were thrown, but unlike in the professional leagues where they let them get on with it, the refs charged in to halt the fisticuffs. And so, at the end of the second period the score was 1-0 to the River Hawks.

The third period, played in the same direction as the first as I found out, was equally frustrating for the home side. The Terriers again found themselves under the onslaught from an on-form Hawks side, while being unable to reap the rewards of some decent midfield play. However, they soon suffered a second goal, which came from a goalmouth scramble following a shot that was saved by the keeper but not cleared. The terriers had to wait until the last five minutes before they got their first taste of blood. A cross from the left took a lucky rebound off a Terrier stick and the puck sailed into the Hawk's net to the relief and joy of the crowd. With the last few minutes slipping away the Terriers desperately fought for the equaliser, even when the announcer shouted "wwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwone minute left!" taking the keeper off to replace him with a sixth outfield player. They were unable to capitalise on the extra man, and were forced to concede a home defeat to a River Hawks team who had thoroughly earned the victory.

Despite the result, and the fact that I was stood up, I really enjoyed the game, and I can see why it's popular. Obviously it was all completely over the top, but I was expecting it having seen the nationally televised college "football" games, which fetch average attendances of ~40,000 per game.

On another topic completely, I'm off to Boulder in Colorado next week, so I'll be sure to take lots of piccies and report how mad the Boulderians are compared to the nuts you find around here. And I'll see if they accept my driving licence as ID down there...

Hike

On Saturday I walked to winter and back. John, my boss, invited me to go for a hike with him and Jody, another guy at BU, in the White Mountains in New Hampshire, about 2 1/2 hours drive to the north of Boston, and I, glad of the opportunity to get out of the city, agreed immediately. So he picked me up at half past seven on a beautiful morning at South Station (on a Saturday! D'oh!) and we headed out on the highway. Ah, it was nice to sit in a car and let somebody else navigate those infernal roads! We were to meet Jody at a car park in Reading at eight. We arrived early and waited until twenty past, but there was no sign of Jody. There were, however, a few wild turkeys wandering about the car park...



They're quite common around here, apparently. Anyway, after we phoned Jody and he informed us that he had been up until three the night before and was still in bed, we manoeuvred on. The only valid excuse I could think of was that he'd been out painting Boston red the night before, but his explanation was, unfortunately, rather dull*. Don't follow the asterisk, you'll find it a dull explanation. Oh, you did. Told you.

Now, I've mentioned the autumn leaves before, and people at home have questioned why it's so impressive over here, as opposed to in England. The answer is that, despite the Yanks' best efforts, there are still vast swathes of land in this region that are clothed in untamed forest, and when all that decides to turn gold or bright red at once it is spectacular. England, on the other hand, manages to contrive a few coppices here and there that have escaped the axe and calls these "forests". In this respect, I'm afraid to say I'm slightly with the Americans, if only because their country is so much bigger than ours. England has very few truly wild places left. Of course, you understand that all this applies to England, not Yorkshire, which is the wildest and yet most civilized country on the planet.

Anyway, the original plan was to head to the (snigger) Willey Range (he he he) and climb Mt Willey (ha ha ha guffaw), which could possibly have appealed to the base side of my sense of humour. Unfortunately, as we neared our destination (which, by the way, did I tell you was called Mt Willey? ha ha ha) the weather worsened and the snow-covered tops of the mountains began to shroud themselves in clouds. We decided that it would not be a good plan to climb those peaks, and turned the car back round to head for some of the lower hills. The contingency plan was to climb the less amusingly named Mt Israel, which was in the "Lakes District" (humph, there should be copyright issues, I didn't see a bar of Kendal mint cake anywhere) of New Hampshire. This turned out to be a 2000ft hillock overlooking Squam Lake. We parked up and got ready to hike. Now, I once had a nasty experience high on the slopes of Mt Fuji, when a couple of good mates and I found ourselves caught woefully unprepared in the dead of night by a vicious typhoon. We were lucky that time and managed to get off mountain in one piece, but this time I was not leaving it to chance. My pack was more rammed with spare clothes than Em would have packed for a week's holiday. And that's a lot of clothes, let me tell you :-)

So we set off up the trail in what they term around here as Fall. Whether this is a reference to the leaves or the mercury I have yet to figure, as both are falling rapidly at present. In either case, we found ourselves walking through gorgeous golden woodland. But as we climbed, we noticed the ground dampened and the leaves became more and more scarce.







The trail became steep and treacherous, with the rocky uneven ground covered by leaves and the rocks slippery underfoot. More than once I had to use all fours to advance, and almost went base over apex a couple of times. But as we ascended and the temperature dropped, the deciduous trees gave way to evergreens and we found ourselves walking through a winter scene.



Before we reached the summit, we heard a howling in the treetops, and sure enough when we arrived at the peak the air temperature was below freezing and there was a significant wind chill to boot. Needless to say we didn't hang around but I took a few photos of the spectacular view to the north.







On the way back down we found a rocky outcrop to sit on, which afforded a cracking view to the south over Squam Lake on which we could gawp while eating lunch.





As we descended, we found ourselves slipping and sliding even more than on the way up, and once or twice almost took the quick way down the mountain, but sure enough we arrived back in the golden woods, and eventually the car, with no harm done. It was a grand day out ah tell thee.

* He had been at a meeting and on the way back one of his friends got a puncture on his car. The friend decided he wasn't going to fix it, despite his having a spare, and wanted to drive it back home. So he drove home with the flat tyre, pumping it up whenever the car started bouncing on the axle. Jody decided he had to follow him to make sure he got back ok, which he didn't do until 3am. Hmmm, I know what I'd have said to such a stupid mate, and it's not repeatable here.

Finally, a post!

I wouldn't want to presume such a thing as a readership but in case these ramblings are noted by anybody, probably a hermit in Outer Mongolia, I should apologise for the lack of posts recently. On the one hand this is good, because it means I've been busy and should have something to say, but on the other hand it means that my friends have been contacting me asking if I'm still alive. The answer is, I'm afraid, yes. I'm sat in front of a spangly new laptop, yey, which means I can now write my posts at [hic] home whilst [hic] enjoying a bottle of [hic] Californian white. Did I say "home"? Indeed I meant "my flat in Boston", different to "home", which is of course Yorkshire, or to be more precise, Leicester, which is a city in Yorkshire for all those foreigners who might read this.

Anyway.

Em came to see me last week! :-) Of course, I've missed her like nothing else while I've been here, and it was more than a treat to have her here for a week. I would have liked to to say that I turned up three hours early at the airport and was eagerly awaiting her arrival with a bunch of flowers (as was meant to happen, honest Em), but anybody who knows me is aware that, even if these had been my intentions (as of course they were, my darling) then something would go amiss. The first is the fact I forgot the flowers, which I have to admit is partly my fault. The other is that I trusted the Massachusetts Bay Transportation Authority (the T) to get me to the airport on time. I turned up at the Central Square T station with a T token (a token, issued by the MBTA in return for $1.25, that one would assume would let me onto a T train, as they do on all the other T trains I've been on. Ha ha! Yeah right.) I of course had to queue up at the machine to exchange my token for a ticket to let me on the platform, and in doing so I BAed*. Obviously I hadn't allowed any leeway in my plans so this set me back ten minutes. When I got South Station I transferred to the silver line, a bus which apparently took 17 minutes to get to the airport. OK, so it might have got to the airport in 17 minutes, but it took a damn sight longer to get to terminal E, which was both my destination and, of course, the last stop at the airport. As the bus fought its way past a queue of fifty others at terminal C I was aware that, even allowing for baggage and immigration, I was cutting it fine. After a few civilizations had risen and crumbled to dust I arrived at terminal E, and pegged it up the stairs to Arrivals. Desperately looking around, I couldn't see her. Balls, I thought, she's arrived already and caught a taxi or summat, am I going to be in for it! How pleased was I when I saw her walking out of the arrivals gate... "Hello!" said I, "What took you so long, I've been here ages!" She didn't believe a word, of course, because I was panting like a dog and my face was a bright shade of scarlet. For once I had cause to bless airport delays...

So I hit upon the idea of hiring a car and heading north, which is, of course, always the best direction to head in. I had left it too late to actually be able to choose the garage and type of car, so I had to make use of the best available: a Toyota Avalon at a garage 0.6 miles from my flat (according to the website anyway, ha ha you know what's coming don't you...) Yes, it was actually 0.6 miles from my street, which anybody who's been to an American city will know doesn't help in the slightest when it comes to actually pinning down a location, as the buggers go from one side of the city to the other, five light-years away. Anyway, we eventually arrived at the garage after spending what seemed like the majority of the morning walking to the bloody place and signed on the dotted line. The bloke took me outside, showed me the bumps and scrapes and gave me the keys. We got in and looked around. Well, this wasn't too bad - luxurious interior, GPS, 184 cup holders, the lot. Clarkson would be impressed. And even though I was sitting on the wrong side of the vehicle because of the French Revolution**, I was confident that I'd 'be reet'. Of course I wasn't. I was sat in an automatic car, and I, a PhD in space plasma physics, couldn't even figure out how to use the bloody gear stick thing that wasn't really a gear stick. It wouldn't budge! I got the car instruction manual out, which was useful if I wanted to use the fifty-option central heating or 184 cup holders, but absolutely useless if I just wanted to know how to make the bastard car move forward! After five minutes of informing Em that I, as The Man, of course knew how to work the stupid car and I was just enjoying the scenery, I went back inside and informed the bloke that I was used to a 'stick shift' and asked him how to make the car move. He looked at me like I had insulted his mother and grumbled his way to the car. Apparently I had to press the brake down and push the gear-thingy down to make it move. Of course, dur. Anyway, so we were off! On roads in Boston! Only after I set off did I realise the magnitude of our peril. They come from all sides: left, right, front, back, above, below... I actually think, as a traditional couple in this situation, we were quite candid to each other - I can think of only seven or eight times when we swore at each other. We eventually made it onto the I-95 and headed north, towards Cape Anne, which is a very picturesque (sorry to use that horrible word) region that fits the popular image of New England - small harbour villages with plenty of lighthouses and, at this time of year, colourful foliage. Driving on a motorway in the US takes some getting used to. Obviously there is the wanton abandonment of any road traffic laws that I have allured to in previous posts, but also the concept of a 'slip road' is alien here. "No, it's fine, at every junction we'll let almost stationary traffic merge with a lawless tumult of barely in control vehicles with no problems, what? Eh?" And every now and then Em would calmly inform me that I had forgotten that there was some car to the right of me and she would be most obliged if I would keep both halves of the car on the actual motorway, please. Anyway, I don't know how, but we arrived safely at our destination: Essex, which is in Ipswich (look, I've stopped asking by now). More precisely, we arrived at the Crane Estate, which is one of the most beautiful places in New England, apparently. This place used to belong to a Chicago plumbing magnate (eat your heart out Bill Gates) and is now owned by The Trustees of the Reservations, a kind of approximation to the National Trust. We paid five bucks to park the car, but were informed we couldn't go round the house because it was being used for a wedding. So I guess this is where the first photo comes in:



The Crane Estate was very beautiful. It lay on a hill surrounded by salt marshes and the sea. Here are some more photos:























I'm happy to report that we returned the car with no extra scrapes, and that I only induced one external hoot during the entire day. Not only that, but as we were nearing the garage I commented to Em that I was not a proper Bostonian driver until I had honked at someone. Thirty seconds later, somebody visciously cut me up at a junction and I rammed on the horn and shook my fist... the fact that this turned into a punch of the air and a shout of "Yes!" is of no consequence.

It was a blessing that Em was here. Not least because I could say "Fancy a curry?" and the answer wouldn't be various ways of saying "Pull the other one". We went to a curry house in Kenmore Square that I had heard was pretty good, although as a Leicesterite I was reserving judgement until I had partaken, thank you very much. Anyway, I was wearing a Leicester Tigers top, which I assumed would give us preferential treatment in any curry house around the globe. No such luck. I ordered a lamb vindaloo, and the waiter sucked through his teeth and shook his head "Oh no, no, no, 'tis very hot!" he exclaimed. I informed him that I was used to it and that he should bring it on. Not only that but there was no Bangla and I was forced to drink a Cobra approximation. Anyway, the curry arrived and I'm pleased to say that it was tasty - I would bring other Leicesterites here - but it was not a vindaloo, I'm afraid Sarah. It was more akin to a Nila madras, which I would have been happy about if I'd have ordered a madras... Anyway, the point is that it was much better than the previous curry house I'd been in in Central Square where I'd asked for a vindaloo and they asked me if I wanted it medium or hot, (I said hot, please, and it arrived milder than a diluted korma) so I'd like to assure people that I think I might just survive on the curry front. But a Fed Ex'd bottle of Bangla might do the trick...it's not that I miss the Palace or anything, but, you know... chicken tikka garlic bhuna...

We went whale watching. These trips leave the Long Wharf and take punters out to the Stellwagen Bank, where there is a large underwater plataeu, which forces plankton up to the surface, hence the whales follow and use the place to have a breathe and flap about for the good of the tourist industry. We left Boston Harbour on a catamaran, and I managed to take this cracking shot of Boston:



The vessel was capable of shifting, and they had to move those of us stationed at the bow back inside because the sea was too rough for us to be at the front - which was probably true, as after an hour or so I reckon three quarters of the passengers couldn't give a monkeys about whales and only cared where the next sick bag was coming from. Fortunately I knew the antidote.





When we did eventually get there, we saw some whales! It was slightly spoiled by the fact that whenever a whale was spotted the entire shipful of passengers shoved and elbowed their way to that side of the ship to catch a photo before they all disappeared for good (the whales, not tourists, though the latter has an appeal...) Em and I stuck to one corner, and I mananged to take one or two photos, although I'm afraid I didn't elbow enough to get some great ones:





All too soon Em had to go home, but it won't be long until she's here for good :-) Roll on Christmas, I say!

*Missed a T - Get it? Well I was proud of it, you Philistines!

**Yep, the left side of the road is the most sensible because if you're right-handed, you want to keep your sword nearest potential opponents (assuming, of course, that they'll be stupidly coming towards you). Thus, the aristocracy rode on the left, forcing the peasants onto the right. After the French Revolution, it wasn't a good career move to be associated with the top nobs, so everybody rode on the right. Then Napoleon went and tried to take over the world and it kind of stuck, despite him being mullered at Waterloo... Anyway here's some advice given by the MoT: “Visitors are informed that in the United Kingdom traffic drives on the left-hand side of the road. In the interests of safety, you are advised to practise this in your country of origin for a week or two before driving in the UK.” Does anyone else see the fatal flaw in this advice? Or is it part of the UK government's drive to stop immigration...?