POSTING #137

On Becoming a Road Warrior

It was a few days before Christmas in 1994 and I was flying home from Moscow. Two colleagues and I had just spent a couple of weeks in Russia trying to decide whether we would recommend that the Canadian Government submit a bid for a two-year World Bank contract to construct some 20 model employment offices from Moscow to the Pacific Ocean.

In the end we had decided to recommend that a bid be submitted. The terms and conditions required that the bid contain the name of an on-site manager. After some arm-twisting, I had agreed to let my name be used.

We didn't think that it was likely that Canada---if it did decide to bid---would win. It seemed more likely that the US, which had already submitted a bid, would win. 

But as the plane headed for Montreal, I was running two  'What if' questions through my mind. What if Canada decided to submit a bid? And what if it won?         

It was a big project. How would I run it---not from Canada---but from Moscow? And how would I cope with all the travelling involved---the travel to and from Russian, and the travel across the eight times zones from Moscow to the Pacific?

The man in the seat next to me was tall, slim, dark-haired in his later 30s or early 40s. We had chatted briefly when we embarked, enough to establish that he was from Montreal, had been working in Russia for two years, and was going home for Christmas. As soon as the seatbelt lights had been turned off he got out his computer and started writing something.

Meanwhile, I continued pondering about what would happen if Canada won the contract.

My seatmate turned off his computer  and we began to talk. He was an aviation engineer with a Montreal company that had a joint arrangement with a Russian firm to produce aircraft components. He was working in a city a few hundred miles east of Moscow.

I told him about the possible bid we were working on for the World Bank project, and about my concerns about how to manage the project if we won.

He said that I would have to become 'a road warrior'---the first time I had heard that term.

When I looked puzzled, he stood up and got a large, shiny black leather case out of the overhead compartment---the kind of case I had seen lawyers tow into court on a set of wheels.

The front of the case dropped down to provide a writing surface, with pens, pencils, paper, Post-it notes and other stationery items neatly arranged in pockets. He showed me that his computer fitted into a compartment behind the stationery, along with a portable printer. Behind all that was another compartment for telephone and email communication items, including an acoustic coupler, assorted telephone jacks, electric transformers, and an assortment of electric plug adapters. In yet another compartment, he had what he called ' survival items', for example rubber plugs to fit Russian hotel sinks and bathtubs, a small roll of toilet paper, a bar of soap (all items that most Russian hotels didn't provide), some first aid items, and a Leatherman knife with a wonderful combination of knives, screwdrivers, wrenches etc.

I was bowled over, and immediately decided that if we won the contract I would have to create a road warrior kit.

He put the case back in the overhead compartment and started to talk about what it was like to work with the Russians. His Russian colleagues were well trained but not very well motivated, at least by North American standards. He described things he had tried to do in order to motivate them, some of which had worked, and some of which had failed. I listened carefully, storing away his anecdotes and advice.

As we got closer to Canada, he started to talk about a relationship problem that he would have to deal with during the Christmas holidays. He didn't say whether it was a wife or a girlfriend but it was clear that it was going to be messy. When he had been talking about his work, he was calm and competent, but as he shifted to talk of the relationship he cleared his throat often and fidgeted with his hands. He was not looking forward to the confrontation that he said was going to happen.

Looking back on our conversation, I think he had enjoyed talking to me about his road warrior kit and about his Russian experiences because they had taken his mind off what awaited him in Montreal.

When we arrived in Montreal, he wished me luck, gave me his business card and invited me to contact him if we won the contract, and if I needed some advice or a shoulder to cry on.

I set out to find the bus for Ottawa, and he went off to deal with his relationship issue.   

I never had to contact him---the fact that he worked outside Moscow made that difficult---but the few hours of conversation in the plane were enormously helpful to me in my work in Russia. It was an invaluable 'Idiot's Guide to Living and Working in Russia' ---something this 'idiot' needed in the worst way.

As soon as the World Bank gave the contract to Canada, I started assembling my road warrior kit. I decided to use a soft case instead of his hard one, feeling that the soft case would be a little more flexible but my kit had all the same essentials as his.

My road warrior kit was a best friend for the two years in Russia, and then later in the Kingdom of Jordan and Azerbaijan. 

Airline check-in people would sometimes blanche when they weighed it and saw that it was---as normally happened---well over the 10 Kilo limit. But they never separated it from me, or forced me to take things out of it.

Last year we had a cleaning-out bee and I decided that the time had come to say goodbye to it. I took a picture of the case and then handed it over to a company from Niagara Falls called, Just Junk. The company boasts that it donates useable things to charities, and I like to think that someone, perhaps an impoverished college student, is using my case. 

The travel-worn bag that housed my 'road  warrior' kit. I don't have a photo of it in operation, bulging with everything needed to 'set up shop' in hotels, airports and airplanes. It also served as a welcome footrest on long Aeroflot flights. (Pat thinks I should have had it bronzed!)

I often think of my airplane companion, and of his kindness to a new road warrior.

And, I wonder what happened with his relationship issue.

Working in Russia in the 1990s (and perhaps still today) was often tough. A supportive relationship, as I was lucky to have with Pat and our family, was a real plus.

I hope that things worked out well for him.

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See you on March 4, 2012 for Posting #138 with more stories from our family’s universe! If you have comments or suggestions, please leave a comment at the bottom of this posting,  or email me at johnpathunter@gmail.com.

Note:

Posting # 7 of The Icewine Guru blog is now up. The Guru offers his views on the birth control furor in the US, on whether it was 'an epic blunder' by Obama, or a clever trap set by him for the Republicans. Click on  http://theicewineguru.blogspot.com/

POSTING #133

Tours for Foreign Officials---Lighter Moments

As a consultant, I always enjoyed organizing and then leading tours of foreign officials to Canada. Perhaps because I am naturally a little nosey, it was fun to tour schools, colleges, universities, factories, hi-tech firms, government departments and on and on.

It could be challenging, trying to make sure the visitors gathered the information and knowledge they wanted.

But there were lighter moments as well.

Here are a couple.

Slave For a Day

A group  of employment experts from Jordan came to Canada in 2005 for a two week tour designed to illustrate how Canada prepares its young people for the world of work.

The Jordanian group on the deck at our Grimsby home with Pat and me in the middle. The photo was taken by the husband of the woman (Samaya) who is seated next to Pat. Thanks,Waleed!

One of the issues the group wanted to study was the career guidance approach used by our secondary schools.

In consultation with some local experts, I chose a medium-sized high school in the Niagara Peninsula that was supposed to do a particularly fine job of preparing students for post-secondary studies or for entry into the labour market. The principal and the head of guidance were both enthusiastic about receiving a group of Jordanians.

When we arrived at the school. the principal welcomed us and made it plain that every thing was open to the visitors. They could go anywhere they wanted, and talk to anyone they wished.

The visit then began with a tour of the school. The visitors knew from their pre-visit briefings that there wouldn't be the strict separation of male and female students that one finds in Jordan. But I could see that they were taken aback by the reality of seeing boys and girls strolling along the halls together chatting, sometimes holding hands, or by the sight of a fellow and a girl having a quiet chat, their heads together, in front of a locker.

We visited a lab where a mixed gender team was building a rocket as part of a project on space exploration. Then on to the media department where another mixed gender team was making a movie in a studio with cameras and sound equipment. And then to a computer lab where girls and fellows were rattling away on keyboards, probably dreaming about developing the next big software program.

I could see that the visitors were impressed by the sophistication of the work being done by the Canadian students.

As the tour went on, the visitors seemed to relax, and to accept the mixing of genders.

At lunch time, the head of the culinary department told us that the students would be preparing and serving our lunch. He made a point of saying that everything we would be eating had been selected and prepared in accordance with Islamic dietary rules. He led us to the dining room, where we enjoyed a delicious lunch of salad, poached salmon and dessert. The student-servers, both male and female, didn't have the aplomb of restaurant staff but they were earnest, charming and friendly---and they got the job done.

After lunch we met with the head of career guidance. She discussed the methods she used to try to help students define their career goals, and how she kept track of them during their years at the school. In the question and answer session, there was a lively discussion about the effectiveness of different tests used in Canada and Jordan to measure things like career preferences and aptitudes.

The visit had gone well.

The visitors were clearly impressed with what they had seen. I was impressed as well, as I thought of the facilities and services offered back in the 1950s in the Arthur District High School. We had some fine, dedicated teachers but teaching aids pretty much started and ended with a blackboard and chalk.

Toward the end of our visit, the head of guidance accompanied us as we made our way down the main hall to our bus. I was feeling good, the event had been even more successful than I had hoped.

Then we saw a girl and a bizarre companion coming towards us.

When we got closer we could see that the companion was a tall, husky young fellow wearing a blouse, short skirt and nylons (with hairy legs showing through) and lots of lipstick. He was carrying a pile of books.

The visitors stopped and stared, their mouths open. The pre-visit studying they had done about gender equality in Canada hadn't prepared them for this.

I leaned over and whispered to the head of guidance, "What's going on?"

She stopped the young couple, explained that these were education officials from the Kingdom of Jordan and she was sure they would like to know why the young fellow was dressed as he was.

The girl explained that as part of the United Way charity fund raising campaign, the students in her class had decided to have a 'buy-a-slave-for-a-day-auction'. She had successfully bid for the young fellow and she had 'ordered' him to wear women's clothes, makeup etc. He was now carrying her books to the school bus.

The head of guidance asked the young fellow whether he had submitted his university applications, and whether, despite his football (I gather he was one of the star players), he was keeping his grades up.

He calmly assured her that everything was under control.

We said goodbye and moved on to our bus, with the visitors chatting amongst themselves in Arabic trying to make sense of what they had just seen.

I imagine that when they think back to that high school visit, the first image that will pop into their minds won't be the labs.

It will be the young fellow with the lipstick and the hairy legs.

Hopefully, their next thoughts will be about the labs and the school's effective program of career guidance.

Hopefully!

A Sleeping Bag for East of Siberia

One of the members of a group of Russian employment officials, for whom I organized a visit in 1996, was a burly fellow from the Russian Far East---beyond Siberia---who wanted to buy a sleeping bag while he was in Canada.

He explained that he was a hunter, and that he liked to camp overnight in the woods in winter waiting for deer or some other game. He needed a sleeping bag that would protect him against the extreme cold of the region. There were sleeping bags in Russia but they were of poor quality and not warm enough for night-time camping. He asked me where he could get a really good bag.

I thought of Canadian Tire but decided that he probably needed a store that specialized in fitting out people for rugged outdoor adventures, a place like Mountain Equipment Co-Op. One of our sons, who lived in Toronto, said he knew the location of one of their stores---on Front Street at the time.

The group was going to be in Toronto after a spell in Ottawa, and, since I had to do something with the rest of the group,  I asked our son if he would mind taking the Russian visitor to the store, accompanied by an interpreter.

At the store, the Russian fellow sorted through the selection of sleeping bags and settled on a down-filled mummy-type bag that was wide at the shoulders, narrow at the feet with a zip up hood. As the interpreter translated data about the maximum temperatures for which it was recommended, the man went over the stitching and padding from top to bottom. He nodded that he was happy with the bag. The price, which was substantial, didn't seem to bother him.

Our son thought that his mission was just about over. Just get the man and the bag to the cashier and that would be that. He pointed to the nearest cashier, but the Russian shook his head.

He gestured that he wanted to try the bag.

Then in one of the store's main aisles he placed the bag on the floor. With people walking around him, he proceeded to clamber into the bag. When he was completely inside the bag, he zipped up the hood and lay back. Then he rolled on his side, and then on his stomach.

After a few minutes, he unzipped the hood and emerged, hot and red-faced from the bag. "Is good", he said.

At the cashier's desk he pulled out a wad of Canadian cash and carefully counted out the correct amount. As the cashier was counting the money, the man was engaged in a happy and loud discussion---in Russian---with the interpreter. This distracted the cashier a little and she had to start re-counting the money. Finally, the money was deposited in the cash register and the cashier folded the purchase into a large plastic bag.

Our son pointed to the nearest exit. The Russian fellow grabbed the bag, and continuing his discussion with the interpreter started to leave the store.

As he passed through the security sensors at the door, an alarm went off.

According to our son, a very loud alarm!

The man and the interpreter paid no attention to the alarm. At that time in Russia, store security was handled by tough-looking guards with revolvers on their hips.

But our son paid attention to the alarm.

As did various store employees who started running to the door.

Our son grabbed the man and explained that there was a problem and they would have to return to the cashier. The interpreter explained but the man protested, "I pay!"

Back at the cash register, the cashier searched the sleeping bag and found a plastic sensor that she should have removed. Embarrassed, she detached the sensor, and apologized to the Russian man.

For his part, he took the whole thing stoically, shrugging as much as to say, "These Canadians have crazy customs."

Later on, after the Russian and the interpreter were safely back in their hotel, our son phoned and gave me a blow-by-blow account of the adventure.

I apologized for getting him involved in all that excitement, explaining that I thought it would be a simple purchase.

He laughed and said he had enjoyed every minute of it.

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See you on December 18th for Posting #134 with more stories from our family’s universe! If you have comments or suggestions, please leave a comment at the bottom of this posting,  or email me at johnpathunter@gmail.com.

Note:

Hot off the press!! See the latest Posting (#6) on The Icewine Guru blog: "Year-End Thoughts from The Guru" at http://theicewineguru.blogspot.com/

POSTING #71

  

PLEASE NOTE

The next posting (#72) will not be available until June 6, 2010.

This lull in the postings is not because I am running out of stories---there are lots of tales clamoring to be told.

Unfortunately, there are also many tasks that have been neglected while I have been having fun writing stories.

Duty calls---it is time to tackle those tasks.

I will bring them up to date and see you again on June 6th!

In the meantime, new readers might like to browse through some of the early postings.

Just a thought.

See you soon.

John

000

Of Russian Restaurants and Ramps

This week, I had a static-filled landline-phone conversation with Yuri (not his real name) in Moscow---he had been the office manager for our Russian project.

Frustrated by the poor quality of the call,  he asked whether I belonged to Skype. I said that we had just signed up for the free internet voice and video service. He said he had recently joined as well. 

The next day we had our first 'face-to-face' Skype conversation through our computers--with excellent sound and full colour.

It was wonderful. It brought back such memories, just to see him push his glasses up on his nose, and pause and wrinkle his brow as he searched for the exact English word for the punch line of a story he was telling.

I know, I know, you are saying what's the big deal about Skype.

You have been using Skype for ages and ages.

You used it to keep in touch with your children on that African safari.

And you talk every week with your granddaughter in Tasmania.

Good for you.

But some of  us march to a slower drummer----technologically speaking, at least.

000

During our conversation, Yuri and I laughed about some restaurant experiences we had shared during the Russian project (1995-1997).

In 1996, we were 8000 kms east of Moscow in Blagoveshchensk, a city on the Amur River that separates Russia and China.

Blagoveshchensk and Heihe,  its Chinese twin on the other side of the Amur River, had decided that it would be helpful economically to develop a kind of free trade zone encompassing the two cities. Tourists travelling on the Trans Siberian Railway could break their journey and visit the two cities, while people touring China could nip into Russia for a day trip.

Beijing agreed with the proposal and Heihe built hotels, restaurants and nightclubs to accommodate the anticipated visitors. The Kremlin agreed in principle with the idea but dragged its feet, which angered the folks of  Blagoveshchensk.

The only cross-border initiative that I could see in Blagoveshchensk was a Chinese restaurant in our hotel.

In the restaurant, the waiters were all Russian---no Chinese faces at all. That was strange.

Looking at the menu, which was in both Russian-English (a concession to future tourists), I decided to play it safe and order chop suey.

Yuri passed on my order to the waiter, who spoke only Russian.

There was a brief discussion between Yuri and the waiter and then Yuri asked, "Would you like French fries with your chop suey?"

"No, just rice", I replied.

Yuri passed that on to the waiter and  a long, rapid-fire Russian discussion ensued.

Finally, Yuri turned to me, "Well, this is something unique. We are in what must be the only Chinese restaurant in the world that doesn't serve rice."

"No rice!", I said in disbelief.

"No rice, just fries."

As it turned out the fries were the best part of the meal. The chop suey was a brownish mix of over-cooked vegetables and strange bits of gristle and meat.

The episode reminded me of our time in the North of England (19960-1963) when Chinese and Indian restaurants appealed to the locals by offering fries (chips) with their meals---this was sometimes referred to as 'Chips with Everything'.

But, the English restaurants always served rice as well!

000

On another trip we were having dinner in a restaurant in Ulyanovsk---the birth place of Lenin, on the Volga River.

Ulyanovsk was slow to acknowledge that communism was dead---that the future would involve some kind of market economy. And some of the residents weren't quite sure about the fine points of how a free enterprise business should treat its customers.

They also didn't try very hard to hide their dislike for Westerners---we were still seen as the enemy.

I ordered a traditional Russian dinner and asked if I could have a beer.

Yuri translated my request and the waiter shook his head.

Yuri said, "There is no beer. A Chinese delegation came through a few weeks ago and drank all the beer."

I pointed out that every corner store in Russia sold beer, Why couldn't the restaurant staff go to one of the stores and get some beer?

Yuri passed on my question.

The answer was that the restaurant had to order its beer from an authorized supplier, and the beer could take weeks to come.

The waiter added something and Yuri translated, "The waiter wants to know whether you would like some Fanta. He says that you sell it to them and you should drink it."

He assumed that I was an American and that I would enjoy the sweet carbonated fruit drink that Coca-Cola was selling around the world---spreading civilization, so to speak.

I had tried Fanta---once.

I ordered some bottled water.

At the end of the meal---which was OK---the waiter brought the bill.

As always, Yuri examined it closely to make sure that we Westerners weren't being taken advantage of.

After nodding in agreement with most of the items on the bill, he burst out laughing as he got to the bottom of the bill.

"I've never seen anything like this!"

The waiter came over and there was a discussion in Russian.

"What's going on", I finally asked.

"Can you see here, " Yuri said pointing to the bottom of the bill, "they have charged us three rubles for the bill."

"I don't understand. For the bill?"

"Yes, they are charging us for this piece of paper", Yuri said as he waved the bill.

It was only the equivalent of a few cents, so we paid it.

As we left, we joked that the restaurant should start charging for the use of the chairs.

The experience was a small indication of the problems that Russia would have in making  the shift from a communist system to a market economy.

000

POSTSCRIPT

It is important to stress that I am describing experiences that happened 15 years ago when Russia was in the midst of its economic transformation.

A friend who has just returned from a tour of Russia tells me that everything has changed, including the restaurants. He said that he and his wife ate very well during the tour.

An interesting point. He said that sushi bars were enormously popular in Moscow, so popular that even Italian restaurants were offering the Japanese delicacies!

000

Staying with the theme of restaurants, a visitor from the US was telling us recently about the movement to use more local products in American restaurants. She described a meal in Massachusetts that included fiddle heads and ramps.

Ramps?

She explained that ramps looked like green onions and are collected in the woods in early spring.

I said that ramps sounded like what we in Arthur called 'leeks' (later on, when we lived in Ottawa we heard people using the term 'wild leeks'---farmers sold bottles of pickled wild leeks on the side of the road).

Good old Google confirmed that ramps and wild leeks are indeed one and the same. Click here for more information on ramps.)

The Google article has a warning:

" The flavor and odor of ramps is usually compared to a combination of onions and garlic, and the garlic odor is particularly strong. Strong enough, in fact, that even ramp-lovers will advise caution. If you sit down to a big meal of ramps, don't be surprised if people continue to keep their distance after a few days have passed!"

I don't know the nationality of the writer but the description of the smell of ramps is a classic case of British understatement!

Every spring the poor teachers in our public school had to cope with kids who had been to the woods for a feed of wild leeks.

The odour of garlic is unpleasant for a circle of, say, 6 to 8 feet around the breather. The stench of wild leeks from one student would fill a whole classroom and leave the teacher and students gagging.

The solution was to send the offender home with a note telling the parents to keep him there until the wild leeks were out of his system---by the way, it was always boys, never girls!

Then the teacher would throw open all the windows and air the classroom for the rest of the day.

I suppose that cooking the wild leeks diminishes somewhat the potency of the odour but I have trouble imagining that people would eat ramps/wild leeks more than once.

Surely, their relatives, friends and neighbours would rebel.

000

Another facet of the wild leeks story.

Cows loved to eat them, but the taste and odour was passed through to the milk. The people in our local dairy and creamery had to sniff each can of milk or cream delivered by a farmer to make sure it didn't have the wild leek odour.

Even a cup of contaminated milk could ruin a whole batch of milk or butter.

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See you on June 6th for Posting #72 with more stories from our family’s universe! If you have comments or suggestions, please leave a comment at the bottom of this posting, or email me at johnpathunter@gmail.com

POSTING #69

Knock Offs

You will remember that I got sucked into a knock off scheme that was selling counterfeit Red Green DVDs (see Posting # 58, February 7, 2010).

Since then I have seen many articles on knock offs. One told about two 18 year olds in Florida who were holding Tupperware-type parties at which they were selling knock off designer handbags. Unfortunately for them, two of their customers at a recent party were undercover detectives. The enterprising youngsters were arrested.

Apparently, there is an upsurge in the under-the-table sale of knock offs in the US, and probably in Canada as well.

The International Chamber of Commerce estimates that the knock off trade is worth around $500 billion annually, which is, of course, money that firms like Louis Vuitton, Gucci, Christian Dior and Burberry will never see.

I thought I would share a few stories about my international experiences with knock offs.

000

First in Russia in the mid-1990s.

When I was setting up our Project's office in Moscow, we needed English-language software for our computers---they came with only Russian-language software.

I asked one of the Russian staff to buy word processing, spreadsheet and database programs, and gave him my credit card.

I saw him start when I said the word, 'buy'.

"You don't need to buy the software", he said, "I have a friend who has all that software. He won't charge us anything---maybe just a bottle of vodka."

Now, when I had retired from the Canadian Public Service in 1991, I had been well trained. One didn't, didn't, didn't ever use bootleg software. If the RCMP didn't get you in one of their periodic sweeps of computer systems, the departmental Information Technology people would. The IT people were afraid---quite rightly---of the introduction of viruses via illegal software.

With this background and with ample money in our Moscow budget for software, I explained why we should buy licensed software.

My Russian colleague looked at me, "But everyone does it here. No one would ever complain."

'No, let's buy the software."

"Please, please don't make me do this. All of my friends in the other offices will think we are crazy. Please don't embarrass me like that."

We did buy the software, but I noticed that the boxes the software came in were quickly hidden away so it would look as though we were 'normal' and had installed bootlegged programs.

000

Ten years later, in Azerbaijan, the computers and software for our project were all legal. The European Union that was funding the project had even tougher rules than Canada about using only properly licensed products.

But outside the office---in the streets---it was another matter.

One of the local computer stores was selling disks for $2 that a clerk told me had computer software worth over a thousand dollars, programs that had been stripped of the codes installed by the software companies to prevent piracy.

DVDs of first run movies were available for two or three dollars. The quality wasn't great---I was told that they were copied by someone sitting in a cinema with a video recorder---but the price was certainly right.

Foreign visitors to Baku regularly stocked up on both the software and the movies.

000

Rolex watches have always been a favourite of counterfeiters. I remember years ago seeing people on street corners in the US and Canada selling Rolex knock offs quite openly. Then the authorities cracked down and the Rolexes disappeared.

During a trip to Malaysia in 1991, we discovered where the Rolexes had gone----there were tables of them in the markets of Kuala Lumpur.

We bought a man's and a woman's, for $10 each. They were to be just conversation pieces because Pat and I had discovered earlier on that we couldn't wear knock off watches because they either turned our wrists green or brought on a rash.

Sticking the watches in a suitcase, we forgot about them. When we arrived back in Canada, it was obvious that the suitcase had been tampered with. I worried about a valuable camera and a fancy shortwave radio, but they were safe.

You guessed it. The only items missing were the knock off Rolexes.

000

A final story about knock offs.

I am only going to say that the story happened somewhere in Asia.

Pat and I were riding the hotel shuttle into the downtown area one day. The bus was full of well-dressed women from many countries in North America, Europe, Australia and New Zealand. Although they were from different countries, they obviously knew each other.

One of them told us that their husbands were working on an international treaty and had regular meetings around the world, in places like Rome, London, and Tokyo. The wives usually tagged along on these trips and they liked to get together to do some sightseeing and shopping.

(As you can infer, this happened some years ago when treaty negotiations were conducted almost exclusively by men. The situation today would be quite different.)

The woman told us that she and her friends were off that day to a particular part of the city that sold knock offs. The local authorities, she explained, had clamped down on the public display of knock offs but there were still stores that sold them---but you had to go into the back of the store or into a basement and ask to see them.

Her eyes glistened when she talked about the quality and low price of the counterfeit handbags, belts, watches, and jewellery you could get at these shops.

When we asked what kind of treaty the husbands were working on, she looked more than a bit sheepish.

It was a treaty on intellectual property that would require all countries to ban knock offs.

Now, there must be a moral in there somewhere.

Pat and I put our heads together and came up with these morals (you are invited to try your hand at one as well):

"Strike while the iron is hot."

"While the cat's away the mice will play."

"Do as I say, not as I do."

000

POSTSCRIPT

After finishing the above part of the posting, I came across an article in the St. Catharines Standard (Friday, April 23, 2010) about the Canadian classical and jazz guitarist and composer, Jesse Cook.

In an interview, Cook told about one of his songs being bootlegged by an Indian, 'Bollywood', movie. Here is an excerpt from the article that serves, I think, as a perfect ending to this posting:

"A song of mine was ripped off by one of the highest-grossing Bollywood movies of the last few years," he says.
"Their big hit single was a song called Dhoom Dhoom (recorded by Tata Young), which was in fact my song Mario Takes a Walk."
He found out about the alleged copycat song, used in the movie Dhoom, from an Indian fan who wrote him on MySpace.
"It was the weirdest thing. Here was this blatant act of plagiarism and in fact, I loved it. I loved the version that this artist did, I thought it was better than my own," he says with a laugh.
"I just wished they'd called me and said, 'You know, we'd like to use your song.' Because there's no reason to steal when I would be happy to share."

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See you next Sunday for Posting #70 with more stories from our family’s universe! If you have comments or suggestions, please leave a comment at the bottom of this posting, or email me at johnpathunter@gmail.com

POSTING # 2

POSTING # 2: Whence Virgil; Impact of Economic Problems in Canada and Russia; Bed and Breakfast; Immigration



Whence the Name Virgil?


Friends keep asking how Virgil got its name. Was the town named after the Roman poet, or after some local resident named, say, Virgil Smickerson?


According to Ontario Place Names (Fifth Edition), the village was settled around 1783 and first called Four Mile Creek, and later Cross Roads. In the mid-1800s, the name was changed to Lawrenceville, in honour of George Lawrence, a prominent Methodist settler. In 1895, a post office was established and the name was changed to Virgil after the Roman poet.


The book does not explain why the name was changed to Virgil. What was wrong with Lawrenceville?


I had developed a fanciful theory that the minister of the Anglican Church was fed up with the homage being paid to a Methodist and, having studied the Latin poets at Oxford or Cambridge, promoted a name change that would both smite the non-conformists and honour the author of the Aeneid.


It seems that my theory (as with so many of my theories) does not hold water. The Post Office officials, who played a key role in naming places, had a policy against names that honoured local figures, so Lawrenceville had to go. There was already a nearby village called Homer, in honour of the Greek poet.


Ergo, Virgil.


I still think there is more to it than that and I’ll keep looking for a more entertaining explanation.




Some Local Impacts of the Boom and Bust



Two months ago scrap metal prices were at record levels and they tempted a local thug to steal 20 or so manhole covers--- including one from the middle of a street near our home--- and sell them to an unscrupulous dealer, who then, I suppose, sold them to China..


In the last few weeks, the scrap metal markets, along with other commodity markets, have of course crashed and this week a friend who works in the office of a legitimate scrap metal dealer in Hamilton had his pay cut by 20%. The boss was apologetic but said that there was so little demand for scrap metal that he either had to lay off some workers or cut salaries for everyone. While unhappy and worried, our friend was glad to keep his employee benefits.


It is amazing how quickly the financial and economic situation in Canada and the world has worsened, and how quickly the effects are felt in towns such as Virgil.




Bust in Russia


I had a problem with scrap metal during the 1995-97 period when I was living in Moscow and managing a technical aid project to improve Russia’s employment programs.


Russia was going through terrible economic problems as it tried to make the shift from a state-planned to a market economy. Some western economists convinced the Russian leadership that the most effective way to make the leap from one type of economy to another was ‘shock therapy’. The government agreed and abruptly closed or significantly reduced funding to state industries and slashed spending on health care, education and pensions. This ‘sink-or-swim’ approach resulted in huge increases in unemployment, suicides, alcoholism, sickness and crime, and the emergence of the Russian mafia. Eventually, there was also the creation of some new, legitimate businesses.


The Chinese, encouraged by other western economists, among them J.K. Galbraith, decided instead on a gradual approach. Historians will have to decide which economic prescription was more effective.


In 1996 I was trying to schedule a visit of two Canadian consultants to a city in western Siberia where the Canadians would help the local employment office convert itself into a model for other offices in the region. The local office was undergoing some major repairs and each time I scheduled the visit, I was told that there had been a delay in construction.



The consultants and I were getting frustrated at the last minute postponements. Finally, I was told on a Friday that all that remained was to lift a glass-paneled roof onto the building. A crane had just arrived and it would install the roof on Monday.


On Monday, someone phoned to say that thieves had broken into the crane during the weekend and stripped out all the copper wiring to sell as scrap metal. The building was eventually finished and the consultants were able to do their thing.


At the time, we were incredulous that people would steal copper wiring. It seemed so improbable----like, for example, someone stealing manhole covers.


Bed and Breakfast and the KGB



Although Pat visited me in Russia on a number of occasions, she couldn’t stay because of our bed and breakfast, Blue Spruces, in the Glebe in Ottawa. Many of the stories I will be telling in this blog will relate to our B&Bs (we operated Blue Spruces for 14 years, Denwycke House at Grimsby for 5 years, and Windows-on-the-Lake in Grimsby for another 5 years).


Soon after we started Blue Spruces something happened at a couple of other B&Bs in Ottawa that made us stop and think---do we really want to do this.


The husband at another B&B came home from work to an obviously upset wife. “Our new guest has been wandering around the house naked all day.”


“Naked”, he repeated.


“Naked as the day she was born. I’ve tried to reason with her but she won’t listen. She’s upstairs in the hall on the phone. You go up and tell her to get dressed.”


“Why me?” His wife gave him a fierce look, and he set off up the stairs.


Trying not to look at the woman he started, “Excuse me but you will have to….”


The woman waved her hand at him, “Can’t you see I’m on the phone!”


He waited for a few minutes but when it became clear that she wasn’t close to the end of her conversation he said, “I’m sorry but you really have to get dressed.”


She ignored him but he kept repeating his request and finally added, “Perhaps you would be happier at another B&B.”


She ended her call, banged down the phone and said that she wasn’t going to take this anymore and was going to leave.


The next night the host and hostess in a nearby B&B were awakened in the middle of the night by loudspeakers, flashing lights and when they looked out they found their house was surrounded by the Ottawa Police Swat Team in full gear. The husband stumbled into the hall and met the new guest, clothed this time, going down to open the door.


“What’s going on?” he asked.


“It’s OK”, she said, “I called the police to tell them that the KGB is after me.”


Now, in most cities a 911 call such as that would have resulted in a squad car making a discreet visit, but this was Ottawa and no one could forget September 5, 1945. On that day, Igor Gouzenko, a cipher clerk in the Russian Embassy, defected with secret documents describing the spy network that Russia, the supposedly loyal World War II ally, had established in the United States, Canada and Britain.


Gouzenko was turned away by the Royal Canadian Mounted Police on a couple of occasions but as Russian secret agents searched for him he finally found an officer who would listen. He was soon in a secret location sharing his documents with the RCMP, the FBI and MI5.

The poor woman was taken by the police to a local hospital.



Bed and Breakfast and the Forgotten Umbrella




The Ottawa B&B community spent a good bit of time talking about the ‘naked lady and the KGB’ episode and I guess we all decided that although we would have to be careful in checking new guests, something like this would not happen to us. And nothing as dramatic as that happened to us but there were some interesting times.


For example, a very nice couple spent a weekend with us and after they had checked out we noticed that the man had left an umbrella. This was not just a normal umbrella but an expensive one with an elaborate, hand-carved handle. We decided we should call them and ask if we could forward it to them (we always got a telephone number when people booked a room).


A woman answered and when we explained that they had left an umbrella at our B&B last weekend, the woman said, “But we weren’t at a B&B last weekend…” There was a significant and increasingly ominous silence and we quickly said that we must have made a mistake.


We’ve often wondered what happened to that marriage. But, we learned our lesson: store left-behind items and wait for a call. Don’t ever call the guest’s home.




Immigration and Infidelity



That reminds me of a story told by one of my trainers when I was studying in Ottawa to be an Immigration Foreign Service officer.


A group of Immigration officers liked to have their sandwich and coffee lunch on the 7th floor of an office building in downtown Ottawa. One day, one of them looked at the building across the street and shouted for the others to check out what was happening in the dentist’s office across the way. The dentist and his nurse were indulging in a little lunchtime misbehaviour, hugging, kissing, etc.


The dentist and nurse were at it again the next day. One of the immigration officers went across the street, found the name of the dentist and did a Yellow Book search for his phone number.



The following day, the immigration officers waited until the couple were at each other and then one of the officers dialled the dentist’s number. As the officers watched, the dentist separated himself, reached for the phone and muttered an out-of-breath “Hello”. The immigration officer intoned in a deep voice, “This is God. You should be ashamed of yourselves.” The dentist looked over at the Immigration building, stumbled across the room and pulled the drapes.



NEXT SUNDAY

Watch for a more stores from our universe in next Sunday’s Letter from Virgil.