Liam The Young, Ed and Stephen the Middle Aged, and Stewart The Elder.
Hide My Arse
Living in Europe has given us ample opportunity to repeatedly break the law. Most of it unintentional, as in virtually every moment we are operating a motor vehicle, but on occasion we have been known to intentionally skirt international dictates.
Most recently it has involved Game of Thrones, the addictive HBO series involving a very complicated and intertwining plot, randomly interrupted by gratuitous scenes of violence and sex. We had yet to the see the most current season, so when we discovered it was available for rent online we happily clicked on 'download' and went to make popcorn.
Except once it determined my computer was in Italy, it cut me off. Not available in my country, it said. Too bad you're traveling abroad, it mocked. Hope you get back to California before you accidentally read all the spoiler posts on Facebook, it sneered.
I had gotten that same message numerous times before, from other entertainment venues and some business applications, but Game of Thrones was the last straw. So I signed up with a company called Hide My Ass. Sporting a clever if not entirely subtle name, it reroutes my electronic devices through any number of portals, of particular interest a U.S. one. And in doing so my true origin disappears from view. So while hanging out in Italy, the Internet thinks my computer is in New York, and wants to download the Game of Thrones. Season Five, complete.
All that is a tad shady, I know. And HMA sells its services under the auspices of people wanting an anonymous online experience, which it provides and is another bonus of using it--those cookies that normally get placed in the bowels of your computer's memory have nowhere to go. You'd think the cookies would show up in New York and go, "Hey, there's no computer here" and then report back to their sender, but fortunately that connection is never made.
If This Is A Man
“Silence slowly prevails and then, from my bunk on the top row, I see and hear old Kuhn praying aloud, with his beret on his head, swaying backwards and forwards violently. Kuhn is thanking God because he has not been chosen.
Kuhn is out of his senses. Does he not see Beppo the Greek in the bunk next to him, Beppo who is twenty years old and is going to the gas-chamber the day after tomorrow and knows it and lies there looking fixedly at the light without saying anything and without even thinking anymore? Can Kuhn fail to realize that next time it will be his turn? Does Kuhn not understand that what has happened today is an abomination, which no propitiatory prayer, no pardon, no expiation by the guilty, which nothing at all in the power of man can ever clean again?
If I was God, I would spit at Kuhn’s prayer. ”
Hedgerow
A little caveat might be needed before this post. I have a near-obsession with a website called Atlas Obscura (AO). AO is a compendium of the unusual, of things and places and happenings I find quite interesting but that you won't find in one of the usual travel guides. Hence the photos a year ago of me next to witches' tombs, or Stewart listening to a musical instrument imbedded in a highway overpass, or two days ago in the northern reaches of Scotland looking at castle ruins that Bram Stoker--it is said--used to help him form the vision of Dracula's.
So yesterday at the guidance of AO we took a small diversion enroute to Edinburgh, to see the world's largest hedgerow, according to the Guinness Book of World Records. It is size and length were impressive (580 yards long and 100 feet high), especially for an organization of bushes that one expects not to see on such a grand scale. But the best part is that the Meikleour Beech Hedge was planted in the Fall of 1745. Standing next to a living 270 year old anything is rather impressive to me, but a hedgerow...well, what can I say.
The Mighty Meikleour Hedgerow
In case you were curious, it takes four people six weeks to trim it, once a decade.
Beggar Lady
Below is a photo of a famous tombstone monument, in the likeness of the deceased who is laid to rest there, Caterina Campodonico. She was a peasant nut-seller who saved all of her money in life so that she could be buried at the Cimitero Monumental di Stalieno in Genoa (or Genova, as the Italians call it). The quality of the monument is striking, but even more impressive is that this cemetery has hundreds upon hundreds of such sculptures with wildly varying themes, from family death bed mourning to the deceased being carried to the heavens by angels, to ships caught in tempests at sea.
The cemetery was commissioned by Napoleon in 1805 (who then ruled Northern Italy), but not opened until 1851. Upon his visit there, Mark Twain remarked:
“... We shall continue to remember it after we shall have forgotten the palaces. It is a vast marble collonaded corridor extending around a great unoccupied square of ground; its broad floor is marble, and on every slab is an inscription—for every slab covers a corpse. On either side, as one walks down the middle of the passage, are monuments, tombs, and sculptured figures that are exquisitely wrought and are full of grace and beauty. They are new and snowy; every outline is perfect, every feature guiltless of mutilation, flaw, or blemish; and therefore, to us these far-reaching ranks of bewitching forms are a hundred fold more lovely than the damaged and dingy statuary they have saved from the wreck of ancient art and set up in the galleries of Paris for the worship of the world.””
Stewart and I stopped by enroute back from Nice, and although the grounds have fallen into some disrepair, the statuaries are still quite impressive.
Danse Macabre
A few days ago Stewart and I visited Clusone, a small village north of Bergamo. It is known for the above outdoor mural of the Dance Macabre, completed in 1495. It apparently was a theme taken up by the Church, that regardless of your current station on Earth, we all wind up in the same place eventually. A small comfort to those whose station was near the bottom of the pecking order, I guess. A few interesting items: the actual dance is the lower part of the mural, with the rich and the poor dancing with the skeletons, on their way to their earthly demise; and in the top section Queen Death is flanked by two other skeletal figures, one with an arrow and the other with an early version of an arquebus, a muzzle-loaded firearm.
Prugne
Stewart and I have been eating fresh plums for breakfast from the tree in our back yard in Bergamo. As most Americans won't recognize the size or shape of the fruit, it is actually a special kind of plum named Ramadi'n, originally from a small area in Piedmont.
The variety almost disappeared because the trees were difficult to raise (and the fruit not very commercially viable), but our landlord Marcello's Mom received a cutting from his uncle, from one of the few trees left, which she successfully grew into her own tree. And then she gave a cutting to Marcello, and his tree is now flourishing. Which makes the prunes even better, knowing they're a small part of the Moro family and heritage.
There are actually more than 20 different kinds of plums in Italy, each with a number of varieties.
Fair Winds
This is a picture from my Client's yacht, after I had landed while it was underway. I probably touched down a tad aft, as the helideck itself is just a tiny bit smaller than I had imagined and the visual picture of landing so close to the yacht's superstructure takes a little getting used to. The ensign is from the ship's country of registry, the Cayman Islands; the white circular area near the deck edge is the helideck lighting, and the landing surface--teak, of course. Everything meticulously maintained.
The yacht is staffed with a crew of around 15, of various nationalities. The 2nd Captain and acting Master is American, the lead Chef German, the Purser British. It's a tightly run ship, with schedules and duties delineated and methodically carried out, but with a sense of ownership and camaraderie.
It's also runs a busy schedule. So far we have sailed to Bonifacio on the southern tip of Corsica, then to Olbia a little bit south on on the island of Sardinia, and last night we just returned from St. Tropez after more helideck training (it's been a very long time since I've practiced engine failures on short final to a ship..!).
Helicopter operations are taken seriously--there are three people on deck during landings and takeoffs: an HLO (Helicopter Landing Officer) who runs the show (subject to the Captain's final approval), and two crewman who are donned with firefighting gear from head to toe, and at the ready with water and fire retardant. In addition they deploy tenders (small boats, stored in the yacht's hull) that are standing by in case we have to ditch into the water.
Day 13
I have nearly two weeks of training completed, including two trips to downtown London (to a helipad on the Thames) and one trip to downtown Paris, where we landed next to France's version of the Pentagon. And one landing so far on the Client's yacht, which I cannot even begin to describe. Tomorrow begins my shipboard training, hopefully, and then I'll be a little bit closer to going it alone.
Stewart left Surrey Dr. last night, and is driving north to Spokane. He has had two grueling weeks of preparing the home for our move, preceded by three grueling weeks of preparation with my part-time help and Mark's whirlwind week of support. I'm not sure either of us imagined how mentally and physically hard it would be to pack up our belongings, stuff most of it in the basement, and then fix, clean, and prepare the home for our tenants. And for Stewart to do the hardest part mostly alone, he is completely exhausted. I say 'mostly' because several of our wonderful neighbors pitched in to help get us across the finish line, and for their efforts we are immensely grateful.
Stewart will be with his son and two grandkids through the 23rd of July, and then he flies from Seattle to Nice and joins me here, where we will then travel to see our new abode in Bergamo.
I haven't taken photos yet, my apologies, but it's been chaotic and hectic, with little time for anything but studying, training, and sleeping.
The Lee Sisters
Cheri, Amy, and Laura, my paternal first cousins. Laura is the mischief maker, you can probably tell from the look in her eyes. The photo was taken at the wedding of our first cousin once-removed, Grace, who happened to be the flower girl at Amy's wedding. Time flies.
Day Three
It is Sunday, the third day of my European adventure. I would like to say that my trip here was uneventful, but I experienced a series of unfortunate events along the way, culminating in Germanwings losing my two pieces of checked baggage. Which they have yet to find. A hundred pounds of clothes and shoes, gone.
Tomorrow I begin my induction training here in Stansted (just north of London), which lasts through Friday, and then I will board a flight to Nice. Stewart's plan is to drive to Spokane in a week or so, drop the car off at his son Chris', and then fly to Nice on July 24th. On July 28th we will arrive at our home for the next two years, and begin the acclimation process into Europe.
In the meantime Stewart is continuing to pack and to ready our Surrey Dr. home for our tenants. I don't need to tell this to anyone who has moved, but having to touch all of your earthly possessions, decide if you're going to keep, trash, store, or donate it, and then deal with it accordingly is a daunting task. Our friend Mark Beckett came out from Ohio for a week's worth of doing just that, but even after his efforts it seems there is so much left to do, and Stewart is alone doing it, unfortunately. The good news is that he has managed to fit all of our stored items into the basement, and so we will not need a storage unit.
I am eternally trepidatious about what we're doing, but excited as well, for both Stewart and me. I may feel differently after tomorrow's training, but even if it were to all come to an end prematurely, it was still a fun ride.
Except for the luggage. I am really ticked about the luggage.
My Job In A Nutshell
So my job. Generally I will be flying a single, high net-worth individual and his assigns on and off his yacht and here and yonder, wherever he and/or the yacht may be. Generally that will take place in the Mediterranean, and often in and around the Cote d’Azur (Cannes, Nice area), although he has been known to travel worldwide. I will be working as an independent contractor to LuviAir (luviair.com), a company based in the Isle of Man. The client’s name is not necessarily super-secret, but it’s not common knowledge and so I don’t mention it. Even if I did you more than likely would not know or recognize him.
My current work shift cycle is two weeks on, two weeks off, with my duty periods generally not involving being embarked on the ship, although that will occasionally happen. There is no schedule per se; when the client is around it is generally quite busy, and when he’s gone, the pace could slow down considerably. Which is when I’ll be studying French…!
For those more technically/helicopterly inclined: it’s an EC145, SPIFR, with a flight engineer as a safety pilot. Eight passenger capacity, Cat A operations where possible. I will operate under my FAA ticket rather than an EASA one, as it’s a private operation. No NVG’s, unfortunately, so I will have to reacquaint myself with fantastically dark overwater flights.