I can dream, can't I?

It's just as well that I haven't been wailing and moaning about the "death of journalism" or the "lack of openings in my field."

My dad sent me an article the other day from U.S. News & World Report.

Written by experienced journalist and blogger Lynn O'Shaughnessy, the piece categorically states that journalism is not dead, and that the popular sentiment (which holds that journalism is going down the tubes, eclipsed by the Internet and whatnot) is just maudlin seepage originating from old-timers in the biz.

By networking, adjusting to new markets and media, and exploring every avenue now available to us (for there are so many more now than there used to be), we whippersnappers can ride high above the economic downturn and the supposedly-disastrous job market.

That was good news for me. I was feeling rather blue.

Sometimes I wish I hadn't been born in the 20th century.

I figure I'd have been better off living in the 17th, 18th or 19th centuries, when vast tracts of the world were still unexplored. When legends like El Dorado and Atlantis and Ultima Thule might just as easily have been true. When the maps were lumpy agglomerations of continents, oceans and half-dreamt islands. When the map-makers still drew sea monsters lunging out of unknown seas.

It doesn't seem like there's any romance in the world anymore. Every inch of land has been mapped and scanned into the satellites orbiting overhead. There are no more lost cities, no more uncharted islands, no more savage tribes, no more hidden valleys teeming with dinosaurs and cavemen. There's no underwater metropolis filled with fish-men at the bottom of the sea. There are no evil wizards to battle, mutants to destroy, dragons to slay, ogres to wrestle, flying horses to tame, zombies to flee, monsters to fear.

The days of adventure and mystery are long gone, they say. Indiana Jones and Saint George have polished off all the monsters and myths. Gone are the times when you could just board a flying boat for South America and trip your merry way through the jungle, linen suit, aviator shades, flask of brandy and all, dark-skinned porters toting your dancing shoes and swimming trunks. No more do Nazi agents stalk the globe, waiting to tangle the unsuspecting tourist in a web of espionage. Never again will Cthulhu rise from the watery ruins of R'lyeh and drive poor honest sailors crazy with fear. Edward Prendick has done his time on Dr. Moreau's island; he's back at home, out on the streets, suspicious and leery of his fellow human beings.

All the records have been broken; all the races have been run. Lindbergh, Balbo and Earhart have flown across the ocean; Barton and Beebe have gone to the bottom; Cottee has sailed around it without stopping. We've been to the darkest jungles, the harshest deserts, the highest mountains, the coldest tundra, the deepest oceans, even the heavens themselves. Attaining the impossible is no longer a job for Everyman. Pushing the boundaries is the office of scientists, engineers and millionaires now. The Wright Brothers built their airplane in their bike shop and flew it on a public beach; SpaceShipOne was developed as a joint venture between commercial interests, was piloted by a 70-year-old astronaut, flew from the fancifully-named Mojave Spaceport, and required licensing from the U.S. Department of Commercial Space Flight. (And it won the coveted $10 million X Prize.)

The good old days are gone, they tell me. In their place, I have to choke down reality, truth, practicality, rationality, pragmatism, tangibility, fact. I can just forget about roaming the world with my trusty plane and notebook, flying high and low and writing about it, living the dusty, muddy life of a pilot-cum-journalist.

To heck with that.

I can dream, can't I?

Most of you already know what I want to do with my life. For a good chunk of my finite existence, I expect to wake up in the morning in some far-flung place, climb into my battered airplane, deliver a shipment (or even a single package) to a deserving recipient, land in some other far-flung place, take out a notebook and pencil, and pen the day's adventures for posterity. Then I'll mix myself a drink and scribble a few more pages of my novel, and turn in for the night.

When you hear the phrase "a day in the life" what comes to mind? Coffee in the morning? Lazy afternoons with the newspaper and some crackers? The nine-to-five? Brushing the dog? Mowing the lawn? Taking the kids out for ice cream?

Probably, yeah. And there's nothing wrong with that. But I'm weird, remember? I seek adventure. Plus I'm a hopeless romantic. And I'm a little too obsessed with comic books.

So, when somebody asks me what MY idea of a "day in the life" would be, I immediately think of THIS:

(Just so you don't get confused, the guy in the red vest with the stretchy arms is me, your humble correspondent. The ugly dude in the fur coat and buckled shoes is the bad guy, trying to steal my cargo or assassinate my crew or block my novel from publication or whatever. Think of what a cool travel article this would make.)

I can dream, all right. Who says I can't? Who says I can't be a globe-trotting drink-mixing book-writing plane-flying travel journalist with his own airline (and novel series)?

If I'm lucky, maybe I'll have a big plane, capable of taking me to all sorts of amazing locales and exotic destinations. And if I'm really, really lucky, I'll have a crew of like-minded misfits with me.

And how happy we'll be, going wherever the trade winds take us, making deliveries, fighting pirates and thieves and raiders, singing in bars and saloons, lying on beaches, exploring the jungles and caves and valleys. And whenever I get a free moment I'll scribble, scribble, scribble. Travel articles, opinion pieces, blog entries, journals, whichever bits of mercurial effluence drop out of my brain.

But no, they tell me. That ship has sailed. Journalism is dead. Gonzo journalism is long dead. The time of the quick-witted, hard-drinking, hotshot cargo pilot is over. There's no way National Geographic's going to let you in. You'll be flying on a grueling schedule. There's a million wannabe travel writers out there, buddy, and you're competing with every single one of 'em. Travel and excitement? You'll never see anything but the inside of your airplane (and the stale white pages of delivery forms). You won't sleep. You'll hardly eat. The weather will be uniformly nasty. You'll work for peanuts. There's no money for travel budgets anymore. The most exciting thing you'll do is talk to air traffic control. You'll be lucky if you don't get kidnapped and crucified. Your existence will be soul-crushing, sedentary, stuffy. We're a bit short on romance around here, kid. You think you'll discover El Dorado while you're delivering 3200 Playstation controllers to Uruguay (and taking notes for your submission to Budget Travel)? Hah!

Oh, get stuffed. I've got a plan. And I'm taking the steps necessary to execute it. I don't care what gets in my way. Bad economy, hefty competition, ugly dudes in fur coats, whatever. I know where I'm going and I'm going to get there. I've got my bachelor's degree in journalism, don't I? And my bartender's safety certificate? And my private pilot's license? And my first novel written?

That's a start. 

I can dream, can't I?

Here's hoping your dreams come true. On December 25 and in 2011, both.

Merry Christmas, everybody, and a Happy New Year.

500 hours and a floatplane rating

There are definite fringe benefits to being friends with a Jedi.

Oh, wait, whoops. I was thinking of something else. (Ahem.) Excuse me. Let's start over.

There are definite fringe benefits to being friends with a pilot.

You remember the three boss-pilots who founded the company I work for? Dawg, Spud, and Mr. Mooney?

I haven't flown with them in a while. Due to exorbitant travel costs, they don't come down here too much. They hired some local pilots to take care of the UAV chasing business. Those pilots are JM-1 and JM-2. Both of them have the initials "JM," you see. I'll just call them J-1 and J-2 for short.

Both are obviously commercial pilots. J-2 acquired his commercial ticket back in May. J-1 has had his for a few years now. J-1's been flying a little longer than J-2 has (a couple of years) and has thousands of hours in all types of airplanes. He also owns his own business (industrial fasteners). This means that, well, J-1 has a bit of money. He owns not one, but two personal aircraft: a Beechcraft Sierra and a Piper Lance II. The latter is a nice airplane. Looks a bit like this. T-tail. Turbocharged engine. More expensive avionics on the dashboard than most commercial airliners have. Does 170 knots in a cruise configuration (nearly 200 miles per hour). Seats six. Joe got some beautiful soft leather upholstery put in, too. He put good money into that machine, folks.

He's an exemplary human being, J-1 is. Very generous. Looks out for me a lot. Always ready to teach me something about flying. Pays for lunch every day, too. He was nominated the program director for this UAV chase contract, since he's such a proficient pilot/manager. Even before that, though, J-1 pitched for me nonstop, making sure I got home safe every day and got my wages at the end of every fortnight.

And on top of that, J-1 is easily one of the best pilots I've ever flown with, if not the best. Certainly Dawg, Spud and Mr. Mooney are excellent aviators, and could pull maneuvers in fighter jets that would leave your hair standing on end and your breakfast hovering below your tonsils. But they are military pilots. And they fly like military pilots. Dawg at least is less susceptible to this quirk, since he flew before he was in the military, but Spud and Mr. Mooney? They fly small planes like they're jet fighters. Spud is double trouble because he flew Boeing 737s for United after he got out of the Navy. He's a jet man through and through. Reciprocating engines are repulsive to him and he makes no secret of it. (We're bringing him around slowly, though.)

Not like I have any room to talk, of course. I'm a private pilot with barely 100 hours. I'm a ways off from my goal of a commercial pilot's license, 250 hours of pilot-in-command time (where I'm the first-and-foremost pilot, responsible for the flight), 500 hours total time, and a floatplane rating.

That's not my only goal, rest assured. My eventual goal is to have about 10 billion hours in airplanes, seaplanes, helicopters, ultralights, gliders, and airships, with ratings to match.

Five hundred hours and a floatplane rating is my next most urgent goal.

Why?

That's the minimum requirement to become a flight officer (copilot, basically) for Kenn Borek Air, Limited.

Who're they, you say?

Well, I'm glad you asked.

Kenn Borek Air is an international charter and maintenance company (based out of Calgary, Alberta, Canada) which offers global air support. They're an air service which offers maintenance and travel services anywhere in the world, from the Maldives to the Antarctic. You remember the Maldivian Air Taxi? KBAL owns that operation. They do stuff like that everywhere: scheduled air taxi routes, charter services, overhauls and maintenance, and aircraft leasing. They even haul supplies and personnel in support of the U.S. Antarctic Research Program, shuttling back and forth between New Zealand and McMurdo Sound. If that doesn't sound like a fun flying job, I don't know what does.

KBAL operates an impressive fleet of propeller aircraft, including the de Havilland DHC-6 Twin Otter, turbine-powered Douglas DC-3, and Beech 99, 100, and 200 King Air. These things fly on floats, wheels, skis, whatever.

Damn sexy for a propeller enthusiast like me, let me tell you. I'd kill to fly any of those birds. Twin Otters are among some of the most iconic bush planes in the aviation world, the DC-3 is a reliable and legendary classic, and the King Air a sexy power-pack.

I just need the qualifications. To captain for Kenn Borek I need 2500 hours flight-time; to be a flight officer I need 500 hours total time (with 250 hours as PIC) and a floatplane rating.

Now, up until last week, this goal seemed unattainable. It'd be at least another five years until I got anywhere close. Even now I doubt I'll get 400 more hours of flight-time in less than three years. My commercial license (requiring 250 hours total flight time) isn't too far out of reach. I'm giving myself a timetable of six months for it. Now that I'm a private pilot I'm logging more time while chasing Predators than I was when I was a student pilot, so I should have the 250 hours racked up in no time. I just need to save up enough cabbage to fund some of the special training I'll need, like maneuvers. J-1 has to show me how to do chandelles, figures-of-eight and so on. I also have to do some loooooong cross-country flights, one of them 300 nautical miles or more. There's five hours of night work, including 10 take-offs and 10 landings...ten hours of instrument training...ten hours of work in complex airplanes...

...and all that costs money. Money takes time to save up. But I'll get it. Six months ought to do it, if I'm frugal. Then I can legally fly for monetary recompense.

It was the floatplane thing that was really bothering me. I'll practically need one if I'm going to go to Alaska, there's so much water and so little paved runway. It made sense to get it before I left California.
But where? Where am I going to get a floatplane rating around here? I live in the desert, for Pete's sake. The nearest ocean is three hours away, down the hill in Los Angeles. There's a seaplane base on Catalina Island, but it's not a school as far as I know. The nearest seaplane schools I'd heard of were in Alaska and Florida.

So, one day, J-1 and I were flying along, circling lazily over Victorville, waiting for the Predator to take off. And I happened to mention to J that I was interested in a floatplane rating.

Well, lo and behold, he knew of a school. Lake Havasu, Arizona. A hop, skip and a jump away by air. And better yet, J offered to take me out there. And better yet, he offered to pay for it!

On loan, of course. Fortunately I didn't have to take him up on it. My folks are also offering to lend me the cash, to be paid back in installments over the next few months. Bless their hearts. I just dropped a sizable chunk of change into my credit card account (Bose headsets and trips to England aren't cheap). Otherwise I'd have the necessary $1250 already. But J-1 is going to take the course himself, you see. He wants a floatplane rating of his own. And since he's already a flight instructor (CFI, CFII and MEI), once he gets his floatplane rating, he'll be a floatplane instructor too!

So there you go. J-1 is going to arrange everything through Sheble Aviation. (That means, of course, that I'll be flying THIS airplane...how cool is that???)

I have the next two weeks off work (the California Air Guard is taking a break, and both Christmas and New Year's fall on weekend shifts this year, it seems...so I'm off at the café too). I'll have plenty of free days to get this done.  J-1 and I are going to fly over to Arizona early one morning, spend the day learning how to fly floatplanes (in the classroom and in the air), and then get our ratings.

And after that...well, I calculated my total flight-hours yesterday (with a calculator and a pencil). I have 131.6 so far.

368.4 to go.

Kenn Borek, here I come...

if we don't find the next whisky bar...

For our first day in Edinburgh, we started out simply: sandwiches at O'Brien's Sandwich Bar on Stafford Street. ("Hiya" the lady behind the counter said.) I passed over the tikka masala; I was saving up for a special Scottish treat. (More about that later.) Jeff, after his wont, dived right in. That boy's got a bottomless pit where a stomach ought to be. Jeff's kind of a unique character all around. He's thin as a rail, gangles like a scarecrow, eats like a boa constrictor, blinks like a lizard, and travels like an albatross. These two weeks in the U.K. were only the beginning for him. He would soon embark on a five-month sojourn across Europe and North Africa, taking in all the major European countries, Morocco, and Egypt. Where he got the budget for this (and the visas) I'll never know. He only just returned to Ottawa last week. Sounds like he had a ball, chucking tomatoes in Spain during the Tomatina, pitying the goats in Egypt during Eid al Adhha, drowning in a sea of orange in Amsterdam during the World Cup Final, and all sorts of crazy stuff. That's just the way he is. An inveterate traveler. He goes home to Canada, he works, he saves up enough to travel again, and then he travels, for months or even years at a time, living in the cheapest (yet safest) hostels he can find, timing it perfectly so he can catch all the major events and festivals going down in the countries he wanders into, just generally living it up.

I envy him.

After our erstwhile breakfast, we strolled back to the center—excuse me, the centre—of Edinburgh. Once again we were awed by the sheer beauty of the place. I was getting the same feeling I'd had in Newcastle, that small feeling that came with standing on the soil of a country with thousands of years of history rather than mere hundreds, looking at churches built before my homeland was even an idea, gazing upon statues of heroes whose deeds I'd never dreamed of.

We had one thing on our minds. It was sitting up on top of a cliff, brooding over the city like an ancient battle-scarred guardian. It was Edinburgh Castle.

To get there, however, we had to cut down and around the base of that cliff and come up the hill on the south side of the castle. At the base of the cliff, however, we saw something worth checking out: the graveyard at St. Cuthbert's Parish.

We had only just walked in when something truly trippy happened. We saw the Green Man. I kid you not. He came out of nowhere. One second Jeff and I were standing there, viewing the gravestones and the greenery and nodding appreciatively, and the next second an old white-haired man, bent double, dressed in the most incredible assortment of green and brown rags, came shuffling from behind a headstone and hobbled past us. He waddled away, torso parallel to the grassy sward, head bent up to look ahead of him, out into the street and away up the sidewalk.

Excuse me, I mean pavement.

I was too shocked even to snap a picture. As the old man vanished from sight, Jeff and I just stared at each other with a classic WTF expression. We half-believed that we'd seen a ghost. Either that or there was an entirely classier breed of homeless person in the U.K. as compared to what we were used to.

And so we continued on up the hill, around the mountain and up a steep stone staircase, which suddenly opened out unto...

Well, son of a gun! It was the Royal Mile!

The walk of kings! The main drag of old-town Edinburgh. This was the way the Scottish royalty once proceeded from the castle to Holyrood Abbey for official functions.

We hung a left and before we knew it, we were on the threshold of the castle itself.

It was wild in there, folks. The walkway twisted and turned up the cliffside. Guides in kilts were walking around, extolling the castle's nearly impregnable defenses. (Apparently the fortress was taken only once in its history, and only by deceit and trickery, not by force.) The battlements weren't worn down or ruined like other castles I'd seen in pictures, they were sharp and hard-lined and looked ready to be manned by hardened warriors. Cannons and other fearsome weapons poked their black snouts from gun ports. And everywhere, tourists of all nations strolled up and down the ramparts and cobblestones, looking much as Jeff and I felt: utterly gobsmacked.

There was a lot to be gobsmacked by. Take this beast, for instance. The Scots' BFG.

It's the Mons Meg, a massive cannon capable of firing a 400-pound cannonball a distance of two miles. Apparently Duke Philip of Burgundy ordered its construction about 1449, and then gave it to King James II of Scotland eight years later as a gift. The barrel diameter was 510 millimeters, people. To give you some idea of how big that is, here's a shot of a .50 caliber Browning round (right) and a 20 mm cannon round (left).

The 20 mm was a popular anti-aircraft cartridge during World War II (and is still in use today in the M61 Vulcan guns adorning the A-10 Warthog). A single round in the right place was enough to destroy an old piston fighter back in the day. The Mons Meg's ammunition was twenty-five times bigger than that, and although it obviously wasn't fired at the same muzzle velocity, you can imagine what kind of damage a 400-pound cannonball would do to a column of infantry or a siege engine.

You'd need a mighty thick helmet, let's put it that way.

The view of Edinburgh from the castle was fantastic. We could see the whole town, north, east and west, the Firth of Forth (the estuary of the River Forth) and across to Kirkaldy and Fife. Probably could've seen Dumfermline, too, if I'd stood on my tip-toes.

The Scottish Military Museum was housed on the highest level of the castle grounds. We'd arrived on a good day—a local fencing club had set up shop in the square just outside the entrance and were busy giving the crowd an exhibition in traditional Scottish combat. They covered everything: assorted weaponry, fighting style, battle strategy, even the tactical advantages of kilts (yes, there are tactical advantages to kilts). And ladies, you would have loved the head instructor's accent. He picked one of his best students and put on a show, demonstrating a typical fencing match with Scottish broadswords. The master narrated even as he struck and parried:


"Light cut to th' shoulder, nothin' too serious."


"Anoother light cut...he'll be havin' words wi' his tailor."

The match ended with an intense display of close-quarters combat. The swordsmen closed with each other, grappling as they attempted to throw their opponent or bring their blades back into play. After a few seconds of lurching, grunting and wrestling, the instructor emerged the victor, standing over his pupil, sword at his throat.


The inside of the museum was no less thrilling. I reckon the only country whose citizens have been involved in more armed conflict during their country's history is, perhaps, Israel. But they've only been around for 63 years. Scotland's soldiers have been fighting wars all over the world for centuries, from the Napoleonic Wars to such far-flung theaters as India, Egypt, and South Africa. And they've served in every conceivable capacity...as mercenaries, conscripts, rank-and-file, and even distinguished officers like Sir Archibald Campbell, Sir David Baird and Sir Ralph Abercromby. (And let's not forget my favorite Scottish warfighter, a fellow whom most Americans should be intimately familiar with, a rather feisty sailor named John Paul Jones.)


I particularly enjoyed the extensive displays of weaponry and armor within the museum. There was one nasty-looking sidearm called a "French nail"—essentially a knife with a set of brass knuckles in place of a hand guard.

After a reverent trip through the Scottish War Memorial (inscribed with the names of every Scot to fall in battle in World War I), Jeff and I were privileged to view the grand finale: the Honours of the Kingdom, the Scottish Crown Jewels. Hidden from the eyes of the world for a hundred years after the British government dissolved the Scottish Parliament in 1707, the Honours were rediscovered, dusted off, and set in a vault under a thick glass case for all the world to see. I though I'd been awestruck before, just viewing the castle, the Mons Meg, and the war museum, but this completely took the biscuit. I'd never seen a real crown before, nor a scepter so intricately crafted, nor a sword of such exquisite construction. The Crown of Scotland, manufactured in 1540, looked as fresh and new as the day it was first set on James V's head, crusted with precious gems and freshwater pearls. The Sceptre of Scotland looked like something that Gandalf the Grey wouldn't have felt like an idiot casting spells with, made of silver gilt, topped with polished rock and Scottish pearl, and inlaid with dolphins, Saint Andrew, the Virgin Mary and the baby Christ. The sword also looked like it could've sprung from the pages of some epic work of medieval fantasy, the silver handle bearing oak leaves and acorns and the blade etched with figures of Saints Peter and Paul. Both the sword and the scepter, I found out later, were papal gifts: Pope Alexander VI gave the scepter to King James IV in 1494, and Pope Julius II presented the sword to the same lucky king 13 years later.


Obviously no photographs were allowed, but believe me when I say that each article looked too pristine, too well-preserved, too shiny and new and luxurious to be real. I was amazed. The regalia had graced the persons of Scotland's highest and most revered monarchs, been handled by popes and courtiers and kings, and had been zealously concealed from the invading English armies for a century. The history, the tradition, the culture wrapped up in these sacred objects took one's breath away as thoroughly as their immaculate appearance.

Ogling treasures worth more than the federal deficit made me kind of hungry. Jeff was always hungry, so we elected to find some eats. We exited the castle and strolled down the Royal Mile. From every quarter the screech of bagpipes came drifting on the breeze. We went back to Princes Street, cut down Frederick, and ducked up Rose Street to Dirty Dick's, a likely-looking public house.

I was on a mission. There were three things that came to mind when I thought of Scotland: Scotch, bagpipes—and haggis.

From Reference.com:

Haggis is a traditional Scottish dish.There are many recipes, most of which have in common the following ingredients: sheep's "pluck" (heart, liver and lungs) minced with onion, oatmeal, suet, spices, and salt, mixed with stock and traditionally boiled in the animal's stomach for approximately three hours.

Mmmmmmmmm...that sounds yummy.

Now, many of you in the audience (particularly the ladies) may wish to ask, "Why would anyone in their right mind want to eat sheep's pluck minced with onion, oatmeal, suet, spices, and salt, mixed with stock and traditionally boiled in the animal's stomach for approximately three hours?"

To which I would reply, "Because it's there."

Or rather, more accurately, since this is a plate of food we're talking about and not a mountain, I'd say, "Because somebody decided long ago that this mystical amalgamation of bestial viscera was edible, and I intend to test that assertion."

You know me. I'll eat anything. Remember sannakji?

So anyway, I was in Scotland. The home of haggis. I'd heard and read a lot about this dish. And as dubious as most people sounded when they heard about it, I was determined to try it.

And so, with a glass of good cider to wash it down, I sampled my first-ever plate of haggis, neeps and tatties (haggis with potatoes and turnips in a whisky cream sauce). For pub-haggis, it wasn't half bad. The liver flavor came through the most, but the oatmeal and suet made for a unique and pleasantly firm texture. Honestly, I never would've been able to tell I was eating heart or lungs if I hadn't known in advance. It was a delicious dish, intensely satisfying and quite filling. And there was more to come after...

Come now, I'm a bartender. A self-proclaimed whisky-lover. A wannabe Scotch connoisseur. It's in my to-do list over on the right (I hope). Someday I want to be able to divine exactly where a Scotch was distilled and how old it is just by tasting it. You have to practice to get good, correct? And as has been previously mentioned, I was in Scotland. The home of Scotch whisky. I had to try some. And by "try some" I mean "drink as much as I could get my hands on."

Fortunately, Dirty Dick's was also a whisky bar. So I ordered me up a glass of Ardbeg, a 10-year-old Islay single malt. The smoky sweetness, combined with the hefty peatiness and a spicy finish, made for a delicious sip. It was in Dirty Dick's that I learned the proper way to sample Scotch as well: room temperature, with just a dash of water to bring out the flavor. I rolled the whisky around the bottom of my glass, feeling good and sophisticated and content and manly (and to be truthful, a little tipsy), and blessed whichever inventive soul had perfected the distilling process.

Afterward, as the glorious golden sun had only just begun to set over the magical city at the close of our first day, Jeff and I waddled out of Dirty Dick's. Well, he waddled, and I weaved. That Ardbeg was strong stuff, and I'd already supped some cider. We returned to the hostel, feeling shamefully pleased with ourselves.

I'd love to tell you some wild stories about our first night in Scotland (having set the stage nicely with the church hostel, the castle, the supergun, the crown jewels, the sheep's guts, and the booze). Unfortunately, I can't. None transpired. The first night consisted of me, prostrate in my creaky bunk, trying to ignore the snores of the other hostel-goers, blindsided by some 24-hour bug, and Jeff out in the nightly Scottish chill, taking the haunted walking tour of Edinburgh.

He brought back some cool pictures of city lights and faces on gravestones and John Stuart Mill's tomb. But I'm still glad I didn't talk myself into going with him. I was just glad to be able to stretch out and take things easy, even if the comforts of home were nowhere to be found. The sheets of my bunk bed were laced with allergens, worsening my already running nose and coughing fits. I had to keep getting up to refill my tiny water bottle. And as I mentioned before, there was no ceilings in the room. And some of our neighbors were snorers. I heard at least one person blowing chunks in their wastebasket, too. Even the late-evening sun streaming through the west window of the church did little to cheer me up. It was right in my eyes, in fact.

Needless to say, it wasn't a restful night.

Stay tuned for the next installment, though, when I meet our invisible Romanian roommate and climb to Arthur's Seat.

cocktail review no. 42 - Scofflaw

It's about dang time we got back into whiskey cocktails. It's cold and we've gotta keep warm somehow.

Before I begin, I'd like to give you a little lesson in etymology. Why? Because I'm an English minor. And I enjoy expanding my vocabulary. And I think everybody ought to enjoy expanding their vocabulary. And I have a blog, which means I can get my perverse, power-mad, diction-crazed jollies out and you all have to sit there and take it.

"Scofflaw" is an archaic and nearly extinct word denoting a person who routinely flouts the rules, especially where paying debts and answering summonses are concerned. Got a nice ring to it, doesn't it? Sounds like a word you'd find in one of those charming old British children's books with talking animals in it, like The Wind in the Willows or something.

"It seems Toad has wrecked another motorcar," Mole said sadly, shaking his head, "and the magistrate increased his sentence after he gave the policemen some rather bad cheek."
"That dratted Toady!" Rat exclaimed. "He wouldn't have half the troubles he does if he wasn't such a scofflaw."

Anyway, I'm afraid I have no clue about why the term "scofflaw" was applied to this cocktail. I didn't even get the recipe out of The Bartender's Bible (for once). It seems Mum was poking around the Net and came across a list of rare and antiquated cocktails: the scofflaw, the monkey gland, and the aviation cocktail being some of the most prominent. She printed it out and showed it to me, and expressed her interest in sampling them. I would have whipped one up for her right then and there, but each of the drinks required an oddball ingredient. Aviation cocktails must have maraschino liqueur (the rarity of this beverage almost spelled doom for the drink); monkey glands take Pernod or Bénédictine (in some versions, it's absinthe); and a proper scofflaw needs a dash of orange bitters. An orange bitters differs from ordinary bitters in that, yes, as the name suggests, it's been infused with orange flavoring (usually the peels of Seville oranges).

It's extremely rare stuff, orange bitters. It was hard to find in the U.S. for quite some time. It's not something you can just walk into a liquor store and pick up, usually. But I got my chance on December 11, when Mom, Dad and I went down to Ontario Airport to pick up my brother H, back from college for Christmas. His flight was delayed, so we stopped off at BevMo. For the uninitiated, BevMo is similar to Sam's Club or Costco...only it sells booze, booze, and nothing but booze. Their wine selection would put the Count of Monte Cristo to shame. They have enough craft beers to choke a horse. And their spirit repertoire is second to none, and at pretty decent prices, too. Dad picked up a few bottles of his favorite gin (Broker's), as well as some 12-year-old Glenlivet; and I spotted a bottle of Cutty Sark for an unbelievably low $16.99 (speaking of Scotland). But the golden horn came when I perused the mixer section. There it was, a bottle of orange bitters, bottled by Gary Regan (the author of The Bartender's Bible) no less. Six dollars and forty-nine cents. I'd made some pretty decent tips that weekend at the café, so I jumped on it.

And last night, I went ahead and mixed up a scofflaw.

This concludes the etymology lesson.

• 1¼ ounces rye whiskey
• ¾ ounce dry vermouth
• ½ ounce lemon juice
• ½ ounce grenadine
• 1 dash orange bitters
• 1 lemon twist

In a cocktail shaker half-filled with ice cubes, combine the whiskey, vermouth, lemon juice, grenadine, and bitters. Shake and strain into a cocktail glass. Squeeze the lemon twist over the drink.

I didn't have rye whiskey, but I've been told that stuff ain't much different than other grain whiskies. So I just substituted some Black Velvet instead. And I'll tell you, for having a long list of disparate ingredients, this drink came out very well. Not even the dreaded whiskey-bitters combination (which usually produces cough syrup) could mar the flavor. This drink tastes almost like cherry lemonade, people. The juices and syrups are up top, providing an inviting nose and a less-than-subtle bouquet. The tang and bite of the bitters and whiskey (respectively) supplement this first impression, and yet also provide a dynamic counterpoint, creating a suitably hard-bitten undertone to please those who prefer a robust libation. In a nutshell, this is a pleasant cocktail with a unique flavor...and a bit of a kick. I'd recommend it to anyone, young or old, male or female, Kramer or Newman.