Money for Nothing

Money for Nothing

I'm having a quick overnighter in West Wales on business. So, I'm sitting in the corner of a pub thinking about what and where to eat when a bunch of tourists come in and attempt to speak to the barmaid in Welsh.

In northern and Scottish accents.

Like most of us in Wales, she doesn't speak Welsh so they may as well have been speaking Martian.

I feel sorry for the tourists, who seem to feel cheated and leave for another pub. Good luck to them. Wales isn't abroad. Yet.

Cultural stereotyping?

I’m not sure if this amounts to cultural stereotyping and if so, does it matter if it’s good-humoured? I’m sure that many of us have been on the other side of the fence, albeit accidentally.

Did you expect to see more Frenchmen in berets when you first went to France?

In London, did you expect to see more Australians with wine corks hanging off their hats (said to keep the flies off, in case you’re interested).

And what about more Hawaiians eating pineapple and ham pizzas? (For the record, I never saw a pineapple or a pizza when I was in Hawaii)

So, you can’t criticise people for turning up at the Severn Bridge, armed with a passport and a phrase book because you’ve probably done the same yourself at some point in time, in some other way, accidentally. (Intentional stereotyping which causes offence to others is another matter altogether, of course.)

The Second Severn Crossing or the Golden Gate Bridge?

 And whilst we are on the topic of the Severn Bridge – the gateway to Wales – why, oh why did we miss the opportunity to brand the new bridge that opened in 1996?

You might make allowances for the lack of imagination in naming the original 1966 bridge the “Severn Bridge”, but surely someone could have come up with something better than the “Second Severn Crossing” as a brand for its successor? San Francisco called a bridge that isn’t too dissimilar and is actually a sort of orangey brown “The Golden Gate Bridge”. Their bridge appears on t-shirts, ours only features on Google Maps.

Money for Nothing 

Back on the theme of national stereotyping, I wonder what less-known national stereotypes would be. There are lots of countries I just wouldn’t have a clue of stereotyping. I was in Sweden recently and I didn’t really know what to expect. Well, for a start, society is very digital – even some of the menus are on iPads.

You don’t see cash much in Sweden as result of its digital drive. A hotel receptionist told me that his son – 17 years old – had never really used cash. It’s all cards and phones – even on buses and in taxis.  I couldn’t help but feel sorry for a beggar we passed in central Stockholm. Without a Chip & Pin machine his takings were likely to be miserably low.

On 4th June 2016 the Guardian Newspaper commented that according to central bank the Riksbank, cash transactions made up barely 2% of the value of all payments made in Sweden in 2015. In shops, cash is now used for barely 20% of transactions, half the number of five years ago, and way below the global average of 75%. And circulation of Swedish krona has fallen from around 106bn in 2009 to 80bn in 2015.

I’m not sure if I want to go cashless just yet. I like to take money out and know how much I’m spending. In the meantime, perhaps the Swedish national stereotype might be person clutching a mobile in one hand and a credit card in the other, sitting in the back seat of a Volvo taxi - which he pays for by card - on the way to visit the Abba Museum.

Yes, there is an Abba Museum. No, we didn’t go.

Iceland: Where’s Father Christmas?

As we motor through suburban gloom of downtown Reykjavik, the only break from the endless shades of grey are the Christmas lights that twinkle on the quirky houses and multi storey offices. 

It's 10.30am and still dark.  The journey begins in the eerie, misty harbour. The tour bus collects travellers from various accommodations, announcing their nationalities to the other passengers as they climb on-board. It's reminiscent of the voting call in the Eurovision Song Contest but very bonding, nonetheless. With all the nations more happily united than the EU, we head out of town.

We have prepared for this long weekend in Iceland by purchasing an array of thermal garments, scarves and bubble jackets. Everyone else looks as if they have done the same. The bus seems to be stuffed with brightly coloured bloated snooker balls with bobble hats.  The snooker ball people bounce off each other until they shed a few layers to reduce body mass and are able to sit down.

It's freak weather - our guide apologies - in fact it’s the warmest December for 178 years. I can't help but think that we might have wasted a couple of hundred quid on our winter apparel, until someone reminds me that that's just the price of dinner for two at an average Icelandic restaurant, then it feels like not such a big deal.

The guide warns us of high costs in Iceland, advising us to avoid the toilets at the next stop as they come with a hefty £4 price tag.  It's hardly spending a penny in Iceland, is it?

I was never keen on Iceland for a weekend break, but goaded my fiancée who bought the trip as a gift and inspired by TV’s Rick Stein who also didn’t fancy Iceland but ended up loving it, I agreed to go. As it turns out, I’m already enthralled by the country within a day of being here.

The reason? I love stories. To me, travel is about stories and people. Yes, sights too - but it is the stories and the people that very often bring these sights to life for me. And if you like stories, you’ll love Iceland…

The Yuletide Lads

The Yuletide Lads are figures from Icelandic folklore There are thirteen of them. Every night, the last thirteen nights before Christmas Eve, one Yuletide lad visits each child, leaving gifts or potatoes, depending on the child’s recent behaviour.

My relationship with the Yuletide Lads began at Reykjavik Airport at one of those photo opportunities places that I can never resist. It’s a foolish weakness, I know, but I can’t pass these things by. I’m always the first to stick my head on the boards with the missing faces and silly bodies at British seaside resorts. If you’ve seen me, I apologise.

At the airport, I had just assumed that it as an Icelandic way of having a laugh at the tourists who gleefully climbed in to have their pictures taken. Icelanders have a keen sense of humour but I suspected there might be more to this story than met the eye and so we began to ask around.

At a Reykjavik pub, later that day, we ask the young barmaid to explain the Yuletide Lads. She tells the story as if she has been trained as a professional tour guide – a common trait amongst the proud Icelanders. We begin to understand why we had seen the ubiquitous caricatures all around the city. They are the personification of Christmas in Iceland.

“What about Father Christmas?” I ask.

“If you’ve come here looking for Father Christmas you will be disappointed” she replies, sounding distinctly like a Russian spy in a Bond film.

It’s a sentence that I didn’t ever expect to hear directed at a man in his 40’s and it just makes me smile every time I think about it.

Women

On October 24, 1975, 90 percent of women in Iceland went on strike to campaign for equal rights. A BBC report describes the day:

Instead of going to the office, doing housework or childcare they took to the streets in their thousands to rally for equal rights with men. It is known in Iceland as the Women's Day Off. Banks, factories and some shops had to close, as did schools and nurseries - leaving many fathers with no choice but to take their children to work.

There were reports of men arming themselves with sweets and colouring pencils to entertain the crowds of overexcited children in their workplaces. Sausages - easy to cook and popular with children - were in such demand the shops sold out.

  

Those are just two of the many interesting stories – some factual, some fictional – that I enjoyed in Iceland.

Yes, Iceland has a much talked about landscape that looks as if it belongs on another planet. Yes, you can bathe in silica-infused waters that come from the centre if the Earth. Yes, you will no doubt enjoy watching geysers spout water 40 feet in the air.

But the real deal for me are the stories and the charming and witty people who tell them. Go to Iceland armed with an open mind and a full wallet and you are virtually guaranteed a brilliant and quirky break.

Back in Brittany

A good market can capture the essence of a nation as quickly as its anthem.

I’ve just arrived in a Brittany. It is market day and I am instantly infused with unmistakable Frenchness. The influx of aromas has triggered a flood of memories. Images of family holidays in Brittany, a student summer in the Loire, and months working on a hot Languedoc campsite, all start to crystallise in my mind.

The market stalls are pitched precariously on a sloping, cobbled town square, overlooked by the town hall and the old post office. The white canvas that frames each stall is flapping in the salty morning breeze, like sails catching a gust of wind.

France being France almost everything is food. There’s pungent cheese, cooked salamis and hams, raw meats – including horse, fruit - oranges, lemons and grapes, vegetables – olives, onions and garlic, and fabulous fish – as we’re near the coast.

Standing on the edge of the market I get caught in a wonderful crosswind that adds a whiff of freshly baked baguette from a nearby bakery to the heady mix of airborne flavours. The buyers are in charge here. French women are discerning purchasers and the market is full of them – smartly dressed and gesticulating forcefully, locked in commercial combat with the stall owners. I buy a French comic, some Emmental cheese and a few slices of salami. Then I generally amble around, a gear or two below my French counterparts.

After an hour on the cobbles, I take my wares and retire to a café – being careful to retreat a few streets to avoid being charged a premium for a ringside seat at the square.

            

The blackboard outside advertises a set price menu for a modest price – but it’s not quite lunchtime so I opt for a hot chocolate. There is only handful of customers in the café. Some older men are playing a dice game and drinking small glasses of beer. And three teenagers are playing ‘Flipper’ (Pinball) and drinking something that looks like bright green washing up liquid. Apparently it is not as harmful as it looks.

           

The café reeks of polished metal, strong coffee and lingering French cigarettes. It is smart, but ordinary, having all the necessary qualifications for a backstreet pit stop – TV, flipper, basic menu, cheap wine and liquorice spirit, beer, coffee, newspapers and conversation.  

            

The waiter leaves me a small square of a bill with my drink. The bill features an indecipherable array of purple numbers and has a serrated edge where it has been hastily torn from the till. Locating the price on these things can be challenging.  I remember a family holiday when my mum mistakenly tried to pay the date instead of the price.

We had all laughed.  The waiter had simply shrugged in a French way, and wondered how we could have ever thought a cheese toastie could cost so much. 

I wanted to tell him it was because we had just come from Paris.