I knows someone famous now

This June, Rohinton played on the Bermuda badminton team for the Island Games 2011. That's right, suckers. I NOW KNOW SOMEONE FAMOUS.

For my American readers - yes, in the rest of the world, Badminton is actually a serious sport. Not just hitting around a birdie in a backyard picnic. I expect that you'll  treat this announcement with the appropriate level of gravity.

So family McDelta, father, mothing, sister, wife, husband, and uncle, all bumbled kit and caboodle to the little known Isle of Wight to cheer for Rohinton.

I dont' blame you if you're scratching your head at the Island Games. I hadn't known what they were before this year, either, before Rohinton's foray into fame. It's basically like the Olympics, or the Asiatics - a large international sports meet that takes place every two years, specifically for island countries. That's right. Not only do those people have all the clean beaches, good weatger and beautiful oceans. They also have their own olympics.

And there he was, our very own Rohinton, representing the country of Bermuda on their badminton team. Delta and I couldn't have been more proud. And so it was that we found ourselves on the flight across the pond to London, the coach to Portsmouth, the ferry to Ryde and the little train to Shanklin, which was to be our home for 4 days while we dove into an intensive international tete a tete in badminton.

A couple of the islands there were decidedly dodgy. Like Aland and Gotland. Delta and I were convinced that some of these were made up - a group of people who had made up an island, flag and national song of their own so they could participate in the Island Games. So we did some nifty googling to confirm the credibility of our oponents. I mean, seriuosly. Aland? Gotland? But as it turned out, they do exist, mere dots on maps though they be.

Family McDelta, taking in some sun at the Island Games parade.

The Island Games parade, not to be underestimated for it's pomp and grandeur.

 Badminton. A real sport, fyi.

Pork chops, please

Dear Spain,

This morning, as in every morning, they brought two boxes of food into my tank and asked me to choose one for lunch. One had the Netherlands flag on it, and the other had Spain.

All year, I've been listening to people talking about Spain and the PIGS, and instantly assumed the Spain box would hold some delicious roast pork. What else could they have been possibly talking about?! Or maybe there'd even be some pork chops or bratwurst. I smacked my lips greedily and rushed over and opened the box with the Spain flag. But it was just the normal food I get everyday! I felt so cheated. What a waste.

But apparently my choice helped you win the World Cup. So some good came of it somewhere. Congratulations, I'm glad to have been of help.

Best,
Paul the Octopus

p.s. - please don't let Germany make calamari out of me.

For those of you who need some context to understand what this is about.

The World Cup positiveness

I love the World Cup. I love the idea of an event that brings the world together in a microcosm of positive, healty competitiveness. Just like the Olympics.

But other than admiring the overarching notion of grandeur it entails, I find the actual act of taking a more participative role in the World Cup rather tedious. Because let's face it, soccer is just a little bit boring to watch. The most redeeming feature by far is how each player has four shadows, which makes for a some quite distractingly pleasing on-screen graphics.

But I'll be darned if I can tolerate those freakin' trumpets for more than a few minutes before it drives me batty.

Nope. It took about five minutes of watching the US-UK game to get over my feeling of worldly goodwill, and urge Delta to change the channel back. It's true beauty lies in admiring from afar.

A local World Series

In an surprising twist of Americanisation that I would have never foreseen for myself, Delta has successfully got me watching baseball. After many, many years (I've been told how many, but the details slip my mind like water off a ducks back), the Yankees are in the world series. And Delta, like half of New York, is duly hooked.

With the baseball being broadcast in our living room in truer-than-life-50-inch HD, there's really nothing to do but watch it. And so, without even trying, I've gotten somewhat acquainted with the cast of characters over the past week. The guys who can pretty much usually be counted on to hit the ball. The guys who pretty much always strike out, but then make up by pulling some rather eye-popping catches in the field. And those that fumble, and have me yelling, "I could do that for 20 million dollars too, you nugget!!"

"Why's it called the World Series," I asked Delta pointedly, "when it's really just the US?"
"Well there's Canada too, sometimes," he pointed out laughingly.
But I'm not convinced. Not when the "World Series" is being played out between New York and Philadelphia, I'm just not buying it.
Then on the other hand, teenagers all over the world are obsessed with getting to first base or second base. And once the teenagers adopt you, you've reached world class status. Just look what they did with Facebook and Twitter.

Besides, it has to be the sport with the guy who has the coolest name in the world. Melky Cabrera. Wow, I'd love to hear someone beat that.
"If we were planning to have a son, we'd name him Melky Cabrera," I told Delta.
"Even the last name?"
I tried to separate them out in my mind, but just Melky didn't sound quite as cool as the whole name together. It just has flow to it.
"Yep, the whole thing. The kid's name would have to be MelkyCabrera."

Now no one can argue with that. One of the best things that baseball brought to the world is the name MelkyCabrera.

Of course, maybe I'm not the best person to judge the sport. I still don't know whether it's a referee or an umpire, and I sometimes confuse bowling with pitching.

But at least, all in all, at least I've learnt to root for the guys with the stripes.

I have triceps, and they hurt

This weekend I discovered that I have triceps. And learnt that the discovery process was rather painful.

As we drove up to Vermont, I wasn't quite sure what to expect. I'd never been cross-country skiing before, and although I was fairly sure it would be beautiful, that expectation of beauty had no clear definition in my mind.

What I hadn't expected was for it to absolutely take my breath away.

Snow as far as the eye could see. A beautiful country inn, nestled amongst hills. Just Delta and me, and woods, and hills, and gorge, and stream (and freshly baked cookies when we got back to the inn).

Cross country skiing itself turned out to be a great deal of fun. Of course, other than the time(s) I optimistically tried to climb steep slopes. And fell face first, kissing the snow. Multiple times.

But all in all, in the clear light of day, I have to put cross country skiing right up there with one of the greatest things I've ever done. Probably not as high as the time I dreamt I was Jason Bourne, but a close second.

Intro to (ice) hockey

The other day, I went for my first hockey game (I used to call it an ice hockey match, until MetroHom gently chided me about not needing to use the word 'ice' and Delta pointed out it was a 'game' not a 'match'.)
"Hey don't blame me, I didn't grow up in this country!" I responded, my usual fall back when things aren't going my way.

It was a Rangers vs. Devils (New York vs. New Jersey) game in Madison Square Garden. So as you can imagine, a lot of hype and excitement and good humoured competitiveness. In days before the game I started working myself up into a fever pitch of excitement. It was all hockey this, hockey that at work (initially ice hockey this, ice hockey that until I was corrected).

Along with our tickets, we got free vouchers for Rangers hats that we could redeem at a small souvenir booth in MSG. Have you ever tried locating a small booth in MSG? It was like searching for a peanut in a labrynth. We went up escalators and down escalators and up corridors and down corridors and around corners, with no sign of success. Finally, we asked one of the ushers standing nearby if he knew where it was, and even he didn't have a clue. By then, it was getting close to game time, and we had to head towards our seats (oh, way up there at the top).

"What's your seat numbers? I'll come find you when I've located the booth," the usher said.
We gave him our seat numbers and headed off, knowing full well he'd never come find us in this crowded stadium with tens of thousands of people.
But boy, were we wrong. Twenty minutes later there he was, tapping us on the shoulders, having fought his way through the crowds to tell us where we could collect our free hats. Oh, how we underestimate the tenacity of the human heart.

The game itself was everything I had hoped for. The adrenaline, the collective energy of the crowds, the speed and dexterity of the players. It had the entrancing effect of a movie theatre, making you unconsciously keep eating a steady stream of popcorn (except here it was peanuts).
"Here's what you should do," Delta told me, as he passed me my first handful of peanuts. "Crack them open, and just drop the shells on the floor by your feet."
"What do you mean?!" I asked, horrified, "you mean just make a mess?!"
"Yeah, that's just what people do at a hockey game. Just go with it. Make a mess! You'll enjoy it!"
I was mortified. I watched him eating peanuts and dropping the shells all around recklessly. Tentatively, I opened a peanut shell, and popped the peanuts into my mouth. I gingerly placed the shells in the corner, by my foot. Fifteen minutes later, when the game broke for a break, Delta glanced over my way.
"Where are your peanut shells?!" he asked. For I had eaten many peanuts by now, and he had expected to see a whole host of shells, but there were none visible on the floor.
I shifted my foot.
And there they all were, placed neatly together in a tiny pile in the corner. We both burst out laughing, for indeed the delicateness did look pretty pathetic in this raucus atmosphere. "You can't watch a hockey game like that!!!!" Delta admonished, shaking his head.

And that was the moment when Ficali McPipe started eating her peanuts with reckless abandon, throwing shells any which way. It's a liberating feeling. Try it, folks. Only at a (ice) hockey game though.

This was a great first game to watch, supporting the home team through a last minute victory. When the last, deciding goal was scored, the stadium (me included) went collectively wild. Delta and I were jubilant for the rest of the evening.

The next day, back at work, Richie Rich asked me, "so, did you enjoy being at the game yesterday? I watched it on the telly."
"Yeah, it was amazing! Such a close game, and there was so much energy in the crowds!"
"Yeah, too bad Devils won, it would have been even better if your team had won."
Huh? I was sure the Rangers had won. I had cheered for and watched the Rangers win. But immediately, I was full of doubt.
"Erm, I think the Rangers won," I said uncertainly.
"Seriously?!!! I was watching the match. I saw Devils score that last goal!"

Crap!! Had I been cheering for the wrong team? Had I really got that confused?
"Oh. I really thought Rangers won," I said, very softly, no no longer sure of myself at all.
"Ha, ha, Ficali, you're right, I was just yanking your leg," Richie Rich laughed.

What! I narrowed my eyes. "I did get the game, you know," I retorted.
But Richie Rich was already rounding the corner, chuckling to himself.

Bah! Some people just don't appreciate hockey like I do.

An elephant on ice

A couple of weeks ago, Delta and I woke up with an unsuppressable urge to go ice skating. So there was nought to be done but to don our woolies and mosey on down to Central Park, where we could avail of the tree-lined ice rink.

I knew that Delta, having played hockey most of his life, would be a great skater. But nothing prepared me for the gazelle he turned into as soon as his feet touched the ice. Swooping, swishing, swaying and swirling amongst the crowds while I on the other hand, like an elephant on ice, had to focus all my energy on preventing my legs from getting entangled in each other.

As always, I was most amazed by the little kids on the rink, who torpedoed themselves in random directions (seemingly all aiming to take me down), with little regard for self or life. I thought it was quite cute.

Until, as was inevitable, one kid bumped right into me. "Oh!" I thought, but the kid was little affected. He bounced right off me, and simply changed his direction and hurtled off again towards another unsuspecting stranger. I, on the other hand, engaged in much unsteady teeter-tottering and precarious swaying, before I finally managed to steady myself by the sheer strength of luck.

But who goes ice skating for elegance anyway, eh?

A little taste of American life

Yesterday was my first superbowl. And I say that with an added level of sincerity, because we actually did also go to a superbowl party last year, at Mr. and Mrs. Pooks'. However, while last year was all about the munchies and the superbowl adds, this year I graduated to actually understanding the sport itself.

As the game kicked off, Delta explained the rules to us with painstaking patience ("My first Indian superbowl party," he said with glee, looking at Bobbis, Doobs, Ilajna and me draped over the sofa in various positions of TV slouch).

I didn't realise how involved I'd gotten in the game, until I suddenly caught myself shouting at the telly, despite myself, "CATCH THE BALL, BURRESS!!!!" Or maybe it was when the game got over, and we all jumped up, hugging each other with the kind of happiness that just makes you want to burst. Not easy to believe that a couple of hours before, we hadn't even known the rules to football.

Back when I'd just moved to New York, Milo had told me that I hadn't experienced American life until I'd watched Monday Night Football with a Coors Light and chicken wings (that's the night I gave up vegetarianism, if I remember correctly).

I wonder what he'd think now, of this Ficali, whooping and prancing at the superbowl.