Shake, rattle and roll

I really thought that when I moved to Pennsylvania that I had left earthquakes behind in New Zealand.  Which is why I didn't figure out what was going on the other day when the big one struck Virginia until it was almost over.


It really was hard to believe it was an earthquake, even while it was going on.  It's not an earthquake prone place.  This was the biggest earthquake on the East Coast since a 5.8 in New York in 1944.  This quake was felt by tens of millions of people who live up and down the coast and many of them have never felt an earthquake before.  I had more or less assumed that I wouldn't feel one as long as I lived here - let alone within months of moving.


Despite its relative weakness it was felt as far away as Chicago and Toronto.  Apparently the waves from earthquakes travel well on the East Coast of the US because it's all one big slab of old rock.  Buildings were evacuated in Washington and New York.  It was the only thing on CNN all afternoon.  There was little damage reported (although the Washington Monument, featured so much in these very pages, was damaged and has been closed indefinitely) but a lot of fear was inspired.


I got over it pretty quickly, but as with all earthquakes there are those few moments of concern about how long it's going to go on and how bad it will get.  Once the bottles stopped rattling, though, I knew I was okay and went off to find out what was up.   I toyed for a few seconds with the idea that a nuclear bomb had gone off somewhere, so unlikely did an earthquake seem.  Wouldn't it be just typical, too, nuclear winter arriving just as the tomatoes are coming in?  The reality soon became clear, though, and shortly after the earth stopped shaking, I did too.

On the road

Mrs Walles and I did go to Long Island last weekend but we never made into New York City because of the intense heat wave that was plaguing most of the country.  Long Island is the bit that sticks out to the right of Manhattan, which makes it a good base for visiting the city, but even though it was only a few minutes away, it didn't seem worth it just to melt in the city, when we could melt perfectly well where we were.  So we left the Big Baked Apple for later in the year.

On the trip I decided to start keeping note of which state number plates I'd seen.  I'm always on the lookout for unusual ones, but I was at the point where I'd see one and couldn't be sure if I'd seen it before.  It's a good travel game racking up the states and also seeing what each one looks like.  I'm particularly fond of the New Hampshire ones with the aggressive state motto "live free or die" (numbers blurred to protect the innocent).

It's an old revolutionary slogan, I believe, but it always makes me think of the citizens of New Hampshire as a testy bunch, always ready to open a can o' whip ass whenever things aren't going their way.

Anyway, just on the trip to New York and back I counted plates from Texas, New York, New Jersey, Florida, Pennsylvania, Connecticut, Michigan, Georgia, Virginia, Maryland, Massachusetts, Ohio, Rhode Island, South Carolina, North Carolina, Washington D.C., Tennessee, Maine, Quebec, Delaware, Missouri, New Hampshire, Nevada, California, Wisconsin, Ontario, Illinois, Colorado and Indiana.  That's 26 states, just over half, plus Washington and two Canadian provinces.  If you needed proof of the centrality and importance of New York (not that you really did) there you have it.

Damned immigrants

Mrs Walles and I have been travelling again, and I haven't had time to update the blog much.  Fortunately, though, all this gadding about has given me plenty of material for future posts.  Today just a brief entry, but one that packs quite a punch if you ask me.

In many US states, including Pennsylvania, only the back of a car carries a number plate, leaving the front free for something else like an affiliation or a humorous bumper-sticker style message.  Like this one which we spotted recently.

"WELCOME TO AMERICA NOW EITHER SPEAK ENGLISH OR LEAVE".  How pleasant.

Good thing I speak something that passes for English here.  Although the kind of person who puts that on the front of their car for all to see may have more stringent standards of English than the average American.  I'd better watch who I talk to...

Who's the boss?

We had a power cut this morning, for about an hour.  One of our neighbours knocked on the door to check if the power was off here, too, which saved me wondering if it was just something wrong with our wiring (which wouldn't surprise me, given the way things are set up in this house, but maybe that's an American thing...).  He was annoyed because he'd just put a load of laundry in the drier, I was annoyed because I'd just started cleaning the bathrooms and there is no natural light in either of them.

See anything odd about this picture?  Fifty years ago I doubt it would be two men stuck with the domestics to do and no electricity to do them with.

Anyway, this inversion of gender stereotypes pleased Mrs Walles very much when I told her about it.  And not surprisingly because there are (especially in conservative places like this) expectations about men and women.  Case in point: the bill in restaurants.

When you ask for the bill (or check - ooh, look at me) it comes to the table and invariably it will be placed in front of me.  Because I'm the man.  Even though we live in supposedly enlightened times and it's usually Mrs Walles doing the honours at the moment, it still comes to me.  And not just in little ma and pa places, big chains, too, where you might think some carefully thought out company policy would make them put it in the middle of the table or something.  Maybe they tried that and all the men felt insulted and emasculated.  Or maybe nobody really thinks about it - except they do, because Mrs Walles does and I don't imagine she's alone.  It's just strange.

Anyway, if you'll excuse me, I have to go and fold some clothes.  A fella's work is never done!

They like us, they really like us!

It's a curious thing that, although the typical American doesn't know a lot about New Zealand, quite a few are very keen on it.  This is a relatively recent phenomenon, I'm told, having started just in the last few years.  I can only assume that all the flashy tourism promotion actually does some good, though I can't help thinking that having a man on the spot charming the locals with his Kiwi ways plays a part, too.  I expect I'll get a cheque from John Key any day now.

Anyway, as proof of New Zealand's current popularity, consider this floor cleaner, spotted in the supermarket.

 

Drawing your eye away from Mr Clean (Mr Muscle's clean-living yankee cousin), you will observe that this cleaner is scented with New Zealand Springs.  It's not just floor cleaner either, here's spray cleaner with the same stuff.

For the full story we have to go direct to the source, Febreze, which lends its brand and scent to these products.

 

In case you can't make it out the can reads "Inspired by New Zealand's south island, where springs feed glacier-carved streams & verdant vistas".

So it seems that if you're the kind of person who likes to stand on lofty South Island peaks enjoying the fresh air and reflecting that no amount of money could buy all this, then the good people at Febreze have proved you wrong.  The fresh air, at least, is worth US$2.79 before tax.

I haven't bought any - I can't quite bring myself to, even out of curiosity. Somehow I doubt its authenticity.  But given that most people here think I sound like an Englishman, I doubt that they can smell the difference between my homeland and whatever comes out of those bottles.  Meanwhile, I'll stick with lemon scent, thanks all the same.