Last Sunday I was waiting in line at a urinal at Lambaeu Field, the most legendary stadium in American football. An announcement came over the PA asking for everyone to "please remove their hats and be upstanding for the national anthem". Two gentlemen in front of me, both engaged in the act of urinating, took their hats off. I know that the USA is a patriotic nation but it would seem to me that the respect ship sailed the moment you took your dicks out lads. I'm not suggesting they should have put their penises away, I know better than any man that once you've started to piss it is impossible to put the genie back in the bottle. I guess I'm just saying that in that moment it would have been best to chalk that opportunity to show love for the flag up as a loss and make amends on another occasion.
I found myself in Wisconsin, thanks to an invite from my father in (common) law to attend a Green Bay Packers game. Being a big sports fan and desperate to cut loose from my current responsibilities as a toddler monitor, I jumped at the chance. Sadly I was with, other than those participating in the actual game, the only three sober men within a five mile radius of the stadium. A wild weekend away isn't just about drinking though is it? It's also about eating thousands and thousands of nutrition free calories, something I am always happy to do. I have the appetites of a man with a far better constitution.
On Monday I had the day to myself in Milwaukee, one of those mythical American place names like Wichita or Syracuse, most famous in my mind for its appearance in the movie Wayne's World. I went into Milwaukee Public Market and after using the public toilets to say a long difficult goodbye to the previous night's meatloaf, I treated myself to a Wisconsin Old Fashioned. A Wisconsin Old Fashioned is like a normal Old Fashioned but for two small differences - one: it uses brandy instead of bourbon and two: it has the word Wisconsin in front of it. If you stick the name of the place I am in in front of something I will always want to consume it. Later on, at the airport I would have a Wisconsin Beer Cheese Soup which was essentially a bowl of cheese sauce. If you're a restauranteur I recommend sticking your town's place name in front of whatever your lowest selling dish is. I would happily order a Sheffield Spaghetti Carbonara.
I left the market and headed for Milwaukee Public Museum. It was okay but as with much of life, all my days in foreign cities are filled with the nagging feeling that there's something better somewhere around the corner. I sat down on a bench in the 'Old Streets of Milwaukee' exhibit and with the recorded voices of out of work actors playing 19th century butchers ringing in my ears I did something I've never done before - I typed the word 'pie' in to Google Maps. Few things divide the Americans and the British more than what we encase in pastry. While we see it as an opportunity to serve mystery meat, Americans see pie as a fruit filled dessert. I fancied sitting in a diner, slowly eating a blueberry pie and having a long conversation with a charming old local, all the while thinking 'this is lovely but you probably voted for Trump, you racist old cunt'. Unfortunately my pie search was, just like the pies in my homeland - fruitless.
One observation about Milwaukee, and nearly everywhere else I go, is that there's no one there. Having lived in London, a place more crammed with people than a (please finish this joke, I do this for free), for seventeen years whenever I visit a new place I find myself asking 'where is everyone?'. Living in London has taught me that one should expect to cue for twenty minutes for a sandwich and that any walk down a major street is like a viral Black Friday video. Turns out most places just don't have that many people.
Despite only dipping my toe into its frozen waters, I rather liked Milwaukee or at least I think I would if I'd had the chance to fully submerge myself. It seemed as if every single conversation I heard was about the Green Bay Packers performance the day before. While on the one hand it brings to mind a totalitarian state in which only one topic of conversation is permitted, it is nice to have an entire community invested in one thing. Especially if that thing is something I happen to like - sport.
Back in Montreal now and back on baby duty. I can hear him waking up from his nap which means I have to go. Although I suppose I could leave him in there. Give him a little thinking time, you know.
I found myself in Wisconsin, thanks to an invite from my father in (common) law to attend a Green Bay Packers game. Being a big sports fan and desperate to cut loose from my current responsibilities as a toddler monitor, I jumped at the chance. Sadly I was with, other than those participating in the actual game, the only three sober men within a five mile radius of the stadium. A wild weekend away isn't just about drinking though is it? It's also about eating thousands and thousands of nutrition free calories, something I am always happy to do. I have the appetites of a man with a far better constitution.
On Monday I had the day to myself in Milwaukee, one of those mythical American place names like Wichita or Syracuse, most famous in my mind for its appearance in the movie Wayne's World. I went into Milwaukee Public Market and after using the public toilets to say a long difficult goodbye to the previous night's meatloaf, I treated myself to a Wisconsin Old Fashioned. A Wisconsin Old Fashioned is like a normal Old Fashioned but for two small differences - one: it uses brandy instead of bourbon and two: it has the word Wisconsin in front of it. If you stick the name of the place I am in in front of something I will always want to consume it. Later on, at the airport I would have a Wisconsin Beer Cheese Soup which was essentially a bowl of cheese sauce. If you're a restauranteur I recommend sticking your town's place name in front of whatever your lowest selling dish is. I would happily order a Sheffield Spaghetti Carbonara.
I left the market and headed for Milwaukee Public Museum. It was okay but as with much of life, all my days in foreign cities are filled with the nagging feeling that there's something better somewhere around the corner. I sat down on a bench in the 'Old Streets of Milwaukee' exhibit and with the recorded voices of out of work actors playing 19th century butchers ringing in my ears I did something I've never done before - I typed the word 'pie' in to Google Maps. Few things divide the Americans and the British more than what we encase in pastry. While we see it as an opportunity to serve mystery meat, Americans see pie as a fruit filled dessert. I fancied sitting in a diner, slowly eating a blueberry pie and having a long conversation with a charming old local, all the while thinking 'this is lovely but you probably voted for Trump, you racist old cunt'. Unfortunately my pie search was, just like the pies in my homeland - fruitless.
One observation about Milwaukee, and nearly everywhere else I go, is that there's no one there. Having lived in London, a place more crammed with people than a (please finish this joke, I do this for free), for seventeen years whenever I visit a new place I find myself asking 'where is everyone?'. Living in London has taught me that one should expect to cue for twenty minutes for a sandwich and that any walk down a major street is like a viral Black Friday video. Turns out most places just don't have that many people.
Despite only dipping my toe into its frozen waters, I rather liked Milwaukee or at least I think I would if I'd had the chance to fully submerge myself. It seemed as if every single conversation I heard was about the Green Bay Packers performance the day before. While on the one hand it brings to mind a totalitarian state in which only one topic of conversation is permitted, it is nice to have an entire community invested in one thing. Especially if that thing is something I happen to like - sport.
Back in Montreal now and back on baby duty. I can hear him waking up from his nap which means I have to go. Although I suppose I could leave him in there. Give him a little thinking time, you know.
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