Beyond The Penultimate

Dear Distinguished Reader,

Allow me to be the first to congratulate you for making it this far.

I know, I know. Right now you're saying: what is he talking about? How far have I made it? Why am I due to be praised for having checked this website today? What makes this day stand out from any other? All I did was navigate here to avoid working for a few minutes!

Fret not. The answer is simple, and since it pains me to have to be the bearer of bad news, I'll come right out and say it. So without further ado, let me bring down the hammer: this will be the very last blog post on this website. Ever.

But Mike, why oh why? You've entertained us for so long! I even cancelled my subscription to both the New York Times and Mensa Weekly since I had forsaken them in favour of reading your blog! What do you mean it's over?

I'm sorry, Reader. I wish I could find some way to perpetuate our little arrangement, but I simply cannot. You see, Round the Bend is a website dedicated to my travel (mis)adventures, and in order to facilitate the creation of further posts, I would need to continue traveling. To do otherwise would be a cruel ruse.

Oh. Did I fail to mention something? Well, it seems I've one more bomb to drop. Fine. Here it is: come May 28, my epoch of solo travel will be coming to an end. That evening, I shall touch down at the airport in Edmonton, and at that instant this journey will conclude. Perhaps you'd still be interested in reading about my life there? I can't blame you. After all, I'm definitely worthy of your constant attention. However, it wouldn't fit the marquee you see written at the top of this page. Because while Edmonton is a lot of things, it is definitely not situated round the bend. In fact, it's very much on this side of the bend.

So back to Canada. Back home. Back to competing with my mom for cookery rights in the kitchen. Back to sipping scotch with dad in copious quantities. Back to the house I grew up in. Back to thinking +23C is pretty hot. Back to BBQing on the back porch. Back to hearing expressions like “you hoser!” and “frickin right, eh?” on a daily basis. Back to talking to my grandmothers on the telephone more often than once every six months. Back to Don Cherry and Ron MacLean. Back to using money with hockey players printed on it. Back to clean showers. Back to visiting Jackson and writing a hilarious song about some guy we hated in high school and haven't even seen for 10 years. He still deserves it. Back to sneezing from the poplar fluff that falls every June. Back to mosquitoes the size of pterodactyls. Back to making a hamburger from a buffalo. Back to wheat kings and pretty things. Back to “Clark, Audrey's eyes are frozen... well that's all part of the experience honey.” Back to driving on the correct-hand side of the road. Back to driving, period. Back to standing in lines instead of queues. Back to not offending anyone with the term “homo milk”. Back to eating poutine topped with Montreal smoked meat and perogies, all served on a bagel. Back to bacon being a food group. Back to the start of deer season being a national holiday. Back to having a Prime Minister who doesn't speak French. Or English. Back to a great country... one that will always be there when I need it.

Before I go, I'd like to thank the following people: Mom, Dad, Leigh, Nan & Mo, Grandma, Matt Hud, Ding, Jacko (and Sarah), Iain, Andrew, Brett, Carina, Chris “Big Man” James, Jess, Lou, Nate and Gloves, Pia, Froot Loop, Octavio and Consuelo, Julie, and all the other people who've read my blog and made comments. Your continued interest has made the blog great, although let's face it, I deserve most of the credit.

And it should come as no surprise to any of you that my special thank you goes out to Isis. This trip would simply not have been as amazing had I not met you at the beginning. After all, in the end, you helped shape it by being so awesome as to make me change direction every few months. Words cannot express how great I think you are.


Which is why I want to see you again.

“Little darling of mine
I can't for the life of me
Remember a sadder day
I know they say let it be
But it just don't work out that way.” -Paul Simon

As my last words (on this blog, not in life), I'd like to offer the following bit of wisdom to anyone who cares to hear it:

The world is an amazing place. Go out and see it someday.

I Mock The Modern

Dear Reader: In my continued effort to keep this blog interesting, I have decided to write today's post in the form of a lyrical poem. The topic of discussion is my recent visit to The Tate Modern museum in London. I've made reference to four works of art in the text. Links go to images of those works.

And, in the spirit of nonsensical art, I have entitled this poem "A Mockery of the Justice Hitherto Five Neurons of Fluffy Elephant Pants".

There once was a place called The Tate
A museum they all claimed was great
So one day last week
I went for a peek
And now I've a tale to relate

The art that they house there is 'modern'
Which I've always found a bit odd and
Totally shit
Well there, I've said it
So now I will beg all your pardons

But I'm not of the ignorant sort
Who makes statements he cannot support
So here's some examples
That is to say samples
Of why I feel this stuff falls short

Take this composition by Judd
It's a box pinned together with studs!
It could have been made
By a kid in 4th grade
Which is why I think Judd is a dud

Or consider Bueys' Felt Suit
For which I do not give a hoot
How long did it take?
A minute to make?
You could buy that at Wal Mart, you coot!

This painting by Bart van der Leck
Makes me want to go break by own neck
This is art? No it aint!
Could this guy even paint?
It looks like it was drawn by Shrek

And then there are pieces like this
The point of which I must have missed
If you ask me the artist
Is simply retarded
And literally taking the piss

To summarize: modern art's crazy
The artists – genuis or lazy?
Well if you ask me
Then it's easy to see
That their sense of perception is hazy

But if you're the type who would say
That convention has had its day
Then it's prob'ly true
That The Tate is for you
(Admission is free anyway)

But don't ask me if we can meet
For a date at The Tate, my sweet
You'll be there alone
Since I'll likely go home
Or perhaps to the pub down the street

Bodyrock Now

What do you get when you combine a few hundred Brazilian expats, a huge indoor location, some live accordion and zabumba music, thousands of liters of Cachaca, a pungent smell of sweat and cologne, and the city of London?

You get forró night at the Guanabara Restaurant and Nightclub.


Forró is a traditional dance that originated in the Northeast region of Brazil, but later took the rest of the country by storm. Less furious than samba but far more romantic than the polka, forró is danced in pairs to the tune of music that touches on feelings of sadness, longing, passion and jealousy. Choreographically speaking, the man and woman hold each other close, the man's right hand on his partner's back and her right arm around his neck, with the other two hands joined at the side as in waltz. Hips are hugged and harmonically move together, such that any slip of the feet will usually result in a sore toe issued to one's companion. As for the movement itself, it's no matter of complication: there is a basic step that is sexy enough to stand on its own, and a series of swings and twirling motions that can be added for effect.

Nobody really knows where the name forró came from. The most likely explanation is that the word derives from the term forrobodó, meaning commotion, but a second school of thought exists which credits the name to a bastardization of the English number 40 (four-oh), which was emblazoned on a railway car that used to run the tracks in Northeastern Brazil. Whatever the root of the word, it's almost impossible to pronounce phonetically in English, thanks mostly to the accented 'o'. My best advice is to say foh-HOE, but let the 'e' drop a bit such that the end result is halfway between HOE and HAW.

Background aside, I had a little bit of a problem when I arrived at Guanabara and stepped up to the dance floor to watch the throng of Latin boys spin their girls around like whirligig beetles in a veritable ballet of sensual fervor. The problem is not that I ain't Brazilian – there were plenty of other gringos out there doing just fine. The issue is that I am male, and that as male, I am expected to lead. How, pray tell, does one lead a female in a dance that one is not familiar with? How, furthermore, does one even get started when the dance floor is already going at full throttle?

Easy. You get your girlfriend to teach you. And to assume the male role for the night. Isis, who swears with her hand on the bible that she doesn't know the dance well enough to instruct it, got me started, and after a few stumbles and several trips to the hospital (just kidding), I was beginning to get the job done. Like many Latin dance styles, forró can be as simple or as complicated as you make it, and there's no rule that coerces you to deviate from the simple step if you don't wish to. For the beginner, this is life-saving. One look at some of the arm swings kept me in check - you could really take an eye out if you didn't know your stuff properly.

I'm pleased to say that it was a successful evening enjoyed by all. Isis' teaching left nothing to be desired, I had seven caipirinhas to inhibit my inhibitors and add swagger to my step, and by the end of the night we were looking like two people who had forró'd before. Or at least, she was... and I was managing to keep up just enough.
But it's not over yet. Guanabara opens its doors every Sunday night, and next weekend I will be returning, this time with my sister in tow. If you arrive early enough, around 7pm, then you can take a brief lesson to prepare you for the fury of the later hours. I figure it'll be enough for Leigh and I to get our footwork down, so that later I can sit back and watch her get invited to dance by dozens woman-thirsty, pheromone-oozing Brazilian men. Dad, I'm about to throw your daughter to the lions.

Don't worry though, I'm pretty sure she prefers French guys anyway.