Welcome to London 2012

Unless you’ve been living under a rock somewhere, you’re likely aware by now that London is currently hosting the 2012 Olympic and Paralympic Games. I mean, even the last country on earth to get television (Bhutan in 1999) brought a team for the archery, so this thing kind of has a global reach. And, during last night’s spectacular Opening Ceremonies, there were nations I had never even heard of (Comoros, Kiribati, Palau), so you can bet that televisions were on in even the most remote islands dotted around the Pacific. 

The five Olympic rings represent the five continents – Africa, Asia, the Americas, Europe and Oceania – and 204 nations are expected to be represented. And that, to me, is what makes the Olympics so awe-inspiring; the sense of nationalistic pride and, if only temporarily, a little global unity. Countries like Afghanistan and Libya have brought teams, which gives me a bit of hope around peaceful coexistence and, at least for a few weeks, a shared common goal.

I know not everyone gives a shit. I mean, I’m not really that bothered about the actual sport (if it was the Winter Olympics, I’d be a bit more into the actual events). And I’m aware of the contradictions evident in the fact that war-torn countries are attending this billion-pound extravaganza, while civilians back home are struggling for food, water and a day without guaranteed safety. There is also the exorbitant costs (which I do prefer not to think about), but you would do well to keep in mind that Beijing spent $300 million on its Opening Ceremonies in 2008, so London’s £27 million for last night’s impressive display barely registers.

From my, admittedly, very cushy vantage point, it sure is interesting to watch my city turn into host, something that’s been coming for seven years. Long before I even dreamed of moving here, a bid headed by former Olympic champion Sebastian Coe and then mayor Ken Livingstone in July 2005 was selected. It makes London the first city to officially host the modern Olympic Games three times, having previously done so in 1908 and 1948. And it has been truly amazing to watch the preparations unfold over the past three years, all culminating in the next few weeks of sport and cultural events around London.

So, let’s get into the Opening Ceremonies. While I was watching, I did wonder whether much of what was happening at the Olympic Stadium last night made any sense to the rest of the world. Honestly, if I hadn’t been living here for the past three years, soaking up British idiosyncrasies on a daily basis, a lot of it would have gone right over my head. But I think that’s kind of the point of the Opening Ceremonies; to showcase the host nation in all its historical and cultural contexts, demonstrating to the rest of the world what makes the UK unique.

The presence of the Chelsea pensioners, Pearly kings and queens, subtle soundbites from East Enders and The Archers, a performance by local rap star Dizzie Rascal, and the entire segment celebrating the National Health Service (NHS) would have meant nothing to be three years ago. But I think the bits with Queen E and James Bond, Mr Bean’s accompaniment of the London Symphony Orchestra, the children’s choirs in England, Scotland, Wales and Northern Ireland, and the shout-out to British film, music and literature, are generally known around the world.

While I thought the whole ceremony was phenomenal, there were three parts that I truly loved. The entire first segment, which traced British history from a tableau of rural English life in the 18th century, through to the vast chimneys and steelworkers of the Industrial Revolution, then to a moment of silence for the World Wars, onwards to the transformative, Beatles-driven 1960s (complete with a queue of Sgt Peppers), and closing with the five iconic rings rising into the pitch-black, cloudy London sky, was an inventive timeline that displayed why its creator Danny Boyle (Trainspotting, 28 Days Later, Slumdog Millionaire) is one of the greatest directors around.

I also loved the incandescent insects that circled the track on bicycles later in the show, glowing against the darkness of the stadium. And, at the end, when five past Olympic heroes literally passed the flame to five of the next generation of British athletes, I couldn’t help but feel a little emotional. The cauldron, a complex structure of 204 moving steel rods and copper petal-like elements representing the nations taking part in the Games, was probably the absolute highlight for me. It was stunning to see the fiery rods slowly rise into the sky to unite in one flame. A fitting analogy for the whole concept of the Olympics. Then the fireworks, exploding in the sky in East London, which we could hear from home in Islington.

It has all made me feel a bit sad that I didn’t get involved much in the last Winter Olympics, when Vancouver hosted the world (I was already living here, after all). But I am thrilled to be an adopted Briton this time around. The world is watching, and I will be able to one day tell my grandchildren that I had a front-row seat.

Switzerland’s identity crisis (and a bit of cheese fondue)

Switzerland is known worldwide for its chocolate, cheese fondue, mountains and neutrality. 

But what I notice most, each time I visit, is the way that it encroaches into the culture of its bordering countries, whether Austria, Germany, France, Italy or Liechtenstein. I’m not saying the country doesn’t have an identity of its own. Well, maybe I am. There are definitely truly Swiss markers that the traveler crosses off the list, but most of these are heavily influenced by another European nation.

Even Wiki basically says the same thing: “Switzerland comprises three main linguistic and cultural regions: German, French and Italian. The Swiss, therefore, do not form a nation in the sense of a common ethnic or linguistic identity. The strong sense of belonging to the country is founded on the common historical background, shared values and Alpine symbolism.”

I’ve managed to travel to Switzerland three times, to each of the three main linguistic and cultural regions. Firstly, the southern part that borders Italy, followed by the north-eastern German part and lastly, the Western French-speaking part.

The first time I saw Switzerland I was 20 (God, I’m old). I landed in Zurich and was soon on the southeastern road to Italy, watching the Alps rise and fall around me. I can’t say that I remember much of the Swiss part of this experience, as I was en route to a villa in Tuscany, the beautiful memories of which have managed to overwhelm any part of the journey there. What I do remember is the striking landscape, traveling through tunnels in the midst of the Alps, coming out into Italy and, shortly after, the terracotta-roofed, sunflower-laden hills of the Tuscan countryside. So, fair enough, I can’t be a good judge of the Italian border of Switzerland.

My second visit was during the Lyl-and-Jenn-backpacking-adventure-of-2004, and this time I was in the northeastern part of the country, close to the German border. This time I properly saw Zurich, then traveled centrally to Lucerne and Interlaken. I do remember, distinctly, that the language spoken was mostly Swiss-German, but I also remember that I got to use my French a bit, particularly as we traveled southwest towards the mountainous town of Interlaken.

I recall that Zurich was small and charming, with Gothic architecture clustered on cobblestones along the Limmat River; that Lucernce was a picturesque town, where we spent a couple of rainy days below the towering peaks of Mount Pilatus and Mount Rigi; and that Interlaken, after a stunning train ride through some adorable alpine villages, green lakes and snowcapped mountains, was a bit of a kitschy, tourist-filled town within yodeling distance of the Jungrau peaks. I do know we ate a lot of chocolate, found the Swiss Franc far too much for our modest backpacking budget, and did some beautiful hiking around the lakes.

This past weekend I was in the Western part of Switzerland, which is basically France. Did you know that 95% of Geneva is bordered by France? Every once and awhile, you accidentally cross the border, just walking from the arrivals lounge to the car rental area at the airport. It’s kind of amazing – for a girl who loves France (except when you’re only currency is Swiss Francs, or bits of British sterling.)

I was in Geneva to visit one of my oldest and best friends, Jill, who is doing an internship at the World Health Organization (WHO) as part of her Masters in global health. The city – though the second most populous in Switzerland, a world-leading financial centre, a worldwide base for diplomacy (headquarters of the United Nations and the Red Cross) – is also the fifth most expensive city in the world and just doesn’t really appeal to the traveler in me. So, we rented an adorable Fiat Panda, and embarked on a nearly 15-hour adventure around the circumference of Lake Geneva. It was one of my Top 10 days of all time!

I won’t get into too much detail, but we headed east, trying to follow country roads in view of the gorgeous lake, through Coppet, Nyon, Rolle and Morges, before we stopped mid-morning in Lausanne. We visited the Parc Olympique, which is under construction and housed in a boat. Then onward, through the more bustling lakeside towns of Vevey and Montreux, before we headed north and into the mountains. With Gruyères our end goal (cheese!), we drove through some adorable Swiss villages, imagining their beauty in the snowy winter months.

Later, we left Switzerland quite effortlessly for France, which basically touches the entire south border of the lake. We found ourselves in Yvoire, a medieval town about 45 minutes from Geneva, where a local Bastille Day celebration was kicking off. Drank some lovely cold bière, ate frites and sausage de veau, and watched the sun set over the lake, as it dyed the white caps of the Swiss Alps a pastel pink. We got back on the road as the fireworks started (the French love their fireworks) and, barring a bit of a detour due to a Roots concert on the lake, we eventually made it back to the Geneva airport to return our rental.

Clearly, my latest visit to Switzerland is foremost in my memory (since it was last weekend and I feel I’ve got a bit more life perception than I did when I was 20 or 23), but I have to say that the Swiss-French linguistics and culture is definitely my favourite. To be completely fair, I could have easily been in France last weekend, which is probably the main reason I loved the western part of the country.

All that to say, after three trips to Switzerland, I still don’t really feel that it has its own identity, or maybe I just haven’t experienced that identity yet. Our hours driving into the mountains were my favourite, the most typically Swiss, I guess. But all the pieces of Italy in the southeast, the German/Austrian influences of the north, and the amazing Frenchness of the west, still feel much more like those other countries than they do Switzerland. I guess I’ll just have to visit again and do some more research.

Ode to a Dram of Whisky

I love whisky. Love, love, love. And I love Scotland. So, it’s no surprise that my visit this past weekend to Glasgow ended up pretty much fueled by the liquid gold. My first dram of the weekend was at a local distillery within a few hours of my 8am arrival in the homeland, while my last was at the airport in the final hour before my flight back to London. There were many others in between.

No one knows exactly when Scotch whisky (very different – and superior, in my opinion – to Irish or American whiskey) was first distilled. It is said that the Ancient Celts practised distilling and that the liquid produced was known in Gaelic as uisge beatha (water of life), which later evolved into Scotch whisky.

Its production was first taxed in 1644, causing a rise in illicit whisky distilling. In 1780, there were 400 distilleries in Scotland, only eight of which were actually legal. In 1823, Parliament eased restrictions on licensed distilleries, while at the same time making it harder for the illegal stills to operate, ushering in the modern era of Scotch production.

To be classified as a real single malt Scotch whisky the liquid must be aged in an oak barrel for three years and one day. It also must be made from only three core ingredients: barley, water and yeast.

It comes from five different regions, each of which has its own distinct taste. Covering the largest area of Scotland are two regions: Highland and Speyside. The prior region, which includes Dalmore, Glenmorangie and Oban, has the most variance in character, from dry to florally. The latter region, which includes Glenfiddich, Glenlivet and Macallan, is home to approximately half of the country’s malt whisky distilleries. It is often described as mellow, sweet and fruity.

Lowland whiskies are regarded as the most light-bodied of the single malts. Situated south of an imaginary line drawn from the Clyde estuary to the Tay estuary, the region can only claim three working distilleries, including Auchentoshan, which I tasted for only the second time on this past trip. These whiskies are malty and grassy, with subtle aromas.

Islay whiskies – my favourite region – are heavily peated, oily and smoky. Islay is one of the Inner Hebride islands, on the west coast of Scotland, and also the name of my future daughter. The rest of the island whiskies are often classed in with the Islays, but some argue that the taste of Arran, Jura and Talisker really do deserve consideration for their own region.

Campbeltown is home to my absolutely favourite single whisky, Springbank, which is usually found at 10 years of age. The town, which lies by Campbeltown Loch on the Kintyre peninsula, was once home to more than 30 distilleries, but now there are just three: Springbank, Glen Gyle and Glen Scotia. These have a peaty and salty taste to them, and are more full-bodied then the other regions.

Though I can’t state this unequivocally (due to experimentation in my teens with whatever I could steal from my parents’ liquor cabinet), my first taste of Scotch whisky was Campbeltown’s Springbank. It is my parents’ favourite and is always in the house. While it may have not been the very first taste I had, it is certainly the one I remember and the one that made me actually begin to fall in love with whisky.

I’ve been on the Scotch Whisky Experience in Edinburgh twice, once in my teens on a family holiday, and two years ago while visiting Scotland with my sister Lyl and friend Jill. It is a fun way to learn about the history of the drink and, since it is not affiliated with any one brand or distillery, a great way to learn about the subtle differences of the various regions.

This past weekend, I trekked to the Auchentoshan Distillery, on the outskirts of Glasgow, to learn a bit more about the Lowland region. Favouring the Campbeltown, Islay and Speyside whiskies, I had never tried a Lowland (except a small sip on my Scotch Whisky Experience), but I had been to a whisky tasting event for work a few months back, run by Milroy’s in Soho, and I found myself immediately fond of the unpronounceable (Ock-in-tosh-in) brand. Planning my trip up north, I Googled ‘whisky distillery’ and ‘Glasgow’, and organized a trip to Auchentoshan, the only distillery in Scotland that triple distils its whiskies.

Founded in 1823 and literally translating to “the corner of the field”, Auchentoshan starts with malted optic barley, which is ground up for the tun. The milled barley is fed, along with pure Scottish lake water, into the lauter tun. It is fed through three times then fermented in pine washbacks. The three distillations take the fermented liquid from around 8% alcohol by volume (ABV) up to 81% (double distillation usually reaches 70% ABV). Next comes maturation, and Auchentoshan uses three different types of oak casks for this – bourbon, sherry or wine – each lending its own unique flavour. During maturation, a tiny percentage of alcohol evaporates from the casks – this is known mythically as the “angels’ share”.

It was a very informative tour and I found the whole process fascinating. Best of all, it ended in the bar, where we got to taste the Auchentoshan 12, an easy-to-drink, malty Scotch, perfect for a noon drink on a sunny day.

A couple of days later, I was in for a different type of whisky tour. I had come up to Scotland for work, interviewing the reward team at the whisky distillery William Grant and Sons for our monthly employer profile. The distillery was founded in 1887, when William Grant first distilled the world-famous Glenfiddich. It now has six core brands – Glenfiddich, Balvenie, Grant’s (a blend of the first two), Tullamore Dew (an Irish whiskey), as well as Sailor Jerry’s rum and Hendrick’s gin.

The whiskies here are actually Speyside, and so are distilled up north in Dufftown, where Grant was born in 1839. He worked as a shoemaker, a lime works clerk and then a bookkeeper before he was the manager at Mortlach distillery, but was keen to start his own distillery. Grant and five of his sons virtually built the distillery from start to finish. By the time of his death in 1923, his own blended whiskies were selling in more than 30 countries. Today, the company exports its products to 200 countries and produces 14 million cases of alcohol at its bottling plant in Bellshill, Scotland, which is where I spent the day.

My photographer and I got to tour the bottling plant, learn all about the history of William Grant and Sons, and about the production of some of the most famous alcohol brands in the world. Later, we did a photo shoot with the head of reward and then I interviewed him for the profile. I spent the afternoon working on the feature in the company’s boardroom, complemented with a fully stocked liquor cabinet, but I didn’t get to taste a single drop.

I remedied this later on, when I arrived at the airport. Ordered one of my favourites – Talisker – at the airport bar, along with one last traditional dinner of haggis, tatties, neeps and whisky sauce. Overall, it was a really wonderful weekend. I get so nostalgic in Scotland, owing to my heritage in the country, and that is probably one of the reasons I love whisky. It reminds me of this heritage, of my feisty great-grandmother Bessie (who I like to think I’m very much like) who always carried a flask of whisky wherever she went, and it makes me feel at home.