OHIO - What is this, Miami Beach?

First off; the resolution of the not-very-long-running mystery which has already been called "tired and predictable" by some commentators. It turned out that the party responsible for the distribution of illicit Harry Potter merchandise in the BC Lower Mainland area was, indeed, UK based and was, in fact, my sister. Which goes to show the trouble that can happen when you don't put a message in with your birthday presents. So, anyway - my vacation.


"Don't forget your booties 'cause it's COLD out there today. It's COLD out there everyday!..."

With freezing temperatures, an almost never ending barrage of wind and/or snow and a general disregard for central heating in my place of work, it seemed only right that I should go take my first North American vacation in somewhere equally cold, often rainy (at least whenever I'm there) and even somewhat snowy. And with more temperamental heating. Yes; I vacationed in Cincinnati in the Winter. I'm proud of the fact. Don't try raining on my parade.

As those well versed in the art of deciphering blog-to-blog flirting will already be well aware, Cincinnati is the hometown of my darling Mel (yes, that one) As an activist and wanabee world citizen, like me, Mel makes veiled threats much of the time that she will one day leave the place for some exotic foreign land. But, unlike me, she hasn't quite gotten around to it yet. Hence the reason why our first hike together in John Bryan Park was broken up by stops by icicle clad rock formations and snow covered waterfalls. Mad props to Mel, incidentally, for not complaining at being dragged through the mud for three hours, especially when her navigator managed to get lost on the subsequent, and far easier, trip to an ice cream parlor on the way home.

NOTE: At this point I was hoping to insert a picture of the excitingly named Orton Memorial, followed by a discussion of the life and works of Edward Orton who sounded like a thoroughly upright and decent, if rather dull, kind of a chap. Unfortunately, I realised when I got home I'd forgotten to take any pictures. So, instead, you'll just have to look him up on Wikipedia yourselves. Go on; you'll be glad you did.

Other highlights of the week included: the astonishing singing of a young Christian Bale in Newsies (due for a revival anytime now), more Italian food than is strictly healthy for a night out and the reactions of staff in the local store when asked where hummus could be found. Cincinnati being a sort of satellite part of the Bible Belt, we were no doubt regarded as crazy heretics trying to obtain esoteric devil food... As a penance we went to church both on Saturday night and Sunday morning. And then Mel scored extra bonus holy points by going to an alternative worship service on Sunday evening whilst I and her friends watched Jack Bauer break out his vampire fangs on 24. There's something about small town America which inspires one to try and be a little holier. Perhaps because all my aspirations for perfect holiness revolve around a peaceful, tranquil world of justice and that's what small town American is designed to look like on every surface. Scratching underneath that doesn't take too long; but when you're on vacation for just a few days you can stay happily oblivious.


Look at those happy, smiling faces. But are there enough vomit bags in the world?

From a social experiment point of view, though, the aim of the week wasn't analysis of the American Midwest, but answering the perennial question "can a couple who do most of their business long distance actually bear to spend any time together?" To which I say the answer is yes. And if Mel then says that the answer is no; then you'll have your answer. Neither of us killed the other. Which, from two people with a wide assortment of sociological disfunctions between them; coupled with an overdeveloped knowledge of sarcasm, is no mean feet. The next task, then, is to repeat this experiment in the mountains, hills and snows of West Vancouver. Where hummus is plentiful, but church on a Saturday night? Please! That's talk we just don't hear north of the Peace Arch...

VANCOUVER - The Mystery of the Masons

As regular readers will know, I turned 25 this week. I dislike dwelling on such things (suffice to say, the 'list of things to do before thirty' is looking a lot less intimidating this year having had 'travel around the world' and 'be published academically on Buffy the Vampire Slayer' ticket off it in 2006) Thankfully, I don't have to because, returning to my apartment after my last bout of pet sitting, I became embroiled in a mystery.


Exhibit A: Every good mystery begins with a gift from a mysterious benefactor...

I love a mystery. I was reading Agatha Christies when I was ten and have been hooked ever since. But, I've got to say, this one has me stumped. Having been away over the entire Christmas/New Year/birthday season, a rather large pile of mail had stockpiled under my bedroom door. Many lovely cards, the odd cute stuffed animal. And lastly, like the Grail Diary under Indiana Jones' post pile, a small yellow package with an unfamiliar postmark.

Inside: a copy of Quidditch Through the Ages A book I did used to own back in Britain but which, like so many others, sits in boxes in my bedroom until I can raise the pennies to have it shipped over here. Obviously my benefactor foresaw my need.

But here's the catch: I have no idea who sent it. There was no note, no inscription in the book. More mysteriously than that; Canadian postage always has a return address on it. And this one is entirely unfamiliar to me. The plot thickens, Watson! Foresooth and all that!


Exhibit B: Who are the mysterious Dorothy and Avery Mason? Are they an anagram, or a pseudonyms? And what about the name of the town: Windsor, Nova Scotia. Am I being drawn into a cross country DaVinci Code scavenger hunt? I hope not. Air fares going eat do not come cheap... The dragon, incidentally, is also named Phil. Obviously a fiendish plan on Mel's part to confuse me. He is not part of the conspiracy as far as I know. He's just cute.

So the mystery is this; who sent the book to me? Obviously it is someone who knows my liking of things Harry Potter esque. As far as I know, that doesn't include any Canadians and especially not any outside of British Columbia. There is also the possibility that the envelope is a cunning forward. You may have noticed that the address label has been stuck on with tape.; as if it had come from somewhere else itself. But the book is a Canadian edition. So it didn't come from Britain itself.

And what of the mysterious Dorothy and Avery Mason (if that *is* their real names...) What is it they want from me? What do the seek to gain by providing me with Harry Potter reading material? Does this conspiracy include the elusive J.K. Rowling; or is her name on the copyright page entirely co-incidental?

The investigation continues. If anyone has any information or theories which they'd like to contribute, please do so in the comments section. This amateur detective eagerly awaits your deductions.