Tuesday: May 4, 2010
I wake up before my alarm because I always wake up before it when I am waiting for it to go off. I wake up a full hour before in fact at 6am when it's not due to go off until 7. I close my eyes. I begin having dreams about the alarm shutting off, or changing times, or going off but I am unable to get ready in time. I wake up and check the time and it is 6:15. I close my eyes. I dream I am on the bus to Oxford but for some reason we are going the wrong way, we are actually headed towards Tennessee, this is frightening, so I wake up. It's 6:25. I close my eyes. I wake up in my dream where my alarm is going off but it will not shut off. Beep beep beep beep beep. It was one of those old alarm clocks. Beep beep beep beep. It finally turns off and I get up and get ready. Shower, brush my teeth, decide on clothes, pack by daybag.
Doooo doot doooooo din din din dooo. Shit, my real alarm's going off now. I am disappointed that I already got ready once in my dream and now I have to get ready again, but so it goes. I do everything over again that I did in my dream, except this time I actually get to leave and get on the tube. I take the tube to Victoria Station where apparently all the Coach Tours run from. I get there and am a little flustered because I only have ten minutes till departure and I need to get something to eat or I might dine on the tour guide once in the coach. There is terrible food in the coach terminal, but I haven't got another choice so I get a blueberry muffin and an orange juice. This will just have to do.
At 8:10 it is time to board and I get on with 19 other restless travelers, who also look to be noshing on terminal eats and all have their tourist cameras ready to go. Our tour guide boards the bus and gets a good count, not that it's hard with 20 bodies filling up the 65 available seats on the bus. He is tall and lanky and sporting a suit that from the front looks decent, but from the back is tattered and worn and looks like it has smudged fingerprints made of dirt on it. I know he is trying to look chic, but instead he is looking very boho. I don't care much about that though since I know he's just trying to make a living, I just feel bad that he can't wear the jeans he is obviously dying to wear because he's on the job.
This guy is funny and I wonder if they hired a funny guy or if he became funny because of the job. Then I wonder again if I can learn to become funny and if I can just buy a pack of jokes and put them in my pocket. This reminds me of course that there's still that mini book I want to write called "comeback in my pocket" or is it "A pocketful of comebacks?" Damn, now I don't remember. Sammy you've got to help me out. Either way, these titles are taken. Go get one of your own.
So... this tour guide is funny thankfully because I am tired and would likely fall asleep if I weren't laughing so hard. Basically as we make our way on the two hour drive to Warwick Castle he gives us a short history of London and then gives us information on any major sites we pass. We pass a little area that he calls "dish city" because every single flat has a TV dish hooked up to it from dinner plate sized to kiddie pool sized. I would like to note here that a kiddie pool doesn't look that big on the ground, but when you see a dish that size hanging from a small flat you think, "damn... they're really watching some TV in there." I mean that poor dinner plate sized dish has got to be envious of the TV it's not getting right?
The coach takes us through the city and then into suburban area of London and it seems sudden, or perhaps I just wasn't paying attention, but the countryside appears. The countryside (Cotswalds) is a beautiful expanse of rolling green hills spotty with trees and dotted with sheep! Okay, there were some cows too, but I am enthralled with the sheep because most are numbered since it is lambing season and there are babies! Yes, I love mini things. Who doesn't like mini things?
I attempt to take pictures from the coach of any animal scene from sheep to horse, but it is difficult with both the bus speed and the bushes that line the road into most areas. I decide that fuzzy pictures are better than no pictures so I take as many as I can. Then we pass into an area full of rapeseed (mustard seed) and the hills are no longer just green, but the green is now intertwined with a vibrant yellow. It is beautiful and I realize I want to move to the countryside. The beauty is inspiring me once again and once the tour guide decides it's time to give his voice a rest I write postcards and letters to friends and lovers, okay not lovers, but I wanted to say that. I figure that writing on a coach will be a little more novel than the typical cafe and I think my friends will be able to see the inspiration or at least see the coach influence because my writing is rather messy due to movement. As we head towards Warwickshire I am happy.
Warwick Castle is majestic and dominates the landscape around Warwickshire. It is a castle full of towers and chilled halls. When I first walk to the front gates I see that part of the tourist attraction to this are the actors and actresses portraying the parts of nineteenth century servants and royalty. There is a man shooting bows and arrows and a couple adorned in jewels laughing and preening themselves in mirrors. It is a lovely sight. Inside the castle they have set up re-creations of what life would have been like back in Henry VIII. I’d have to say along this trip the easiest King to identify has been Henry
VIII because of his portliness. Other people I seem to pass by without recognition, but he is unforgettable and I often wonder how so many women could have loved this man.
The inside is dark as all Tudor castles seem to be, but it is nice and is full of thick velvety burgundy tapestries. I am thankful right now that I didn’t live then because I am chilled and it seems it would take at least a hundred logs in one fireplace to heat even a single room, they are so large. I love central heating.
Outside it is bright but there is still a chill. I decide that a walk up the towers would do me good and hopefully heat me up. The stairs like in most towers swirl around getting smaller and smaller both in size and in space as I ascend to the top. My feet are too big for all these little stairs I think, but perhaps I think that about most stairs. I have an irrational fear of going downstairs because of my large feet, though perhaps not necessarily irrational because I have sprained my ankle three times on my descents downstairs in my lifetime. It will be a great feat if I make it through the entirety of this trip without spraining anything.
I am mesmerized by the beauty of the landscape from up in the towers. Yellow and various greens blend together amongst mini dense treescapes. It actually looks a lot like a Final Fantasy landscape and now I know where the inspiration came from. Time runs quickly though when you are on a tour of many places and my time seems to end too quickly with the castle, though I am excited about our next stop, Stratford.
Our coach winds around little roads and we see numbers of tiny towns in the Cotswalds with Church centers and houses adorned with tiny thatched roofs. I love the look of old towns and I wish at this point that I could stay in one.
Stratford is a close drive from Warwick, so we arrive in no time. Our coach slows down in this densely populated small town or perhaps it is just densely tourist populated. I look for Shakespeare’s birthplace on my right when our tour guide tell us to and notice it surrounded by a clothing shop and a tourist shop. I look to my left and everything there looks very modern as well. It seems that in Stratford, the only thing that isn’t modern is Shakespeare’s birthplace, saved only by its history.
The tour itself is not too bad. It is once again setup as historians believed it would have been in Shakespeare’s time. This is the home of Mary and John Shakespeare, his parents. From the outside it looks quaint and rather unassuming, but inside I see that it is very much larger with a family room, two bedrooms, a guest room, and a kitchen. It is actually a very sweet house, one that I rather like. My favorite room to visit is one of the bedrooms converted into a tourist information center that houses Shakespeare’s old bedroom window that has the engravings of numerous writers that have come to visit his house. Writers like Wilde, Thoreau, Woolf have all come to visit for inspiration and I can see why. There is something about knowing that I am standing in a house that has been full of great writers of our time that inspires me. I officially want to add write a novel to my list of things to do. Isn’t that on everyone’s list of things to do though?
I am not very impressed with the rest of the town because of its complete modernity and so I decide this would be a perfect postal stop. I find a little post office, which is also a market and send off the cards in which I have been promising people for a few weeks now. Only a select few will actually be receiving these cards because I have been much too self involved to be active about getting these darn cards done. These cards are all beautiful and I don’t really want to part with them. I think... why not just write them and keep them for myself, but I take pictures and send them off.
It seems that it is soon time to leave Stratford and head off to Oxford and see Christchurch, the school that inspired Harry Potter. I still don’t know why I like HP so much and blame all of this on Rene for basically making our entire Starbucks read the books before the seventh one came out. I ended up reading books 1-6 in the month of May 2006 and then pined away for the seventh after that. The seventh happened to come out the weekend I was visiting the San Juan’s with my ex and we found we couldn’t afford more than one book and so I read the entirety of it aloud to her. Thankfully I love reading aloud. I am fairly sure that is my calling but alas there is not exactly a huge market for book readers, it seems they always get Oprah to do it.
After passing through even more Cotswalds, which never end in their beauty, we make it to Oxford. It is simple, elegant, and bustling. There are lots of college aged kids roaming the streets on bikes and it is reminiscent of Cambridge, which I figured might be the case. Our tour guide, excited to take us through Christ Church College walks a brisk pace to the entrance. “We are here!” He is excited until he sees the scaffolding up at the front. He asks one of the staff what that’s about and mumbles under his breath, “great, another damn thing I’ll have to learn for this tour.” I don’t think anyone else hears it, but I chuckle even though I feel kind of bad. It’s the only moment I ever see that he doesn’t enjoy being a tour guide because the rest of the time he is smiling and in good humour. The only part I care about really is the dining hall and this is the first part we see. It is magnificent! The only thing missing are floating candles. Where can we get some floating candles around here? Also, I say a food and it doesn’t appear like in HP. Hmph... I suppose the elves aren’t doing a good enough job then. The college is gorgeous and has big unusued lawns just like in Cambridge. I think it’s a shame for lawns to be so well manicured with nothing but birds and flies to sit upon it.
We look around the city and get history here and history there and suddenly it is time to go. It’s always time to go. This is the last stop on our tour and I wish I could just stay in Oxford for longer. I almost contemplate not getting back on the coach and just staying behind but then realize tomorrow I go to Paris and I really wouldn’t want to miss that.
It is on the bus ride back that I make more goals for my life because the day once again inspires me a little too much. I wonder where I will have time to fit things in and then remember that I am funemployed now and so I should have plenty of time to do all of the stuff I keep thinking of. We drive back through more Cotswalds and I know that if I do come back here I will certainly stay here for a few weeks because it is peaceful and charming and I think I could get a lot of writing or music done out here. Though, I will certainly come when it’s warmer.
The trip ends and tomorrow another leg of my trip will begin.
Saturday, May 8, 2010
Thursday, May 6, 2010
Day #14: Sweatin' to the oldies
I am dying here! My muscles are dwindling away, not that you can actually see them or anything because they are covered by layers of fat, but at least I can tell they're disappearing. I decide after a few days of the least healthy eating I've done in months that I have to go to the gym and lift some weights. I Google search gyms and one about a block from my hotel pops up. I am excited for the smell of sweaty rubber and musty clothes. I know that seems a terrible thing to long for, but there's something very energizing about the smell of treadmill rubber that has been used and sweated upon by many a runner. You know when you smell it that you are in an active space and your body begins to long for it, to be the one running and to be the one sweating.
Unfortunately it takes me a long time to sweat. It always has. I have to run for at least twice the amount of time the average person runs to get a bead, though sometimes this just propels me to workout more. I walk up two flights of stairs to get to the gym and they say, "Ten pounds please." I think is it really worth that much for one day? Yes, yes it is. I make my way to the cardio area, which is small with about fifteen cardio machines total. I wonder how this gym stays alive and then realize they have desperate travelers like me to fund them.
I head for one of the six treadmills, Life Fitness of course. I step on, everything looks usual except for the mirror pretty much pressed up against the treadmill in which I will have to stare at myself for the duration of this workout. I press start and then it asks me to enter my weight, so I do, because it told me to. But when I try to enter the number it doesn't take it and then I realize damn... it's all in the metric system here, so I enter some random number that sounds fine to me, like 120. Okay, I do find out later that 120 kilograms is the equivalent of 264 pounds, which is a lot more like my starting weight a while back. At the time I needed a number and that sounded right. Then it's time to enter the speed. I usually start with around 3.5mph and speed up to 4.5 just for a warm-up, but once again... metric system thwarts my plans. I have no clue how fast 3.5 is and so I just push it up to around 6kmph and hope it'll be fine.
Approximately five minutes later once I've warmed up, I stretch a bit and then decide it's time for a jog. I usually start off around 5.5mph and speed up, but here I'm not sure what speed to start at actually and realize I just should have looked at a conversion chart at some point in my life, so I'm attempting to do the math while not tripping over a foot. The 5k is = 3.1m so that means that means that I have to run about 1.6 for 1 mile, which then means that I have to run at a rate of 9.5 or so or something. Or... Fuck you metric system, fuck you, just jog! Yeah, that's what I told myself after doing the math. I decided to start my jog at 9.5kmph because the guy next to me was doing it. Yeah... peer pressure right. I jogged that for a few minutes, then realized it just seemed too slow so went to 10kmph, then that seemed a bit too slow so I went to 10.5kmph. Then the guy on the other side of me that was totally fit made a "humph" sound and speeded up to 11.5 so that we were not doing the same speed, because clearly two people at two obviously different fitness levels should not be running the same speed.
After a few miles I decide I've had enough of staring at my reflection and head over to an elliptical where I have the option of staring at a tiny TV playing lip syncing music videos instead of staring at myself. This is seriously hilarious. Hit pop songs, lip synced by some fans, looking pretty out of sorts in the video. I can't keep my eyes off the tele, this makes the couple of miles on the elliptical fly by. Funny thing is usually my mind is so packed full of random crap to think about it I never need distractions like music or TV, but all this free thinking time on the trip has left my mind a little blank.
Well, it's now obviously time for the thing I spent ten pounds for and that is weights. I head down to the weight room and it is packed with men, one really really strong woman, and a woman who can barely lift a five pounder doing way too many reps. I do a once around just to make sure I know how to use the equipment because I just don't think I'm up for free weights in a gym filled with kilograms. I head towards the weak woman and start lifting near her so that I can look strong. I do as much as I can and hope for the best since it's been weeks and weeks. My favorite is the weighted pull-up machine. I dream of doing pull-ups one day without the assistance of weights, but until then I will pretend I am "She-Ra!" Even if it is the lackluster She-Ra with like six sidekicks to help her because she can't hold up her own sword.
After my muscles are reduced to a satisfying porridge feeling, I head back to the room. I feel amazing! I feel a whole ten pounds worth of amazing and am glad I spent that money. Larsen is gone to somewhere, the Tower I think and so I decide what is on my list of important things to cover in my last three days in London. The most important thing is to revisit my favorite cafe and so I head for Ray's Jazz. I decide now is the time to purchase phrase books for both France and Italy and then take them directly to the cafe where I find a peaceful seat near the window overlooking Charring Cross Rd. I begin to blog and wonder on more random stuff and "Where ya from? You a student?" interrupts my typing. Are you kidding? I was told that I would be left alone by Londoner's, but people seem really chatty around these parts. Where's the London I expected?
"Oh, no. America. Seattle," after a little hesitation.
"Well... I was just there last year, it was quite beautiful."
"mmhmm."
"Yes, yes. Whatchoo here in London fo?"
"Vacation."
"Well, I go to Kings College London."
"Oh, okay."
"Yeah, yeah. It's nice. Just down the street."
"Oh, okay."
"Are you a writer?" He looks at my laptop and sees the blog I am writing.
"No, no. Just you know, getting some stuff done."
"Well, let's see. I study wars in school."
"Oh."
"Yeah, you know in......" That's where I phased out. You can obviously see what a conversationalist I am. By all attempts I try to stop the conversation so that I can concentrate on finishing the blog or checking facebook, who the hell knows. All I know is that he won't be quiet and leave me alone.
He looks about 23 or 24 and has a gummy smile. He is thin and well dressed with black hair, cut almost in the shape of a bowl. For a majority of the time I can barely understand him and strain to hear his rather thick accent. I find out that he is from the South of London. Then I wonder if he was better looking if I would be more interested in talking, but then I figure the answer must be yes because I wouldn't be thinking the question otherwise. He talks for a while more as I continue to stare out the window and look disinterested and then apologizes for interrupting me. I don’t want him to feel bad for some reason and say, “it’s okay.” I get back to blogging. I blog for a while and he attempts to interrupt with more war history and I nod and continue to type. I decide that my best way out of here is to call Larsen and figure out what the plan is because right now there just has to be a plan. She says that she's headed to the British Museum. Thank you Lord! I pack up my bag and do the usual, "nice to meet you" then jet.
The crowds are massive and ridiculous at the museum. There are far more people here now than the day I originally came because it is a Bank Holiday, whatever the hell that means and so I head upstairs where I know there won’t be quite as many people and end up in the History of India section. I have always been fascinated by India ever since I was young and this section lays out the history of Indian Religions for me. It goes over Buddhism, Jainism, Taoism, and Hinduism. For a while I reminisce over the time I was flirting with Buddhism when I was younger, probably about 14 or 15 and was given my first copy of Siddhartha, by Hermann Hesse by Raleigh. I have read Siddhartha once a year since. It reminds me of impermanence of our reliance on wordly things and the things I should not be attached to. I learned some of my dis-attachment to things when I was young because of this. As a Christian now I just see many of the things I learned in different ways. There is one things I can never seem to learn not to idolize, but I think I'll keep that to myself right now.
While I'm strolling around ancient relics I decide that I must go to India next. I must experience the culture and in some ways I want to see it the way Siddhartha did. I want to see the poverty and desperation that drew him to seek enlightenment. It's not that I am really seeking to see pain because I can barely handle the drunken Brit. attempting to hold himself up with his own bottle of booze without crying. I think it's just something I might need to see, to understand more of humanity than I can understand through pictures. I also have another random Siddhartha story, but perhaps I'll leave that for later too because it's on the non-kosher list of things to discuss.
We leave the British Museum and I say bye to it because I started my trip here and am pretty much ending it here. For some reason it's a little bittersweet and it's only been two weeks. "Bye British Museum, tata Soho, goodnight Oxford Street, toodles Holborn Station." Then we are off. We are too tired to do dinner and so stop at my favorite market Marks & Spencer. I'd say it's the Brit. version of Metropolitan Market, it's nicer than Sainsbury's (Safeway-esque) but not the tip top of the line. I get my favorite Salad for dinner because yes, I already have one. We go back to the hotel and collapse.
Tomorrow... Warwick Castle, Oxford, the Cotswalds, aaaaaand Stratford, the birthplace of Shakespeare. I am super excited to see where the writer that influenced writing on the largest scale of any other writer was born. To sleep now, I've got to get up early to catch a bus and be escorted around with people I don't know. We will awkwardly talk and smile and then take pictures to get out of anymore of this. I will be happy though because at least I will see the inspiration for Harry Potter. Oh Harry...
Unfortunately it takes me a long time to sweat. It always has. I have to run for at least twice the amount of time the average person runs to get a bead, though sometimes this just propels me to workout more. I walk up two flights of stairs to get to the gym and they say, "Ten pounds please." I think is it really worth that much for one day? Yes, yes it is. I make my way to the cardio area, which is small with about fifteen cardio machines total. I wonder how this gym stays alive and then realize they have desperate travelers like me to fund them.
I head for one of the six treadmills, Life Fitness of course. I step on, everything looks usual except for the mirror pretty much pressed up against the treadmill in which I will have to stare at myself for the duration of this workout. I press start and then it asks me to enter my weight, so I do, because it told me to. But when I try to enter the number it doesn't take it and then I realize damn... it's all in the metric system here, so I enter some random number that sounds fine to me, like 120. Okay, I do find out later that 120 kilograms is the equivalent of 264 pounds, which is a lot more like my starting weight a while back. At the time I needed a number and that sounded right. Then it's time to enter the speed. I usually start with around 3.5mph and speed up to 4.5 just for a warm-up, but once again... metric system thwarts my plans. I have no clue how fast 3.5 is and so I just push it up to around 6kmph and hope it'll be fine.
Approximately five minutes later once I've warmed up, I stretch a bit and then decide it's time for a jog. I usually start off around 5.5mph and speed up, but here I'm not sure what speed to start at actually and realize I just should have looked at a conversion chart at some point in my life, so I'm attempting to do the math while not tripping over a foot. The 5k is = 3.1m so that means that means that I have to run about 1.6 for 1 mile, which then means that I have to run at a rate of 9.5 or so or something. Or... Fuck you metric system, fuck you, just jog! Yeah, that's what I told myself after doing the math. I decided to start my jog at 9.5kmph because the guy next to me was doing it. Yeah... peer pressure right. I jogged that for a few minutes, then realized it just seemed too slow so went to 10kmph, then that seemed a bit too slow so I went to 10.5kmph. Then the guy on the other side of me that was totally fit made a "humph" sound and speeded up to 11.5 so that we were not doing the same speed, because clearly two people at two obviously different fitness levels should not be running the same speed.
After a few miles I decide I've had enough of staring at my reflection and head over to an elliptical where I have the option of staring at a tiny TV playing lip syncing music videos instead of staring at myself. This is seriously hilarious. Hit pop songs, lip synced by some fans, looking pretty out of sorts in the video. I can't keep my eyes off the tele, this makes the couple of miles on the elliptical fly by. Funny thing is usually my mind is so packed full of random crap to think about it I never need distractions like music or TV, but all this free thinking time on the trip has left my mind a little blank.
Well, it's now obviously time for the thing I spent ten pounds for and that is weights. I head down to the weight room and it is packed with men, one really really strong woman, and a woman who can barely lift a five pounder doing way too many reps. I do a once around just to make sure I know how to use the equipment because I just don't think I'm up for free weights in a gym filled with kilograms. I head towards the weak woman and start lifting near her so that I can look strong. I do as much as I can and hope for the best since it's been weeks and weeks. My favorite is the weighted pull-up machine. I dream of doing pull-ups one day without the assistance of weights, but until then I will pretend I am "She-Ra!" Even if it is the lackluster She-Ra with like six sidekicks to help her because she can't hold up her own sword.
After my muscles are reduced to a satisfying porridge feeling, I head back to the room. I feel amazing! I feel a whole ten pounds worth of amazing and am glad I spent that money. Larsen is gone to somewhere, the Tower I think and so I decide what is on my list of important things to cover in my last three days in London. The most important thing is to revisit my favorite cafe and so I head for Ray's Jazz. I decide now is the time to purchase phrase books for both France and Italy and then take them directly to the cafe where I find a peaceful seat near the window overlooking Charring Cross Rd. I begin to blog and wonder on more random stuff and "Where ya from? You a student?" interrupts my typing. Are you kidding? I was told that I would be left alone by Londoner's, but people seem really chatty around these parts. Where's the London I expected?
"Oh, no. America. Seattle," after a little hesitation.
"Well... I was just there last year, it was quite beautiful."
"mmhmm."
"Yes, yes. Whatchoo here in London fo?"
"Vacation."
"Well, I go to Kings College London."
"Oh, okay."
"Yeah, yeah. It's nice. Just down the street."
"Oh, okay."
"Are you a writer?" He looks at my laptop and sees the blog I am writing.
"No, no. Just you know, getting some stuff done."
"Well, let's see. I study wars in school."
"Oh."
"Yeah, you know in......" That's where I phased out. You can obviously see what a conversationalist I am. By all attempts I try to stop the conversation so that I can concentrate on finishing the blog or checking facebook, who the hell knows. All I know is that he won't be quiet and leave me alone.
He looks about 23 or 24 and has a gummy smile. He is thin and well dressed with black hair, cut almost in the shape of a bowl. For a majority of the time I can barely understand him and strain to hear his rather thick accent. I find out that he is from the South of London. Then I wonder if he was better looking if I would be more interested in talking, but then I figure the answer must be yes because I wouldn't be thinking the question otherwise. He talks for a while more as I continue to stare out the window and look disinterested and then apologizes for interrupting me. I don’t want him to feel bad for some reason and say, “it’s okay.” I get back to blogging. I blog for a while and he attempts to interrupt with more war history and I nod and continue to type. I decide that my best way out of here is to call Larsen and figure out what the plan is because right now there just has to be a plan. She says that she's headed to the British Museum. Thank you Lord! I pack up my bag and do the usual, "nice to meet you" then jet.
The crowds are massive and ridiculous at the museum. There are far more people here now than the day I originally came because it is a Bank Holiday, whatever the hell that means and so I head upstairs where I know there won’t be quite as many people and end up in the History of India section. I have always been fascinated by India ever since I was young and this section lays out the history of Indian Religions for me. It goes over Buddhism, Jainism, Taoism, and Hinduism. For a while I reminisce over the time I was flirting with Buddhism when I was younger, probably about 14 or 15 and was given my first copy of Siddhartha, by Hermann Hesse by Raleigh. I have read Siddhartha once a year since. It reminds me of impermanence of our reliance on wordly things and the things I should not be attached to. I learned some of my dis-attachment to things when I was young because of this. As a Christian now I just see many of the things I learned in different ways. There is one things I can never seem to learn not to idolize, but I think I'll keep that to myself right now.
While I'm strolling around ancient relics I decide that I must go to India next. I must experience the culture and in some ways I want to see it the way Siddhartha did. I want to see the poverty and desperation that drew him to seek enlightenment. It's not that I am really seeking to see pain because I can barely handle the drunken Brit. attempting to hold himself up with his own bottle of booze without crying. I think it's just something I might need to see, to understand more of humanity than I can understand through pictures. I also have another random Siddhartha story, but perhaps I'll leave that for later too because it's on the non-kosher list of things to discuss.
We leave the British Museum and I say bye to it because I started my trip here and am pretty much ending it here. For some reason it's a little bittersweet and it's only been two weeks. "Bye British Museum, tata Soho, goodnight Oxford Street, toodles Holborn Station." Then we are off. We are too tired to do dinner and so stop at my favorite market Marks & Spencer. I'd say it's the Brit. version of Metropolitan Market, it's nicer than Sainsbury's (Safeway-esque) but not the tip top of the line. I get my favorite Salad for dinner because yes, I already have one. We go back to the hotel and collapse.
Tomorrow... Warwick Castle, Oxford, the Cotswalds, aaaaaand Stratford, the birthplace of Shakespeare. I am super excited to see where the writer that influenced writing on the largest scale of any other writer was born. To sleep now, I've got to get up early to catch a bus and be escorted around with people I don't know. We will awkwardly talk and smile and then take pictures to get out of anymore of this. I will be happy though because at least I will see the inspiration for Harry Potter. Oh Harry...
Wednesday, May 5, 2010
Day #13: The storm comes
It is Larsen’s first full day in London, but after a long night of drinking and dancing she wakes up with a runny nose, feeling a little run down. She was unable to sleep most of the night because of the time change, which makes sense to me now because I had the same thing.
The storm that was brewing is now ready outside. It is raining and strong winds are blowing jackets up in peoples faces, but we have a plan for the day and it is not to be squelched. Today we are going to go on the free walking tour that starts in Hyde Park. The free tour will take us through Hyde Park where the Duke of Wellington had in his more alive years constructed numerous monuments to himself in order to appease his vanity. From there we will walk over into Green Park and hear stories of fallen British soldiers, and from there we are to go see the changing of the guard at Buckingham Palace. At least this is the plan.
The thing about plans is that sometimes, especially on stormy days when the rain and cold are piercing the insides of your jacket and rummaging through your veins turning your fingers blue is that they fall through. When we arrive at our meeting point with rain jackets, gloves, and umbrellas in hand we are assigned a number by the tour group so that we know what tour guide to follow. We get a petite French girl that states she is now a transplant to London as are most of the Londoner’s I’ve met. She is umbrella-less and has a black rain jacket, some jeans, and a pair of sneakers on for the three hour walk. As the wind and rain whip her hair from under her jacket and onto her face it looks like little tears are forming. I don’t know how she is doing this. She is leading a free tour for free as well while silly tourists walk behind her too slowly and confused like a heard of cattle. Who the hell really knows where we’re being led?
The main plan is to have an umbrella to shelter me, but instead I have what looks like a beautiful flower as the wind boosts up the inside of my umbrella into the air. I turn and look and every other umbrella has done the same. Some are holding the sides in hopes that they can maintain at least a semblance of an umbrella and stay partially out of the rain, but the side not being held flips up and they begin to get wet.
By the time we make it to Buckingham Palace we are all soaked. Not only are we soaked, the guardsmen are as well. As we stand in wait for the changing of the guard we realize that it has been cancelled due to rain. The storm has changed our plans and it is time to walk away. However, by this time I am freezing. The gloves covering my fingers have only kept out some of the cold and I can no longer feel two of my fingers. I tell Larsen that I am going to have to wuss out only one hour into the tour, but she agrees that she is sick and cold and needs new shoes. The thing is that we have spring shoes and the weathers temperament is much like fall or winter. Our feet are soaked but hers more so than mine because she has little gaps on the sides. We find the closest tube and find a bathroom where Larsen decides perhaps she can dry her shoes under a hand dryer. She is very unconventional I think. This method does not work however because it would take far too long and they would be sopping again once we hit outside.
Instead we decide to find a shopping district and head over to Oxford Street. Oxford street has the most delicious stores. I want to shop! I swear I have never wanted to shop before in my life, but I see blouses and leggings calling my name. “No Nicole, we are here for shoes,” I say to myself. We walk into an Urban Outfitters, which is perhaps triple the size of the Seattle store and I almost swoon. The clothes are amazing and I feel the need to tie my hands behind my back just to make it through here. The shoes however are a bust and we walk on. As we walk we see Shuh’s. No really, that is the name of the store. I see the sheos and I want them all. Some are glamorous and made from alternative materials. I see a pair of heels that would make me at least 6’3 calling my name that are a luscious red and I think I could fly in them. “No Nicole, you cannot buy shoes, they will not under any circumstances fit in your bag,” I say to myself and bite my lip as Larsen finds a cute pair of boots to satisfy the warmth longings of her feet.
After a bite of lunch at a Mexican restaurant, how very American of us, we head back to the hotel. I have things to do like book the duration of my journey. I realize that I have yet to figure out my stays beyond our hotel in Paris and decide to look for couch surfers to stay with. I also realize that I haven’t figured out how to get from Paris to Italy and book a rather cheap ticket via easyjet.com. Yes, I recommend easyjet, it really is as cheap as every tube ad in London told me. I booked hostels for Venice and Florence, but have yet to book for Rome. I will figure that out soon though.
Larsen the sick decided to head out into the city again to view more sites. I wouldn't have gone, but I don't blame her for trying to get the most she possibly could in during the short amount of time she's in the city. Sites don't see themselves. When she comes back we head out to an organ recital at Westminster Abbey where hoards of people look confused about where to go in and then where to sit. People are "Shh'd" from left and right by the ushers while I later hear the ushers talking. I am annoyed and give a few the evil eye. Organ recitals are beautiful and like I do with most music, I feel the most connected with God when listening to it. Music is a gift that I otherwise can't explain beyond it being from God because I myself know that I don't have the abilities. This is hard to explain, but it comes down to me not feeling like I am writing a song. Some people call it inspiration, but it feels more like an out of body experience, like something has entered me and I am just watching the process.
Afterwards there is moer walking. There is more seeing the bustle of London along with the winds of London. I find broken umbrellas strewn across the city after the storm and I think they are beautiful so I take pictures.
Of course later there is dinner "The Italian Restaurant," which I'm hesitant to go to because of the simplicity of the name. I mean, how can it be good if they didn't even put thought into the name? But we go in and I think perhaps they saved all of their creativity for the food and am pleased. Well... I'm mostly pleased until the end of the meal when I leave for the bathroom and come back to the table only to find that they have tossed my leftovers instead of bringing me a to-go box. Normally I wouldn't find myself very upset about this, but this meal was the equivalent of about $20, something I would neeeeever pay for a meal in the US and I want my leftovers. I tells Larsen sorry for the complaints, I will be better momentarily and it's the first time I've been angry in London. We take a stroll for some relaxing coffee and I calm down. I am at ease with a good cup of cafe. All that I need now is a good rest and we are on our way to that.
We end our night with a good talk on how to trust God because sometimes I don't, but I think at least I'm trusting him on this trip right now. I attribute this trip to either the voice of my mom or the voice of God because I have never wanted to travel in my life. I am not a traveler in any sense of the word. I avoid leaving home and comfort because I like home and comfort and feel like my imaginings of the outside world are good enough. Right now I am testing that hypothesis and I will let you know at journey's end if it holds true. For now I will be taken where my feet, the tubes, the trains, the buses, and the planes take me. I hope to remember it all, but I know much of it will disappear.
The storm that was brewing is now ready outside. It is raining and strong winds are blowing jackets up in peoples faces, but we have a plan for the day and it is not to be squelched. Today we are going to go on the free walking tour that starts in Hyde Park. The free tour will take us through Hyde Park where the Duke of Wellington had in his more alive years constructed numerous monuments to himself in order to appease his vanity. From there we will walk over into Green Park and hear stories of fallen British soldiers, and from there we are to go see the changing of the guard at Buckingham Palace. At least this is the plan.
The thing about plans is that sometimes, especially on stormy days when the rain and cold are piercing the insides of your jacket and rummaging through your veins turning your fingers blue is that they fall through. When we arrive at our meeting point with rain jackets, gloves, and umbrellas in hand we are assigned a number by the tour group so that we know what tour guide to follow. We get a petite French girl that states she is now a transplant to London as are most of the Londoner’s I’ve met. She is umbrella-less and has a black rain jacket, some jeans, and a pair of sneakers on for the three hour walk. As the wind and rain whip her hair from under her jacket and onto her face it looks like little tears are forming. I don’t know how she is doing this. She is leading a free tour for free as well while silly tourists walk behind her too slowly and confused like a heard of cattle. Who the hell really knows where we’re being led?
The main plan is to have an umbrella to shelter me, but instead I have what looks like a beautiful flower as the wind boosts up the inside of my umbrella into the air. I turn and look and every other umbrella has done the same. Some are holding the sides in hopes that they can maintain at least a semblance of an umbrella and stay partially out of the rain, but the side not being held flips up and they begin to get wet.
By the time we make it to Buckingham Palace we are all soaked. Not only are we soaked, the guardsmen are as well. As we stand in wait for the changing of the guard we realize that it has been cancelled due to rain. The storm has changed our plans and it is time to walk away. However, by this time I am freezing. The gloves covering my fingers have only kept out some of the cold and I can no longer feel two of my fingers. I tell Larsen that I am going to have to wuss out only one hour into the tour, but she agrees that she is sick and cold and needs new shoes. The thing is that we have spring shoes and the weathers temperament is much like fall or winter. Our feet are soaked but hers more so than mine because she has little gaps on the sides. We find the closest tube and find a bathroom where Larsen decides perhaps she can dry her shoes under a hand dryer. She is very unconventional I think. This method does not work however because it would take far too long and they would be sopping again once we hit outside.
Instead we decide to find a shopping district and head over to Oxford Street. Oxford street has the most delicious stores. I want to shop! I swear I have never wanted to shop before in my life, but I see blouses and leggings calling my name. “No Nicole, we are here for shoes,” I say to myself. We walk into an Urban Outfitters, which is perhaps triple the size of the Seattle store and I almost swoon. The clothes are amazing and I feel the need to tie my hands behind my back just to make it through here. The shoes however are a bust and we walk on. As we walk we see Shuh’s. No really, that is the name of the store. I see the sheos and I want them all. Some are glamorous and made from alternative materials. I see a pair of heels that would make me at least 6’3 calling my name that are a luscious red and I think I could fly in them. “No Nicole, you cannot buy shoes, they will not under any circumstances fit in your bag,” I say to myself and bite my lip as Larsen finds a cute pair of boots to satisfy the warmth longings of her feet.
After a bite of lunch at a Mexican restaurant, how very American of us, we head back to the hotel. I have things to do like book the duration of my journey. I realize that I have yet to figure out my stays beyond our hotel in Paris and decide to look for couch surfers to stay with. I also realize that I haven’t figured out how to get from Paris to Italy and book a rather cheap ticket via easyjet.com. Yes, I recommend easyjet, it really is as cheap as every tube ad in London told me. I booked hostels for Venice and Florence, but have yet to book for Rome. I will figure that out soon though.
Larsen the sick decided to head out into the city again to view more sites. I wouldn't have gone, but I don't blame her for trying to get the most she possibly could in during the short amount of time she's in the city. Sites don't see themselves. When she comes back we head out to an organ recital at Westminster Abbey where hoards of people look confused about where to go in and then where to sit. People are "Shh'd" from left and right by the ushers while I later hear the ushers talking. I am annoyed and give a few the evil eye. Organ recitals are beautiful and like I do with most music, I feel the most connected with God when listening to it. Music is a gift that I otherwise can't explain beyond it being from God because I myself know that I don't have the abilities. This is hard to explain, but it comes down to me not feeling like I am writing a song. Some people call it inspiration, but it feels more like an out of body experience, like something has entered me and I am just watching the process.
Afterwards there is moer walking. There is more seeing the bustle of London along with the winds of London. I find broken umbrellas strewn across the city after the storm and I think they are beautiful so I take pictures.
Of course later there is dinner "The Italian Restaurant," which I'm hesitant to go to because of the simplicity of the name. I mean, how can it be good if they didn't even put thought into the name? But we go in and I think perhaps they saved all of their creativity for the food and am pleased. Well... I'm mostly pleased until the end of the meal when I leave for the bathroom and come back to the table only to find that they have tossed my leftovers instead of bringing me a to-go box. Normally I wouldn't find myself very upset about this, but this meal was the equivalent of about $20, something I would neeeeever pay for a meal in the US and I want my leftovers. I tells Larsen sorry for the complaints, I will be better momentarily and it's the first time I've been angry in London. We take a stroll for some relaxing coffee and I calm down. I am at ease with a good cup of cafe. All that I need now is a good rest and we are on our way to that.
We end our night with a good talk on how to trust God because sometimes I don't, but I think at least I'm trusting him on this trip right now. I attribute this trip to either the voice of my mom or the voice of God because I have never wanted to travel in my life. I am not a traveler in any sense of the word. I avoid leaving home and comfort because I like home and comfort and feel like my imaginings of the outside world are good enough. Right now I am testing that hypothesis and I will let you know at journey's end if it holds true. For now I will be taken where my feet, the tubes, the trains, the buses, and the planes take me. I hope to remember it all, but I know much of it will disappear.
Monday, May 3, 2010
Day #12: They're all dogs
The dawn breaks and I miss it! Yes, I am excited because it means that the scores of kids that were here yesterday have left. I have a luxurious sleep until around 8:30 but am too excited about Nicole Larsen’s arrival to stay asleep much longer. Today I will be going to Henley House Hotel over in Earls Court. I am excited for a hotel after so many days in spaces that aren’t mine. The only problem with today is that it is the beginning of Bank Holiday Weekend here and the tube line closest to me is closed. I have to figure the easiest route from here to Earls Court, which is in the West of London. I decide that I will bus to a tube station somewhere on the route.
At about 10am on a Saturday morning, there is nothing glamorous about a double decker bus. Perhaps they look very English and novel, but with a backpack the size of a cow, finding space on the bus is a task. What I end up doing is standing in the handicap designated area in hopes that no one in a wheelchair gets on. I haven’t often seen disabled people around London and so I think this is a safe bet. What I don’t notice is the next priority for the disabled area is women with strollers and two of them with strollers and extra kids in tow get on at the same time the bus fills up. I pick up my large bag and attempt to heave it to an empty space and realize that there is no empty space except for an older lady‘s foot. I don’t actually realize her foot is there until she sneers at me. Oh bus, I hate you.
As people hop on and off the bus, I maneuver myself forward and back, then left and right to accommodate their space. Unfortunately the space I need is just so much larger. Finally, the old lady leaves her seat and though a sign is clearly posted that bags don’t get seats in London, I give mine one. I decide that my bag deserves a seat, it is looking overweight and tired or perhaps that’s just me projecting. Anyhow, the bag gets a seat and I lean on it and attempt to do a tiptoe sit so that it appears as if I am a giant that will overtake the bus. Three stops later I am at my stop. Damn, well… all of that for naught but at least I will be getting on the tube soon.
It is easy from the tube to make it to my hotel. The hotel is only a two minute walk from the station and is ready for me to check in when I get there. It is 11 and I go down to wait for Larsen. We have two twin beds placed next to each other and at first I think we have full bed. I look around at our cozy maroon decorated room and decide to… sit, stand, dust off the top of the tv, turn the lights on and off, and then take a shower. Why are minutes so much slower when you’re waiting for someone to arrive? The shower did the trick though, I knew it would. There’s always something about taking a shower that makes people arrive quicker. It’s the steam I think that effects the time continuum.
A knock on the door. It is Larsen! I am so happy she has made it and I’m actually kind of happy to not be alone, not that I’ve actually been alone much of my trip. As I presumed, it’s been fairly easy to make friends for a day or two and then they disappear and you move on. Travel friends are like a bandaid you put on a small cut. You only need it for a day or two and then it begins to heal and you take the bandaid off. Okay, I don’t really want to equate people to bandaids, but yes they do tend to peel away.
Back to… Larsen is here! She is at the door with her luggage and a smile, but I am brushing my teeth and can’t say anything but “MMMMHHHMMMHMM. MHHHMMMHMMHM!!” So I finish brushing my teeth and come back out to give her a hug. I am so excited to see a familiar face for the first time in two weeks. I am also excited to be in a hotel where I can leave my stuff without freaking out about its potential disappearance. I am in heaven.
What is the first thing we discuss? Going to a pub crawl that night. I am almost excited about drinking with a bunch of strangers, but not necessarily that much. Nothing could really be as good as the first pub crawl we went on and what’s the guarantee there are going to be any cute guys that we can understand? Is it better not to be able to understand the guys you are dancing with or to be able to hear the droll things coming out of their mouth?
After a nap and some cleanup we head out the door in search of food and fun. And the storm comes. Everyday has been nice up until now and I wonder if Larsen has brought Seattle with her, but I wait and see. It is raining as we head to our destination and I wonder if a pub crawl in the storm will be bearable or fruitful. We each pay 12 pds and get a lovely green wristband to identify ourselves with and off we go. Well… actually not really. Larsen and I immediately decide we need food, so we leave the pub crawl in search of it.
Food. Food. Food in our tummies and lots of boys stared at later, we head to the next pub on the crawl list only to find out that we’re actually already there. Thank God we don’t have to go outside and get wet! Now it’s time to actually talk to people. Damn. Once again as stated in my first pub crawl blog, I need to drink to talk to people I don’t know and so I use my first free drink ticket to get a shot of tequila. I decide to sip the tequila instead of shoot it because I’m classy like that and await the social effects.
Hmm… tick tock tick tock. Okay… nothing. I use Larsen’s free drink ticket for a second shot of tequila and this time I shoot it. Tick tock tick tock. Yeah, this is gonna be rough. Luckily some Aussies start talking to us and one of them decides that we Americans know nothing about his country (which in this case is true) and he draws us a map of it and its states and gives us a little geography lesson. After much awkward talking and a lot of listening this pub thankfully comes to an end and we head to a club. But wait! Before we head to that club, on my way out of the pub I step into a giant puddle. I mean this puddle almost sucks me under kind of like quick sand it is literally that large. I’m pretty sure my foot has now caught a disease, but I walk on.
Here I realize I am sickeningly sober and should get a drink but don’t really want one. I think maybe I’ll take wallflower position on this, but instead Larsen and I decide to dance. I love dancing sober or drunk and I think there is a lot of time wasted on mindless chit chat as it is and so believe we should always just be dancing. The DJ here is amazing. The DJ here is amazing. The DJ here is… but it seems it’s time to go.
It is still raining outside and Leicester square might as well be a lake. Okay, it’s not quite that bad but my feet are soaked and I am cold. Once we get inside Oxygen we head to a bathroom to dry our feet and Larsen decides that her foot is so dirty she must wash it in the sink. The door into the women’s bathroom is open and an Italian man sees her washing her feet and stops to say something and laugh. He is amused by this American girl, I am also amused. The sink is now unclean but at least we have laughed off the cold and we head downstairs. There are three floors here. The upper is a bar, while the lower two are dance floors. I am not a huge fan of this club because it just doesn't have the right energy and am grateful when it ends and we can go to our last club.
We make it to Zoo Bar easily since it‘s around the corner. I have been here before because it was also the last stop on my first pub crawl. We are quickly ushered in and told to go drink our shots. It feels like we are on a drink train, but I’m still waiting for it to move. I love the music here. I love the music. I love the… atmosphere, but I feel like we’re all over the place. After a bit of dancing a tall blond girl with long pig tails and bright blue eyes hugs Larsen. I still don’t know the details of how this came about, but I think it was the girl save. You know the one? The girl dancing with a nasty guy and so she finds her girls and tries to sandwich between them for safety. We’ve all done it at one point or another, the thing is that I don’t think this girl had any girls and so she ended up having us.
We head with her to the smoking area. I don’t smoke and instead just have it blown in my face so that I can smell like a European. I realize in the light just how insanely gorgeous this girl is. She is basically every mans dream and every girls nightmare. She is drama but I can tell I’m gonna love her. She is an Aussie from the Gold Coast (that I can now identify because of our earlier geography lesson). I usually would avoid hanging out with a girl that looks like this, but quite early on she is complimentary and says that I am gorgeous, which changes my mind about things. She then whispers in my ear and says, “is it vain of me to say that the people here are dogs?” I laugh and say, “yes,” because it’s the truth. She doesn’t seem to mind it though because she already knows the answer before I say it.
After this I lose Larsen and the Aussie and find them after a few circles around the club and the realization that there’s a whole other dance floor that I’ve somehow missed each time I’ve looked around. This is the hip hop room and this is where I should have been all along. Aussie girl is now dancing with a guy that apparently doesn’t fall into the “dog” category and she is smiling and excited. I just want to dance and definitely not with any dudes. We dance for a while, but Larsen is tired and so we decide to head back. Unfortunately the tube is closed and we pay 21 pds for the cab ride back to our hotel.
Was it all worth it? I think so, but I am disappointed that I didn’t actually dance more. To remedy this we will go clubbing in France and hopefully there will be much dancing and delight. Until then, it is time to say goodnight.
At about 10am on a Saturday morning, there is nothing glamorous about a double decker bus. Perhaps they look very English and novel, but with a backpack the size of a cow, finding space on the bus is a task. What I end up doing is standing in the handicap designated area in hopes that no one in a wheelchair gets on. I haven’t often seen disabled people around London and so I think this is a safe bet. What I don’t notice is the next priority for the disabled area is women with strollers and two of them with strollers and extra kids in tow get on at the same time the bus fills up. I pick up my large bag and attempt to heave it to an empty space and realize that there is no empty space except for an older lady‘s foot. I don’t actually realize her foot is there until she sneers at me. Oh bus, I hate you.
As people hop on and off the bus, I maneuver myself forward and back, then left and right to accommodate their space. Unfortunately the space I need is just so much larger. Finally, the old lady leaves her seat and though a sign is clearly posted that bags don’t get seats in London, I give mine one. I decide that my bag deserves a seat, it is looking overweight and tired or perhaps that’s just me projecting. Anyhow, the bag gets a seat and I lean on it and attempt to do a tiptoe sit so that it appears as if I am a giant that will overtake the bus. Three stops later I am at my stop. Damn, well… all of that for naught but at least I will be getting on the tube soon.
It is easy from the tube to make it to my hotel. The hotel is only a two minute walk from the station and is ready for me to check in when I get there. It is 11 and I go down to wait for Larsen. We have two twin beds placed next to each other and at first I think we have full bed. I look around at our cozy maroon decorated room and decide to… sit, stand, dust off the top of the tv, turn the lights on and off, and then take a shower. Why are minutes so much slower when you’re waiting for someone to arrive? The shower did the trick though, I knew it would. There’s always something about taking a shower that makes people arrive quicker. It’s the steam I think that effects the time continuum.
A knock on the door. It is Larsen! I am so happy she has made it and I’m actually kind of happy to not be alone, not that I’ve actually been alone much of my trip. As I presumed, it’s been fairly easy to make friends for a day or two and then they disappear and you move on. Travel friends are like a bandaid you put on a small cut. You only need it for a day or two and then it begins to heal and you take the bandaid off. Okay, I don’t really want to equate people to bandaids, but yes they do tend to peel away.
Back to… Larsen is here! She is at the door with her luggage and a smile, but I am brushing my teeth and can’t say anything but “MMMMHHHMMMHMM. MHHHMMMHMMHM!!” So I finish brushing my teeth and come back out to give her a hug. I am so excited to see a familiar face for the first time in two weeks. I am also excited to be in a hotel where I can leave my stuff without freaking out about its potential disappearance. I am in heaven.
What is the first thing we discuss? Going to a pub crawl that night. I am almost excited about drinking with a bunch of strangers, but not necessarily that much. Nothing could really be as good as the first pub crawl we went on and what’s the guarantee there are going to be any cute guys that we can understand? Is it better not to be able to understand the guys you are dancing with or to be able to hear the droll things coming out of their mouth?
After a nap and some cleanup we head out the door in search of food and fun. And the storm comes. Everyday has been nice up until now and I wonder if Larsen has brought Seattle with her, but I wait and see. It is raining as we head to our destination and I wonder if a pub crawl in the storm will be bearable or fruitful. We each pay 12 pds and get a lovely green wristband to identify ourselves with and off we go. Well… actually not really. Larsen and I immediately decide we need food, so we leave the pub crawl in search of it.
Food. Food. Food in our tummies and lots of boys stared at later, we head to the next pub on the crawl list only to find out that we’re actually already there. Thank God we don’t have to go outside and get wet! Now it’s time to actually talk to people. Damn. Once again as stated in my first pub crawl blog, I need to drink to talk to people I don’t know and so I use my first free drink ticket to get a shot of tequila. I decide to sip the tequila instead of shoot it because I’m classy like that and await the social effects.
Hmm… tick tock tick tock. Okay… nothing. I use Larsen’s free drink ticket for a second shot of tequila and this time I shoot it. Tick tock tick tock. Yeah, this is gonna be rough. Luckily some Aussies start talking to us and one of them decides that we Americans know nothing about his country (which in this case is true) and he draws us a map of it and its states and gives us a little geography lesson. After much awkward talking and a lot of listening this pub thankfully comes to an end and we head to a club. But wait! Before we head to that club, on my way out of the pub I step into a giant puddle. I mean this puddle almost sucks me under kind of like quick sand it is literally that large. I’m pretty sure my foot has now caught a disease, but I walk on.
Here I realize I am sickeningly sober and should get a drink but don’t really want one. I think maybe I’ll take wallflower position on this, but instead Larsen and I decide to dance. I love dancing sober or drunk and I think there is a lot of time wasted on mindless chit chat as it is and so believe we should always just be dancing. The DJ here is amazing. The DJ here is amazing. The DJ here is… but it seems it’s time to go.
It is still raining outside and Leicester square might as well be a lake. Okay, it’s not quite that bad but my feet are soaked and I am cold. Once we get inside Oxygen we head to a bathroom to dry our feet and Larsen decides that her foot is so dirty she must wash it in the sink. The door into the women’s bathroom is open and an Italian man sees her washing her feet and stops to say something and laugh. He is amused by this American girl, I am also amused. The sink is now unclean but at least we have laughed off the cold and we head downstairs. There are three floors here. The upper is a bar, while the lower two are dance floors. I am not a huge fan of this club because it just doesn't have the right energy and am grateful when it ends and we can go to our last club.
We make it to Zoo Bar easily since it‘s around the corner. I have been here before because it was also the last stop on my first pub crawl. We are quickly ushered in and told to go drink our shots. It feels like we are on a drink train, but I’m still waiting for it to move. I love the music here. I love the music. I love the… atmosphere, but I feel like we’re all over the place. After a bit of dancing a tall blond girl with long pig tails and bright blue eyes hugs Larsen. I still don’t know the details of how this came about, but I think it was the girl save. You know the one? The girl dancing with a nasty guy and so she finds her girls and tries to sandwich between them for safety. We’ve all done it at one point or another, the thing is that I don’t think this girl had any girls and so she ended up having us.
We head with her to the smoking area. I don’t smoke and instead just have it blown in my face so that I can smell like a European. I realize in the light just how insanely gorgeous this girl is. She is basically every mans dream and every girls nightmare. She is drama but I can tell I’m gonna love her. She is an Aussie from the Gold Coast (that I can now identify because of our earlier geography lesson). I usually would avoid hanging out with a girl that looks like this, but quite early on she is complimentary and says that I am gorgeous, which changes my mind about things. She then whispers in my ear and says, “is it vain of me to say that the people here are dogs?” I laugh and say, “yes,” because it’s the truth. She doesn’t seem to mind it though because she already knows the answer before I say it.
After this I lose Larsen and the Aussie and find them after a few circles around the club and the realization that there’s a whole other dance floor that I’ve somehow missed each time I’ve looked around. This is the hip hop room and this is where I should have been all along. Aussie girl is now dancing with a guy that apparently doesn’t fall into the “dog” category and she is smiling and excited. I just want to dance and definitely not with any dudes. We dance for a while, but Larsen is tired and so we decide to head back. Unfortunately the tube is closed and we pay 21 pds for the cab ride back to our hotel.
Was it all worth it? I think so, but I am disappointed that I didn’t actually dance more. To remedy this we will go clubbing in France and hopefully there will be much dancing and delight. Until then, it is time to say goodnight.
Sunday, May 2, 2010
Day #11: It's big, the largest here
I hate teenagers. Yes, I really do. There’s no talking me out of this one I tell you. My lucky hostel streak as I have said ended when I checked into a hostel full of overly rambunctious teenagers and children. Where the hell are the chaperones I wonder? When at 6:30 in the morning I begin to hear footsteps, then dings as doors are opened and closed, then talking, then screams, and soon after running of these feet up and down the halls. I have my earplugs in but they are not enough to withstand the spry young ones. I lay around in hope that maybe the sounds will die down, but instead they get louder.
There are two other girls in my room as well that toss and turn and hope for the same thing I am hoping for, but none of us ever get our wish. We all arise around 8 after almost an hour and a half of tossing. What we should have done was tossed a child down the stairs, but we didn’t. I am still wondering what became of the missing chaperones. I actually wonder after this why it is I continue thinking that I would like to have children in the future and if I do can I put them on loan during their teenage years?
Today is laundry day because I am convinced that no matter how many showers I take I will never smell good again while my clothes smell like rotting mice. I spotted a Laundromat a few blocks away from the hostel and am excited for the scent of flowers to overtake my linens. Unfortunately I forget that one actually needs to buy detergent before going to a Laundromat because it always seems to be there at home. The laundro manager seems annoyed that I don’t know this and with a hard point tells me “go, go over there aaaaand get some. Leave clothes here.”
I of course obey her command and go across the street to a corner market to pick up a box of detergent I will only use one time. 2.15pds seems expensive for one load of clothes, but oh well, it’s worth not smelling like an alley cat. I head back across the street and load up my clothes in “largest washer here, you use,” she says and I go to pay for the wash and it takes coins only. Damn... I am coinless. Once again I hear, “go, go over there and get some. Things fine.” I run back to the store with my 10pds and he gives me 5 in change and another 5pd note. I think this will be fine. I get back and pay the machine a full 5 for one load of laundry, but the machine is “big, big washer” so all of my clothes fit in and it seems worth it.
I am opposed to sitting and watching my clothes spin so I head to an Assyrian Café a few meters away and get a greasy omelet sans fromage. I’m not exactly sure how they greased up an omelet this much, but I kind of feel like I need an oil change afterwards. I leave half of it for a dumpster bird to pick through because I just can’t stomach it and sip on an Americano per usual. The coffee is also really okay. I have a feeling that perhaps they should just stick to the Assyrian food, but the locals seem to be enjoying it. Can’t beat the price at least, 4.50 for my entire meal, now that’s what I’m talking about.
It’s time to go check on the laundry. Seems to be done and now it’s time to heave it over to the dryer across the laundro (note: I have never actually used a Laundromat before and so my sense of what things I will need there are a little skewed). My clothes are pretty much still sopping wet when removed from big washer and as I move things to and fro a mini river is created and the now present old Chinese man watches me with dismay at how terrible a job I’m doing. Once everything has made it across this new river I look to see the price and realize that I once again don’t have enough change to dry my clothes. Thank God the manager has left, but I hear her in my mind say, “go, go” and so I do.
The grocer shakes his head and reluctantly gives me more change, but I smile and say “thank you” many times. I am terrible at this I think. I am not meant for the Laundromat life. I head back and start the dryer and hope for a turn around in the day. The turn around really comes when I pull my freshly dried clothes out, warm and soft and scented a nice mist of the garden, whose garden I’ve no clue, but a garden none the less. I fold the clothes and find ways to stuff them back into my backpack. Things are turning up roses. The old Chinese man waves goodbye to me. It’s time to head back to the hostel.
It’s too late by this time to do anything really touristy in the city and so I decide to play some music and give reflection a good piece of my mind. Then I have to nap after all of the reflecting. I wake to the sound of a text. I am meeting a guy named Kris, a local for a drink and some theatre. He has decided we should go see Psy, a cirque dance performance troup out of France. I love anything dance and so this sounds to be a perfect Friday night. I meet up with him at the British Museum after getting lost on the bus on my way there. Once again I am about 20 minutes late meeting someone in this city. I decide for the future that I will always just leave 20 minutes earlier than the time I actually think I need to in order to be on time.
Kris is a tall guy that looks like he enjoys his meals. He’s got on red/black plastic framed glasses and is smiling when I arrive, though I’m surprised because of my tardiness. He is talkative, which is good because I’m not quite awake from my nap. He’s good at asking questions, which is also good because apparently I’m good at talking about myself.
I figure out a few questions to ask and am struck by déjà vu because he reminds me so much of my high school/college ex, the difference is he has a much cooler accent. He goes on about theatre and music and that he will be seeing an opera the next day and went to see a play earlier in the week. I feel a little envy because I want to stay here just for the theatre and am glad to be going again tonight.
We go get some drinks before the show and I order a double gin and tonic, which is terrible and I think next time I will order this with Tanqueray, but forget. I am impressed by how many Londoner’s are out drinking at 6:30 at night. I’m fairly sure every Londoner has packed his or herself into this bar. We make our way over to the theatre and get more drinks and find ourselves in a very IKEA minimalist bar, by which I mean there’s loads and loads of space and five tables. It looks like there should be a dance floor there instead. He teaches me all about the chips in the credit cards and then I understand why people hate me when I have to use my card, because no one swipes cards around here anymore.
At 7:30 the theatre starts. A voice starts the show, spouting out facts about the human brain. As she talks, a spotlight highlights the audience, which is at first confusing until we all realize at the same time it is highlighting the percentages of people in the audience that correlate to the facts she is giving. When everyone realizes this there is a community laugh and a sigh. Eventually from 75% to 30% to 10 people she makes it to 1 and highlights what we think is a single audience member. Soon the single audience member gets up and walks on stage and takes off his shift and the dance begins.
These are dances of power, of grace. These are stories or so we find out. Each person in the ten person dance troupe personifies a different mental disorder from hypochondria to agoraphobia. My favorite personality is one I can’t identify. It seems to be dementia. He can barely speak and is transported into his childhood with his mother and begins a dance where he juggles. I can’t accurately depict the scene and the beauty of how it was put together, but I knew this was a good show because I actually began to tear up a little. The whole show is amazing. The way their bodies work is amazing. I am in jealousy and decide right then and there that I will start taking dance classes again once I make it back to Seattle.
We go for more drinks after the show and like Londoners seem to do, split a table w/ some other locals. These two amazing women are drunk and dancing to hits from the ‘80’s and we bond over Depeche Mode lyrics, “People are people so why should it be, you and I should get along so awfully?” I love bar bonding because it’s easy and always seems to make sense at the time. The fact that people can bond on something as simple as a song makes a fool out of sober bonding, which for me can take up to twenty good conversations.
Kris and I get up and dance with them to some Jackson 5, which means the Friday night friendship is solid. We will all have a good time no matter what now. We will all go home with a good story and a happy face. We will know that we met people and they made us feel good and that it was a good night. All that ever matters is that it’s a good night.
At ten till midnight it is time to leave because the tube stops around midnight. It seems early, but I know that I should get to bed in order to prepare for Larsen’s arrival. I say my goodbye’s to the ladies and head to the tube with Kris. We get on the Piccadilly line together and say the “thank you’s” and “it was wonderful” to each other and a few stops later we hug and say goodbye. I head for the Jubilee line and smile over how amazing the night was and am happy to be in London even without my friends that I miss terribly.
It was just another good day in London.
There are two other girls in my room as well that toss and turn and hope for the same thing I am hoping for, but none of us ever get our wish. We all arise around 8 after almost an hour and a half of tossing. What we should have done was tossed a child down the stairs, but we didn’t. I am still wondering what became of the missing chaperones. I actually wonder after this why it is I continue thinking that I would like to have children in the future and if I do can I put them on loan during their teenage years?
Today is laundry day because I am convinced that no matter how many showers I take I will never smell good again while my clothes smell like rotting mice. I spotted a Laundromat a few blocks away from the hostel and am excited for the scent of flowers to overtake my linens. Unfortunately I forget that one actually needs to buy detergent before going to a Laundromat because it always seems to be there at home. The laundro manager seems annoyed that I don’t know this and with a hard point tells me “go, go over there aaaaand get some. Leave clothes here.”
I of course obey her command and go across the street to a corner market to pick up a box of detergent I will only use one time. 2.15pds seems expensive for one load of clothes, but oh well, it’s worth not smelling like an alley cat. I head back across the street and load up my clothes in “largest washer here, you use,” she says and I go to pay for the wash and it takes coins only. Damn... I am coinless. Once again I hear, “go, go over there and get some. Things fine.” I run back to the store with my 10pds and he gives me 5 in change and another 5pd note. I think this will be fine. I get back and pay the machine a full 5 for one load of laundry, but the machine is “big, big washer” so all of my clothes fit in and it seems worth it.
I am opposed to sitting and watching my clothes spin so I head to an Assyrian Café a few meters away and get a greasy omelet sans fromage. I’m not exactly sure how they greased up an omelet this much, but I kind of feel like I need an oil change afterwards. I leave half of it for a dumpster bird to pick through because I just can’t stomach it and sip on an Americano per usual. The coffee is also really okay. I have a feeling that perhaps they should just stick to the Assyrian food, but the locals seem to be enjoying it. Can’t beat the price at least, 4.50 for my entire meal, now that’s what I’m talking about.
It’s time to go check on the laundry. Seems to be done and now it’s time to heave it over to the dryer across the laundro (note: I have never actually used a Laundromat before and so my sense of what things I will need there are a little skewed). My clothes are pretty much still sopping wet when removed from big washer and as I move things to and fro a mini river is created and the now present old Chinese man watches me with dismay at how terrible a job I’m doing. Once everything has made it across this new river I look to see the price and realize that I once again don’t have enough change to dry my clothes. Thank God the manager has left, but I hear her in my mind say, “go, go” and so I do.
The grocer shakes his head and reluctantly gives me more change, but I smile and say “thank you” many times. I am terrible at this I think. I am not meant for the Laundromat life. I head back and start the dryer and hope for a turn around in the day. The turn around really comes when I pull my freshly dried clothes out, warm and soft and scented a nice mist of the garden, whose garden I’ve no clue, but a garden none the less. I fold the clothes and find ways to stuff them back into my backpack. Things are turning up roses. The old Chinese man waves goodbye to me. It’s time to head back to the hostel.
It’s too late by this time to do anything really touristy in the city and so I decide to play some music and give reflection a good piece of my mind. Then I have to nap after all of the reflecting. I wake to the sound of a text. I am meeting a guy named Kris, a local for a drink and some theatre. He has decided we should go see Psy, a cirque dance performance troup out of France. I love anything dance and so this sounds to be a perfect Friday night. I meet up with him at the British Museum after getting lost on the bus on my way there. Once again I am about 20 minutes late meeting someone in this city. I decide for the future that I will always just leave 20 minutes earlier than the time I actually think I need to in order to be on time.
Kris is a tall guy that looks like he enjoys his meals. He’s got on red/black plastic framed glasses and is smiling when I arrive, though I’m surprised because of my tardiness. He is talkative, which is good because I’m not quite awake from my nap. He’s good at asking questions, which is also good because apparently I’m good at talking about myself.
I figure out a few questions to ask and am struck by déjà vu because he reminds me so much of my high school/college ex, the difference is he has a much cooler accent. He goes on about theatre and music and that he will be seeing an opera the next day and went to see a play earlier in the week. I feel a little envy because I want to stay here just for the theatre and am glad to be going again tonight.
We go get some drinks before the show and I order a double gin and tonic, which is terrible and I think next time I will order this with Tanqueray, but forget. I am impressed by how many Londoner’s are out drinking at 6:30 at night. I’m fairly sure every Londoner has packed his or herself into this bar. We make our way over to the theatre and get more drinks and find ourselves in a very IKEA minimalist bar, by which I mean there’s loads and loads of space and five tables. It looks like there should be a dance floor there instead. He teaches me all about the chips in the credit cards and then I understand why people hate me when I have to use my card, because no one swipes cards around here anymore.
At 7:30 the theatre starts. A voice starts the show, spouting out facts about the human brain. As she talks, a spotlight highlights the audience, which is at first confusing until we all realize at the same time it is highlighting the percentages of people in the audience that correlate to the facts she is giving. When everyone realizes this there is a community laugh and a sigh. Eventually from 75% to 30% to 10 people she makes it to 1 and highlights what we think is a single audience member. Soon the single audience member gets up and walks on stage and takes off his shift and the dance begins.
These are dances of power, of grace. These are stories or so we find out. Each person in the ten person dance troupe personifies a different mental disorder from hypochondria to agoraphobia. My favorite personality is one I can’t identify. It seems to be dementia. He can barely speak and is transported into his childhood with his mother and begins a dance where he juggles. I can’t accurately depict the scene and the beauty of how it was put together, but I knew this was a good show because I actually began to tear up a little. The whole show is amazing. The way their bodies work is amazing. I am in jealousy and decide right then and there that I will start taking dance classes again once I make it back to Seattle.
We go for more drinks after the show and like Londoners seem to do, split a table w/ some other locals. These two amazing women are drunk and dancing to hits from the ‘80’s and we bond over Depeche Mode lyrics, “People are people so why should it be, you and I should get along so awfully?” I love bar bonding because it’s easy and always seems to make sense at the time. The fact that people can bond on something as simple as a song makes a fool out of sober bonding, which for me can take up to twenty good conversations.
Kris and I get up and dance with them to some Jackson 5, which means the Friday night friendship is solid. We will all have a good time no matter what now. We will all go home with a good story and a happy face. We will know that we met people and they made us feel good and that it was a good night. All that ever matters is that it’s a good night.
At ten till midnight it is time to leave because the tube stops around midnight. It seems early, but I know that I should get to bed in order to prepare for Larsen’s arrival. I say my goodbye’s to the ladies and head to the tube with Kris. We get on the Piccadilly line together and say the “thank you’s” and “it was wonderful” to each other and a few stops later we hug and say goodbye. I head for the Jubilee line and smile over how amazing the night was and am happy to be in London even without my friends that I miss terribly.
It was just another good day in London.
Friday, April 30, 2010
Day #10: Tonight an earplug saved my life
Morning arrived just as it always does with honking horns and little children crying for their mothers. There is some sun but more clouds and it seems a likely day for more rest once I make it to the hostel. The hostel is a long ride from where I am. From Turnpike Lane in the East I have to get to Willesden Green in the West or Northwest. At this point I don’t know, but I do know it will likely take about an hour. I take the Piccadilly West and then get onto the Jubilee line. It is after rush hour and I am grateful because I don’t want to stare at the suits. Though on the whole I like the suits. I like the professionalism of the attire that is required of most London business people, which is something the casual Seattle lacks overall. I almost want to be one of the suits, but I haven’t been convinced to join London culture as of yet, perhaps I’ll just buy a suit once I get back.
After a long and relaxing ride with my pocket Sudoku and pen (okay, I was only playing easy) I make it to Willesden Green, which is about fifteen minutes out from central London. I at first am okay with this because it is very inexpensive to stay here, about $25 per night. At 10am it is quiet when I walk in. The halls are empty and the cleaning staff are about. Hillspring Lodge is much like a hotel and sells itself as a “backpackers boutique,” which upon first arrival seems to suit it. I situate myself in my beautiful four bed room. I am on the bottom bunk of one side and the beds are made out of wood. We have our own sink, though we must use shared bathrooms down the hall. I decide that I am much in need of a shower and find a private bathroom down the hall, which has a small bathtub. I am once again pleased.
On this lazy day I decide that I should make it to London and see more art. I decide on the National Gallery in Trafalgar Square because I haven’t yet been to this free attraction. It is busy just like every other part of London and so I purchase an audio tour just to block the other people out. I 100% recommend audio tours after this trip, not only to block noise, but also because there’s more information than is on the little placard next to the art. It gives a history and often amusing tales of the art. A few days before while at Tate Modern, an older petite French woman listening to a guided tour began to chortle and then hem and haw and it was quite a beautiful scene because she was literally standing in front of a piece of linen that had a cut in it. All in all the art didn’t look like much but a macheted linen, but she was almost reduced to holding herself up on her knees. People laughing is a lovely sight.
I enjoyed the art here for the most part, but then I came upon first a self portrait of Salvator Rosa, looking much like Johnny Depp’s pirate predecessor. He is holding up a paper that says, “Be quiet, unless your speech be better than silence” words to rest my mind on. He is so intriguing in the painting that I must see his artwork. Next to it is a painting called Witches at their Incantation. It is dark and concerning, but I cannot take my eyes from it. From this painting I have certainly fallen in love with Salvator, except for 400 years too late.
From here it is hard to imagine other artwork that can compare but I weave in and out of the other halls in search of greatness. Of course everything is great, just at the moment not as moving. Mostly I find that I am rather tired and it is once again hard to react to the art the way I want to besides yawning and getting cold stares from the staff. I decide after an hour and a half that I should make my way back to the hostel and nap. I haven’t not taken a good day off just to sleep for a while. Everyday I have walked and walked, even on my resting days. I decide that I must sleep so that I can be fully prepared for Nicole Larsen’s impending arrival and we can begin to party like rock stars. When I say party, I mean drink approximately two gin and tonics and dance for a good hour before sleeping. When I say two gin and tonics, I think about drinking two Mac n’ Jacks. Yes, I am thinking about another drink while drinking the one I have. Sigh, the grass is always greener.
I sleep from 6 until 8 and decide I should settle on some food before my full nights sleep lest I wake from hunger as has happened a few times on this trip. I venture through the Willesden Green area where I am happy to find an array of foods from Asyrian, to Japanese, to Indian. I have long been craving Indian and decide on it. I know that Indian will not suit my gluten/dairy free diet, but I decide that I am on vacation and there’s no time like the present to feel a little bit sick because at the very least, it won’t be all over someone I know.
I order some all time favorites, Chicken Tikka Masala and a small side dish of Sag Paneer over plain rice. Yes, I do order Naan. What the hell is Indian food without naan I ask you? It is not bad, but it is not great either. I forgot to order it spicy because spiciness has never been a problem in the states, but here it is very mild. The chicken tikka masala is actually quite good but it is a little sweet, as if there is some sugar in it. The sag paneer on the other hand is cheesier and a little more overcooked than I would have liked. I am happy to try it though. I was given a recommendation for another Indian place closer to central London, perhaps I will try that one before I leave to see if there is a marked difference. I at the very least leave mostly satisfied and head back to the hostel.
This is when I realize why the hostel is not so expensive. When I arrive there are large groups of children and teenagers filling the halls, running, and screaming. I realize that this hostel caters to large groups and I realize that this time my luck has run out. I am glad of the nap I had taken earlier in the day.
The noise does eventually die down and I relax in what is a very comfortable bed where two other hosteler’s have already fallen asleep. I don’t remember being as rambunctious and annoying as a child while on school trips, but… perhaps we were. Perhaps there really is no regard for other people when that young, or perhaps their chaperones should learn a thing or two about watching children.
Oh well, the night is peaceful except for the sound of the roaring elevator outside. Who the hell is taking the elevator up and down this time of night? This night some earplugs saved my life.
After a long and relaxing ride with my pocket Sudoku and pen (okay, I was only playing easy) I make it to Willesden Green, which is about fifteen minutes out from central London. I at first am okay with this because it is very inexpensive to stay here, about $25 per night. At 10am it is quiet when I walk in. The halls are empty and the cleaning staff are about. Hillspring Lodge is much like a hotel and sells itself as a “backpackers boutique,” which upon first arrival seems to suit it. I situate myself in my beautiful four bed room. I am on the bottom bunk of one side and the beds are made out of wood. We have our own sink, though we must use shared bathrooms down the hall. I decide that I am much in need of a shower and find a private bathroom down the hall, which has a small bathtub. I am once again pleased.
On this lazy day I decide that I should make it to London and see more art. I decide on the National Gallery in Trafalgar Square because I haven’t yet been to this free attraction. It is busy just like every other part of London and so I purchase an audio tour just to block the other people out. I 100% recommend audio tours after this trip, not only to block noise, but also because there’s more information than is on the little placard next to the art. It gives a history and often amusing tales of the art. A few days before while at Tate Modern, an older petite French woman listening to a guided tour began to chortle and then hem and haw and it was quite a beautiful scene because she was literally standing in front of a piece of linen that had a cut in it. All in all the art didn’t look like much but a macheted linen, but she was almost reduced to holding herself up on her knees. People laughing is a lovely sight.
I enjoyed the art here for the most part, but then I came upon first a self portrait of Salvator Rosa, looking much like Johnny Depp’s pirate predecessor. He is holding up a paper that says, “Be quiet, unless your speech be better than silence” words to rest my mind on. He is so intriguing in the painting that I must see his artwork. Next to it is a painting called Witches at their Incantation. It is dark and concerning, but I cannot take my eyes from it. From this painting I have certainly fallen in love with Salvator, except for 400 years too late.
From here it is hard to imagine other artwork that can compare but I weave in and out of the other halls in search of greatness. Of course everything is great, just at the moment not as moving. Mostly I find that I am rather tired and it is once again hard to react to the art the way I want to besides yawning and getting cold stares from the staff. I decide after an hour and a half that I should make my way back to the hostel and nap. I haven’t not taken a good day off just to sleep for a while. Everyday I have walked and walked, even on my resting days. I decide that I must sleep so that I can be fully prepared for Nicole Larsen’s impending arrival and we can begin to party like rock stars. When I say party, I mean drink approximately two gin and tonics and dance for a good hour before sleeping. When I say two gin and tonics, I think about drinking two Mac n’ Jacks. Yes, I am thinking about another drink while drinking the one I have. Sigh, the grass is always greener.
I sleep from 6 until 8 and decide I should settle on some food before my full nights sleep lest I wake from hunger as has happened a few times on this trip. I venture through the Willesden Green area where I am happy to find an array of foods from Asyrian, to Japanese, to Indian. I have long been craving Indian and decide on it. I know that Indian will not suit my gluten/dairy free diet, but I decide that I am on vacation and there’s no time like the present to feel a little bit sick because at the very least, it won’t be all over someone I know.
I order some all time favorites, Chicken Tikka Masala and a small side dish of Sag Paneer over plain rice. Yes, I do order Naan. What the hell is Indian food without naan I ask you? It is not bad, but it is not great either. I forgot to order it spicy because spiciness has never been a problem in the states, but here it is very mild. The chicken tikka masala is actually quite good but it is a little sweet, as if there is some sugar in it. The sag paneer on the other hand is cheesier and a little more overcooked than I would have liked. I am happy to try it though. I was given a recommendation for another Indian place closer to central London, perhaps I will try that one before I leave to see if there is a marked difference. I at the very least leave mostly satisfied and head back to the hostel.
This is when I realize why the hostel is not so expensive. When I arrive there are large groups of children and teenagers filling the halls, running, and screaming. I realize that this hostel caters to large groups and I realize that this time my luck has run out. I am glad of the nap I had taken earlier in the day.
The noise does eventually die down and I relax in what is a very comfortable bed where two other hosteler’s have already fallen asleep. I don’t remember being as rambunctious and annoying as a child while on school trips, but… perhaps we were. Perhaps there really is no regard for other people when that young, or perhaps their chaperones should learn a thing or two about watching children.
Oh well, the night is peaceful except for the sound of the roaring elevator outside. Who the hell is taking the elevator up and down this time of night? This night some earplugs saved my life.
Day #9: Can you tell me where I might find Harry Potter?
Cambridge for me is just like being on the set of Harry Potter. The shops are quaint and overpriced, while the streets are filled with students. The only difference is that all of the students have bikes instead of brooms. The bikes are a Seattleites dream come true, you can take dream however you want. They are perfect for the emo, tattooed, one pant leg up, smoking a cig, thinking about his band, hot as hell Seattle cyclist, but for the all the time driver tears might form upon seeing so many bikes. I may honestly be understating how many bikes there are in Cambridge. When I de-board the lovely quick train from London and pop out of the station, there is a bike station filled with at least a hundred bikes. Bikes of all kinds, purple with baskets, blue with thick mountain tires, green, and gray that also line the streets. Whole streets are filled with bikes and bikers. Crosswalk signs do not have little people, they have bikes!
I am here with Spyros and another couch surfer named Laura, a beautiful Argentinian girl. Have I even told you what Spyros looks like? He is about 5’9 with medium length dark brown hair and piercing dark brown eyes. He always looks as if a full Greek beard might take shape on his face, but it never does. Laura calls him “charming” and I’d have to agree that he is.
Laura is small and looks the way I imagine every Argentinian to look, like a supermodel, though she is too short to be one. She has perfect golden brown skin with a few freckles. Her long brown hair is usually pinned up in a classically messy way that makes her look exotic rather than unkempt. She is a lawyer in Argentina and hates her job so she has decided to travel for a year. Her English is not perfect, but the fact that she struggles and the listener has to fill in the gaps makes her even more endearing. Due to this array of qualities she has not had problems finding places to stay and I venture to guess will not in the future. Spyros is as equally charmed by her as she is by him.
I know when I go with them that I am out of place and that they would be better off spending time alone, but I don’t much want to go to Cambridge alone and so much like the extra napkins thrown into a to-go bag full of cookies, I go along.
On our way to the talk we stop at the market and buy champagne and grapes and wash them off in the center of town. We make our way around a confusion of buildings, going in and out of alleys, down cobbled streets in search of the talk that will soon be happening. Spyros decides to ask Cambridge staff where to go and eventually we wind around the city to where we need to be with no time to spare. We find our room and prepare to sit and listen to Nancy Fraser and Luke Paltansky . The talk is not what we originally think it’s on, which is the “Socioeconomic input/output of women in the workforce” or something of that nature. Instead it is a critique of criticism. If you can imagine what a philosophical conundrum a critique of criticism is as well as the reality of reality than you will have found the space that we occupied that day. These two speakers attempt, I’m not sure if it is successfully or unsuccessfully to reinvent and reinterpret the culture of domination by institutions and the manner in which they have to simultaneously possess a culture of domination and free will. I’m not going to go long into this. It’s something so on the forefront of our minds that we often don’t take the time to really examine it.
When the talk is over we decide to picnic with our goods. Weeping willows dot the park that is surrounded by a river filled with boats that aren’t quite gondolas, but are manned by students for extra cash. If it weren’t the three of us, I would say this is the most romantic day I’ve had at a park in a long time. I see a couple on the other side of the river in each others arms and I take pictures to remember the sweetness of the day. It quickly turns cold as we dine on our grapes and champagne, but we are determined to enjoy the day regardless of imminent rain.
It is hard to convince the two pseudo love-birds to leave the grassy nook we have found, but after a long stretch under the tree where Spryos teaches Laura to roll her own cigarettes, we venture off to see the rest of Cambridge. It’s hard to say that I’ve ever seen a more beautiful city. The buildings are architecturally magnificent, comprised of Victorian and modern buildings. Modern in the sense of English modern is still a brick exterior. It is on this walk that I see two young men in capes and I am utterly transported into HP's world. I just hope that one of them throws an invisibility cloak over himself soon!
I become keenly aware of my hunger as we walk through the town. Grapes are just not enough to fill a woman of my size and we begin to seek a place for sustenance. It is difficult to find anything for less than 10pds. That is the equivalent of about $15. Eventually we walk down a side street where a new pub is hidden and find nothing but burgers. I am so hungry that I decide I cannot wait until London for a meal and decide that I will have to take my chances and eaten a gluten filled meal. It is spectacular! I can’t tell you how much I have craved the taste of tender bread on my tongue for the last month and a half. It is as if I had won the lottery. I savor every morsel and await the consequences of such a meal.
It is time to leave Cambridge around 10pm and I am a little sad. This is the kind of place I could spend weeks just relaxing in the parks and riding around on bikes. It is not as crowded as London and I like this because I will never truly be a big city girl. I am always the right outside the big city girl, accessible but not life consuming.
It is hard to talk on the train back. We are tired and it seems like the train itself is tired too. It seems sluggish and the eyes of other passengers are red and struggling to stay open. I want to sleep, but I don’t want to be rude to my host and new friend. We talk more about travel and then they discuss opening a restaurant on a cliffside in Greece. They invite me to become a part of the grand scheme, but I am hesitant because I am not a great cook and have never had grand dreams to serve anyone in that way ever again.
By the time we make it back to the big blue couch it is after 11 and my grand plans of making it to my hostel are thwarted. I have to ask Spyros if I can stay for a fourth night, which to me is very much the same as overextending my stay. Luckily, Laura is small enough to fit on love seat while I once again retain big blue. It is time for more tea and more music. We are happy, this new small couch family. I will leave in the morning and leave them to their smaller couch family and the members will be switched out again in time. I like this. I like the way people come and go and there are no obligations. I think perhaps I will have to host when I get back to the states, though I feel terrible that I cannot offer the same couch. Big blue, you will be missed.
I am here with Spyros and another couch surfer named Laura, a beautiful Argentinian girl. Have I even told you what Spyros looks like? He is about 5’9 with medium length dark brown hair and piercing dark brown eyes. He always looks as if a full Greek beard might take shape on his face, but it never does. Laura calls him “charming” and I’d have to agree that he is.
Laura is small and looks the way I imagine every Argentinian to look, like a supermodel, though she is too short to be one. She has perfect golden brown skin with a few freckles. Her long brown hair is usually pinned up in a classically messy way that makes her look exotic rather than unkempt. She is a lawyer in Argentina and hates her job so she has decided to travel for a year. Her English is not perfect, but the fact that she struggles and the listener has to fill in the gaps makes her even more endearing. Due to this array of qualities she has not had problems finding places to stay and I venture to guess will not in the future. Spyros is as equally charmed by her as she is by him.
I know when I go with them that I am out of place and that they would be better off spending time alone, but I don’t much want to go to Cambridge alone and so much like the extra napkins thrown into a to-go bag full of cookies, I go along.
On our way to the talk we stop at the market and buy champagne and grapes and wash them off in the center of town. We make our way around a confusion of buildings, going in and out of alleys, down cobbled streets in search of the talk that will soon be happening. Spyros decides to ask Cambridge staff where to go and eventually we wind around the city to where we need to be with no time to spare. We find our room and prepare to sit and listen to Nancy Fraser and Luke Paltansky . The talk is not what we originally think it’s on, which is the “Socioeconomic input/output of women in the workforce” or something of that nature. Instead it is a critique of criticism. If you can imagine what a philosophical conundrum a critique of criticism is as well as the reality of reality than you will have found the space that we occupied that day. These two speakers attempt, I’m not sure if it is successfully or unsuccessfully to reinvent and reinterpret the culture of domination by institutions and the manner in which they have to simultaneously possess a culture of domination and free will. I’m not going to go long into this. It’s something so on the forefront of our minds that we often don’t take the time to really examine it.
When the talk is over we decide to picnic with our goods. Weeping willows dot the park that is surrounded by a river filled with boats that aren’t quite gondolas, but are manned by students for extra cash. If it weren’t the three of us, I would say this is the most romantic day I’ve had at a park in a long time. I see a couple on the other side of the river in each others arms and I take pictures to remember the sweetness of the day. It quickly turns cold as we dine on our grapes and champagne, but we are determined to enjoy the day regardless of imminent rain.
It is hard to convince the two pseudo love-birds to leave the grassy nook we have found, but after a long stretch under the tree where Spryos teaches Laura to roll her own cigarettes, we venture off to see the rest of Cambridge. It’s hard to say that I’ve ever seen a more beautiful city. The buildings are architecturally magnificent, comprised of Victorian and modern buildings. Modern in the sense of English modern is still a brick exterior. It is on this walk that I see two young men in capes and I am utterly transported into HP's world. I just hope that one of them throws an invisibility cloak over himself soon!
I become keenly aware of my hunger as we walk through the town. Grapes are just not enough to fill a woman of my size and we begin to seek a place for sustenance. It is difficult to find anything for less than 10pds. That is the equivalent of about $15. Eventually we walk down a side street where a new pub is hidden and find nothing but burgers. I am so hungry that I decide I cannot wait until London for a meal and decide that I will have to take my chances and eaten a gluten filled meal. It is spectacular! I can’t tell you how much I have craved the taste of tender bread on my tongue for the last month and a half. It is as if I had won the lottery. I savor every morsel and await the consequences of such a meal.
It is time to leave Cambridge around 10pm and I am a little sad. This is the kind of place I could spend weeks just relaxing in the parks and riding around on bikes. It is not as crowded as London and I like this because I will never truly be a big city girl. I am always the right outside the big city girl, accessible but not life consuming.
It is hard to talk on the train back. We are tired and it seems like the train itself is tired too. It seems sluggish and the eyes of other passengers are red and struggling to stay open. I want to sleep, but I don’t want to be rude to my host and new friend. We talk more about travel and then they discuss opening a restaurant on a cliffside in Greece. They invite me to become a part of the grand scheme, but I am hesitant because I am not a great cook and have never had grand dreams to serve anyone in that way ever again.
By the time we make it back to the big blue couch it is after 11 and my grand plans of making it to my hostel are thwarted. I have to ask Spyros if I can stay for a fourth night, which to me is very much the same as overextending my stay. Luckily, Laura is small enough to fit on love seat while I once again retain big blue. It is time for more tea and more music. We are happy, this new small couch family. I will leave in the morning and leave them to their smaller couch family and the members will be switched out again in time. I like this. I like the way people come and go and there are no obligations. I think perhaps I will have to host when I get back to the states, though I feel terrible that I cannot offer the same couch. Big blue, you will be missed.
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