As I've said more than once in recent years, I grew up with a pretty dynamic circle of friends. This is why most of my stories revolve around Adam Cole, Brandon King, and Tim Newberry. There's always something good to tell; be it leaving Adam behind kissing his girlfriend goodnight at her house on top of a hill so that he had to chase me down if he didn't want to walk home, or listening to Brandon try to purchase a "ba' geiss" (Bag of ice) from a gas station attendant in Delaware, or Tim headbutting me to give me the only scar on my person, there's no end to the anecdotes I could rattle off around these, and others, of my friends back home in Arkansas.
When I was 15 or 16, about a dozen of us guys from the church we attended in Springdale went on an overnight trip to Tulsa, Oklahoma (famous internationally for being where Chandler Bing worked...) with our youth minister, Brian. We'd checked into a sort of hotel suite, with multiple beds, a kitchenette, and a divided bathroom (sink and vanity through one door, toilet and shower through a further). I cannot sleep until I'm clean, so while the rest, I though, were watching a movie, I hopped in to clean off the daily grime. While I was out of hearing, however, Tim removed the laces from my shoes and tied the bathroom door (which opened inwards) to the vanity sink, so that I couldn't get out. This was a common prank, originated from Brian, our youth minister. The coup de grace came when, at church camp one year, we tied a dozen dorm doors, occupied by another church group, all together with one stretch of rope, effectively locking about 50 dudes in their rooms. I managed to yank the door enough to stretch the lace sufficiently to push the blade of my pocketknife through the small opening thus afforded and cut myself out.
This was, of course, not the worst of the matter. While I'd been fighting my way out of the shower, someone else, probably at Tim's direction, had gotten into my bag, which I should've know to carry in with me, and removed my jocks/skivvies/undershorts/briefs/whitey-tighties. These they took into the kitchen and submerged in a bowl of water, and placed the whole affair in the freezer. I couldn't for the life of me figure out what all the snickering was as I rummaged over and over through my belongings in search of some clean underwear. Finally, the room erupted in heart-felt guffaws, and I was informed as to my clothing's location. Ohhhhh, I was beside myself. I opened the freezer and saw, sure enough to my further rage, that I was now effectively without a clean pair of jocks.
Tim, conniver that he is and knower of personalities and weaknesses, told me that they'd all agreed to buy me breakfast in the morning, as a recompense, providing I could remove my shorts from the freezer (come breakfast-time), extract them from the bowl, and put them on. Now, you'd simply have to know that I'm a sucker for a free meal, and as my whiteys were already nearly on the rocks, I took the bait, and slept in my swimming trunks.
The blow didn't really fall till the next morning, when I dutifully chipped my underwear out of a solid block of ice with a fork, pried them apart, and experienced the coldest sensation of all my born days. It was then, as I scurried off to reheat myself, amid a roomful of hecklers splitting their sides agape, that I was informed that it was a continental breakfast.
In America, 'continental' means free.
And I've always wondered how that particular name had been chosen for a free breakfast. Now, having travelled Europe both through England and on the continent, I've assessed the mystery. A traditional English breakfast, or a great fry-up as the locals would say, consists of fried tomatoes, baked beans, fried mushrooms, white English sausage links (savoury, but much drier than sausage in the States), and fried bacon (which is more akin to thinly sliced ham, where I'm from), toast, cereal, orange juice, tea and coffee. Breakfast on the continent, however, is far less impressive, as a rule. Usually, it consists of cereal and a bread of some sort, with jam and butter, perhaps some fruit, and tea or coffee. Unless, of course, you're staying at the Hortnagl House in Navis, Austria, where breakfast is a glorious melee of sliced meats and cheeses, breads, coffee, cocoa, and honey fresh from the comb just out the back door.
A continental breakfast, then, is a term attached by European travellers at some point in the vaguely recent past to indicate that one should not expect the hot meal associated with breakfast in England. Speaking of which, the inspiration here expounded came about this morning, as I broke fast in the west Yorkshire town of Holmfirth, famously the set for the 30-year running British comedy series "Last of the Summer Wine." It's a lovely little locale, and I plan to do some much anticipated hiking and touristing this afternoon.
Y'all have a fabulous day.
jeff
Thursday, October 26, 2006
Monday, October 23, 2006
Damme Herre Slamme Fayre
Well, That's probably spelled wrong, but the title enscribed above was the frisbee tournament I played in yesterday, with my old teammates from the University of Nottingham's Ultimate Society, Random Fling. It was wonderful flipping a disc around with the crew again.
I am back in Nottingham again, after my last trip to East Dulwich, South London, to visit my Colombian Friend Yeny. I like London, but as the saying goes, it's a lovely place to visit, but I'd hate to live there. I don't know if I've ever managed to convey the respect I have for Yeny and her housemates and the thousands of others I don't know who've moved to another country, learned a new language, and are putting themselves through university by working as near full time as the government allows. I usually feel quite guilty after conversing with any of the residents of her townhouse, and hearing the intensity of their daily work and study schedules-- me and all my wandering, unencumbered gypsy tendencies...
At any rate, London was nice, but when I got up to leave first thing Friday morning, it was raining, which was perfectly suitable. I've realised that I have left nearly every city or town I've been to on this trip when the rain comes. Every town, that is, but Nottingham. I expected it to rain here, and rain it has. But it was raining when I left Bergamo, Innsbruck, and Milano. When the rain comes, it's time to leave. So it was fitting that my last call on south London ended in thunder and puddles. The city is wonderful, the variation of people in residence is unrivalled, and the parks and history inescapably unavoidable, but in the midst of a torrential downpour, it's hard to see any redeeming qualities.
It rained so hard in England Friday morning that a good portion of the M1 between Mansfield and London was flooded, causing multiple wrecks, resulting in the closing of said motorway, and stranding the bus that was to pick me up and whisk me out of the damp cold of London was an hour late. By the time I did arrive, I'd managed to move beyond angry or put out, after all, we all know I have no real appointments to keep, and was simply in a serenely unemotional mood, ready only for escape. I boarded the bus, popped in my earbuds, and immediately fell to sleep as the driver did his best to navigate us out of the traffic, construction, and flood barricades and off towards the North. I came to when I realised the bus was no longer lurching among other vehicles, but had eased into the hum of overdrive. I saw the last far-flung semblances of city and modernity pass across the horizon, as the clouds broke, and all at once my vision was filled only with the inimitable green of English grasslands. I turned off the music and shook myself to full wakefulness, and lost myself in the scenery. There was one small pasture in particular that's still in my mind. It was hemmed in by the classic rural English stone wall, broken here and there by the growth of trees, and the field itself was filled only with lush grass, save a solitary tree out towards the middle. It was noon, but this far north on the globe, the autumnal sun never rises more than about 40 degrees off of the southern horizon, so that even high noon has an appearance of what reminds me of 4 in the afternoon at home. So, after a long and, comparably, distressing morning, noon though it was, as I passed by that picturesque 12 acre plot, the shadow cast by the tree had an effect of the last hours before sunset, and the hectic psychological constraints of the city died all at once as I remembered why I truly love England.
Or, for that matter, Arkansas, or bits here and there all over the parts of the planet I've seen thus far. Trees, stones, and the greenery of nature in general. England, nor indeed Northwest Arkansas, can truly claim any longer to be an agrarian, rural locale. The ways of life that suit and require such surroundings are quickly dying, and my favourite source of serenity along with them. As Allen commented a few posts back, quoting some classic American lighter rock: "Don't it always seem to go that you don't know what you've got till it's gone. They pave paradise and put up a parking lot."
Take stock of where you find peace, and what you know is worth loving, and enjoy it soon. If not today, this week,or when you're able in the not-so-distant future. If it's London, New York City, or Spring, Texas, or the Snake River, Sahara Dessert, or Puppy Creek, get there sometime soon. Myself, I hope to get to either northeast or southwest England in the next month-- either Yorkshire, or Somerset and Dorset. If I can, I'll hire a bike and ride along some canal towpaths.
What speaks serenity to you?
I am back in Nottingham again, after my last trip to East Dulwich, South London, to visit my Colombian Friend Yeny. I like London, but as the saying goes, it's a lovely place to visit, but I'd hate to live there. I don't know if I've ever managed to convey the respect I have for Yeny and her housemates and the thousands of others I don't know who've moved to another country, learned a new language, and are putting themselves through university by working as near full time as the government allows. I usually feel quite guilty after conversing with any of the residents of her townhouse, and hearing the intensity of their daily work and study schedules-- me and all my wandering, unencumbered gypsy tendencies...
At any rate, London was nice, but when I got up to leave first thing Friday morning, it was raining, which was perfectly suitable. I've realised that I have left nearly every city or town I've been to on this trip when the rain comes. Every town, that is, but Nottingham. I expected it to rain here, and rain it has. But it was raining when I left Bergamo, Innsbruck, and Milano. When the rain comes, it's time to leave. So it was fitting that my last call on south London ended in thunder and puddles. The city is wonderful, the variation of people in residence is unrivalled, and the parks and history inescapably unavoidable, but in the midst of a torrential downpour, it's hard to see any redeeming qualities.
It rained so hard in England Friday morning that a good portion of the M1 between Mansfield and London was flooded, causing multiple wrecks, resulting in the closing of said motorway, and stranding the bus that was to pick me up and whisk me out of the damp cold of London was an hour late. By the time I did arrive, I'd managed to move beyond angry or put out, after all, we all know I have no real appointments to keep, and was simply in a serenely unemotional mood, ready only for escape. I boarded the bus, popped in my earbuds, and immediately fell to sleep as the driver did his best to navigate us out of the traffic, construction, and flood barricades and off towards the North. I came to when I realised the bus was no longer lurching among other vehicles, but had eased into the hum of overdrive. I saw the last far-flung semblances of city and modernity pass across the horizon, as the clouds broke, and all at once my vision was filled only with the inimitable green of English grasslands. I turned off the music and shook myself to full wakefulness, and lost myself in the scenery. There was one small pasture in particular that's still in my mind. It was hemmed in by the classic rural English stone wall, broken here and there by the growth of trees, and the field itself was filled only with lush grass, save a solitary tree out towards the middle. It was noon, but this far north on the globe, the autumnal sun never rises more than about 40 degrees off of the southern horizon, so that even high noon has an appearance of what reminds me of 4 in the afternoon at home. So, after a long and, comparably, distressing morning, noon though it was, as I passed by that picturesque 12 acre plot, the shadow cast by the tree had an effect of the last hours before sunset, and the hectic psychological constraints of the city died all at once as I remembered why I truly love England.
Or, for that matter, Arkansas, or bits here and there all over the parts of the planet I've seen thus far. Trees, stones, and the greenery of nature in general. England, nor indeed Northwest Arkansas, can truly claim any longer to be an agrarian, rural locale. The ways of life that suit and require such surroundings are quickly dying, and my favourite source of serenity along with them. As Allen commented a few posts back, quoting some classic American lighter rock: "Don't it always seem to go that you don't know what you've got till it's gone. They pave paradise and put up a parking lot."
Take stock of where you find peace, and what you know is worth loving, and enjoy it soon. If not today, this week,or when you're able in the not-so-distant future. If it's London, New York City, or Spring, Texas, or the Snake River, Sahara Dessert, or Puppy Creek, get there sometime soon. Myself, I hope to get to either northeast or southwest England in the next month-- either Yorkshire, or Somerset and Dorset. If I can, I'll hire a bike and ride along some canal towpaths.
What speaks serenity to you?
Wednesday, October 18, 2006
This Ever-Shrinking Terrasphere
I returned to Yeny's house in East Dulwich, South London, this evening, and heard an American voice upstairs. When I finally managed to get up to the living room to see who all was in residence, I encountered a girl in a University of Virginia hoodie, who introduced herself as Jodi. We exchanged pleasantries for awhile, and she eventually asked where I was from. I started with the usual thread I save for Americans: "Near Fayetteville, where the University is... Spingdale is actually my hometown, between Fayetteville and Bentonville, where Wal-mart's headquartered." But she stopped me: "I've heard of Springdale...we have relatives there... Yes that's right, I've seen it on our Christmas Cards. My cousins are the Bogers." Kelly and Cody. For those of you in NWA, the Bogers are the family on the corner of Cowface Road, on the way to Hickory Creek Marina on Beaver Lake, with a pasture full of buffalo. I actually talked to Kelly over the phone a week or two before leaving the US, trying to line him up to haul some dirt.
We had a good laugh over the coincidence, if you could call it that. I don't particularly believe in coincidences...
We had a good laugh over the coincidence, if you could call it that. I don't particularly believe in coincidences...
Trying to Stay on Top of this Updating Thing
Well, so Tuesday saw me sleeping in late, as the aftereffects (washing up et al.) of the Monday evening dinner party had me up well past midnight. I left 49 Claude just in time to catch the last possible bus that would get me to Nottingham's Broadmarsh Coach Station before the 450 National Express to London pulled out without me. I love the drive from Notts to London, down the M1. It's not what you'd call remarkable: tarmac is tarmac and asphalt is asphalt, regardless of continent. A road is an obviously blighting streak across otherwise pure and unfettered nature or idyllic farmland, no matter the latitudal and longitudinal lines it crosses, but for all that, I love a road. Given that it will probably be asphalt that finally claims the last scrapings of the little bit of geography my family's called home for a century and a half, I derive a sense of peace from a well-paved highway. If you know my road-tripping tendencies, this won't surprise you.
The M1 to London from Nottingham, via Milton Keynes, is certainly the main British road I'm most familiar with. I've lost count of the number of coaches I've ticked past the miles in down said stretch, but I've grown well familiar. I usually try to stay awake the whole trip, but I was beat this time, so I popped in the ear buds and drifted in and out of Jimmy Buffett, the Fray, and Sister Hazel.
That was just as well, as I received a text message from my Australian buddy Davo, whom I met in Spain last year, inviting me out to the Frog and Forget-Me-Not pub for a pint and a spot on his quiz team. Pub quizzes are big affairs here in England, and particularly England. One of the prizes last night was an entire case of beers. Our team, "The-number-of-times-will-we-have-to-play-before-we-win-this-quiz-is" featured returning contenders Ed, of English persuasion; Davo and his girlfriend Natalie, both from Australia; Myself and Yeny (Colombian, if you forget); and her newest to housemates, Demis and Michaela, an Italian couple. There were 3 rounds of 30+ questions in multiple categories. We all had our strengths, but I was able to prove myself by identifying Ray Charles "Georgia on My Mind", among other tunes, and anagramming 'Excitation' into 'intoxicate.' All of our combined knowledge pooled together, unfortunately, landed us only in 4th or 5th place, out of 40+. Our score of 104 simply didn't measure up to the two 106's and the title-taking 109 scored by our competition.
Win or lose, we did have a smashing time, which is an awful good thing, as when my tab came round, the ONE pint of Magner's Irish Cider I'd washed down cost me 4 pounds. It's a wonder the poverty level in London isn't frequented by more of the locals, given the price of alcohol, grog and booze in the imbibing establishments. Quite fortunately, I'm not an alcoholic. If I'd known the levy I'd be laid with for 1 solitary refreshment, I'd've nicked a pint glass bearing the pub or brand name...
Any rate, Happy Wednesday. Hope the weather's fair where you're at. London is mostly cloudy, as per usual, and not raining. As Yeny's at work, I'll probably hit a park or museum for the first part of the afternoon.
Do some stretches. Your body'll appreciate it.
jeff
The M1 to London from Nottingham, via Milton Keynes, is certainly the main British road I'm most familiar with. I've lost count of the number of coaches I've ticked past the miles in down said stretch, but I've grown well familiar. I usually try to stay awake the whole trip, but I was beat this time, so I popped in the ear buds and drifted in and out of Jimmy Buffett, the Fray, and Sister Hazel.
That was just as well, as I received a text message from my Australian buddy Davo, whom I met in Spain last year, inviting me out to the Frog and Forget-Me-Not pub for a pint and a spot on his quiz team. Pub quizzes are big affairs here in England, and particularly England. One of the prizes last night was an entire case of beers. Our team, "The-number-of-times-will-we-have-to-play-before-we-win-this-quiz-is" featured returning contenders Ed, of English persuasion; Davo and his girlfriend Natalie, both from Australia; Myself and Yeny (Colombian, if you forget); and her newest to housemates, Demis and Michaela, an Italian couple. There were 3 rounds of 30+ questions in multiple categories. We all had our strengths, but I was able to prove myself by identifying Ray Charles "Georgia on My Mind", among other tunes, and anagramming 'Excitation' into 'intoxicate.' All of our combined knowledge pooled together, unfortunately, landed us only in 4th or 5th place, out of 40+. Our score of 104 simply didn't measure up to the two 106's and the title-taking 109 scored by our competition.
Win or lose, we did have a smashing time, which is an awful good thing, as when my tab came round, the ONE pint of Magner's Irish Cider I'd washed down cost me 4 pounds. It's a wonder the poverty level in London isn't frequented by more of the locals, given the price of alcohol, grog and booze in the imbibing establishments. Quite fortunately, I'm not an alcoholic. If I'd known the levy I'd be laid with for 1 solitary refreshment, I'd've nicked a pint glass bearing the pub or brand name...
Any rate, Happy Wednesday. Hope the weather's fair where you're at. London is mostly cloudy, as per usual, and not raining. As Yeny's at work, I'll probably hit a park or museum for the first part of the afternoon.
Do some stretches. Your body'll appreciate it.
jeff
Tuesday, October 17, 2006
Big Weekend
Welllll...
I took a bus from London to Nottingham Thursday, so that I could practice with the frisbee team Thursday evening. I spent Friday doing... nothing...that I recall, and kicked off the weekend Friday night with my friend Sophia, whom I met in Vienna (if you haven't heard that tale, we'll get there eventually). Her boyfriends 25th birthday was one day last week, and they were celebrating Friday night. I went along, and as they're both medical students, met about 40 other meds, and ended up conversing most of the night away with a girl named Katrina.
Saturday was nice, by Nottingham standards; it wasn't raining. So, Katrina and I went for a walk through Wollaton Park, the ancestral grounds of either the Wollaton or Willoughby family, or both. We also went down to the Nottingham Canal and Castle Marina to check out some of my beloved narrowboats. Found one for sale for a mere 80,000 pounds... Went out for a pint with Dave from Fling at the Happy Return that evening, then to a house party at our friend Helen's house. Helen is also known as Fish, but that's another story I'm infamiliar with.
Sunday...I spent a greater portion of the day posting, as I recall, till about 2 pm, when I headed off for frisbee practice and some track training afterwards. My body is still sore in places I'd forgotten existed. Came home and showered, then went back to Dave's to grab him, his housemate and our fellow flinger Rod, and Dave's guitar, and headed down to open mic nite at the Happy Return, once more, to meet up with James and Harp, also from Fling. We got there about 8.30, and after a few sips of Kingston's Press Cider to start the evening, I took to the stage and played for about an hour... everything from my standard "Can't You See" by the Marshall Tucker Band, to Kenny Chesney, Jimmy Buffett, and the Generic Love Song. Eventually played a duet of "Sweet Home Alabama" with a phenomenal British piano-playing chap, who actually played the entertainer from underneath the piano... Left the HR at midnight, and went to the Fanoose takeaway for a Kebab, which I got for half price after playing the cook a Jimmy Buffett's "He Went to Paris". At least, I think that's what I was playing... I'll go ask him tomorrow: he recorded me.
Today, my friend Danisha and I went walking round; again to the canal, but west to Beeston marina. I really love those narrow boats. I promise I'll get some pictures up soon as I'm able. We walked goodness knows how many miles, ending up in Beeston city centre, the long way, and hitting the Sainsbury's grocery store, where I bought all the ingredients necessary for a good pot of chili and a batch of brownies, and we feasted at my old house tonight: myself, Danisha, Sophia, Katrina, James, Juan, Giuliana, Alexis, Tung, and Alejandro. I made so much, though, that Tung will be eating the stuff through the weekend. He seemed to like it, fortunately. We sat around after dinner for nearly 3 hours, laughing hysterically about one thing or another. Which was good, as we'd all eaten too much and severely needed to burn a few calories. It would seem that everyone enjoyed themselves and the meal. Even Sophia, who's highly critical... ;) James did, for what it's worth, eat half of the entire [double] batch of peanut butter brownies. Take it all around, we all went our separate ways satisfied.
Tomorrow, it's back to London for a few days for Yeny's birthday. Beyond that, I'm uncertain.
So, to recap: Tex-Mex dinner done Arkansas style with English available ingredients, peanut butter brownies a la Carol Brown. In attendance: 2 English, 1 American, 1 Mauritian, 1 Anglicised Greco-Barbadian, 3 Mexicans, 1 Malaysian, 1 Peruvian. It's a cosmopolitan world, allright. This is why I love England, and Nottingham in particular, so much.
Any rate, have a fabulous week. Eat Thai.
jeffro
I took a bus from London to Nottingham Thursday, so that I could practice with the frisbee team Thursday evening. I spent Friday doing... nothing...that I recall, and kicked off the weekend Friday night with my friend Sophia, whom I met in Vienna (if you haven't heard that tale, we'll get there eventually). Her boyfriends 25th birthday was one day last week, and they were celebrating Friday night. I went along, and as they're both medical students, met about 40 other meds, and ended up conversing most of the night away with a girl named Katrina.
Saturday was nice, by Nottingham standards; it wasn't raining. So, Katrina and I went for a walk through Wollaton Park, the ancestral grounds of either the Wollaton or Willoughby family, or both. We also went down to the Nottingham Canal and Castle Marina to check out some of my beloved narrowboats. Found one for sale for a mere 80,000 pounds... Went out for a pint with Dave from Fling at the Happy Return that evening, then to a house party at our friend Helen's house. Helen is also known as Fish, but that's another story I'm infamiliar with.
Sunday...I spent a greater portion of the day posting, as I recall, till about 2 pm, when I headed off for frisbee practice and some track training afterwards. My body is still sore in places I'd forgotten existed. Came home and showered, then went back to Dave's to grab him, his housemate and our fellow flinger Rod, and Dave's guitar, and headed down to open mic nite at the Happy Return, once more, to meet up with James and Harp, also from Fling. We got there about 8.30, and after a few sips of Kingston's Press Cider to start the evening, I took to the stage and played for about an hour... everything from my standard "Can't You See" by the Marshall Tucker Band, to Kenny Chesney, Jimmy Buffett, and the Generic Love Song. Eventually played a duet of "Sweet Home Alabama" with a phenomenal British piano-playing chap, who actually played the entertainer from underneath the piano... Left the HR at midnight, and went to the Fanoose takeaway for a Kebab, which I got for half price after playing the cook a Jimmy Buffett's "He Went to Paris". At least, I think that's what I was playing... I'll go ask him tomorrow: he recorded me.
Today, my friend Danisha and I went walking round; again to the canal, but west to Beeston marina. I really love those narrow boats. I promise I'll get some pictures up soon as I'm able. We walked goodness knows how many miles, ending up in Beeston city centre, the long way, and hitting the Sainsbury's grocery store, where I bought all the ingredients necessary for a good pot of chili and a batch of brownies, and we feasted at my old house tonight: myself, Danisha, Sophia, Katrina, James, Juan, Giuliana, Alexis, Tung, and Alejandro. I made so much, though, that Tung will be eating the stuff through the weekend. He seemed to like it, fortunately. We sat around after dinner for nearly 3 hours, laughing hysterically about one thing or another. Which was good, as we'd all eaten too much and severely needed to burn a few calories. It would seem that everyone enjoyed themselves and the meal. Even Sophia, who's highly critical... ;) James did, for what it's worth, eat half of the entire [double] batch of peanut butter brownies. Take it all around, we all went our separate ways satisfied.
Tomorrow, it's back to London for a few days for Yeny's birthday. Beyond that, I'm uncertain.
So, to recap: Tex-Mex dinner done Arkansas style with English available ingredients, peanut butter brownies a la Carol Brown. In attendance: 2 English, 1 American, 1 Mauritian, 1 Anglicised Greco-Barbadian, 3 Mexicans, 1 Malaysian, 1 Peruvian. It's a cosmopolitan world, allright. This is why I love England, and Nottingham in particular, so much.
Any rate, have a fabulous week. Eat Thai.
jeffro
Sunday, October 15, 2006
Second Post in 12 hours...don't miss the first...
Howdy, all. It's about 10 am Sunday morning in Nottingham GMT, so 4 am in Arkansas, and late evening in Western Australia (I've got so many numbers in my head-- translating temperatures from centigrade to Fahrenheit, miles to metres, pounds to euros to crowns to dollars, that I've forgotten the time swap to further locales than the ones I'm typically concerned with). I've got a few hours free before I head to frisbee practice, and as I've got access to a free computer with internet, thought I'd take some time to get you fully caught up on what the devil I've been up to the last few weeks.
I reckon I'll just start with the day I left Northwest Arkansas. I've been gone a month now, so rather than write an elongated dissertation on the previous four and a half weeks, I'll only give you the first week now, and post more later.
Tuesday, September 12: Breakfast with my folks and best friend Brandon at my grandparents Sharp's house, flight to Atlanta, Georgia, four hour layover, overnight flight to London Gatwick. While boarding the plane, I met a brother and sister heading home to, of all places, Nottingham. Their names were Alan and Elena, and had been visiting their grandparents in Colombia. I do not know what my magnetism is for meeting Colombians in Atlanta, but that's two for two. Alan had recognised my University of Nottingham T-shirt, and I spent an hour or two talking with his sister as we made our way over the north Atlantic.
Wednesday, September 13: Arrived into the city of London around 9 am, met up with my Colombian friend Yeny (whom I met in the Atlanta airport one year previous when we were both heading for England). I spent the better part of the day fighting off jetlag, we walked the city a bit, and called it an early night.
Thursday, September 14: Late brunch, early afternoon train to Nottingham. Went round to my old digs at number 49, Claude Street in Dunkirk, where I found my old housemates Juan, Giuliana, and Alexis in conference with Tung, my replacement 9 months ago, settling up final accounts, as Juan and Giuliana were moving house, just around the corner. Juan, Giuliana, Alexis and myself went out for Kebabs at the Beeston Charcoal Grill, and then I met up with my frisbee flinging mate, Dave, for a pint or two of Kingston's Press Cider.
Friday, September 15: Met up with my friend James, from Fling, late morning to chuck a disc around and catch up a bit, then made my way from main campus to Jubilee campus, the satellite location of the University of Nottingham, where my Greek friend Lilian had lived for the last year, to help her pack for her flight home the next day. Walked around with her for a bit, met her friend Andriani, who for all of her being Greek, could be Angelina Jolie's sister, and then went back to Juan and Giuliana's to celebrate Mexican Independence Day with the two of them and their friends Marcos and Melissa. Then, around 9.30, I made my way back to Lilian's and we went out to a club with Andriani and her boyfriend Demetri, for Lilian's last night in Nottingham.
Saturday, September 16: Left Notts at the crack of dawn, up with sparrows, to help Lilian haul all of her stuff down to London Heathrow. I realised at some point in that 3 hour bus trip that I was probably never going to see this amazing friend again, and it was an incredibly bitter, tearful ride. Perhaps one of the worst days I can recall. After I left her at the airport, I had to find a little out of the way corner to hide in and recuperate, before I headed back into the city to meet up with Yeny again. We walked through Soho, Leicester Square, and Covent Garden, where there was a phenomenal guitarrist entertaining the other tourists. It was nice, but it was a day that simply couldn't end soon enough for me.
Sunday, September 17: Sunday was relaxing. We all got up late, and I made French Toast for Yeny and her roommate Angelica. Just the doing of that is enough to lift my spirits from any point. Learning to make French toast is one of the rites of passage for the males in my family. My grandfather Brown, 'B' I call him, is an absolute master and can turn out heaps of the stuff quicker than my 4 cousins, their combined families, and myself (totalling a good baker's dozen worth of ravenous mouths) can put it away. My dad is pretty good too. French toast for breakfast was always a big occasion growing up. Knowing that I'm now capable of the feat is a very satisfying realisation. I've fixed it for Yeny before, and know she likes it, but it was nicely comforting to see Angelica's enjoyment for the first time. They spent the day studying, I read Oliver Twist out in the back garden, and then after our dinner of Chinese takeaway, spent the evening in conversation with their Turkish housemate, Basak.
Monday, September 18: Got up early (-ier) and made my way south to Gatwick airport, where I flew out to Budapest to meet up with my French friend, Celine, whom I met in Spain back in January while traveling with my Australian friend Lisa. While in queue (waiting line) in airport security, I noticed that the girl in front of me was absolutely awash in tears. She'd caught the attention of a few other passengers-to-be, and after a moment of following her eyes through the crowd, we all saw what we expected: a young man with an equal amount of saline streaks and rosy cheeks, well out of the queue, with no luggage, obviously waving goodbye. Unfortunately, the poor girl was fairly short and her vision kept getting blocked by the hundreds of people between, so I tapped her shoulder, and told her to clench her fists and hold her arms straight down tightly. This done, I grabbed hold of her tiny hands and lifted her up as high as I could, to the amusement and applause of those around us, about 2 and a half heads higher than my own, so that she could get a last glimpse of her beau. Of course, then I realised that she couldn't wave at him.
That notwithstanding, I could see by his smile that he was as appreciative as she for the last light-hearted parting shot, and he turned to go as I let her down. She introduced herself as Andi (her boyfriend, I found out later was an Englishman named Robert), she was Romanian, heading home to Transylvania via Hungary. We sat together on the flight, talking of I don't even remember what all, and then she helped me to find Celine upon arrival, and then helped both of us into the city centre towards our hostel, as Andi spoke the local tongue (among about 4 others, fluantly) while we did not. We parted ways at the station and I haven't heard from her since.
Celine and I made our way to the hostel, then went out for a walk through the newer half, Pest, of the Hungarian capital, and had dinner in a quiet little locally flavoured restaurant, where I feasted on a dinner of pork roast and lentil stew.
So, to recap that first week lest there be any confusion, that was Arkansas, London, Nottingham, London, Budapest. In order of appearance were: Mom, Dad, Brandon, Jay, and Nana (from Northwest Arkansas), Alan and Elena (from my Transatlantic flight, from Colombia, Nottingham, and London, variously), Yeny (from last years's eastbound Atlantic flight, from Colombia, in London), Juan (former housemate, from Mexico), Giuliana (former housemate, wife of Juan, from Peru), Alexis (former housemate, from Mexico. He's in Wales for the weekend with the University of Nottingham Caving Society, and I'm using his room and computer in his absense), Tung (my replacement at 49 Claude, from Malaysia, I believe), Dave (from Stoke-on-Trent, Frisbee teammate), James (from Petersfield, also from the frisbee team), Lilian (from my [unfinished] English Literature program here, Greek, the best friend I had in Nottingham, and perhaps a broader area even), Andriani (Greek, friend of Lilian), Marcos (Mexican, friend of Juan), Melissa (Mexican, girlfriend of Marcos), Demetri(Greek, boyfriend of Andriani), Angelica (Colombian, housemate of Yeny), 'B' (grandfather Brown, northwest Arkansas, former Postmaster, gave me the ring you might've seen me wearing), Basak (Turkish girl, housemate of Yeny), Celine (French, met in Spain while travelling with...), Lisa (Australian, met while travelling Europe with Topdeck Tours last year), Andi (distraught Transylvanian from my flight to Budapest), Robert (whom I've only waved at, distraught English boyfriend of Andi).
There we are, hope you've all got that filed away into memory, as some of these names, if you've not bored out of your ever loving skull, will repeat in chapter 2. Cheers for now.
jeff
I reckon I'll just start with the day I left Northwest Arkansas. I've been gone a month now, so rather than write an elongated dissertation on the previous four and a half weeks, I'll only give you the first week now, and post more later.
Tuesday, September 12: Breakfast with my folks and best friend Brandon at my grandparents Sharp's house, flight to Atlanta, Georgia, four hour layover, overnight flight to London Gatwick. While boarding the plane, I met a brother and sister heading home to, of all places, Nottingham. Their names were Alan and Elena, and had been visiting their grandparents in Colombia. I do not know what my magnetism is for meeting Colombians in Atlanta, but that's two for two. Alan had recognised my University of Nottingham T-shirt, and I spent an hour or two talking with his sister as we made our way over the north Atlantic.
Wednesday, September 13: Arrived into the city of London around 9 am, met up with my Colombian friend Yeny (whom I met in the Atlanta airport one year previous when we were both heading for England). I spent the better part of the day fighting off jetlag, we walked the city a bit, and called it an early night.
Thursday, September 14: Late brunch, early afternoon train to Nottingham. Went round to my old digs at number 49, Claude Street in Dunkirk, where I found my old housemates Juan, Giuliana, and Alexis in conference with Tung, my replacement 9 months ago, settling up final accounts, as Juan and Giuliana were moving house, just around the corner. Juan, Giuliana, Alexis and myself went out for Kebabs at the Beeston Charcoal Grill, and then I met up with my frisbee flinging mate, Dave, for a pint or two of Kingston's Press Cider.
Friday, September 15: Met up with my friend James, from Fling, late morning to chuck a disc around and catch up a bit, then made my way from main campus to Jubilee campus, the satellite location of the University of Nottingham, where my Greek friend Lilian had lived for the last year, to help her pack for her flight home the next day. Walked around with her for a bit, met her friend Andriani, who for all of her being Greek, could be Angelina Jolie's sister, and then went back to Juan and Giuliana's to celebrate Mexican Independence Day with the two of them and their friends Marcos and Melissa. Then, around 9.30, I made my way back to Lilian's and we went out to a club with Andriani and her boyfriend Demetri, for Lilian's last night in Nottingham.
Saturday, September 16: Left Notts at the crack of dawn, up with sparrows, to help Lilian haul all of her stuff down to London Heathrow. I realised at some point in that 3 hour bus trip that I was probably never going to see this amazing friend again, and it was an incredibly bitter, tearful ride. Perhaps one of the worst days I can recall. After I left her at the airport, I had to find a little out of the way corner to hide in and recuperate, before I headed back into the city to meet up with Yeny again. We walked through Soho, Leicester Square, and Covent Garden, where there was a phenomenal guitarrist entertaining the other tourists. It was nice, but it was a day that simply couldn't end soon enough for me.
Sunday, September 17: Sunday was relaxing. We all got up late, and I made French Toast for Yeny and her roommate Angelica. Just the doing of that is enough to lift my spirits from any point. Learning to make French toast is one of the rites of passage for the males in my family. My grandfather Brown, 'B' I call him, is an absolute master and can turn out heaps of the stuff quicker than my 4 cousins, their combined families, and myself (totalling a good baker's dozen worth of ravenous mouths) can put it away. My dad is pretty good too. French toast for breakfast was always a big occasion growing up. Knowing that I'm now capable of the feat is a very satisfying realisation. I've fixed it for Yeny before, and know she likes it, but it was nicely comforting to see Angelica's enjoyment for the first time. They spent the day studying, I read Oliver Twist out in the back garden, and then after our dinner of Chinese takeaway, spent the evening in conversation with their Turkish housemate, Basak.
Monday, September 18: Got up early (-ier) and made my way south to Gatwick airport, where I flew out to Budapest to meet up with my French friend, Celine, whom I met in Spain back in January while traveling with my Australian friend Lisa. While in queue (waiting line) in airport security, I noticed that the girl in front of me was absolutely awash in tears. She'd caught the attention of a few other passengers-to-be, and after a moment of following her eyes through the crowd, we all saw what we expected: a young man with an equal amount of saline streaks and rosy cheeks, well out of the queue, with no luggage, obviously waving goodbye. Unfortunately, the poor girl was fairly short and her vision kept getting blocked by the hundreds of people between, so I tapped her shoulder, and told her to clench her fists and hold her arms straight down tightly. This done, I grabbed hold of her tiny hands and lifted her up as high as I could, to the amusement and applause of those around us, about 2 and a half heads higher than my own, so that she could get a last glimpse of her beau. Of course, then I realised that she couldn't wave at him.
That notwithstanding, I could see by his smile that he was as appreciative as she for the last light-hearted parting shot, and he turned to go as I let her down. She introduced herself as Andi (her boyfriend, I found out later was an Englishman named Robert), she was Romanian, heading home to Transylvania via Hungary. We sat together on the flight, talking of I don't even remember what all, and then she helped me to find Celine upon arrival, and then helped both of us into the city centre towards our hostel, as Andi spoke the local tongue (among about 4 others, fluantly) while we did not. We parted ways at the station and I haven't heard from her since.
Celine and I made our way to the hostel, then went out for a walk through the newer half, Pest, of the Hungarian capital, and had dinner in a quiet little locally flavoured restaurant, where I feasted on a dinner of pork roast and lentil stew.
So, to recap that first week lest there be any confusion, that was Arkansas, London, Nottingham, London, Budapest. In order of appearance were: Mom, Dad, Brandon, Jay, and Nana (from Northwest Arkansas), Alan and Elena (from my Transatlantic flight, from Colombia, Nottingham, and London, variously), Yeny (from last years's eastbound Atlantic flight, from Colombia, in London), Juan (former housemate, from Mexico), Giuliana (former housemate, wife of Juan, from Peru), Alexis (former housemate, from Mexico. He's in Wales for the weekend with the University of Nottingham Caving Society, and I'm using his room and computer in his absense), Tung (my replacement at 49 Claude, from Malaysia, I believe), Dave (from Stoke-on-Trent, Frisbee teammate), James (from Petersfield, also from the frisbee team), Lilian (from my [unfinished] English Literature program here, Greek, the best friend I had in Nottingham, and perhaps a broader area even), Andriani (Greek, friend of Lilian), Marcos (Mexican, friend of Juan), Melissa (Mexican, girlfriend of Marcos), Demetri(Greek, boyfriend of Andriani), Angelica (Colombian, housemate of Yeny), 'B' (grandfather Brown, northwest Arkansas, former Postmaster, gave me the ring you might've seen me wearing), Basak (Turkish girl, housemate of Yeny), Celine (French, met in Spain while travelling with...), Lisa (Australian, met while travelling Europe with Topdeck Tours last year), Andi (distraught Transylvanian from my flight to Budapest), Robert (whom I've only waved at, distraught English boyfriend of Andi).
There we are, hope you've all got that filed away into memory, as some of these names, if you've not bored out of your ever loving skull, will repeat in chapter 2. Cheers for now.
jeff
Every town has its ups and downs...
And I'm in Nottingham, again. I've really been trying to cope with the implications of the term 'old haunts' over the last 24+ hours. An old haunt rather implies that the places I am traversing now I once visited before as a haunter, if you will, a ghost. But that's not the case. When I was here before, this was my life. I actually lived in Nottingham less than 90 days (in fact, I may not've truly reached that total yet, so far as nights slept here are concerned), but it became home. When I first came round here again 4 weeks ago, I turned onto my old street and stopped dead in my tracks as my eyes adjusted and my brain registered one word: 'Home.'
But this isn't home, it couldn't be-- I don't think. This is a University town. This is the sort of place that really isn't home to anyone. People come here only on temporary bases. It's when they come back, as I am now, that they truly haunt the place. I float around, remembering a life that was, the friends who've already moved away again, seeing the houses that I used to know the residents of, and I know that my time here is well done, but I cannot leave, I cannot put this place, the life I had here, to rest, and I merely hover at the fringe...
But it's not like that, really. Yes, there's so much different: people gone, doors no longer open, no real purpose of being here. But quite a few of my friends are here, I've already made more friends, thanks to and starting with Sophia, the thoroughly Anglicised Greco-Barbadian girl I met in Vienna. She's a medical student here in Nottingham, and I went out with her and I think 80 of her peers last night. The gents from the frisbee team are just as fun to be around as I recall, Juan, Giuliana, and Alexis are still the noble friends I remember them being. The air smells the same, the canal and its longboats still drifts idly along the southwestern side of town, from Beeston, past Dunkirk, and through Nottingham's city centre on its way to the Trent River. A doner kebab (Turkish version of a burrito or pita sandwich, made with lamb doner (sausage, essentially) still has that magical taste that only really fatty meat with garlic mayonnaise could provide. The streets I walked, the shops I frequented, the color of the grass and the scents on the air-- they're all what I remember of Nottingham. But still...something is missing...
I may go and participate at open mic night at the Happy Return, a pub in the village of Lenton, 15 or 20 minutes walk from here (my old residence), tomorrow night. I'll be sure and let y'all know how that turns out.
Cheers for now, from your favourite spectre...
jeffro
But this isn't home, it couldn't be-- I don't think. This is a University town. This is the sort of place that really isn't home to anyone. People come here only on temporary bases. It's when they come back, as I am now, that they truly haunt the place. I float around, remembering a life that was, the friends who've already moved away again, seeing the houses that I used to know the residents of, and I know that my time here is well done, but I cannot leave, I cannot put this place, the life I had here, to rest, and I merely hover at the fringe...
But it's not like that, really. Yes, there's so much different: people gone, doors no longer open, no real purpose of being here. But quite a few of my friends are here, I've already made more friends, thanks to and starting with Sophia, the thoroughly Anglicised Greco-Barbadian girl I met in Vienna. She's a medical student here in Nottingham, and I went out with her and I think 80 of her peers last night. The gents from the frisbee team are just as fun to be around as I recall, Juan, Giuliana, and Alexis are still the noble friends I remember them being. The air smells the same, the canal and its longboats still drifts idly along the southwestern side of town, from Beeston, past Dunkirk, and through Nottingham's city centre on its way to the Trent River. A doner kebab (Turkish version of a burrito or pita sandwich, made with lamb doner (sausage, essentially) still has that magical taste that only really fatty meat with garlic mayonnaise could provide. The streets I walked, the shops I frequented, the color of the grass and the scents on the air-- they're all what I remember of Nottingham. But still...something is missing...
I may go and participate at open mic night at the Happy Return, a pub in the village of Lenton, 15 or 20 minutes walk from here (my old residence), tomorrow night. I'll be sure and let y'all know how that turns out.
Cheers for now, from your favourite spectre...
jeffro
Friday, October 13, 2006
Repetitive Ignorance
Let's assume, for both the sake of argument and my own self-respect, that everyone does something, every so often, moderately unintelligent. You have something, surely. Some act you commit, phrase you use, turn you take, regularly, that routinely turns around to bite you. You know that you cannot wear white shirts because you stain the pits in a matter of minutes. You don't chew gum because it braids your braces together. Or at least, you ought not, but do anways. Somehow, you just can't remember the effects of poor decisions.
Mine's eating raw chicken. I don't know how I manage to pull this off, but if there is an option, be it in my own fridge at home or at the deli counter in a London grocery store, to pick out and consume either well cooked, perfectly stapf and salmonella free poultry, or a raw, theoretically bacterially infested version, I'll take the unsanitary course, invariably. I don't know how. I did it today. Hence the presence of such a strange vein in the forefront of my mind. I was mildly hungry, had gone out for some household cleaner and a KitKat (They have a DARK chocolate version out here in the UK), and decided to pop round the deli and bakery corner for a mouthful of something toothsome. Asian food is currently, and has been for some time, the most popular culinary genre in Britain, save for Kentucky Fried Chicken and all its clones. So, I decided to try a few different pastries than what I'd normally be able to find back home. I'm not sure if the assortment I got were mostly Turkish, Indian, Bengali, or something else, but I did have some sort of fried onion pancake, a vegetable spring roll, some delectable little triangles filled with both vegetables or chicken and potatoes, and had saved for last a chicken and chili roll. When I got my bag of goodies, I noted that they were cold, but as the typical pasty or pastry has usually been precooked, I presumed that these little trifles had merely been in the fridge since their prep time had ended.
I was wrong. I was halfway through the 7th, and last, morsel, that chicken and chili roll that had me drooling the moment I read the placard in front of it, when I realised that the meat was a might gummy, and harder to chew than should've been expected. I'm OK so far, and it has been 10 hours, so either I have the stomach of a goat, that could digest a tin can, or I have the digestive duration of a cow, and will wake up next Tuesday in severe cramping pain.
Today's Moral: Always ask if food needs further preparation, particularly if you can be reasonably certain that the person behind the counter speaks the same language as yourself.
Oh, and in case your wondering, as a precautionary measure, I went back to the grocery store and bought a package of Digestive Biscuits (with chocolate). For those of you, most of you, not resident of, nor familiar with the grocery habits and selections of, the UK, Digestive Biscuits are merely blandly sweet cookie type crackers, high in fiber. Something akin to a ginger snap or oatmeal cookie, and quite nice, particularly with tea.
Mine's eating raw chicken. I don't know how I manage to pull this off, but if there is an option, be it in my own fridge at home or at the deli counter in a London grocery store, to pick out and consume either well cooked, perfectly stapf and salmonella free poultry, or a raw, theoretically bacterially infested version, I'll take the unsanitary course, invariably. I don't know how. I did it today. Hence the presence of such a strange vein in the forefront of my mind. I was mildly hungry, had gone out for some household cleaner and a KitKat (They have a DARK chocolate version out here in the UK), and decided to pop round the deli and bakery corner for a mouthful of something toothsome. Asian food is currently, and has been for some time, the most popular culinary genre in Britain, save for Kentucky Fried Chicken and all its clones. So, I decided to try a few different pastries than what I'd normally be able to find back home. I'm not sure if the assortment I got were mostly Turkish, Indian, Bengali, or something else, but I did have some sort of fried onion pancake, a vegetable spring roll, some delectable little triangles filled with both vegetables or chicken and potatoes, and had saved for last a chicken and chili roll. When I got my bag of goodies, I noted that they were cold, but as the typical pasty or pastry has usually been precooked, I presumed that these little trifles had merely been in the fridge since their prep time had ended.
I was wrong. I was halfway through the 7th, and last, morsel, that chicken and chili roll that had me drooling the moment I read the placard in front of it, when I realised that the meat was a might gummy, and harder to chew than should've been expected. I'm OK so far, and it has been 10 hours, so either I have the stomach of a goat, that could digest a tin can, or I have the digestive duration of a cow, and will wake up next Tuesday in severe cramping pain.
Today's Moral: Always ask if food needs further preparation, particularly if you can be reasonably certain that the person behind the counter speaks the same language as yourself.
Oh, and in case your wondering, as a precautionary measure, I went back to the grocery store and bought a package of Digestive Biscuits (with chocolate). For those of you, most of you, not resident of, nor familiar with the grocery habits and selections of, the UK, Digestive Biscuits are merely blandly sweet cookie type crackers, high in fiber. Something akin to a ginger snap or oatmeal cookie, and quite nice, particularly with tea.
Thursday, October 12, 2006
Geographical Pronunciations...
In English, I would tell you that I, over 2 different weeks in 2 different years, I've been to Florence, Rome, Orvieto, Venice, Brenner, and Verona, Italy. After 10 days there this year, I flew back to London.
However, if I were still in Italy, my listeners would have no idea where I'd been. In the local tongue, I was in Firenze, Roma, Orvieto, Venezia, Brenero, and Verona, Italia, then flew to Londra.
And I have to wonder why it is that different languages have different titles for locales not their own. Tokyo, for what it's worth, is Tokyo in every language that uses the Phoenician alphabet. We call the larger country inhabiting the Iberian peninsula 'Spain,' and don't even have the tilde-capped letter 'n' that the proper spelling of Espana requires on our keyboards. Pronunciations are one thing-- it can be difficult to wrap your tongue around the Spanish usage of the letter 'c', and English dipthongs are a bane to nearly all inhabitants of South America.
Any thoughts or opinions...such as "Yeah, language sucks," or, "Well, historically, the difference between Latinate and Germanic dialects have led to..." or, "Give up on introspective profundity, dude."
Anyhow, London is beautiful today. I saw Yeny to the train station just after dawn and went for a walk through the early morning cool, watching the multitudes of London jumping into everyday life. London is a fun little city, in that not-at-all-so-little way, but I'm afraid the people who live here aren't able to see it. The city moves at such a sprint that few folks take the time to watch others, or stroll through any of the city's magnificient parks. I may head north to Nottingham today, otherwise, I'll probably go out to either Hyde or Battersea Park.
Take a five minute walk today. Just five minutes, to appreciate where you are. Pick up an acorn and toss it to yourself, throw rocks in a creek or pond. Pet a dog.
However, if I were still in Italy, my listeners would have no idea where I'd been. In the local tongue, I was in Firenze, Roma, Orvieto, Venezia, Brenero, and Verona, Italia, then flew to Londra.
And I have to wonder why it is that different languages have different titles for locales not their own. Tokyo, for what it's worth, is Tokyo in every language that uses the Phoenician alphabet. We call the larger country inhabiting the Iberian peninsula 'Spain,' and don't even have the tilde-capped letter 'n' that the proper spelling of Espana requires on our keyboards. Pronunciations are one thing-- it can be difficult to wrap your tongue around the Spanish usage of the letter 'c', and English dipthongs are a bane to nearly all inhabitants of South America.
Any thoughts or opinions...such as "Yeah, language sucks," or, "Well, historically, the difference between Latinate and Germanic dialects have led to..." or, "Give up on introspective profundity, dude."
Anyhow, London is beautiful today. I saw Yeny to the train station just after dawn and went for a walk through the early morning cool, watching the multitudes of London jumping into everyday life. London is a fun little city, in that not-at-all-so-little way, but I'm afraid the people who live here aren't able to see it. The city moves at such a sprint that few folks take the time to watch others, or stroll through any of the city's magnificient parks. I may head north to Nottingham today, otherwise, I'll probably go out to either Hyde or Battersea Park.
Take a five minute walk today. Just five minutes, to appreciate where you are. Pick up an acorn and toss it to yourself, throw rocks in a creek or pond. Pet a dog.
Wednesday, October 11, 2006
Greetings Again
Well... (Pretend you can hear me saying that aloud... 'Wayelle...')
I am back in London, but it's a wonder. They didn't particularly want to let me back in the country. Too many stamps on my passport, all out of order. The checker at the port security point thought that I had been in England for over a year, and not a student, which would put me at cross purposes with the laws of the land. I finally managed to assure her otherwise; it's a good thing I'm a talker, and used to telling anyone interested what the devil I've been up to over the last year.
I flew with Ryanair from Parma, in northern Italia, to Stansted airport, north of London, today. As I checked in, I noticed that the poster advertising individual passengers' luggage restrictions had emblazoned across the bottom "Ryanair: The ON-TIME Airline." Twas a reassuring little note, until you read its counterpart, posted immediately next to it: "Ryanair takes no responsibility for connections missed due to delayed flights, queues, or other causes. Ryanair advises you NOT (emphasis mine) to plan connections... 'Ryanair: the LOW-FARE Airline'" I laughed, somewhat bitterly, and took consolation from the flyer that said that Ryanair has the lowest percentage of delayed flights, when compared to other European airlines, such as Lufthansa, Alitalia, and EasyJet. They are very proud of that.
My flight LEFT Parma ONE HOUR LATE.
Consequently, I met my train from Stansted to Nottingham, where I planned to surprise my old teammates from Random Fling, the University of Nottingham Ultimate Frisbee Society, at their first social of the year. No luck. Well, it's not all bad though. Yeny, my friend from Colombia, still lives here, so I made my way to her flat, and then made up a pan of cornbread (soulfood- rough day...) and bought a pack of Strongbows at the store, so tonight I'm kicking back and relaxing in a city that I've passed through so much it feels like home. It's nice pulling into London on a bus or train after travelling all over Europe, where all of a sudden I'm familiar again, and know my way around. Though, being able to read every sign around takes a lot of the excitement out of travelling. Guesswork is a key ingredient in international travel.
Any rate, I plan to do some heavy duty blogging in the next few days to catch y'all up a little better on the various footfalls I've dropped over the last few weeks.
Cheers for now, y'all...
I am back in London, but it's a wonder. They didn't particularly want to let me back in the country. Too many stamps on my passport, all out of order. The checker at the port security point thought that I had been in England for over a year, and not a student, which would put me at cross purposes with the laws of the land. I finally managed to assure her otherwise; it's a good thing I'm a talker, and used to telling anyone interested what the devil I've been up to over the last year.
I flew with Ryanair from Parma, in northern Italia, to Stansted airport, north of London, today. As I checked in, I noticed that the poster advertising individual passengers' luggage restrictions had emblazoned across the bottom "Ryanair: The ON-TIME Airline." Twas a reassuring little note, until you read its counterpart, posted immediately next to it: "Ryanair takes no responsibility for connections missed due to delayed flights, queues, or other causes. Ryanair advises you NOT (emphasis mine) to plan connections... 'Ryanair: the LOW-FARE Airline'" I laughed, somewhat bitterly, and took consolation from the flyer that said that Ryanair has the lowest percentage of delayed flights, when compared to other European airlines, such as Lufthansa, Alitalia, and EasyJet. They are very proud of that.
My flight LEFT Parma ONE HOUR LATE.
Consequently, I met my train from Stansted to Nottingham, where I planned to surprise my old teammates from Random Fling, the University of Nottingham Ultimate Frisbee Society, at their first social of the year. No luck. Well, it's not all bad though. Yeny, my friend from Colombia, still lives here, so I made my way to her flat, and then made up a pan of cornbread (soulfood- rough day...) and bought a pack of Strongbows at the store, so tonight I'm kicking back and relaxing in a city that I've passed through so much it feels like home. It's nice pulling into London on a bus or train after travelling all over Europe, where all of a sudden I'm familiar again, and know my way around. Though, being able to read every sign around takes a lot of the excitement out of travelling. Guesswork is a key ingredient in international travel.
Any rate, I plan to do some heavy duty blogging in the next few days to catch y'all up a little better on the various footfalls I've dropped over the last few weeks.
Cheers for now, y'all...
Saturday, October 07, 2006
Stupid Crowded Boot
Well, then, I have been in Italy for 5 days, and seen that many cities. I left Verona yesterday, merely on principle, as it was time to be moving on. I fly from Parma to London on Wednesday, an event I am sincerely looking forward to, and plan to stay around north-central Italy until then.
In that vein, I took a train yesterday to Bergamo, upon the advice of someone who'd already been there, and soon realised it was a mistake. The details will follow later, once I have more time to type, but the long and short of it is that the ONLY hostel in town had a bed for only one night, and that I had to leave today.
This I did, as soon as I was up, as it was raining and nasty and there was no sense in staying. All I saw of Bergamo was the hostel, a pizza restaurant, and the 4 miles I put down getting between the three.
I went to Milano. Not because I especially wanted to, but because I thought that I'd might as well, as it's just one of those places. This, also, was a mistake. The town was equally soggy, looked miserable, was expensive, and offered NO hostels. The cheapest hotel wasn't, so I got back on the train and went south to Parma, where I'm flying from this coming week. There were 2 hostels in Parma, the woman at the Information desk told me, though one was showed on none of the printed maps of the city, as it was miles away. The other was booked full. I got BACK on the train, and went 13 miles down the track to some city whose name I don't even know, but the Parman information clerk booked me a room in.
Here I am now. The location is tolerable, and I'm sharing a room with a Japanese gent named Akiro. He's great. We played frisbee for awhile, had a beer, talked a bit, and he'll head to Venezia tomorrow. Finding and losing, that's the way of it.
I've met a few Asian folks this time around: 2 South Korean guys(Morrie and Moon), and a guy(Akiro) and girl (Miho) from Japan. I've discovered something about Asians: if you ask them if they speak English, and they say "Ahhh...leetle." What they mean is that they are fully conversant. If you ask the standard European the same, expect the same response, be they a public service employee, retail salesperson, or random person on the street. What THEY mean, however, is that they plan on answering your next question with "No" whether you ask them if you can brush their teeth, or what the sum of 3 and 5 is.
Any rate, the past few days theme song has been Moby's "Natural Blues."
For what it's worth, Tim Newberry (pretend this is a link to www.seeyabye.blogspot.com) will be eating at my favourite American pizza parlour this weekend. He'll be in Atlanta, and is supposed to be finding one of the local Mellow Mushroom Pizza Companies there. Best of luck to him...
Happy Belated Birthday to Vinnie King...
And Ciao to the rest of y'all...
In that vein, I took a train yesterday to Bergamo, upon the advice of someone who'd already been there, and soon realised it was a mistake. The details will follow later, once I have more time to type, but the long and short of it is that the ONLY hostel in town had a bed for only one night, and that I had to leave today.
This I did, as soon as I was up, as it was raining and nasty and there was no sense in staying. All I saw of Bergamo was the hostel, a pizza restaurant, and the 4 miles I put down getting between the three.
I went to Milano. Not because I especially wanted to, but because I thought that I'd might as well, as it's just one of those places. This, also, was a mistake. The town was equally soggy, looked miserable, was expensive, and offered NO hostels. The cheapest hotel wasn't, so I got back on the train and went south to Parma, where I'm flying from this coming week. There were 2 hostels in Parma, the woman at the Information desk told me, though one was showed on none of the printed maps of the city, as it was miles away. The other was booked full. I got BACK on the train, and went 13 miles down the track to some city whose name I don't even know, but the Parman information clerk booked me a room in.
Here I am now. The location is tolerable, and I'm sharing a room with a Japanese gent named Akiro. He's great. We played frisbee for awhile, had a beer, talked a bit, and he'll head to Venezia tomorrow. Finding and losing, that's the way of it.
I've met a few Asian folks this time around: 2 South Korean guys(Morrie and Moon), and a guy(Akiro) and girl (Miho) from Japan. I've discovered something about Asians: if you ask them if they speak English, and they say "Ahhh...leetle." What they mean is that they are fully conversant. If you ask the standard European the same, expect the same response, be they a public service employee, retail salesperson, or random person on the street. What THEY mean, however, is that they plan on answering your next question with "No" whether you ask them if you can brush their teeth, or what the sum of 3 and 5 is.
Any rate, the past few days theme song has been Moby's "Natural Blues."
For what it's worth, Tim Newberry (pretend this is a link to www.seeyabye.blogspot.com) will be eating at my favourite American pizza parlour this weekend. He'll be in Atlanta, and is supposed to be finding one of the local Mellow Mushroom Pizza Companies there. Best of luck to him...
Happy Belated Birthday to Vinnie King...
And Ciao to the rest of y'all...
Tuesday, October 03, 2006
Buon giorno da Italia!
Greetings all from Verona, Italy. Local time here (GMT + 1) is 10.45 am, Tuesday, October 9. That's 9.45 am in London, 3.45 am in NWA, and something like 4.45 pm in Western Australia.
I left Navis. Not because I wanted to, but because I'd been there 4 nights, and my standard limit is 3. So, I checked out of what Rob, Nick and I affectionately, and deservingly, titled the Ritz Navis' Rose Room, hopped a bus (a school bus at that... the passengers were myself and 30 6-10 year old Austrian kids... whose only English was "HI!!" and "Head and shoulders, knees and toes, knees and toes, knees and toes...," followed the bus with a train from Matrei, Austria to Brenero, Italy, and a train from there to Verona, where I checked into the equivalent of a YMCA. Missing Austria alllllllready... but Verona does look promising.
I'm in an internet shop at the moment trying to plan my next stage... but I've no idea where it will lead. I'd like to bump into someone with an actual idea about things, and follow them again, but I've noticed that when you amble along with no sort of direction or ambitions, people in similar state are hard to find. Most other folks have very determined agendas, and I don't tend to fit the contexts... Any rate, not so much to report at this point. I'm going to see some Roman ruins and an archaeological museum, and apparently Bruce Springsteen is in concert here Thursday in the old Roman arena, third oldest in the world, at nearly 2000 years.
Hope life is stably, dependably satisfying to you. Living in hopes and hopping trains can be quite psychologically challenging.
Listen to some CCR.
jeffro
I left Navis. Not because I wanted to, but because I'd been there 4 nights, and my standard limit is 3. So, I checked out of what Rob, Nick and I affectionately, and deservingly, titled the Ritz Navis' Rose Room, hopped a bus (a school bus at that... the passengers were myself and 30 6-10 year old Austrian kids... whose only English was "HI!!" and "Head and shoulders, knees and toes, knees and toes, knees and toes...," followed the bus with a train from Matrei, Austria to Brenero, Italy, and a train from there to Verona, where I checked into the equivalent of a YMCA. Missing Austria alllllllready... but Verona does look promising.
I'm in an internet shop at the moment trying to plan my next stage... but I've no idea where it will lead. I'd like to bump into someone with an actual idea about things, and follow them again, but I've noticed that when you amble along with no sort of direction or ambitions, people in similar state are hard to find. Most other folks have very determined agendas, and I don't tend to fit the contexts... Any rate, not so much to report at this point. I'm going to see some Roman ruins and an archaeological museum, and apparently Bruce Springsteen is in concert here Thursday in the old Roman arena, third oldest in the world, at nearly 2000 years.
Hope life is stably, dependably satisfying to you. Living in hopes and hopping trains can be quite psychologically challenging.
Listen to some CCR.
jeffro
Saturday, September 30, 2006
Gooooood Morning
Well, I've realised that the detriment to keeping a daily paper-and-ink diary as well as a weblog is that one is always about 4 steps ahead of the other. Consequently, the current theme or undercurrent of my notebook is a bit more upbeat than that of the blog. My sincerest apologies. I forget sometimes that, often as you might get online, you are not truly able to keep up with the turn of events as quickly as they pass through my mind.
Unfortunately, I still do not want to interrupt the chronological flow of thoughts as I have them written down, so for now I'm going to simply diverge from the main body of content and offer a bit of light-hearted relief from the other half of myself that's forever trying to prove itself profound...
In a desperate attempt to encourage slumber last night, I tried, for the second time in my life, counting sheep. They were hopping over a bi-railed log fence (Who in the world thought of this?) and I'd seen the first sixteen gently lope across when number seventeen didn't get high enough off of the ground and stumbled through the upper spar, leaving it on the ground, and allowing the next dozen and a half to come through in pairs. But thirty.six and thirty-seven collided in mid-air, crashed down onto and shattered the bottom spar, and took off in opposite directions at a dead run. I managed to count up to forty-five before the flood of fluffz white tufts became indiscernible, and doyens poured through before the last trotted gaily through over the splintered rails and trodden turf.
At this point, the analytical, get-on-with-the-obvious farmer part of me took over, and I began repairing the fence. I was apparently still in Austria, judging by the deportment and outfit of the local who came ambling along just as I finished. I ws relaxing against one of the uprights, having just scooped up and downed a few handfuls of the dependably cold and pure Alpine spring water near-to-hand, and he came and rested himself against the section of fence immediately next to that which I'd just repaired.
'Say,' he began, in surprisingly good English. Unless, that is, I'd learned German since lying down, which is, of course, far more likely in Morpheus' realm. 'Have you met the Mustang girl yet?'
I knew I hadn't, as horses aren't all that common her, save for the two small ponies I saw one middle-aged farmer leading along in a village a few doyen metres up the mountain, so I replied in the negative.
'Ahh,' he replied heavily, 'You should seek her out. As an American, you'd certainly appreciate her. All seven of her dental fillings are made of some part of a melted down Ford Mustang. Her first was from a 1965 standard coupe, and she followed with one casdt from the window crank of a '66 convertible, then various parts from a '67 Fastback, a '68 GT350, a '69 GT500, a '70 Boss 302, and a '71 Mach I.'
At this point, I came fully to with a jolt, and thought, once again, 'Who the CRAP came UP with this?'
I hope your dreams are as entertaining, though perhaps easier to understand...
As I've been writing this, the landlady's 8 year old daughter and I have been teaching one another our native tongues with the aid of the website www.leo.org. I've just been told that she and her cousin operate a small library in the attic, and she's gone to fetch me a book. I am the only guest currently occupying this cozy little bed and breakfast, and have decided to stay two more nights, as tomorrow is the annual harvest festival. It seems that I may be the only non-native to the hamlet at the affair, but the family who operates the B&B, die familie Hörtnagl, have said that I can attend Mass with them in the morning, and presumably, I'll just follow them to the celebration, which is to include the fruits of the harvest, brot und käse (Bread and cheese). I wonder if they need an English teacher here...
Rob and Nick, wherever you are, safe I hope, you really ought to have stuck around longer. I wish you the best for the upcoming school year, and I pray you're made as warm and welcome wherever you find yourselves as we were here in Navis.
OH!! And to show that I do read and appreciate your comments:
Thanks Tim for encouraging me to bring the iPod (I actually bought a new one, a 'shuffle.' For what it's worth, an Altoids tin makes an ideal travel case for an iShuffle, earbuds, and lanyard to wear said iShuffle, as well as an extra camera chip or two...or it does until you forget that said tin is propping open a window and you cram the window shut, forever crimping aforementioned tin beyond usefulness...) I've found that my selection of 131 songs has definitely been more encouraging than detrimental to my situation.
Allen...never did care for the Cure, though I seem to recall that you did. Don't remember you in black eyeliner... Do have plenty of U2, though. I might write up my music list at a later date.
Brad: have taken plenty of pictures, have lost camera-to-computer cable. Drat.
Larry and Raysha: glad to see someone gave y'all the address. Did you make the reunion last weekend?
Next stops: Verona and possibly Milan, Italy. Hoorah.
Unfortunately, I still do not want to interrupt the chronological flow of thoughts as I have them written down, so for now I'm going to simply diverge from the main body of content and offer a bit of light-hearted relief from the other half of myself that's forever trying to prove itself profound...
In a desperate attempt to encourage slumber last night, I tried, for the second time in my life, counting sheep. They were hopping over a bi-railed log fence (Who in the world thought of this?) and I'd seen the first sixteen gently lope across when number seventeen didn't get high enough off of the ground and stumbled through the upper spar, leaving it on the ground, and allowing the next dozen and a half to come through in pairs. But thirty.six and thirty-seven collided in mid-air, crashed down onto and shattered the bottom spar, and took off in opposite directions at a dead run. I managed to count up to forty-five before the flood of fluffz white tufts became indiscernible, and doyens poured through before the last trotted gaily through over the splintered rails and trodden turf.
At this point, the analytical, get-on-with-the-obvious farmer part of me took over, and I began repairing the fence. I was apparently still in Austria, judging by the deportment and outfit of the local who came ambling along just as I finished. I ws relaxing against one of the uprights, having just scooped up and downed a few handfuls of the dependably cold and pure Alpine spring water near-to-hand, and he came and rested himself against the section of fence immediately next to that which I'd just repaired.
'Say,' he began, in surprisingly good English. Unless, that is, I'd learned German since lying down, which is, of course, far more likely in Morpheus' realm. 'Have you met the Mustang girl yet?'
I knew I hadn't, as horses aren't all that common her, save for the two small ponies I saw one middle-aged farmer leading along in a village a few doyen metres up the mountain, so I replied in the negative.
'Ahh,' he replied heavily, 'You should seek her out. As an American, you'd certainly appreciate her. All seven of her dental fillings are made of some part of a melted down Ford Mustang. Her first was from a 1965 standard coupe, and she followed with one casdt from the window crank of a '66 convertible, then various parts from a '67 Fastback, a '68 GT350, a '69 GT500, a '70 Boss 302, and a '71 Mach I.'
At this point, I came fully to with a jolt, and thought, once again, 'Who the CRAP came UP with this?'
I hope your dreams are as entertaining, though perhaps easier to understand...
As I've been writing this, the landlady's 8 year old daughter and I have been teaching one another our native tongues with the aid of the website www.leo.org. I've just been told that she and her cousin operate a small library in the attic, and she's gone to fetch me a book. I am the only guest currently occupying this cozy little bed and breakfast, and have decided to stay two more nights, as tomorrow is the annual harvest festival. It seems that I may be the only non-native to the hamlet at the affair, but the family who operates the B&B, die familie Hörtnagl, have said that I can attend Mass with them in the morning, and presumably, I'll just follow them to the celebration, which is to include the fruits of the harvest, brot und käse (Bread and cheese). I wonder if they need an English teacher here...
Rob and Nick, wherever you are, safe I hope, you really ought to have stuck around longer. I wish you the best for the upcoming school year, and I pray you're made as warm and welcome wherever you find yourselves as we were here in Navis.
OH!! And to show that I do read and appreciate your comments:
Thanks Tim for encouraging me to bring the iPod (I actually bought a new one, a 'shuffle.' For what it's worth, an Altoids tin makes an ideal travel case for an iShuffle, earbuds, and lanyard to wear said iShuffle, as well as an extra camera chip or two...or it does until you forget that said tin is propping open a window and you cram the window shut, forever crimping aforementioned tin beyond usefulness...) I've found that my selection of 131 songs has definitely been more encouraging than detrimental to my situation.
Allen...never did care for the Cure, though I seem to recall that you did. Don't remember you in black eyeliner... Do have plenty of U2, though. I might write up my music list at a later date.
Brad: have taken plenty of pictures, have lost camera-to-computer cable. Drat.
Larry and Raysha: glad to see someone gave y'all the address. Did you make the reunion last weekend?
Next stops: Verona and possibly Milan, Italy. Hoorah.
Friday, September 29, 2006
Gratitude...
Thanks, by the way, to all who posted or emailed after my fit of self-pity...
Things are looking up from that last post a few days ago, and I look forward to filling y'all in on all the little details you've missed...
Things are looking up from that last post a few days ago, and I look forward to filling y'all in on all the little details you've missed...
Update
OK...trying to cover a lot of ground in a short time:
Adam, Brad, and Vince, y'all would be proud...I've done some crazy hiking through and over portions of the Alpine foothills over the past few days. Things I would not have done under normal circumstances I've managed to negotiate while strapped to a 45 pound (19kg) pack. It was more like bouldering than hiking...
Any rate, am currently holed up in a regular Tirolean paradise; little town of Navis. Have been writing in ye olde travel logge for hours, but don't have time to transcribe everything onto here. In lieu of brilliant thoughts from me, here are a few of the quotes that have been on my mind for the past few daysÖ
First, for Cody Canup:
Architecture and war are not incompatible. Architecture is war. War is architecture. I am at war with mz time, with history, with all authority that resides in fixed and frightened forms. I am one of millions who do not fit in, who have no home, no family, no doctrine, no firm place to call mz own, no known beginning or end, no 'sacred and primordial sight.' I declare war on all icons and finalities, on all histories that would chain me with mz own falseness, mz own pitiful fears. I know only moments, and lifetimes that are as moments, and forms that appear with infinite strength, then 'melt into air.' I am an architect, a constructor of worlds, a sensualist who worships the flesh, the melody, a silhouette against a darkening sky. I cannot know your name, nor can you know mine. Tomorrow we begin together the construction of a city.
- Manifesto of Lebbeus Woods, Austrian educated at Purdue Universitz School of Engineering. I do not totally agree with all he says, but some of it is most certainly eloquent and right on with my own sentiments. On to the lighter blips...
One of my favourite bands is a group called Satellite Soul. They have a song called 'Love is all we own.' The second verse ends as follows: The sunsets by the barnyard, and the dark means day is done, but the night can't last much longer than it took to hide the sun. If I could just go back there, in time much more than space; to hear my mother's laughter and to touch my father's face...' Europe's fine, but it's hard to find home in a sea of constantly passing friends and strangers, in a world altogether different from what has been familiar.
Coming down off the mountain yesterday, and knowing I was desperately satisfied to be doing so, I kept singing to myself the beginning lyrics to The Band's 'Cripple Creek:' 'When I get off of this mountain, you know where I want to go: straight down the Mississippi River to the Gulf of Mexico...' I didn't want a change of scenery that drastic, but I was well prepared to get off of the rocks and out of the wind.
Then, while writing today, The Travelling Wilbury's 'End of the Line# came through my ear buds, and a few of the refrains seemed particularly pertinent: 'Even if thez say you're wrong, sometimes you got to be strong, long as you got somewhere to lay (It's allright...)... Riding around on the breeze, (It's all right) If you live the life that you please...'
And so I am. I hope you find peace, love and fulfillment where you are and when you lay your head down tonight.
Adam, Brad, and Vince, y'all would be proud...I've done some crazy hiking through and over portions of the Alpine foothills over the past few days. Things I would not have done under normal circumstances I've managed to negotiate while strapped to a 45 pound (19kg) pack. It was more like bouldering than hiking...
Any rate, am currently holed up in a regular Tirolean paradise; little town of Navis. Have been writing in ye olde travel logge for hours, but don't have time to transcribe everything onto here. In lieu of brilliant thoughts from me, here are a few of the quotes that have been on my mind for the past few daysÖ
First, for Cody Canup:
Architecture and war are not incompatible. Architecture is war. War is architecture. I am at war with mz time, with history, with all authority that resides in fixed and frightened forms. I am one of millions who do not fit in, who have no home, no family, no doctrine, no firm place to call mz own, no known beginning or end, no 'sacred and primordial sight.' I declare war on all icons and finalities, on all histories that would chain me with mz own falseness, mz own pitiful fears. I know only moments, and lifetimes that are as moments, and forms that appear with infinite strength, then 'melt into air.' I am an architect, a constructor of worlds, a sensualist who worships the flesh, the melody, a silhouette against a darkening sky. I cannot know your name, nor can you know mine. Tomorrow we begin together the construction of a city.
- Manifesto of Lebbeus Woods, Austrian educated at Purdue Universitz School of Engineering. I do not totally agree with all he says, but some of it is most certainly eloquent and right on with my own sentiments. On to the lighter blips...
One of my favourite bands is a group called Satellite Soul. They have a song called 'Love is all we own.' The second verse ends as follows: The sunsets by the barnyard, and the dark means day is done, but the night can't last much longer than it took to hide the sun. If I could just go back there, in time much more than space; to hear my mother's laughter and to touch my father's face...' Europe's fine, but it's hard to find home in a sea of constantly passing friends and strangers, in a world altogether different from what has been familiar.
Coming down off the mountain yesterday, and knowing I was desperately satisfied to be doing so, I kept singing to myself the beginning lyrics to The Band's 'Cripple Creek:' 'When I get off of this mountain, you know where I want to go: straight down the Mississippi River to the Gulf of Mexico...' I didn't want a change of scenery that drastic, but I was well prepared to get off of the rocks and out of the wind.
Then, while writing today, The Travelling Wilbury's 'End of the Line# came through my ear buds, and a few of the refrains seemed particularly pertinent: 'Even if thez say you're wrong, sometimes you got to be strong, long as you got somewhere to lay (It's allright...)... Riding around on the breeze, (It's all right) If you live the life that you please...'
And so I am. I hope you find peace, love and fulfillment where you are and when you lay your head down tonight.
Tuesday, September 26, 2006
OK for Pete's Freakin' Sakes
I was going to put up a little quiz with hints as to where I am now, but as I cannot get online all that often, it would take too long.
Hello from Innsbruck, Austria, the most innaccessible and expensive city I have ever seen. I cannot afford to do anything, including leave.
So seriously, since I'm stuck, I got online to see if anyone had responded to my posts or sent me an email. I had ONE email, and no posts on the blog. Now really, y'all, is it THAT big a deal? Freaking respond! My goodness! I am wandering around Europe alone, hoping to make friends to travel with, but having no luck, discovering that everything I want to do is impossible (or so the bitter, unhelpful woman at the tourist information center would have me believe) and when I get online (at roughly 3 US dollars an hour) it would be NICE to see that someone is taking some interest in what I've got to say. If I'm just blathering information that no one other than the 3 people who will actually post (Thank you, Tara, Allen and Brad) is interested in, I'll stop, and save the money.
Show some stinking love here.
Hello from Innsbruck, Austria, the most innaccessible and expensive city I have ever seen. I cannot afford to do anything, including leave.
So seriously, since I'm stuck, I got online to see if anyone had responded to my posts or sent me an email. I had ONE email, and no posts on the blog. Now really, y'all, is it THAT big a deal? Freaking respond! My goodness! I am wandering around Europe alone, hoping to make friends to travel with, but having no luck, discovering that everything I want to do is impossible (or so the bitter, unhelpful woman at the tourist information center would have me believe) and when I get online (at roughly 3 US dollars an hour) it would be NICE to see that someone is taking some interest in what I've got to say. If I'm just blathering information that no one other than the 3 people who will actually post (Thank you, Tara, Allen and Brad) is interested in, I'll stop, and save the money.
Show some stinking love here.
Sunday, September 24, 2006
Sunday Evening, and I was too late for Church
I really did want to go in and hear the church service in the local tongue this evening, but they'd already started when I got by. I got rather tired of churches while touring last year, but haven't reached that stage yet. After awhile, they all seem quite a bit the same. I did go in one today that was exquisite as all get out, and I went to my first synagogue last week, but I'm pacing myself. It's easy to get churched out and, as I said, eventually, like cities, they're all the same.
Any rate, I'll not tell you where I am just yet, as that will upset the chronological flow I hope to preserve. Be satisfied that I'm OK and having a blast.
I don't have time for a large section of ye olde travel log today, so I'll just pepper the usual format with a bit of light humour. I figure that way my short spurts of profundity will be all the more rattling upon arrival.
Got in from the pub where I'd been playing duets for 2 hours with a Jewish Aussie (Adi, who's an amazing jazz pianist) at about midnight last night and realised that I'd left my soap in the previous town. So, according to one of my travel mantras, I collected an empty Coke bottle (I've been carrying 3, full of water, daily) and went to the bathroom to fill it up. Unfortunately, there was no liquid soap dispenser. So, I reached a dramatic crossroads. I'd played frisbee all afternoon with a Spaniard named Alex and a Polish dude named Jacob (Yakub in his tongue), so I was in dire need of a shower. Either I could rub down with toothpaste (I mean, it's got baking soda and flouride, right?) and then rinse off, or rinse off only and then simply rub deodorant in all the places that usually need the most cleaning after a day of strenuous activity. I won't disgust you further with any details as to the final decision, but as today was Sunday, there were no shops open, and I was unable to purchase any soap or shampoo or anything of that nature, so my problem has only waxed despairingly. Knowing that my hostel would still have none to offer, I was a bit concerned.
Trekkers are easy folks to spot. We're the ones with the massive packs on both front and back, arms outstretched with a map, turning it in multiple directions, looking at street signs, and alternately consulting brightly coloured hostel leaflets that, without fail, have poor directions. On the way back to the hostel this evening, I happened across an obvious pair, and asked if they spoke English. They did, and were from California. I asked the name of the hostel and discovered that they were looking for a place a street over from me. There are about 6 where I'm at, so the odds were good. I said I was heading that direction and would see them there. That duly accomplished, I went inside with them, as I was helping with a bag or two, and nonchalantly slid into the bathroom to discover that there was no soap there either, so I poked around till I found the kitchen and nicked some dish soap from a hostel I'm not even staying at.
You know you're an accomplished backpacker when your options are a toothpasting, extra located deodorant, or antibacterial thievery.
Any rate, I am now headed to take a nice hot, pine-scented shower. Fortunately, that axe body spray is some strong stuff.
Y'all be good.
Any rate, I'll not tell you where I am just yet, as that will upset the chronological flow I hope to preserve. Be satisfied that I'm OK and having a blast.
I don't have time for a large section of ye olde travel log today, so I'll just pepper the usual format with a bit of light humour. I figure that way my short spurts of profundity will be all the more rattling upon arrival.
Got in from the pub where I'd been playing duets for 2 hours with a Jewish Aussie (Adi, who's an amazing jazz pianist) at about midnight last night and realised that I'd left my soap in the previous town. So, according to one of my travel mantras, I collected an empty Coke bottle (I've been carrying 3, full of water, daily) and went to the bathroom to fill it up. Unfortunately, there was no liquid soap dispenser. So, I reached a dramatic crossroads. I'd played frisbee all afternoon with a Spaniard named Alex and a Polish dude named Jacob (Yakub in his tongue), so I was in dire need of a shower. Either I could rub down with toothpaste (I mean, it's got baking soda and flouride, right?) and then rinse off, or rinse off only and then simply rub deodorant in all the places that usually need the most cleaning after a day of strenuous activity. I won't disgust you further with any details as to the final decision, but as today was Sunday, there were no shops open, and I was unable to purchase any soap or shampoo or anything of that nature, so my problem has only waxed despairingly. Knowing that my hostel would still have none to offer, I was a bit concerned.
Trekkers are easy folks to spot. We're the ones with the massive packs on both front and back, arms outstretched with a map, turning it in multiple directions, looking at street signs, and alternately consulting brightly coloured hostel leaflets that, without fail, have poor directions. On the way back to the hostel this evening, I happened across an obvious pair, and asked if they spoke English. They did, and were from California. I asked the name of the hostel and discovered that they were looking for a place a street over from me. There are about 6 where I'm at, so the odds were good. I said I was heading that direction and would see them there. That duly accomplished, I went inside with them, as I was helping with a bag or two, and nonchalantly slid into the bathroom to discover that there was no soap there either, so I poked around till I found the kitchen and nicked some dish soap from a hostel I'm not even staying at.
You know you're an accomplished backpacker when your options are a toothpasting, extra located deodorant, or antibacterial thievery.
Any rate, I am now headed to take a nice hot, pine-scented shower. Fortunately, that axe body spray is some strong stuff.
Y'all be good.
Friday, September 22, 2006
More on Budapest...
1- Continuation of an already long rant on impressions gleaned from time spent in Budapest...
2- What we DID see...
3- International public bathing...
4- Beyond the city's walls...
5- I'm WHERE???
6- Money well spent...
7- Diamond in the rough...
8- Out of the line of fire...
It takes all kinds.. I finally came to realise the expanse of truth beneath those words while travelling with a random lot of Australians last winter. And on that note, if you're reading this, Beau, you worthless son of a Mandurahn soul-chomping 2-bit career facility, I miss you, brother. Europe's just not as lively with you on the exact opposite face of the globe. And I find more and more, that when you see the world, no matter where or how much of it, as a tourist, Paul Kelly's right: Every stinking city is just the same. Budapest certainly has its elements that are indigenous, but it also has McDonald's, they play Shania Twain in the local restaurants, and a second class train ticket buys the same seat no matter the destination. So, as Beau, Sean, Sharon, and I discovered, eat at the restaurants without English names or menu (preferably, you'd ought to learn a few elemental dietary terms in the local dialect first. I did figure out that 'szalt' is Hungarian for cheese, and 'szendvich' is pretty obvious); spend some time in a park, watching the locals, ride the metro/tube/subway to the end of the line. Celine and I spent nearly all of our time trying to find teh recommendations in her 2005/6 Routard Guide (Chakun sa Router-- "Find your own way"). Unfortunately, it's already outdated. Prices have changed (For the betterment of the host nation only apparently), construction has moved, obliterated, or otherwise masked necessary landmarks, and the Art Deco exhibit at the Decorative Arts Museum that we were really excited to see has been replaced by the temporary Hungarian "Collectors and Treasures" exhibit. The TUrkish baths were twice the price we were prepared for, and thus out of our price range, and we spent teh better part of 2 days hoofing it nowhere.
The Dohany Synagogue was quite nice. Pronounced 'Do-hein' (and named for the street it's situated upon, itself named in turn for a type of Turkish tobacco), it's the largest in the world by constituents, second largest in size (after Messiah in New York). An otherwise sunny Wednesday turned sour with a sudden, unforeseen rainstorm that left us soaked and dampened, but it soon cleared again and the resultant muggy, humid steam left us vaguely dry from the heat fighting to escape our drenched persons. We ended the day having seen an Orthodox church housed within a cave on the older city's side of the Danube, the synagogue in Pest, and countless thousand of footsteps placed variously through the Hungarian urbanity.
We re-crossed the Danube on a bridge whose middle-most support was laid upon Margit Island, the local mecca for joggers. Dusk as it was, there were quite a few out, as it seems that Hungary is full of people concerned about their health and appearance. This was obvious at the Turkish bath we did finally partake in on Thursday, though most of the other patrons were octogenarians. Though the Ottoman Turks ruled what the Romans in their turn had called Pannonia, Hungary has ben under Christian, or at least non-Islamic, rule for a good three-hundred years, whereas the Baths within the city park are no more than one-hundred and forty years old at best. But the Ottoman empire and its ruling sultans still hold a reputation for opulence and luxury. We took my own advice our last day in Budapest, and rode one of the metro lines to its terminus at Mexikoi Ter (Mexico Station, I suppose), in the city park. This public green space contains the aviation museum, the agricultural museum, a lake, a carnival with rides, a zoo, and the aforementioned baths. We were so far from the typical backpacker's and tourister's centre that we heard no English for hours, but the hot mineral waters within the Moorish and neo-Classical structure wer certainly a relief from the harsh embrace of a backpack. It was only after a wrong-turn down a random corridor as we were trying to leave that we spotted the outdoor baths-- two of more acres of thermally enhanced aqual delight in open exposure to the still-warm September sun... And we were already running late... Ah, well. C'est la vie, ganas no ganas.
It was in the city park that I truly began to value Budapest in and of itself. And as the train carried us out of the city, making its way upriver to Bratislava, the tracks followed the course of the Danube through a chain of low-lying, green clad mountains, and my appreciation for Hungary increased all the more. The countryside was magnificient, and further enforced the tickling notion in back of my mind that if I really want an appreciative assessment of Europe, I'm going to have to escape the urban scene and find a locale more akin to what I've been accustomed.
Well, it's about 12.30 Saturday morning as I'm typing this, and perhaps you've picked up on some important words over the past few paragraphs, to wit: 'last day in Budapest,' 'Thursday,' 'train,' 'Bratislava;' all words that hold a great deal of weight. Those familiar with my original plans might recall that I was to've flown from Budapest to Greece on Thursday evening. That fell through, and by the time I got to looking for a flight back to England, the price was well past outrageous. I couldn't fly out any earlier than Friday, and flights got no cheaper before next Friday, which meant that I could fly immediately, or stay in the same hostel for a week and then fly cheaper, and the price would be pretty well equal. Well, Budapest was nice, but I saw no sense in staying, and am too cheap to go wasting money on a flight when I have no deadline, so I just opted to follow Celine back to Slovakia, where she's doing some cultural research for Rotary Club of France. We boarded the [wrong] train at 4.15 pm in Budapest on Thursday, still dripping from our recent time in a sauna, were kindly, and quickly, assisted by some charitable locals to the correct coach, and found ourselves in Bratislava at around 8 pm.
Celine, having already been in Slovakia for 2 weeks, had a contact to stay with. Her contact picked her up at the station, and I was left to my own devices. I went and got a few thousand crown from the cashpoint (by the way, Eastern Europe is highly affordable, no matter what currency your exchanging. You can get 30 crown for a dollar. 30 crown (koruni), in Bratislava, will buy you a ticket to the clock museum, a pint of beer, 2 McDonald's cheeseburgers, or 3 scoops of gelati. 90 crown will get you into a ballet...
Any rate, local money well pocketed, I stepped out of the station to see if I could make use of some suggestory directions from Celine for a cheap bed, but had no luck, so stepped back to the safe light of the station, and was met by a local chap who runs a guest house. I was afraid he was a bit shady, but bottom line was that I was tired, in need of food and company, and a cheap bunk, and he offered all for the best price I saw advertised. Yuray turned out to be a genuine good local soul, and his guest house, a converted block of flats, already contained, when I arrived, 3 North Ireland blokes, a couple from Spain, a Japanese girl, and half a dozen Germans. Laundry and internet are free, and overall, it's been a good experience.
Oh, and yes, for all who were worried, you did hear correct, there were some fairly intense riots in Budapest while I was there. I had no idea of their occurrence until they were well over and dealt with, and I felt no repercussions nor even negative vibes resultant during my entire stay. Thanks for your prayers, sorry you were worried, but you actually knew what was going on before I did.
Any rate, hope I've said something enjoyable. Currently, the Weblog is about 48 hours behind the spiral notebook, but I'll do my best to keep y'all informed. I hope you're well.
Love someone today.
2- What we DID see...
3- International public bathing...
4- Beyond the city's walls...
5- I'm WHERE???
6- Money well spent...
7- Diamond in the rough...
8- Out of the line of fire...
It takes all kinds.. I finally came to realise the expanse of truth beneath those words while travelling with a random lot of Australians last winter. And on that note, if you're reading this, Beau, you worthless son of a Mandurahn soul-chomping 2-bit career facility, I miss you, brother. Europe's just not as lively with you on the exact opposite face of the globe. And I find more and more, that when you see the world, no matter where or how much of it, as a tourist, Paul Kelly's right: Every stinking city is just the same. Budapest certainly has its elements that are indigenous, but it also has McDonald's, they play Shania Twain in the local restaurants, and a second class train ticket buys the same seat no matter the destination. So, as Beau, Sean, Sharon, and I discovered, eat at the restaurants without English names or menu (preferably, you'd ought to learn a few elemental dietary terms in the local dialect first. I did figure out that 'szalt' is Hungarian for cheese, and 'szendvich' is pretty obvious); spend some time in a park, watching the locals, ride the metro/tube/subway to the end of the line. Celine and I spent nearly all of our time trying to find teh recommendations in her 2005/6 Routard Guide (Chakun sa Router-- "Find your own way"). Unfortunately, it's already outdated. Prices have changed (For the betterment of the host nation only apparently), construction has moved, obliterated, or otherwise masked necessary landmarks, and the Art Deco exhibit at the Decorative Arts Museum that we were really excited to see has been replaced by the temporary Hungarian "Collectors and Treasures" exhibit. The TUrkish baths were twice the price we were prepared for, and thus out of our price range, and we spent teh better part of 2 days hoofing it nowhere.
The Dohany Synagogue was quite nice. Pronounced 'Do-hein' (and named for the street it's situated upon, itself named in turn for a type of Turkish tobacco), it's the largest in the world by constituents, second largest in size (after Messiah in New York). An otherwise sunny Wednesday turned sour with a sudden, unforeseen rainstorm that left us soaked and dampened, but it soon cleared again and the resultant muggy, humid steam left us vaguely dry from the heat fighting to escape our drenched persons. We ended the day having seen an Orthodox church housed within a cave on the older city's side of the Danube, the synagogue in Pest, and countless thousand of footsteps placed variously through the Hungarian urbanity.
We re-crossed the Danube on a bridge whose middle-most support was laid upon Margit Island, the local mecca for joggers. Dusk as it was, there were quite a few out, as it seems that Hungary is full of people concerned about their health and appearance. This was obvious at the Turkish bath we did finally partake in on Thursday, though most of the other patrons were octogenarians. Though the Ottoman Turks ruled what the Romans in their turn had called Pannonia, Hungary has ben under Christian, or at least non-Islamic, rule for a good three-hundred years, whereas the Baths within the city park are no more than one-hundred and forty years old at best. But the Ottoman empire and its ruling sultans still hold a reputation for opulence and luxury. We took my own advice our last day in Budapest, and rode one of the metro lines to its terminus at Mexikoi Ter (Mexico Station, I suppose), in the city park. This public green space contains the aviation museum, the agricultural museum, a lake, a carnival with rides, a zoo, and the aforementioned baths. We were so far from the typical backpacker's and tourister's centre that we heard no English for hours, but the hot mineral waters within the Moorish and neo-Classical structure wer certainly a relief from the harsh embrace of a backpack. It was only after a wrong-turn down a random corridor as we were trying to leave that we spotted the outdoor baths-- two of more acres of thermally enhanced aqual delight in open exposure to the still-warm September sun... And we were already running late... Ah, well. C'est la vie, ganas no ganas.
It was in the city park that I truly began to value Budapest in and of itself. And as the train carried us out of the city, making its way upriver to Bratislava, the tracks followed the course of the Danube through a chain of low-lying, green clad mountains, and my appreciation for Hungary increased all the more. The countryside was magnificient, and further enforced the tickling notion in back of my mind that if I really want an appreciative assessment of Europe, I'm going to have to escape the urban scene and find a locale more akin to what I've been accustomed.
Well, it's about 12.30 Saturday morning as I'm typing this, and perhaps you've picked up on some important words over the past few paragraphs, to wit: 'last day in Budapest,' 'Thursday,' 'train,' 'Bratislava;' all words that hold a great deal of weight. Those familiar with my original plans might recall that I was to've flown from Budapest to Greece on Thursday evening. That fell through, and by the time I got to looking for a flight back to England, the price was well past outrageous. I couldn't fly out any earlier than Friday, and flights got no cheaper before next Friday, which meant that I could fly immediately, or stay in the same hostel for a week and then fly cheaper, and the price would be pretty well equal. Well, Budapest was nice, but I saw no sense in staying, and am too cheap to go wasting money on a flight when I have no deadline, so I just opted to follow Celine back to Slovakia, where she's doing some cultural research for Rotary Club of France. We boarded the [wrong] train at 4.15 pm in Budapest on Thursday, still dripping from our recent time in a sauna, were kindly, and quickly, assisted by some charitable locals to the correct coach, and found ourselves in Bratislava at around 8 pm.
Celine, having already been in Slovakia for 2 weeks, had a contact to stay with. Her contact picked her up at the station, and I was left to my own devices. I went and got a few thousand crown from the cashpoint (by the way, Eastern Europe is highly affordable, no matter what currency your exchanging. You can get 30 crown for a dollar. 30 crown (koruni), in Bratislava, will buy you a ticket to the clock museum, a pint of beer, 2 McDonald's cheeseburgers, or 3 scoops of gelati. 90 crown will get you into a ballet...
Any rate, local money well pocketed, I stepped out of the station to see if I could make use of some suggestory directions from Celine for a cheap bed, but had no luck, so stepped back to the safe light of the station, and was met by a local chap who runs a guest house. I was afraid he was a bit shady, but bottom line was that I was tired, in need of food and company, and a cheap bunk, and he offered all for the best price I saw advertised. Yuray turned out to be a genuine good local soul, and his guest house, a converted block of flats, already contained, when I arrived, 3 North Ireland blokes, a couple from Spain, a Japanese girl, and half a dozen Germans. Laundry and internet are free, and overall, it's been a good experience.
Oh, and yes, for all who were worried, you did hear correct, there were some fairly intense riots in Budapest while I was there. I had no idea of their occurrence until they were well over and dealt with, and I felt no repercussions nor even negative vibes resultant during my entire stay. Thanks for your prayers, sorry you were worried, but you actually knew what was going on before I did.
Any rate, hope I've said something enjoyable. Currently, the Weblog is about 48 hours behind the spiral notebook, but I'll do my best to keep y'all informed. I hope you're well.
Love someone today.
Thursday, September 21, 2006
Part 2 of the Budapest miniseries
Per suggestion of an Australian mate (whom I hope has received his parcel of fishing equipment, refridgerator magnets, and raisinets), I'm going to employ a new device in today's blog: My random stream of consciousness style will be consciously divided into vaguely cohesive sections, and each section will have a heading, to be listed at the beginning of the email. Per positive feedback, said devices will become permanent.
1- 20th Century Hungarian Political History
2- Museum Pieces
3- English as a second language
4- Closing Statements
Hungary is, for all its modernity, still a bit hard to access from Western Europe. Flights are expensive, rail travel extensive, and seemingly rivalled for touristic incovenience in these areas only by Slovakia, immediately next-door. Hungary was at one piont part of the USSR, but was one of the westernmost bloc nations, both in geography and political theory. There'd been a Bolshevik revolution in the 1920s, but it went horribly wrong (for its sponsoring party) and the resultant fear of Communism drove Hungary's government, much as the various Allied powers, to choose the lesser of two evils when choosing their camp in World War II. It seems, or so the Hungarian National Museum puts forth, that the Hungarians were no more favourable to Germany and Hitler than they were Stalin's Russia, but geography (close proximity to Hitler, existant ties to Austria, standard eastern-European suspicion of Russia) helped to determine the solution. It was geography that further allowed Russia to reach Hungary before the other Allied forces, and hold political sway over the Hugns and Magyars for the better part of the 20th Century. However, the Hungarians' inherent notion of independence, and their distance from the Kremlin, allowed them a great deal more political freedom than other bloc nations. Hungary contains a significantly lesser amount of the concrete, cubicle infrastructure normally associated with Communism (say, as in the Czech Republic, for instance) and a great deal of their pre-WW II, and even pre-WW I, architecture is still predominately visible.
I am travelling, after all, with someone doing tourism research (Celine, from France), so I've had to be more necessarily touristic than I normally prefer, but I have gotten to see some wonderful sights. Tuesday we went to the Hungarian National Museum, where we ended up being more like one of the displays than overservers of. There was a batch of second or third graders there, and one, Alex, heard me speaking about something or other in the Imperial Roman room, and duly spent the rest of his duration there introducing himself and his peers. "Hi! My name is Alex!" I heard countless times. Eventually, his limited English grew tired of merely saying names, so, ornery little cuss, took to introducing his friends by their traits. "Hi, my name is Barbie" he said of a skinny, long, blonde-headed girl; "Hi, my name is Papo," he laughed, pointing to a portly fellow who was obviously his best chum. I took it, correctly it seems, that 'papo' is 'fat.'
Alex did show me a first glimpse of what I'm finding to be true-- most Hungarians are vaguely familiar with English. It's written on signs in public places, it's taught in schools, most folks under 30 seem to have a rudimentary command of the tongue, and even the elderly folks appear to understand a few words. The bottom line, impressibly enough, is that no one seems put out if you only speak English yourself. The girl at the metro-line ticket booth, the older gent at the rail depot, the guy my age in the rail car, all of them and countless others seemed genuinely happy to exercise their English skills. Nearly all of the Hungarians I attempted to speak to--in the pastry shop, at the gelati counter (she'd spent 3 years in Arizona, I believe it was, and spoke as if she'd been raised there), the random, entirely non-English speaking rail employees who managed to convey that we were on the wrong train and saved us a small fortuen in corrective travel-- were as helpful and genuinely amicable as you could never hope to find. The hostel employees, the waitress at the Hungarian restaurant we patroened twice, and the international rail ticket merchant were far more typical. Save for their dialogue, they could've been American or British-- they were only helping us in so much as that, in its driest, most basic extenses, paid their bills. But, that's how it goes all over the globe-- be it in China's Forbidden City, Cosmopolitan London, or the back roads of Springdale, Arkansas; it takes all kinds to make a world.
Well, that's about 40% of what I'd planned to write tonight, but I'm tired, as I'm sure you are as well, at this point, so I'm going to wrap it up there. Sorry to end on a bit of a down-note (Minimum wage employees in the US and UK are all surly), but that's just where we've ended up, isn't it. Reparations will be made when we pick up tomorrow morning (New hostel- free internet!) with "It takes all kinds..."
Good On Ye...
1- 20th Century Hungarian Political History
2- Museum Pieces
3- English as a second language
4- Closing Statements
Hungary is, for all its modernity, still a bit hard to access from Western Europe. Flights are expensive, rail travel extensive, and seemingly rivalled for touristic incovenience in these areas only by Slovakia, immediately next-door. Hungary was at one piont part of the USSR, but was one of the westernmost bloc nations, both in geography and political theory. There'd been a Bolshevik revolution in the 1920s, but it went horribly wrong (for its sponsoring party) and the resultant fear of Communism drove Hungary's government, much as the various Allied powers, to choose the lesser of two evils when choosing their camp in World War II. It seems, or so the Hungarian National Museum puts forth, that the Hungarians were no more favourable to Germany and Hitler than they were Stalin's Russia, but geography (close proximity to Hitler, existant ties to Austria, standard eastern-European suspicion of Russia) helped to determine the solution. It was geography that further allowed Russia to reach Hungary before the other Allied forces, and hold political sway over the Hugns and Magyars for the better part of the 20th Century. However, the Hungarians' inherent notion of independence, and their distance from the Kremlin, allowed them a great deal more political freedom than other bloc nations. Hungary contains a significantly lesser amount of the concrete, cubicle infrastructure normally associated with Communism (say, as in the Czech Republic, for instance) and a great deal of their pre-WW II, and even pre-WW I, architecture is still predominately visible.
I am travelling, after all, with someone doing tourism research (Celine, from France), so I've had to be more necessarily touristic than I normally prefer, but I have gotten to see some wonderful sights. Tuesday we went to the Hungarian National Museum, where we ended up being more like one of the displays than overservers of. There was a batch of second or third graders there, and one, Alex, heard me speaking about something or other in the Imperial Roman room, and duly spent the rest of his duration there introducing himself and his peers. "Hi! My name is Alex!" I heard countless times. Eventually, his limited English grew tired of merely saying names, so, ornery little cuss, took to introducing his friends by their traits. "Hi, my name is Barbie" he said of a skinny, long, blonde-headed girl; "Hi, my name is Papo," he laughed, pointing to a portly fellow who was obviously his best chum. I took it, correctly it seems, that 'papo' is 'fat.'
Alex did show me a first glimpse of what I'm finding to be true-- most Hungarians are vaguely familiar with English. It's written on signs in public places, it's taught in schools, most folks under 30 seem to have a rudimentary command of the tongue, and even the elderly folks appear to understand a few words. The bottom line, impressibly enough, is that no one seems put out if you only speak English yourself. The girl at the metro-line ticket booth, the older gent at the rail depot, the guy my age in the rail car, all of them and countless others seemed genuinely happy to exercise their English skills. Nearly all of the Hungarians I attempted to speak to--in the pastry shop, at the gelati counter (she'd spent 3 years in Arizona, I believe it was, and spoke as if she'd been raised there), the random, entirely non-English speaking rail employees who managed to convey that we were on the wrong train and saved us a small fortuen in corrective travel-- were as helpful and genuinely amicable as you could never hope to find. The hostel employees, the waitress at the Hungarian restaurant we patroened twice, and the international rail ticket merchant were far more typical. Save for their dialogue, they could've been American or British-- they were only helping us in so much as that, in its driest, most basic extenses, paid their bills. But, that's how it goes all over the globe-- be it in China's Forbidden City, Cosmopolitan London, or the back roads of Springdale, Arkansas; it takes all kinds to make a world.
Well, that's about 40% of what I'd planned to write tonight, but I'm tired, as I'm sure you are as well, at this point, so I'm going to wrap it up there. Sorry to end on a bit of a down-note (Minimum wage employees in the US and UK are all surly), but that's just where we've ended up, isn't it. Reparations will be made when we pick up tomorrow morning (New hostel- free internet!) with "It takes all kinds..."
Good On Ye...
Tuesday, September 19, 2006
Being Budapest-ered
Ya, ya sorry... I hate bad puns too. Any rate, lot of ground to cover, here we go:
Egad! I knew deep down that travelling, as I've said, requires an entirely different frame of mind from stable, steady, everyday life, but I hadn't realised how much I'd forgotten. I've rather reimmersed myself with a bit of a fire baptism by jumping straight into Eastern Europe without much of a warm-up to that other philosophy that I'm having to live by as a Euro-trekker, but I'm getting by. I have recalled some other handy travel tips for you, though:
1) Most European hostels seem to have liquid-soap dispensers near the bathroom sinks. So, for all you cheapskates, keep an empty coke bottle handy, and hack the top off with that Swisss-Army knife you bought in Interlaken, Lucerne, or Bern, and squeeze a few shots of this freely provided hand cleaner. Renders carrying bars of soap to the bathroom unnecessary. Further point: DO NOT attempt to carry said bottle from one hostel to the next-- I imagine you'd have a heck of a mess in ye olde backpack. Coke bottles and hand soap can be found in multiple places.
2) Learn some of the local dialogue BEFORE you get to your destination. Your handiest phrases will be "Do you speak English?" (Though, this can be said IN English, the local you're addressing will appreciate being spoken to with some effort at their own language) Also, especially regarding previous question, know the word for 'No.' Similarly handy expressions are "Rail Station" "Metro" (Universal for 'subway' or 'tube.') "Airport" "How do I find 'x' Street?" Don't ask for an automatic bank machine, in the event you're questioning a local of ill repute.
3) A hostel may or may not have a kitchen that allows you to store, cook, and eat food you've purchased yourself, and they may or may not offer a breakfast. Look for one that has an open kitchen, and if they've got a free breakfast to boot, book them. If they offer breakfast for a small price, don't bank on it being just real flash. Yes, it's relatively cheap, and easily had, but not necessarily impressive. Celine's croissant came out of a bag and a microwave, with Hershey's chocolate inside (a dire insult to anyone French), and the milk on my cornflakes was room temperature 'shelf' milk, that due to its chemical content, doesn't require refrigeration.
4) If you DO order the breakfast at a hostel in Eastern Europe, and they have 2 options, one which includes sausage, eggs, ham, a roll, and mustard or ketchup, or an option which is only eggs, ham, a roll, and jam, DO NOT presume to ask for the first with jam instead of the listed condiments. Substitutions, subervions, or any other derailments from the written law is still, wall and bloc or no wall and bloc, unthinkable. You get strange looks if you try to press the matter, and if you're not careful, ejected and expelled from said establishment.
So, any rate, I am in Budapest. The local language is Hungarian, which I believe to be a combination of the tongues of a few German tribes, especially the Huns, and the Magyars. I have yet to see a word that I could recognise any sort of letter pattern within. In western Europe, where most languages owe a great deal to Latin, or German in the North, I can at least see familiar combinations of an alphabet similar to my own. No such luck here. We spent most of today in the Hungarian National Museum, where I was quite surprised that I was able to decipher all of the Imperial Roman-era tombstones on display. Turns out I've got some handy basic Latin back there on reserve. Tomorrow we hope to hit the Turkish baths.
Oh, yes... "WE..." I'm here with my French friend Celine, whom I met in Granada, Spain last year while travelling with Lisa, from Australia, whom I met while travelling with Topdeck Tours. And, speaking of Celine, those of you who've spoken with my mother in the last 48 hours, Celine apologises for causing any frightening disturbances for those of you who heard that I was apparently not at the airport. As it turns out, Budapest has 2 airports: same name, different terminals, miles apart. Be ready for that sort of thing when you go continent hopping.
The food here has been quite good...though we've only had one actual Hungarian meal. Today's tea-time saw us at a Subway restaurant (I hated the notion, but we just needed a quick, healthy bite.) and then we've had some Gelati (WOOOHOOO!!! Yes, by gosh, Budapest knows how to cater to tourists, particularly Anglo-descended ice cream lovers.)
We shared a room in the hostel last night with 4 Swedish blokes, who were quite nice. The 2 who did most of the talking were just slightly taller than me, with dark blonde hair down to their shoulders, one baby-faced, one bearded... And I so wish I were that good-looking. Their appearance bespoke what had to be royal bloodlines. They were quite nice, and talkative, and killers at Texas Hold 'Em (fortunately I have a standing rule against gambling). You almost wonder how the Vikings of a thousand years ago could sire, though over a few centuries, the Scandivanians of the modern world. All that I have met, and have heard from other travellers, have been the most congenial, helpful, genuinely friendly folks I've met. They certainly don't give the impression that anywhere in their genes is one for rapine and pillaging...
Any rate, they recommended an Italian place round the corner, in the quite obviously touristy district along the Danube, but we (wrongly) cut down a side street and found a nice little local place (with English menus-- once again, they know their market here), and sat down to a lovely, quiet, dry dinner. (Dry: by the way, it's been raining off and on since we got here.) The restaurant looked more like a pub than an eating establishment, with warm woodwork round the walls and candle-lit tables, but the chalkboard listing specials attested to the presence of food...all of which sounded quite nice. Uncertain of the currency exchange, I opted for the least expensive yet still appetizing offer: lentil vegetable stew with roast pork knuckle. Now, I dang ol' LIKE pork knuckles-- I had an entire one to myself in Munich last year...mmmmmmmmm pooooork knuuuuucklllllles.... However, when the ragout came out, there were only 2 slices of the pig laid across the top of the broth, but they were generous portions. I still couldn't give you a determined answer as to what lentils are, but the soup had a texture and taste similar to beans that was quite good. Celine ordered chicken and chips (french fries, not potato crisps). I tried a bit, and it was good, but chicken is pretty well chicken unless you do some severe doctoring (I recommend British yellow mustard and honey as a baste), and as the traditional Hungarian sauce seemed to be little more than red peppers and a few other herbs in olive oil, or something akin, I wasn't overly impressed. Something about raising and seeing slaughtered roughly 1 million chickens of your own really diminishes your desire and enjoyment as far as eating it. But as that's an entirely different thread most of you are familiar with, I won't press the point.
In the 'concerns' department: Celine JUST heard (38 seconds ago) that a relative of her mothers who was diagnosed with cancer a month ago died yesterday.
We went walking this afternoon along the Danube, and it appears that the castle fortifications of Obuda (The original city. Pest was its own locale before the technology to bridge the local waterway allowed for mass transit between the two, or created the need for a single governing body.) are carved from the very cliffs along the river. I took a picture or two around dusk, there was no visible sun to set, and would love to share them with you, but have left my camera's USB cable back at the hostel.
Any rate, best of luck to y'all responsible folks: I'll continue with my gypsy ways yet, and let you know how it works out...
Do me a favor, and listen to Cake's "Love You Madly," if you're able... it's the one song, as yet, that I forgot to load on ye olde Ipodde.
Cheers! and Stay real.
jeffro
Egad! I knew deep down that travelling, as I've said, requires an entirely different frame of mind from stable, steady, everyday life, but I hadn't realised how much I'd forgotten. I've rather reimmersed myself with a bit of a fire baptism by jumping straight into Eastern Europe without much of a warm-up to that other philosophy that I'm having to live by as a Euro-trekker, but I'm getting by. I have recalled some other handy travel tips for you, though:
1) Most European hostels seem to have liquid-soap dispensers near the bathroom sinks. So, for all you cheapskates, keep an empty coke bottle handy, and hack the top off with that Swisss-Army knife you bought in Interlaken, Lucerne, or Bern, and squeeze a few shots of this freely provided hand cleaner. Renders carrying bars of soap to the bathroom unnecessary. Further point: DO NOT attempt to carry said bottle from one hostel to the next-- I imagine you'd have a heck of a mess in ye olde backpack. Coke bottles and hand soap can be found in multiple places.
2) Learn some of the local dialogue BEFORE you get to your destination. Your handiest phrases will be "Do you speak English?" (Though, this can be said IN English, the local you're addressing will appreciate being spoken to with some effort at their own language) Also, especially regarding previous question, know the word for 'No.' Similarly handy expressions are "Rail Station" "Metro" (Universal for 'subway' or 'tube.') "Airport" "How do I find 'x' Street?" Don't ask for an automatic bank machine, in the event you're questioning a local of ill repute.
3) A hostel may or may not have a kitchen that allows you to store, cook, and eat food you've purchased yourself, and they may or may not offer a breakfast. Look for one that has an open kitchen, and if they've got a free breakfast to boot, book them. If they offer breakfast for a small price, don't bank on it being just real flash. Yes, it's relatively cheap, and easily had, but not necessarily impressive. Celine's croissant came out of a bag and a microwave, with Hershey's chocolate inside (a dire insult to anyone French), and the milk on my cornflakes was room temperature 'shelf' milk, that due to its chemical content, doesn't require refrigeration.
4) If you DO order the breakfast at a hostel in Eastern Europe, and they have 2 options, one which includes sausage, eggs, ham, a roll, and mustard or ketchup, or an option which is only eggs, ham, a roll, and jam, DO NOT presume to ask for the first with jam instead of the listed condiments. Substitutions, subervions, or any other derailments from the written law is still, wall and bloc or no wall and bloc, unthinkable. You get strange looks if you try to press the matter, and if you're not careful, ejected and expelled from said establishment.
So, any rate, I am in Budapest. The local language is Hungarian, which I believe to be a combination of the tongues of a few German tribes, especially the Huns, and the Magyars. I have yet to see a word that I could recognise any sort of letter pattern within. In western Europe, where most languages owe a great deal to Latin, or German in the North, I can at least see familiar combinations of an alphabet similar to my own. No such luck here. We spent most of today in the Hungarian National Museum, where I was quite surprised that I was able to decipher all of the Imperial Roman-era tombstones on display. Turns out I've got some handy basic Latin back there on reserve. Tomorrow we hope to hit the Turkish baths.
Oh, yes... "WE..." I'm here with my French friend Celine, whom I met in Granada, Spain last year while travelling with Lisa, from Australia, whom I met while travelling with Topdeck Tours. And, speaking of Celine, those of you who've spoken with my mother in the last 48 hours, Celine apologises for causing any frightening disturbances for those of you who heard that I was apparently not at the airport. As it turns out, Budapest has 2 airports: same name, different terminals, miles apart. Be ready for that sort of thing when you go continent hopping.
The food here has been quite good...though we've only had one actual Hungarian meal. Today's tea-time saw us at a Subway restaurant (I hated the notion, but we just needed a quick, healthy bite.) and then we've had some Gelati (WOOOHOOO!!! Yes, by gosh, Budapest knows how to cater to tourists, particularly Anglo-descended ice cream lovers.)
We shared a room in the hostel last night with 4 Swedish blokes, who were quite nice. The 2 who did most of the talking were just slightly taller than me, with dark blonde hair down to their shoulders, one baby-faced, one bearded... And I so wish I were that good-looking. Their appearance bespoke what had to be royal bloodlines. They were quite nice, and talkative, and killers at Texas Hold 'Em (fortunately I have a standing rule against gambling). You almost wonder how the Vikings of a thousand years ago could sire, though over a few centuries, the Scandivanians of the modern world. All that I have met, and have heard from other travellers, have been the most congenial, helpful, genuinely friendly folks I've met. They certainly don't give the impression that anywhere in their genes is one for rapine and pillaging...
Any rate, they recommended an Italian place round the corner, in the quite obviously touristy district along the Danube, but we (wrongly) cut down a side street and found a nice little local place (with English menus-- once again, they know their market here), and sat down to a lovely, quiet, dry dinner. (Dry: by the way, it's been raining off and on since we got here.) The restaurant looked more like a pub than an eating establishment, with warm woodwork round the walls and candle-lit tables, but the chalkboard listing specials attested to the presence of food...all of which sounded quite nice. Uncertain of the currency exchange, I opted for the least expensive yet still appetizing offer: lentil vegetable stew with roast pork knuckle. Now, I dang ol' LIKE pork knuckles-- I had an entire one to myself in Munich last year...mmmmmmmmm pooooork knuuuuucklllllles.... However, when the ragout came out, there were only 2 slices of the pig laid across the top of the broth, but they were generous portions. I still couldn't give you a determined answer as to what lentils are, but the soup had a texture and taste similar to beans that was quite good. Celine ordered chicken and chips (french fries, not potato crisps). I tried a bit, and it was good, but chicken is pretty well chicken unless you do some severe doctoring (I recommend British yellow mustard and honey as a baste), and as the traditional Hungarian sauce seemed to be little more than red peppers and a few other herbs in olive oil, or something akin, I wasn't overly impressed. Something about raising and seeing slaughtered roughly 1 million chickens of your own really diminishes your desire and enjoyment as far as eating it. But as that's an entirely different thread most of you are familiar with, I won't press the point.
In the 'concerns' department: Celine JUST heard (38 seconds ago) that a relative of her mothers who was diagnosed with cancer a month ago died yesterday.
We went walking this afternoon along the Danube, and it appears that the castle fortifications of Obuda (The original city. Pest was its own locale before the technology to bridge the local waterway allowed for mass transit between the two, or created the need for a single governing body.) are carved from the very cliffs along the river. I took a picture or two around dusk, there was no visible sun to set, and would love to share them with you, but have left my camera's USB cable back at the hostel.
Any rate, best of luck to y'all responsible folks: I'll continue with my gypsy ways yet, and let you know how it works out...
Do me a favor, and listen to Cake's "Love You Madly," if you're able... it's the one song, as yet, that I forgot to load on ye olde Ipodde.
Cheers! and Stay real.
jeffro
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