Like a phoenix rising from the ashes in the way a smoker coughs up phlegm when they have sworn off their last cigarette, I have decided to start blogging again. Being the true marketing man I am, I am re-starting this blog to meet popular demand - but only because there was no supply.
I had found some old blogs in my Mac which I had written but never posted. I have not re-read them or edited them, believing that whatever I wrote then would be sufficient for now. They are now available for scrutiny and subject to public disdain. I have also missed boring you with the tedium of the excellent adventures I've had over the past year since I last posted on this blog including a road trip through Colorado, Utah, Nevada and California where I tried my hand out at fly-fishing and whitewater rafting, weekends away in Hamilton Island and Apollo Bay, and trips to Krakow, the Champagne region, Edinburgh (multiple times for work during my time at the Scotland Office), Glasgow to see relatives, Athens, Mykonos and Luxembourg. Maybe I will go backwards and write about them one day. If only to imprint on my mind the various things one should remember in order to lecture my future children about: "Back in my day, countries like Luxembourg existed before they bored themselves out of existence!". On that note, I should mention that Luxembourg now takes pride of place as Taffy's most boring city in Europe, replacing the city of Dresden which had held that title since 2006.
Despite my sarcasm, I'm glad that you've finally managed to keep up. A is for Apple. Apparently. It's in my best interests to keep up this rather public journal (Dear Diary. Life is being a real shit at the moment. Can you please mow over him with the lawn mower), and possibly in your interests so that you don't need to listen to me tell you all about it. Just simply refer me back to my blog and tell me to shut up.
Fine.
Tuesday, 22 September 2009
Eyes aflutter
When I first arrived in London, I created a list of the places that I wanted to visit most. I had been very slowly going through that list, and Lisbon was one my priorities. I don't know why Lisbon was such a priority for me - possibly because I wanted to do something different to Spain, and because my mum was born in Macau which was a Portuguese colony at the time. The custard tarts looked really good too.
It was a bit of a last minute decision, and I managed to get some flights that didn't cost me the earth on TAP Portugal - the Portuguese flag carrier - sparing me the pain of flying on Ryanair which while admittedly cheap, has questionable business practices. Not only that, TAP Portugal not only gives me Star Alliance points, but it's a full service airline which serve food for free (a hotdog from Heathrow to Lisbon!), allows you to check in luggage for free and provided me free newspapers from London. Which calculates a saving of about £3 despite paying an extra £30 to avoid Ryanair. But no complaints whatsoever.
When landing at Lisbon I was one of the few people who had a non-EU passport, and while all the EU citizens shuffled behind 1 immigration counter, I breezed past the queue and was whisked through within seconds as the first person in the line. The EU citizens glared at me, and then decided to stop their glaring in case my swift clearance through immigration was due to me having a dipomatic passport or being someone of consequence. Of which I am neither, which was confirmed moments later when I found out that the airport bus was no longer running. I made a split second decision to take the local bus as it arrived, shuffling on with all the locals and some brave tourists who decided that a taxi would have been too expensive. We trundled along, and although I was slightly nervous by not having a map to follow along, I was feeling excited being in Lisbon. Excitement turned into grumpiness as we hit a monumental traffic jam and moved 100 metres in an hour. An hour and a half later, we had gone about 500 metres more, and then the bus driver pulled to the side and kicked everyone off. By then I was cursing the Portuguese and went off to the look for a taxi. Fortunately, we had hit the main road into central Lisbon, and by pure chance found a Metro station after walking by an enormous Workers Union rally, complete with children waving red flags and adults chanting slogans.
Tired, thoroughly shitty and terrified that I had lost my hostel bed by being 2 hours late to my designated check in time, I found myself at my beautiful hostel. One interesting fact about Lisbon is that of the top 10 hostels in the world, 4 of them are in Lisbon. Having booked so late, the 2 most popular hostels were booked out and I was left with the third option which was not a disappointment at all. Smiling staff, clean bathrooms and a beautiful lounge area was waiting for me. The Living Lounge Hostel turned out to be quite funky - each room was painted by a different artist and had different themes. The guy at reception had walked me to my room (a nice touch not experienced at any other hostel) and I found my room's theme was coloured circles rising from the floor all over the ceiling. A girl was sleeping in the bunk below mine, and as I started to unpack she started to sigh. Initially I thought she was just making sleeping noises. Until she started heaving her whole upper body as she sighed, I knew it was a signal for me to get out. I snapped my locker shut and she turned around to give me a death stare.
Whatever. Mole.
Now I was annoyed. It's a HOSTEL, woman. People come in and out at different hours, and total silence and privacy is a non-starter. Being passive-aggressive I decided to take my revenge later, and tried to leave as quietly as I could. Meanwhile: a note on how the hostel was created: Years ago when Bulgaria was trying to gain entry to the EU Club, the EU did a project to test cultural differences and got a whole lot of different EU citizens (Portuguese, Germans, Dutch, French and Bulgarians) where they were put together in a campsite to do projects together. The participants were monitored by EU officials to see whether the Bulgarians could get along with the rest of the EU citizens. Apparently at the end, the group had got along so well that there were tears and promises to stay together forever. Two participants decided to get together to open a hostel in Lisbon for young travelers and in the meantime, completely revolutionised the quality of hostels in Portugal.
In the glow of the sunset, I wandered out to explore the local area in Baixa and stood along the river watching the sunset. I moseyed around and went back to the hostel for dinner. Another great addition to my hostel was that a 3 course meal and wine was provided - all for 8 euros! They had a cook come in at night and prepare food, and then at 9pm you sat at the large tables and literally got served by the cook. The food was fresh and the wine mellow. On my table of 10 there were 9 Americans. And me. And of the 10, three were boys. The other 2 American guys were ridiculously loud and screamed camp. I ended up talking to the girl sitting next to me, and it turns out that she had been to Melbourne before. Backpackers who had been to Melbourne are generally rare to find, so I enquired some more to find that her mother was sitting next to her. Her parents had lived in Melbourne back in the early 80s in North Balwyn! We laughed a lot and I had a chat to the girl's mum/mom about Melbourne, turning to my work in the civil service, turning to Muslim fundamentalism turning to Asian values turning to Asian parenting. At times she got a little bit scary when talking about Muslim fundamentalism, possibly due to being a (in no particular order) Texan Republican Christian. She had 7 children, and when I asked her how she managed, she said that it was "by the Grace of God", but also more to do with her thinking that raising children was blue collar work as infants, and then as they got older, being white collar work to manage the bigger picture of how her children fared in life. An interesting concept.
After dinner we sat around talking some more when Jan (the mother) decided she wanted to explore the city by night. Her daughter was enthused, and they invited me along. As we were leaving, another one of my Kiwi room-mates who I had met briefly was also invited and he decided to come along too. We walked around the hip Chiado district where all the bars are and it was absolutely pumping. Entire side streets (in a similar vein to Melbourne) were full of people drinking and smoking, and we decided to have a drink. Wandering around with my beer in hand, we found that the maze of side streets just kept on getting busier and busier - no-one was in the bars, but everyone was standing outside enjoying the warm twilight. We kept back going to the same bar where I met quite possibly the most affable and genial barman to ever serve me a plastic cup of beer. I thoroughly enjoyed myself that night having a good chat and somewhat feeling alive. The alternative was to listen to the mole beneath me sigh and/or snore. We quit while we were ahead at about 2 in the morning and wandered the quiet streets of Baixa back to to the hostel, finding that the hostel was still pumping. Ah, the party life of all these young people.
The next morning I was sitting at breakfast when my New Zealander room-mates came down to join me at breakfast. Sitting down, the Kiwi bloke eyed the chess board on the coffee table and asked if I played chess. I replied in the affirmative, and I could see the repressed exasperation of his girlfriend. The Frasier Crane in me almost mused aloud that "it would be a quick game". Turns out that karma outranks pomposity and after some early wins with a lot of swearing from my opponent, I made some blunders (or more accurately, he started to play much better) and I lost the game. I bade farewell to my room-mates and then left to explore Lisbon.
Like scratched vinyl, I will now start to talk about how lovely it was being in the sunshine. My back was already sweating into my new backpack which I had bought recently (2 days before my trip to Lisbon my zip fell off my front pocket off my bag with my keys inside it. I couldn't get the zip to open, so had to borrow a pair of scissors to cut open my bag. Having cut open my bag to get my house keys, my bag's zip miraculously opened. I mourned for a while for my backpack - I had had it since my very first backpacking adventure at the end of 2003, and it had served me well for over 5 years), and in trying to make it to the castle on top of the hill, found myself at a flea market.
I am not usually a fan of flea markets, but always have a browse anyway. My family has a collection of turtles, and everywhere our family roams we always find the time to purchase a locally-made turtle. We have some lovely pieces at home in Melbourne, and also some rather ugly ones. Some have fallen by the wayside (i.e. sucked up accidently by the vacuum cleaner) and we still have our favourites. At the Lisbon flea market I found a man selling me a raft of wooden objects, and offered to sell me this enormous giraffe for 15 euros. I declined, but saw a small turtle instead. His asking price was 5 euros, and I managed to bargain him down to 4. Upon reporting this back to my flatmate, Frances, she laughed at me and told me I was a shit negotiator. I may be, but then again, I didn't feel like arguing to save maybe another euro when this man's livelihood depended on selling wooden objects at a flea market during the day.
The Alfama district in Lisbon is right up on a hill with some steep walks, and I was getting tried already. Talk about a lack of stamina. I wanted to find this wretched castle so I could go in and sit down with a cold drink. I eventually made it to the castle, and although it was nice, there was nothing really special. Although, there was a piper who was busking, and there were about 15 cats surrounding him. I veered between wanting to pat the cats to being appalled at the mangy things circling one of the major tourist attractions in Lisbon. I was however appalled at how expensive my lunch was. I was hot and tired and hungry, and the Bueno Kinder chocolate wasn't sustaining me any more. I bought a fish dish with some rather foul tasting vegetables, setting me back 10 euros, although i did get to sit in the castle courtyard keeping some peacocks and some cats company.
From the castle, I wandered down from the top of Alfama to the bottom. At first it was nice to walk the narrow cobbled streets without a person in sight, but then it got a bit creepy in the eerie silence. Walking down a deserted alleyway, I heard 2 footsteps behind me. I quickened my pace, but heard the footsteps also quickening behind me. I thought I was about to get mugged, so decided to turn around to face my would-be attackers. They walked past me. I breathed a sigh of relief and slapped myself for being Mr Paranoid again. Although, as we all know it, the day I am not paranoid is the day I get mugged. Such is life.
I wandered the streets of Lisbon some more, walking up to the Marque de Pombal. From there I decided to visit a museum, and eventually chose the Music Museum which was housed in a disused section of a Metro station. After paying the entrance fare, I was immediately annoyed to find out that half the museum was closed, and that a kiddie exhibition had just finished. I ended up taking in half a museum with about 50 kids under the age of 5, running around and screaming and carrying on. It would have been exciting if the museum's insurers had decided to pay a visit at that exact moment to see the kids skidding around priceless instruments, but I was nevertheless pleased to see a Stradivarius on display (with a photo of Mr Stradivarius himself and the instrument he had created). I had been looking for a Stradivarius violin, but had to make do with a cello on display.
Back at the hostel, I met American woman and family again. And while there was no-one to witness it, I swear I was being pursued by the American woman's daughter (eyelids fluttering) in addition to the other guy I met at dinner the previous night. Nevertheless at dinner time I got stuck sitting across 2 Dutch fashion photographers who thought the world of themselves (despite them being unattractive and full of themselves), although one of them regaled us with tales of her living on a houseboat moored in the canals of Amsterdam (apparently these boats can't be taken for daytrips or rides - they can be moved, but only to another mooring in the canal!). The American family sat next to me again, and although there were some aspects of the conversation I wanted to steer clear of, it was a happy conversation. Apparently in her heyday, Mom was a skydiver who had completed over 1000 dives, and had done basejumping as well. I told her that I would like to skydive one day, and she said that the best way would be to go to the highest elevation, and if I did it tandem, to find the most unkempt hippie looking guy to dive with. Apparently the clean-cut ones have normal jobs and do sky-diving on weekends only. The hippie-hippie-shake are the ones who sky-dive full time and are more experienced. Mental note to self when skydiving.
The next morning I set off to Sintra - a small town about an hour away from Lisbon. I had not intended to go, but everyone I spoke to at the hostel was raving about it non-stop. I was going to choose between Belem (a suburb of Lisbon on the river) or Sintra, and decided to do half-days of each. I was told that it would be difficult, in that I needed a full day at Sintra, but I thought that this would be a good compromise to see everything.
Sintra was cute, but I fear that the high expectations led to my disappointment. There was a fairytale castle with some cute rooms (including an Oriental room with some furniture looking like it had been pinched from my grandfather's house) where Portuguese royalty once lived. What was more exciting was the local bus trip up to the top of the hill where the castle was. All the tourists had gotten on the local bus (a normal sized bus at that), and we were speeding through the narrow and curvy roads up the mountain at breakneck speed. Sitting at a window seat, you could see right down to the bottom of the mountain. Every sharp turn the bus driver made, the bus driver honked his horn in case of oncoming traffic, although I wondered whether the honking was out of sheer habit rather than trying to warn oncoming traffic. In any event, he wasn't going to stop. On the way down from the mountain, I got the same bus driver who grinned at me (I had been the only tourist to try to buy a ticket in halting Portuguese (seeng indeed). Tailgating a car down the mountain, I saw that there was an enormous dip in front. The car in front crashed through. Then the bus crashed through. All the female passengers screamed. I caught the bus driver grinning with satisfaction in his rear-vision mirror.
There were other museums and a Moorish castle to explore in Sintra as well, but I wanted to get to Belem. I took a breather back at the hostel and it was off to get a tram to the very lovely place on the water. One of the main attractions was the enormous naval monument on the river, comprising of sculptures of men and sailors on an anchor. The white stone reflected magnificently against the sun, and I took many photos of what is probably one of my most favourite monuments in Europe. Walking along the sea watching men fish, there was a group of German boys in front of me. They were holding hands, and the fact that no-one batted an eyelid was nice. We were all heading towards the Belem tower, and I decided not to go up into the tower given the pricey entrance fee. Instead I sat along the river and watched the world go by until I could feel my t-shirt sticking to my backpack. I wandered back to yet another market in full swing (this time with much nicer but more expensive wares on sale) and went into a little cafe to stand at the counter to order my Custard Tart. According to the staff at the hostel, the Belem custard tarts are special in that they simply don't taste the same anywhere else in Portugal. I stood at the counter, ordered my tart, and bit into heaven. I am used to custard tarts being Chinese myself, but this was different. The pastry had bite and crunch to it. The glaze had made the pastry slightly chewy and the custard was cool and sweet. I would go back to Belem again just for the tarts. I took the tart outside with me (playing tourist and taking a picture of my tart with a bite missing) and continued to top up my vitamin D levels.
I took an old-style tram back to the centre of Lisbon where you gripped on for your life (what is it with Lisbon pubic transportation and holding on for dear life?). It was hot and stinky but quite a bit of fun, in contrast to the sleek comfort of the new trams. I wandered around some more the streets of Lisbon, wandering into a sports shop and buying an enormous tennis ball for 1.50 euros just for fun, and then to a final dinner back at the hostel. It was very quiet that evening, and I was seated with the hostel staff. I was tired and not in the mood for chatting, and it was an early night. Indeed, that night my 4-bed dorm was empty which was great. Earlier that morning, the mole beneath me had made a song-and-dance when she prepared to leave at 6.30am, and just as she left, I sat up and did the most melodramatic sigh for her to see how stupid she had been. She gaped at me and slammed the door shut. Very satisfactory. She is clearly the type of girl who goes through life not realising how unpopular she is. Then again, I am the type of guy who goes through life not realising how passive-aggressive I can be. Oh wait. I just conceded that point. Win for me.
That night I set my alarm to get up at 4am (for a cheap 7am flight). All night I kept on waking up worrying about sleeping through my alarm, and eventually at 3am I got up anyway and read my book. I didn't fear disturbing my felllow room-mates, so i took a shower and packed my bags, ready to leave at 5am. My taxi driver was great showing me the sights I hadn't seen (and still haven't seen, given the pitch darkness we drove through), and I was off back on very nice TAP Portugal flight back to London. For some reason, all the TAP Portugal staff thought i was Portuguese, only to understand the universal sign language for stunned mullet. I waited for 5 minutes at a completed deserted non-EU passport line and in desperation went through the EU line expecting to get yelled at. The amiable chap at passport control was friendly and I was through to buy another custard tart (which was definitely not the same as the one in Belem).
I got winked at by another male flight crew and landed home in London. It must be all those pheremones leaching out of my backpack.
You can take that look off your face now.
It was a bit of a last minute decision, and I managed to get some flights that didn't cost me the earth on TAP Portugal - the Portuguese flag carrier - sparing me the pain of flying on Ryanair which while admittedly cheap, has questionable business practices. Not only that, TAP Portugal not only gives me Star Alliance points, but it's a full service airline which serve food for free (a hotdog from Heathrow to Lisbon!), allows you to check in luggage for free and provided me free newspapers from London. Which calculates a saving of about £3 despite paying an extra £30 to avoid Ryanair. But no complaints whatsoever.
When landing at Lisbon I was one of the few people who had a non-EU passport, and while all the EU citizens shuffled behind 1 immigration counter, I breezed past the queue and was whisked through within seconds as the first person in the line. The EU citizens glared at me, and then decided to stop their glaring in case my swift clearance through immigration was due to me having a dipomatic passport or being someone of consequence. Of which I am neither, which was confirmed moments later when I found out that the airport bus was no longer running. I made a split second decision to take the local bus as it arrived, shuffling on with all the locals and some brave tourists who decided that a taxi would have been too expensive. We trundled along, and although I was slightly nervous by not having a map to follow along, I was feeling excited being in Lisbon. Excitement turned into grumpiness as we hit a monumental traffic jam and moved 100 metres in an hour. An hour and a half later, we had gone about 500 metres more, and then the bus driver pulled to the side and kicked everyone off. By then I was cursing the Portuguese and went off to the look for a taxi. Fortunately, we had hit the main road into central Lisbon, and by pure chance found a Metro station after walking by an enormous Workers Union rally, complete with children waving red flags and adults chanting slogans.
Tired, thoroughly shitty and terrified that I had lost my hostel bed by being 2 hours late to my designated check in time, I found myself at my beautiful hostel. One interesting fact about Lisbon is that of the top 10 hostels in the world, 4 of them are in Lisbon. Having booked so late, the 2 most popular hostels were booked out and I was left with the third option which was not a disappointment at all. Smiling staff, clean bathrooms and a beautiful lounge area was waiting for me. The Living Lounge Hostel turned out to be quite funky - each room was painted by a different artist and had different themes. The guy at reception had walked me to my room (a nice touch not experienced at any other hostel) and I found my room's theme was coloured circles rising from the floor all over the ceiling. A girl was sleeping in the bunk below mine, and as I started to unpack she started to sigh. Initially I thought she was just making sleeping noises. Until she started heaving her whole upper body as she sighed, I knew it was a signal for me to get out. I snapped my locker shut and she turned around to give me a death stare.
Whatever. Mole.
Now I was annoyed. It's a HOSTEL, woman. People come in and out at different hours, and total silence and privacy is a non-starter. Being passive-aggressive I decided to take my revenge later, and tried to leave as quietly as I could. Meanwhile: a note on how the hostel was created: Years ago when Bulgaria was trying to gain entry to the EU Club, the EU did a project to test cultural differences and got a whole lot of different EU citizens (Portuguese, Germans, Dutch, French and Bulgarians) where they were put together in a campsite to do projects together. The participants were monitored by EU officials to see whether the Bulgarians could get along with the rest of the EU citizens. Apparently at the end, the group had got along so well that there were tears and promises to stay together forever. Two participants decided to get together to open a hostel in Lisbon for young travelers and in the meantime, completely revolutionised the quality of hostels in Portugal.
In the glow of the sunset, I wandered out to explore the local area in Baixa and stood along the river watching the sunset. I moseyed around and went back to the hostel for dinner. Another great addition to my hostel was that a 3 course meal and wine was provided - all for 8 euros! They had a cook come in at night and prepare food, and then at 9pm you sat at the large tables and literally got served by the cook. The food was fresh and the wine mellow. On my table of 10 there were 9 Americans. And me. And of the 10, three were boys. The other 2 American guys were ridiculously loud and screamed camp. I ended up talking to the girl sitting next to me, and it turns out that she had been to Melbourne before. Backpackers who had been to Melbourne are generally rare to find, so I enquired some more to find that her mother was sitting next to her. Her parents had lived in Melbourne back in the early 80s in North Balwyn! We laughed a lot and I had a chat to the girl's mum/mom about Melbourne, turning to my work in the civil service, turning to Muslim fundamentalism turning to Asian values turning to Asian parenting. At times she got a little bit scary when talking about Muslim fundamentalism, possibly due to being a (in no particular order) Texan Republican Christian. She had 7 children, and when I asked her how she managed, she said that it was "by the Grace of God", but also more to do with her thinking that raising children was blue collar work as infants, and then as they got older, being white collar work to manage the bigger picture of how her children fared in life. An interesting concept.
After dinner we sat around talking some more when Jan (the mother) decided she wanted to explore the city by night. Her daughter was enthused, and they invited me along. As we were leaving, another one of my Kiwi room-mates who I had met briefly was also invited and he decided to come along too. We walked around the hip Chiado district where all the bars are and it was absolutely pumping. Entire side streets (in a similar vein to Melbourne) were full of people drinking and smoking, and we decided to have a drink. Wandering around with my beer in hand, we found that the maze of side streets just kept on getting busier and busier - no-one was in the bars, but everyone was standing outside enjoying the warm twilight. We kept back going to the same bar where I met quite possibly the most affable and genial barman to ever serve me a plastic cup of beer. I thoroughly enjoyed myself that night having a good chat and somewhat feeling alive. The alternative was to listen to the mole beneath me sigh and/or snore. We quit while we were ahead at about 2 in the morning and wandered the quiet streets of Baixa back to to the hostel, finding that the hostel was still pumping. Ah, the party life of all these young people.
The next morning I was sitting at breakfast when my New Zealander room-mates came down to join me at breakfast. Sitting down, the Kiwi bloke eyed the chess board on the coffee table and asked if I played chess. I replied in the affirmative, and I could see the repressed exasperation of his girlfriend. The Frasier Crane in me almost mused aloud that "it would be a quick game". Turns out that karma outranks pomposity and after some early wins with a lot of swearing from my opponent, I made some blunders (or more accurately, he started to play much better) and I lost the game. I bade farewell to my room-mates and then left to explore Lisbon.
Like scratched vinyl, I will now start to talk about how lovely it was being in the sunshine. My back was already sweating into my new backpack which I had bought recently (2 days before my trip to Lisbon my zip fell off my front pocket off my bag with my keys inside it. I couldn't get the zip to open, so had to borrow a pair of scissors to cut open my bag. Having cut open my bag to get my house keys, my bag's zip miraculously opened. I mourned for a while for my backpack - I had had it since my very first backpacking adventure at the end of 2003, and it had served me well for over 5 years), and in trying to make it to the castle on top of the hill, found myself at a flea market.
I am not usually a fan of flea markets, but always have a browse anyway. My family has a collection of turtles, and everywhere our family roams we always find the time to purchase a locally-made turtle. We have some lovely pieces at home in Melbourne, and also some rather ugly ones. Some have fallen by the wayside (i.e. sucked up accidently by the vacuum cleaner) and we still have our favourites. At the Lisbon flea market I found a man selling me a raft of wooden objects, and offered to sell me this enormous giraffe for 15 euros. I declined, but saw a small turtle instead. His asking price was 5 euros, and I managed to bargain him down to 4. Upon reporting this back to my flatmate, Frances, she laughed at me and told me I was a shit negotiator. I may be, but then again, I didn't feel like arguing to save maybe another euro when this man's livelihood depended on selling wooden objects at a flea market during the day.
The Alfama district in Lisbon is right up on a hill with some steep walks, and I was getting tried already. Talk about a lack of stamina. I wanted to find this wretched castle so I could go in and sit down with a cold drink. I eventually made it to the castle, and although it was nice, there was nothing really special. Although, there was a piper who was busking, and there were about 15 cats surrounding him. I veered between wanting to pat the cats to being appalled at the mangy things circling one of the major tourist attractions in Lisbon. I was however appalled at how expensive my lunch was. I was hot and tired and hungry, and the Bueno Kinder chocolate wasn't sustaining me any more. I bought a fish dish with some rather foul tasting vegetables, setting me back 10 euros, although i did get to sit in the castle courtyard keeping some peacocks and some cats company.
From the castle, I wandered down from the top of Alfama to the bottom. At first it was nice to walk the narrow cobbled streets without a person in sight, but then it got a bit creepy in the eerie silence. Walking down a deserted alleyway, I heard 2 footsteps behind me. I quickened my pace, but heard the footsteps also quickening behind me. I thought I was about to get mugged, so decided to turn around to face my would-be attackers. They walked past me. I breathed a sigh of relief and slapped myself for being Mr Paranoid again. Although, as we all know it, the day I am not paranoid is the day I get mugged. Such is life.
I wandered the streets of Lisbon some more, walking up to the Marque de Pombal. From there I decided to visit a museum, and eventually chose the Music Museum which was housed in a disused section of a Metro station. After paying the entrance fare, I was immediately annoyed to find out that half the museum was closed, and that a kiddie exhibition had just finished. I ended up taking in half a museum with about 50 kids under the age of 5, running around and screaming and carrying on. It would have been exciting if the museum's insurers had decided to pay a visit at that exact moment to see the kids skidding around priceless instruments, but I was nevertheless pleased to see a Stradivarius on display (with a photo of Mr Stradivarius himself and the instrument he had created). I had been looking for a Stradivarius violin, but had to make do with a cello on display.
Back at the hostel, I met American woman and family again. And while there was no-one to witness it, I swear I was being pursued by the American woman's daughter (eyelids fluttering) in addition to the other guy I met at dinner the previous night. Nevertheless at dinner time I got stuck sitting across 2 Dutch fashion photographers who thought the world of themselves (despite them being unattractive and full of themselves), although one of them regaled us with tales of her living on a houseboat moored in the canals of Amsterdam (apparently these boats can't be taken for daytrips or rides - they can be moved, but only to another mooring in the canal!). The American family sat next to me again, and although there were some aspects of the conversation I wanted to steer clear of, it was a happy conversation. Apparently in her heyday, Mom was a skydiver who had completed over 1000 dives, and had done basejumping as well. I told her that I would like to skydive one day, and she said that the best way would be to go to the highest elevation, and if I did it tandem, to find the most unkempt hippie looking guy to dive with. Apparently the clean-cut ones have normal jobs and do sky-diving on weekends only. The hippie-hippie-shake are the ones who sky-dive full time and are more experienced. Mental note to self when skydiving.
The next morning I set off to Sintra - a small town about an hour away from Lisbon. I had not intended to go, but everyone I spoke to at the hostel was raving about it non-stop. I was going to choose between Belem (a suburb of Lisbon on the river) or Sintra, and decided to do half-days of each. I was told that it would be difficult, in that I needed a full day at Sintra, but I thought that this would be a good compromise to see everything.
Sintra was cute, but I fear that the high expectations led to my disappointment. There was a fairytale castle with some cute rooms (including an Oriental room with some furniture looking like it had been pinched from my grandfather's house) where Portuguese royalty once lived. What was more exciting was the local bus trip up to the top of the hill where the castle was. All the tourists had gotten on the local bus (a normal sized bus at that), and we were speeding through the narrow and curvy roads up the mountain at breakneck speed. Sitting at a window seat, you could see right down to the bottom of the mountain. Every sharp turn the bus driver made, the bus driver honked his horn in case of oncoming traffic, although I wondered whether the honking was out of sheer habit rather than trying to warn oncoming traffic. In any event, he wasn't going to stop. On the way down from the mountain, I got the same bus driver who grinned at me (I had been the only tourist to try to buy a ticket in halting Portuguese (seeng indeed). Tailgating a car down the mountain, I saw that there was an enormous dip in front. The car in front crashed through. Then the bus crashed through. All the female passengers screamed. I caught the bus driver grinning with satisfaction in his rear-vision mirror.
There were other museums and a Moorish castle to explore in Sintra as well, but I wanted to get to Belem. I took a breather back at the hostel and it was off to get a tram to the very lovely place on the water. One of the main attractions was the enormous naval monument on the river, comprising of sculptures of men and sailors on an anchor. The white stone reflected magnificently against the sun, and I took many photos of what is probably one of my most favourite monuments in Europe. Walking along the sea watching men fish, there was a group of German boys in front of me. They were holding hands, and the fact that no-one batted an eyelid was nice. We were all heading towards the Belem tower, and I decided not to go up into the tower given the pricey entrance fee. Instead I sat along the river and watched the world go by until I could feel my t-shirt sticking to my backpack. I wandered back to yet another market in full swing (this time with much nicer but more expensive wares on sale) and went into a little cafe to stand at the counter to order my Custard Tart. According to the staff at the hostel, the Belem custard tarts are special in that they simply don't taste the same anywhere else in Portugal. I stood at the counter, ordered my tart, and bit into heaven. I am used to custard tarts being Chinese myself, but this was different. The pastry had bite and crunch to it. The glaze had made the pastry slightly chewy and the custard was cool and sweet. I would go back to Belem again just for the tarts. I took the tart outside with me (playing tourist and taking a picture of my tart with a bite missing) and continued to top up my vitamin D levels.
I took an old-style tram back to the centre of Lisbon where you gripped on for your life (what is it with Lisbon pubic transportation and holding on for dear life?). It was hot and stinky but quite a bit of fun, in contrast to the sleek comfort of the new trams. I wandered around some more the streets of Lisbon, wandering into a sports shop and buying an enormous tennis ball for 1.50 euros just for fun, and then to a final dinner back at the hostel. It was very quiet that evening, and I was seated with the hostel staff. I was tired and not in the mood for chatting, and it was an early night. Indeed, that night my 4-bed dorm was empty which was great. Earlier that morning, the mole beneath me had made a song-and-dance when she prepared to leave at 6.30am, and just as she left, I sat up and did the most melodramatic sigh for her to see how stupid she had been. She gaped at me and slammed the door shut. Very satisfactory. She is clearly the type of girl who goes through life not realising how unpopular she is. Then again, I am the type of guy who goes through life not realising how passive-aggressive I can be. Oh wait. I just conceded that point. Win for me.
That night I set my alarm to get up at 4am (for a cheap 7am flight). All night I kept on waking up worrying about sleeping through my alarm, and eventually at 3am I got up anyway and read my book. I didn't fear disturbing my felllow room-mates, so i took a shower and packed my bags, ready to leave at 5am. My taxi driver was great showing me the sights I hadn't seen (and still haven't seen, given the pitch darkness we drove through), and I was off back on very nice TAP Portugal flight back to London. For some reason, all the TAP Portugal staff thought i was Portuguese, only to understand the universal sign language for stunned mullet. I waited for 5 minutes at a completed deserted non-EU passport line and in desperation went through the EU line expecting to get yelled at. The amiable chap at passport control was friendly and I was through to buy another custard tart (which was definitely not the same as the one in Belem).
I got winked at by another male flight crew and landed home in London. It must be all those pheremones leaching out of my backpack.
You can take that look off your face now.
A little trip on Eurostar
I had always been ambivalent about going to Brussels. Full of well-meaning but almost useless European bureaucrats, grey concrete buildings and touristy chocolate chops, Brussels wasn't at the top of my priority list. But on the other hand, I was at a loose end and could get to Belgium reasonably cheaply on Eurostar.
So off I went. I took along my flatmate my Frances who I've started to refer to as my "wife" (along with some of my other friends in London), although Frances and I have agreed totally and utterly that we would never want to marry each other. Although, we did privately concede to each other that we must look like an old married couple - hidden away in our flat in the depths of South-East London, eating chicken wings while watching Frasier and laughing our own jokes that even Frances' mother thinks are entirely without humour. I believe the word 'freakish' was used.
Nevertheless, Frances and I set off to Brussels on the very comfortable Eurostar. There was an incredibly loud Dutch girl on the train showing off how clever she was. She was seated next to a family who chatted to her, and in the process managed to tell the entire carriage that she thought the French were unpleasant, rude and arrogant. All while we hurtled towards Lille from... wait for it... France.
Arriving at Brussels Midi station, we encountered one of the rudest tourist information booth ladies I have met. Questions were met with studied indifference. She paused for a good 10 seconds after each question, pausing to turn over the pages of a collection of documents which must have been vital for the security of the European Union's second pillar (OK, that's a joke for you EU politics geeks). I told Frances that I hoped that she was stuck in that booth for the rest of her life answering mundane questions such as how long it would take for us to walk to Grand Place from the station (for the record, the doddery old cow was out by 50%).
Arriving at Grand Place which wasn't so grand after all (although I concede it was nice), we walked past the lying-down-gold-statue (don't know what it was called) where everyone was rubbing the gold for good luck. I declined on the basis that I didn't want to offend the other Gods whom I was relying upon for good luck to think that I had resorted to paganism or what have you. We ended up at Mannekin Pis, a tiny little boy pissing into a fountain. Frances assures me he should be naked, although on the 2 days I went to see Mr Pis, he was wearing different costumes (the first day what appeared to be traditional Belgian dress, and the second a Unicef tee).
There were heaps of chocolate shops, and it was hard to resist the chocolate seashell siren. I wanted to prance through about 300 kiligrams worth of chocolate seashells (like the ones you find in Guylian chocolate boxes), but given the price at 5 euros for 250 grams, thought the better of it. With appetite whetted, off we went for dinner where I had a Flemish stew, and then off to bed.
I had banned Frances from booking any accommodation since her 2 horror stories (a student hellhole in Bath - one of the wretchedly bleak student dorms I have ever stayed in; and having to share a double bed in Salzburg despite wanting a twin room), but now it seems that we would both be stuck in London forever. The hotel was decent enough - basic, but clean, But our room overfaced a street with pubs and bars and all night we slept through sirens and drunks and music.
The next morning we groggily wandered to the Museum of Comics which was quite cute. I hadn't realised that the Smurfs had also originated from Belgium along with Asterix and Tin Tin. My favourite poster was one of all the Smurfs - vain Smurf, grumpy Smurf, workman Smurf. Like any other adult, I mused out aloud about Smurfette.
We also stopped by the Museum of Fine Arts which was nice, although slightly boring. The modern arts section which I had wanted to see was closed, although there was a fascinating globe (about 2 metres diameter) which was made entirely of insect bodies. It was frankly revolting on closer inspection, but the artist had painted the bodies all a translucent green so you could really see the detail. I hate bugs and crawlies at any time (even the best of times), but it was a rather interesting piece of art.
Then it was the moment I had been smelling for. A nice waffle with stewed cherry sauce and icecream. What more needs to be said?
That afternoon we took the subway out to the Atomium Monument which is a huge exhibition structure in the shape of an atom which had been built for the World Expo in 1958. I had not even known it had existed before, but when visiting my uncle and aunt in Hong Kong, I noticed they had a cool black and white photo of this interesting-looking structure on their wall. I later found out that it was Atomium - they had bought the print while they were living in Brussels when my uncle had been in the diplomatic service.
The building looked better in person, but the entrance fees were steep. We ummed and ahhed about going in, and then decided to enter, having made the effort to get there. We were sorely disappointed. It was an exhibition about the north and south poles in each of the "molecule" exhibition spaces (see photos to see what I'm talking about). The north and south pole can be such interesting topics, but the exhibition was poorly done and hopelessly inadequate. The 45 minute wait to get to the top for really quite unspectacular views was also painful.
Regardless, I am still glad I went so I never have to look regretfully at my uncle's print on the wall in Hong Kong. Later that dinner, we ticked off another Belgian must - mussels and fries. We had run the gauntlet of a little laneway of people touting their restaurants, and after being persuaded by one man sitting at a table in front of his restaurant, another waiter from next store implored us to go to his restaurant - "at least I am standing up!" he cried. We laughed and ate at the first restaurant.
Looking at a bowl full of mussels at first sight is quite appealing, but by the end, I decided that I had eaten enough mussels to last me for a year. It had been flavoured with garlic and chopped up celery, and by the last mussel in my bowl, even the celery tasted good. I used to get ribbed at school for eating like a rabbit (as in the pace, not in the action), but now I am starting to wonder. Bags of baby carrots are however available at my local Sainsburys in Woolwich.
Our final day in Belgium saw us taking a train out to Bruges, which had been recommended to me a number of times. A small city, it was undoubtedly very quaint, but there was nothing too much to do. I took a photograph of the canal which I later found out was "the most photographer place in Bruges". I suppose the city would have been spectacular in the sunshine, but it was a very cold and grey day. We huddled in a cute cafe away from the main drag for a while after stopping in numerous chocolate shops and came across a Michelangelo sculpture of the Madonna and her child in the main cathedral (one of the few Michelangelo pieces to make it out of Italy).
Close by were the grounds of a seminary for spinsters and widows where signs asked to walk through the gardens with 'reservation'. Again, I wanted to skip my way through the field of beautiful daffodils in full bloom but restrained myself enough to take a photo. By then it was raining, and we decided to amber along the main shopping promenade with some of my favourite European retailers such as Cielo. I didn't find anything I liked, and we returned to Brussels to wait for our Eurostar train. At Brussels station while eating in the food court, we were accosted by a homeless man who kept on talking to us in French. I felt sorry for him, but he was making us uncomfortable - sitting right next to us at our table and pleading with us in French. I didn't know what to do, until we were saved by a gentleman eating his takeaway dinner at the bench next to us. He talked to the homeless man in French, and the man sat next to him and bothered him for a while, continuing to stare at me. As I left, I threw away my rubbish, and turned around the smile at the man who saved us. He shrugged his shoulders as if to say this happens all the time in Brussels. I was later saddened to see that the homeless man had gone through my rubbish to see if I had left any food behind.
Despite all the grandeur of Brussels, it was a good reminder of the poverty and helplessness in Europe. Belgium was certainly a good weekend break away, and although I didn't get to see the EU Headquarters or NATO headquarters (the EU Parliament was closed due to a plenary session and I think you needed to be an EU citizen to visit), it was a nice taste of Belgium nevertheless.
I wonder if Mum would relinquish our family waffle maker to my London flat?
So off I went. I took along my flatmate my Frances who I've started to refer to as my "wife" (along with some of my other friends in London), although Frances and I have agreed totally and utterly that we would never want to marry each other. Although, we did privately concede to each other that we must look like an old married couple - hidden away in our flat in the depths of South-East London, eating chicken wings while watching Frasier and laughing our own jokes that even Frances' mother thinks are entirely without humour. I believe the word 'freakish' was used.
Nevertheless, Frances and I set off to Brussels on the very comfortable Eurostar. There was an incredibly loud Dutch girl on the train showing off how clever she was. She was seated next to a family who chatted to her, and in the process managed to tell the entire carriage that she thought the French were unpleasant, rude and arrogant. All while we hurtled towards Lille from... wait for it... France.
Arriving at Brussels Midi station, we encountered one of the rudest tourist information booth ladies I have met. Questions were met with studied indifference. She paused for a good 10 seconds after each question, pausing to turn over the pages of a collection of documents which must have been vital for the security of the European Union's second pillar (OK, that's a joke for you EU politics geeks). I told Frances that I hoped that she was stuck in that booth for the rest of her life answering mundane questions such as how long it would take for us to walk to Grand Place from the station (for the record, the doddery old cow was out by 50%).
Arriving at Grand Place which wasn't so grand after all (although I concede it was nice), we walked past the lying-down-gold-statue (don't know what it was called) where everyone was rubbing the gold for good luck. I declined on the basis that I didn't want to offend the other Gods whom I was relying upon for good luck to think that I had resorted to paganism or what have you. We ended up at Mannekin Pis, a tiny little boy pissing into a fountain. Frances assures me he should be naked, although on the 2 days I went to see Mr Pis, he was wearing different costumes (the first day what appeared to be traditional Belgian dress, and the second a Unicef tee).
There were heaps of chocolate shops, and it was hard to resist the chocolate seashell siren. I wanted to prance through about 300 kiligrams worth of chocolate seashells (like the ones you find in Guylian chocolate boxes), but given the price at 5 euros for 250 grams, thought the better of it. With appetite whetted, off we went for dinner where I had a Flemish stew, and then off to bed.
I had banned Frances from booking any accommodation since her 2 horror stories (a student hellhole in Bath - one of the wretchedly bleak student dorms I have ever stayed in; and having to share a double bed in Salzburg despite wanting a twin room), but now it seems that we would both be stuck in London forever. The hotel was decent enough - basic, but clean, But our room overfaced a street with pubs and bars and all night we slept through sirens and drunks and music.
The next morning we groggily wandered to the Museum of Comics which was quite cute. I hadn't realised that the Smurfs had also originated from Belgium along with Asterix and Tin Tin. My favourite poster was one of all the Smurfs - vain Smurf, grumpy Smurf, workman Smurf. Like any other adult, I mused out aloud about Smurfette.
We also stopped by the Museum of Fine Arts which was nice, although slightly boring. The modern arts section which I had wanted to see was closed, although there was a fascinating globe (about 2 metres diameter) which was made entirely of insect bodies. It was frankly revolting on closer inspection, but the artist had painted the bodies all a translucent green so you could really see the detail. I hate bugs and crawlies at any time (even the best of times), but it was a rather interesting piece of art.
Then it was the moment I had been smelling for. A nice waffle with stewed cherry sauce and icecream. What more needs to be said?
That afternoon we took the subway out to the Atomium Monument which is a huge exhibition structure in the shape of an atom which had been built for the World Expo in 1958. I had not even known it had existed before, but when visiting my uncle and aunt in Hong Kong, I noticed they had a cool black and white photo of this interesting-looking structure on their wall. I later found out that it was Atomium - they had bought the print while they were living in Brussels when my uncle had been in the diplomatic service.
The building looked better in person, but the entrance fees were steep. We ummed and ahhed about going in, and then decided to enter, having made the effort to get there. We were sorely disappointed. It was an exhibition about the north and south poles in each of the "molecule" exhibition spaces (see photos to see what I'm talking about). The north and south pole can be such interesting topics, but the exhibition was poorly done and hopelessly inadequate. The 45 minute wait to get to the top for really quite unspectacular views was also painful.
Regardless, I am still glad I went so I never have to look regretfully at my uncle's print on the wall in Hong Kong. Later that dinner, we ticked off another Belgian must - mussels and fries. We had run the gauntlet of a little laneway of people touting their restaurants, and after being persuaded by one man sitting at a table in front of his restaurant, another waiter from next store implored us to go to his restaurant - "at least I am standing up!" he cried. We laughed and ate at the first restaurant.
Looking at a bowl full of mussels at first sight is quite appealing, but by the end, I decided that I had eaten enough mussels to last me for a year. It had been flavoured with garlic and chopped up celery, and by the last mussel in my bowl, even the celery tasted good. I used to get ribbed at school for eating like a rabbit (as in the pace, not in the action), but now I am starting to wonder. Bags of baby carrots are however available at my local Sainsburys in Woolwich.
Our final day in Belgium saw us taking a train out to Bruges, which had been recommended to me a number of times. A small city, it was undoubtedly very quaint, but there was nothing too much to do. I took a photograph of the canal which I later found out was "the most photographer place in Bruges". I suppose the city would have been spectacular in the sunshine, but it was a very cold and grey day. We huddled in a cute cafe away from the main drag for a while after stopping in numerous chocolate shops and came across a Michelangelo sculpture of the Madonna and her child in the main cathedral (one of the few Michelangelo pieces to make it out of Italy).
Close by were the grounds of a seminary for spinsters and widows where signs asked to walk through the gardens with 'reservation'. Again, I wanted to skip my way through the field of beautiful daffodils in full bloom but restrained myself enough to take a photo. By then it was raining, and we decided to amber along the main shopping promenade with some of my favourite European retailers such as Cielo. I didn't find anything I liked, and we returned to Brussels to wait for our Eurostar train. At Brussels station while eating in the food court, we were accosted by a homeless man who kept on talking to us in French. I felt sorry for him, but he was making us uncomfortable - sitting right next to us at our table and pleading with us in French. I didn't know what to do, until we were saved by a gentleman eating his takeaway dinner at the bench next to us. He talked to the homeless man in French, and the man sat next to him and bothered him for a while, continuing to stare at me. As I left, I threw away my rubbish, and turned around the smile at the man who saved us. He shrugged his shoulders as if to say this happens all the time in Brussels. I was later saddened to see that the homeless man had gone through my rubbish to see if I had left any food behind.
Despite all the grandeur of Brussels, it was a good reminder of the poverty and helplessness in Europe. Belgium was certainly a good weekend break away, and although I didn't get to see the EU Headquarters or NATO headquarters (the EU Parliament was closed due to a plenary session and I think you needed to be an EU citizen to visit), it was a nice taste of Belgium nevertheless.
I wonder if Mum would relinquish our family waffle maker to my London flat?
Friday, 1 August 2008
the interminable delays
I am currently stuck in Chicago airport waiting for my connection to Toronto. It is humid and hot, it is slightly chaotic here, although most of the officials and airport staff have been friendly so far. I find it strange to think that this morning I left London and now sometime in the middle of the morning London time, I am on the other side of the Atlantic in a country with a culture that is so different from the UK. From one English-speaking nation to another, I find myself having to make some rapid changes to my psyche to fit into the crowd. For instance, saying "sir" to everyone, and tipping at the bar. In the heat, I got a bottle of water and was charged 2 dollars. Despite the price, I gave the man 3 dollars, and then waved away the change as a tip. I have been told that I need to tip a dollar per drink, and I don't know whether I have been had. The bartender seemed appreciate though. Well, I would be too with a dollar tip just for getting out a bottle of water.
I am hoping that things will get better after July gave me two fingers up. There was a small incident with a fly infestation in my flat. After recovering from a mild bout of flu, I found myself spraying insect killer until I lost my sense of smell, vacuumed up flies that had dropped dead all over flat floor, mopped until my floorboards bled, and thought that the buzzing from my fridge was one enormous mother-ship fly coming to get me after wiping out the entire population of flies in my flat. At one point (i.e. the point of nervous breakdown), I had thoughts of just lighting a match of where I had sprayed insect spray and just letting it rip. Common sense prevailed after spending a nice afternoon out of the flat drinking coffee somewhere in a nice cafe in the West End.
To add to my woes was my continuing wait for my initial visa to come through. Having heard that the process was going to take 14 weeks for the first part, I was getting anxious that I would be home in Melbourne and nothing would have been approved. I still think that's going to be the case, but I guess I can't do much about it except curse the slowness of the Home Office. My misery was also compounded by my complete apathy in getting things done. Lists were made and the flesh was willing, but the spirit was weak as I sat there stewing in my humid flat.
However, there were some good days. One sunny afternoon I had finally persuaded Rob to join me for a drink at a Walkie (the Walkabout Pub which is a pub for Australians). Travelling down to Putney, I was again amazed at how nice some parts of London are. With the Thames as a backdrop, it was Woolwich without the grime and the attitude. Except it seemed that I had moved into New South Wales. Our first pint went down a treat, and we knew things would only get worse when we started on the 2-for-1 Snakebites (some concocted English drink for Australians consisting of beer, cider and something purple coloured). The Snakebites were surprisingly good, and we ended up staying for a couple more pints and a very cheap meal deal. It was a nice way to spend a Sunday afternoon, although we did wonder whether we were enjoying the guitar-playing singer too much, whose repertoire consisted of mainly vanilla anthems heard in every pub from Putney to maybe Putney.
Drinking clearly was my salvation another night when I met up Roxy for a few very expensive cocktails in London's West End. Rox was attending someone else's birthday drinks, and I was merely a gatecrasher to a meeting of the entire Asian Monash-or-Melbourne-University-student Melbourne community. While it was oddly reassuring to be surrounded with people that looked and spoke like me, they were all disbelieving when I told the group that I was "full Honky" when we went off for a very late supper in Chinatown. I believe the words "you can't be full Chinese because you have a hairy chest" were used. Yes indeed, because I am man. Hear me exfoliate.
After supper, I went back to Trafalgar Square to get the night bus home. After waiting an hour I was getting very fidgety and anxious that I would never get home. Some people around me started to complain about the mystery number 53 bus to Woolwich, and I told them that I had been waiting for an hour. Eventually a group of us decided to get a minicab to Woolwich - I was lucky - and saved. It was amusing in the cab, 2 French bartenders, 2 Romanian dentists, me and a rather cold New Zealand girl in a dress which was probably meant to be an ocean motif, but looked like something that had gone mouldy and had started to spore. Two hours later I eventually made it home, and I was thankful that I had only spent 10 pounds for a shared minicab rather than 60 pounds for a black cab.
Let me pause here for one moment to announce that my flight is delayed for 3 hours. Despite having changed to arrive in Chicago earlier from London so that I would have no problem getting my connecting flight, I will be enjoying the ambience of O'Hare airport for a good 6 hours. I hope my sarcasm is dropping. My dad, aunt, uncle and Rob laughed at me when they found out I was flying American Airlines. Ha ha. Hilarious.
In my last few days in London, I decided to do some London touristy sightseeing with Rob. Rob is leaving London in September, leaving me without a comedy-night wingman where we would laugh at the same jokes about a bear going "rawr" and a song going "Valerie Valerie". Clearly an inside joke. We have been to some good comedy nights though - our tried and tested formula for a good night out. A couple of pints to loosen the heckling vocal chords, and then off we would go. This last outing however, was my own idea in dragging Rob out to see a Frank Gehry architectural installation. The Serpentine Gallery in Kensington Gardens has a temporary installation each year, and this year Frank Gehry had designed a large wooden structure reminiscent of Leonardo da Vinci's drawings for an enormous catapult. Unfortunately I was a little bit disappointed with the structure after reading a glowing review in the papers, but nevertheless I was pleased to see another Frank Gehry building. By chance, I noticed that the Princess Diana fountain was close by, so we went to have a quick look to see what the fuss was about. While undoubtedly tasteful and lovely, I would find it hard to justify taking time out of my tourist schedule to actually come out and look at the fountain. It was nice however that the water was clean, and kids were dipping their toes into the currents of water.
Walking back through Kensington Park, we reminisced about our family outings to Gumbaya Park and Wobbie's World. Our experiences at these places were eerily similar - our complaints that Gumbaya Park wasn't Dreamworld in Queensland, our dads complained about the fact that the rides were an additional cost on top of the admission fee, and were were given cans of Coke to share with our siblings after begging for fizzy sugary drinks.
We decided to go for a pub lunch and took the first bus we saw away from Kensington Gardens. I usually don't take random buses in London but it the spirit of being intrepid, we ended up taking a bus to Victoria - literally down the road. We had a nice pub lunch with rather incompetent bar staff, and I bade my farewell to Rob. I spent the next day packing, and here I am. Sitting in a very quiet Chicago airport, bored, but at least with my laptop and something to do. Given that we were already delayed in London for an hour due to congestion at Heathrow, I'm rather nervous as I've got a long way to go. Two airlines down, 3 more airlines to go. Perhaps once August clicks in all will be fine.
It's time to fly. Exclamation mark.
I am hoping that things will get better after July gave me two fingers up. There was a small incident with a fly infestation in my flat. After recovering from a mild bout of flu, I found myself spraying insect killer until I lost my sense of smell, vacuumed up flies that had dropped dead all over flat floor, mopped until my floorboards bled, and thought that the buzzing from my fridge was one enormous mother-ship fly coming to get me after wiping out the entire population of flies in my flat. At one point (i.e. the point of nervous breakdown), I had thoughts of just lighting a match of where I had sprayed insect spray and just letting it rip. Common sense prevailed after spending a nice afternoon out of the flat drinking coffee somewhere in a nice cafe in the West End.
To add to my woes was my continuing wait for my initial visa to come through. Having heard that the process was going to take 14 weeks for the first part, I was getting anxious that I would be home in Melbourne and nothing would have been approved. I still think that's going to be the case, but I guess I can't do much about it except curse the slowness of the Home Office. My misery was also compounded by my complete apathy in getting things done. Lists were made and the flesh was willing, but the spirit was weak as I sat there stewing in my humid flat.
However, there were some good days. One sunny afternoon I had finally persuaded Rob to join me for a drink at a Walkie (the Walkabout Pub which is a pub for Australians). Travelling down to Putney, I was again amazed at how nice some parts of London are. With the Thames as a backdrop, it was Woolwich without the grime and the attitude. Except it seemed that I had moved into New South Wales. Our first pint went down a treat, and we knew things would only get worse when we started on the 2-for-1 Snakebites (some concocted English drink for Australians consisting of beer, cider and something purple coloured). The Snakebites were surprisingly good, and we ended up staying for a couple more pints and a very cheap meal deal. It was a nice way to spend a Sunday afternoon, although we did wonder whether we were enjoying the guitar-playing singer too much, whose repertoire consisted of mainly vanilla anthems heard in every pub from Putney to maybe Putney.
Drinking clearly was my salvation another night when I met up Roxy for a few very expensive cocktails in London's West End. Rox was attending someone else's birthday drinks, and I was merely a gatecrasher to a meeting of the entire Asian Monash-or-Melbourne-University-student Melbourne community. While it was oddly reassuring to be surrounded with people that looked and spoke like me, they were all disbelieving when I told the group that I was "full Honky" when we went off for a very late supper in Chinatown. I believe the words "you can't be full Chinese because you have a hairy chest" were used. Yes indeed, because I am man. Hear me exfoliate.
After supper, I went back to Trafalgar Square to get the night bus home. After waiting an hour I was getting very fidgety and anxious that I would never get home. Some people around me started to complain about the mystery number 53 bus to Woolwich, and I told them that I had been waiting for an hour. Eventually a group of us decided to get a minicab to Woolwich - I was lucky - and saved. It was amusing in the cab, 2 French bartenders, 2 Romanian dentists, me and a rather cold New Zealand girl in a dress which was probably meant to be an ocean motif, but looked like something that had gone mouldy and had started to spore. Two hours later I eventually made it home, and I was thankful that I had only spent 10 pounds for a shared minicab rather than 60 pounds for a black cab.
Let me pause here for one moment to announce that my flight is delayed for 3 hours. Despite having changed to arrive in Chicago earlier from London so that I would have no problem getting my connecting flight, I will be enjoying the ambience of O'Hare airport for a good 6 hours. I hope my sarcasm is dropping. My dad, aunt, uncle and Rob laughed at me when they found out I was flying American Airlines. Ha ha. Hilarious.
In my last few days in London, I decided to do some London touristy sightseeing with Rob. Rob is leaving London in September, leaving me without a comedy-night wingman where we would laugh at the same jokes about a bear going "rawr" and a song going "Valerie Valerie". Clearly an inside joke. We have been to some good comedy nights though - our tried and tested formula for a good night out. A couple of pints to loosen the heckling vocal chords, and then off we would go. This last outing however, was my own idea in dragging Rob out to see a Frank Gehry architectural installation. The Serpentine Gallery in Kensington Gardens has a temporary installation each year, and this year Frank Gehry had designed a large wooden structure reminiscent of Leonardo da Vinci's drawings for an enormous catapult. Unfortunately I was a little bit disappointed with the structure after reading a glowing review in the papers, but nevertheless I was pleased to see another Frank Gehry building. By chance, I noticed that the Princess Diana fountain was close by, so we went to have a quick look to see what the fuss was about. While undoubtedly tasteful and lovely, I would find it hard to justify taking time out of my tourist schedule to actually come out and look at the fountain. It was nice however that the water was clean, and kids were dipping their toes into the currents of water.
Walking back through Kensington Park, we reminisced about our family outings to Gumbaya Park and Wobbie's World. Our experiences at these places were eerily similar - our complaints that Gumbaya Park wasn't Dreamworld in Queensland, our dads complained about the fact that the rides were an additional cost on top of the admission fee, and were were given cans of Coke to share with our siblings after begging for fizzy sugary drinks.
We decided to go for a pub lunch and took the first bus we saw away from Kensington Gardens. I usually don't take random buses in London but it the spirit of being intrepid, we ended up taking a bus to Victoria - literally down the road. We had a nice pub lunch with rather incompetent bar staff, and I bade my farewell to Rob. I spent the next day packing, and here I am. Sitting in a very quiet Chicago airport, bored, but at least with my laptop and something to do. Given that we were already delayed in London for an hour due to congestion at Heathrow, I'm rather nervous as I've got a long way to go. Two airlines down, 3 more airlines to go. Perhaps once August clicks in all will be fine.
It's time to fly. Exclamation mark.
Monday, 30 June 2008
the headache to Leeds
I'm currently growing a lovely headache by being a true Chinese and using the free Wi-fi on the train from London to Leeds. I've taken my laptop with me, and it just seems a shame (or more likely a waste and an affront to my Asian senses) not to capitalise on the freebie so I can send emails and download tracks. I suppose however that any cost benefit on this trip will be neutralised in the outrageous cost of the ticket and the panadol tablets that I will need to consume later.
I finished with the NHS Counter Fraud Service last week. I was a little sad as I felt that I had started to make inroads - of getting to know people and of starting to get good at my job. My final task was to release the report I had been working on for the past 5 months - it will be launched as a national document for best practice, and I'm pretty proud of the work that I've done. The task before that was slightly less happy - I did my final assessment of a hospital's counter fraud arrangements, and awarded a provisional fail mark.
Happy days indeed.
I'm sure many of you are aware that I've booked my round-the-world ticket from London to North America and Australia. I'll be seeing my sister who has just moved to Toronto, and then will be spending a couple of days in the Bay Area of San Francisco. I'm a bit of an old hand now at the Caltrain - it's a great journey down the Silicon Valley heading past famous places such as Menlo Park where Thomas Edison lived. From there I'll fly out from San Jose to Denver where I'll be heading to a family reunion. From there we'll be driving through Utah and then heading back to LA for my flight home back to Australia.
I would hereby like to announce that my headache is in a holding pattern and heasn't decided whether to emerge or not... And that the man sitting opposite me (despite me requesting a non-table seat) is chewing gum in a most annoying fashion.
I can't concentrate any more, except to say that a party that David held a couple of weeks ago, I managed to make an entire room of PhD physicists and PhD art historians laugh, spilt red wine on my only nice polo top, and drunkenly agreed to read a book about art so that I would feel superior to everyone in the galleries I visited with my knowledge on art. Though, I must say that I am currently a bit bored of seeing countless depictions of the last supper, the resurrection of Christ and the birth of Christ.
If anyone can show me a good collection of finger paintings, then I am sold.
I finished with the NHS Counter Fraud Service last week. I was a little sad as I felt that I had started to make inroads - of getting to know people and of starting to get good at my job. My final task was to release the report I had been working on for the past 5 months - it will be launched as a national document for best practice, and I'm pretty proud of the work that I've done. The task before that was slightly less happy - I did my final assessment of a hospital's counter fraud arrangements, and awarded a provisional fail mark.
Happy days indeed.
I'm sure many of you are aware that I've booked my round-the-world ticket from London to North America and Australia. I'll be seeing my sister who has just moved to Toronto, and then will be spending a couple of days in the Bay Area of San Francisco. I'm a bit of an old hand now at the Caltrain - it's a great journey down the Silicon Valley heading past famous places such as Menlo Park where Thomas Edison lived. From there I'll fly out from San Jose to Denver where I'll be heading to a family reunion. From there we'll be driving through Utah and then heading back to LA for my flight home back to Australia.
I would hereby like to announce that my headache is in a holding pattern and heasn't decided whether to emerge or not... And that the man sitting opposite me (despite me requesting a non-table seat) is chewing gum in a most annoying fashion.
I can't concentrate any more, except to say that a party that David held a couple of weeks ago, I managed to make an entire room of PhD physicists and PhD art historians laugh, spilt red wine on my only nice polo top, and drunkenly agreed to read a book about art so that I would feel superior to everyone in the galleries I visited with my knowledge on art. Though, I must say that I am currently a bit bored of seeing countless depictions of the last supper, the resurrection of Christ and the birth of Christ.
If anyone can show me a good collection of finger paintings, then I am sold.
Thursday, 5 June 2008
the first year of something good
I made it.
One year ago today, I arrived in London with my bags and a piece of paper with an address. All I remember are the anxieties about being in a new city being completely alone, having to rely solely on my wits and my powers of being completely anal and anal retentive at the same time.
This time one year ago I was walking back to my first flatmate's home in the Isle of Dogs near Crossharbour, jet-lagged out of my mind, wanting sleep, worrying about finding a job and a new apartment.
I'll be the first to admit that it was one of the most stressful things I've ever done in my life, but here I am, sitting in my flat in Woolwich looking at the sunset setting over the Thames. I've cooked and eaten dinner (stir-fried chicken on a bed of salad - yes - the rabbit eats) and I'm feeling relaxed yet rather tired. My sinuses are rather clogged up, and I'm debating whether I have a cold or just a severe bout of hayfever. The Erica Yurken from "Hating Alison Ashley" lives on inside me.
So what have I achieved? Allowing myself to be wildly self-indulgent, it's been a year of some good trips - Barcelona with Di and Matt, trips with Frances through Salzburg and England, Cardiff with Vicki, Paris with my dad and sister, Budapest with Alex and Dave, and of course, branching out on my two little feet with trips to Dublin and Madrid. Vicki, Nick and Viviane, thanks for stopping by on my brown faux-suede couch.
Most of all, I'm proud that I've managed to resurrect a good career post-Telstra. Within a year, I've done a 360 on my career, moving from the cushy private sector into being a full blown civil servant. The civil service of course has its one perk, I tend to get questioned less by the UK BORDER authorities when I tell them I work for the Ministry of Justice or the NHS Counter Fraud Service. I've managed to work my way up from being a lowly researcher to a position where I now make decisions that impact on the healthcare that is provided in England and Wales. Having said that, I have had some fun at Justice visiting prisons and the like, investigating cases of misconduct and impropriety at the Health Professions Council and assessing whether a hospital's counter fraud arrangements are passing or failing Secretary of State directions. It's all part of the service.
Of course, my blog notes often present a rosy picture. There are the days when I miss being home, being in Melbourne with my friends and my family. It's bloody hard work trying to break into new friendship groups, having to take contract work with the constant stress of not wanting to be sick lest I miss a day of paid work, missing the last train home at midnight and having to take the horrendous night bus home, paying exorbitant rent and travel costs and the rather shitty food.
But miseries aside, it's been a good year. I have, after all, managed to find myself a flat with a proper shower.
One year ago today, I arrived in London with my bags and a piece of paper with an address. All I remember are the anxieties about being in a new city being completely alone, having to rely solely on my wits and my powers of being completely anal and anal retentive at the same time.
This time one year ago I was walking back to my first flatmate's home in the Isle of Dogs near Crossharbour, jet-lagged out of my mind, wanting sleep, worrying about finding a job and a new apartment.
I'll be the first to admit that it was one of the most stressful things I've ever done in my life, but here I am, sitting in my flat in Woolwich looking at the sunset setting over the Thames. I've cooked and eaten dinner (stir-fried chicken on a bed of salad - yes - the rabbit eats) and I'm feeling relaxed yet rather tired. My sinuses are rather clogged up, and I'm debating whether I have a cold or just a severe bout of hayfever. The Erica Yurken from "Hating Alison Ashley" lives on inside me.
So what have I achieved? Allowing myself to be wildly self-indulgent, it's been a year of some good trips - Barcelona with Di and Matt, trips with Frances through Salzburg and England, Cardiff with Vicki, Paris with my dad and sister, Budapest with Alex and Dave, and of course, branching out on my two little feet with trips to Dublin and Madrid. Vicki, Nick and Viviane, thanks for stopping by on my brown faux-suede couch.
Most of all, I'm proud that I've managed to resurrect a good career post-Telstra. Within a year, I've done a 360 on my career, moving from the cushy private sector into being a full blown civil servant. The civil service of course has its one perk, I tend to get questioned less by the UK BORDER authorities when I tell them I work for the Ministry of Justice or the NHS Counter Fraud Service. I've managed to work my way up from being a lowly researcher to a position where I now make decisions that impact on the healthcare that is provided in England and Wales. Having said that, I have had some fun at Justice visiting prisons and the like, investigating cases of misconduct and impropriety at the Health Professions Council and assessing whether a hospital's counter fraud arrangements are passing or failing Secretary of State directions. It's all part of the service.
Of course, my blog notes often present a rosy picture. There are the days when I miss being home, being in Melbourne with my friends and my family. It's bloody hard work trying to break into new friendship groups, having to take contract work with the constant stress of not wanting to be sick lest I miss a day of paid work, missing the last train home at midnight and having to take the horrendous night bus home, paying exorbitant rent and travel costs and the rather shitty food.
But miseries aside, it's been a good year. I have, after all, managed to find myself a flat with a proper shower.
Wednesday, 28 May 2008
the lucky dip
I am feeling slightly old and weary today after turning 27 years old yesterday. My birthday passed without fanfare or fuss – it was a normal day at work for me, although I did treat myself to a nicer lunch than I would ordinarily buy, and for dinner I allowed myself to guzzle larger quantities of icecream and Chardonnay than I would ordinarily allow myself. It was also, the first time in my flat where I didn’t wash the dishes after cooking dinner, leaving them piled high in the sink, looking forlorn and unloved. It was also the first time that I had had a birthday in which I celebrated by myself, although it was no big deal. Frances did cook me a roast chicken over the weekend for my birthday dinner, and bought me a small plant for the flat which was very cute. And I managed to speak to my family and friends over the phone last night, and received all your lovely emails.
In the lead up to my birthday, I took some time off to go to Madrid for some time off and to sort out my visa to stay in the UK. Arriving in Madrid I was slightly nervous – I was ultra paranoid from reading about pickpockets and bag snatchers and bag slashers, and I was a little bit rusty on solo travel. But travelling into the centre of Madrid on the speedy metro, I felt this amazing rush of excitement. I usually only get this feeling when I first arrive in a new city – a whole city to be explored with its possibilities open to me, and it never fails to remind me why I pick myself from my bed and hurl myself into the unknown.
That first afternoon, I decided to take the hostel tour to meet new people and to gain my footing in a new city. It was nice being lazy for a couple of hours to have someone show us around, without the need for me to be the unwitting participant in Madrid’s “spot the incompetent tourist” charade. In between my bewilderment wondering whether Spaniards ever did any work through their hours-long siestas, I appreciated the gravitas of history that surely gave the Madrilenos their confidence. From the influences of the Moorish people, the Austrians and then the Muslims, Jews and Christians, you knew that the weight of these influences was enough to give the city its much deserved gravitas. While not having much of Barcelona’s gaudy excesses (pun intended), I came to see Madrid as a bastion of neo-classical architecture and preservation on another tour of Madrid outdoor art and architecture.
That night I had dinner with 2 people from the tour – a South Korean girl and a Brazilian guy who had never seen snow in his life. Both were very nice and sweet, although I clearly needed practice in speaking pidgin English. Out went my syntax and any form of eloquent expression until I returned to my hostel room to meet my new roommates. Shawn, an Aussie from Canberra was affable and we had a good chat. Shawn warned me that the South Korean guy in our room was “up for a chat” but didn’t elaborate, until it dawned upon me that a conversation of any complexity was going to involve elaborate hand signals and
v-e-r-y s-l-o-w s-p-e-a-k-i-n-g. It was all good natured of course, and both guys raved about how good Seville was.
The next morning, I went with Shaun to the train station to purchase our tickets – Shaun was off to Cordoba and I was going to take a day-trip to Toledo the next day. We waited for an hour to get my tickets, and was accosted by a little old lady shouting at me to donate money to her cause. A few people started to laugh and I had to pretend to laugh at myself, but inwardly seethed listening to a Spanish rant about elderly women or whatever the cause was. Having got our tickets, Shawn and I decided to head to the Sofia modern art museum. Along the way, I got both of us horribly lost, only to be saved by a very bizarre American man who gave us booklets on the Bible and thanked us Australians for saving American in the World Wars.
The modern art gallery was primarily famous for Picasso’s “Guernica” cubism painting. I myself wasn’t sure to look out for, but it was nice to walk around the gallery to talk about the collection to a guy who was neither here nor there about art. We passed a painting where people crowded around and appreciated it for a while, and then kept going. I realised that while I liked flying solo at art galleries, there was something very cathartic in being able to share your opinion on a particular piece. While our eloquence extended sometimes no more than “that’s shit”, or “that’s crap”, or “how bizarre”, I had a lot of fun. We ended up liking different works, and then found the “Guernica” – the painting which we had admired before, but not realised that it was in fact, the famous piece. We stood there for a while to get our money’s worth and wandered around looking at some other famous painters like Salvador Dali.
I bade farewell to Shawn and went back to the hostel for a rest. I met a new roommate, “Jeff from Salt Lake City, Utah” and unfortunately, he misheard my name and called me “Tiff” for the rest of the week. Jeff turned out to be a college jock Mormon who was quite possibly one of the most coolest and nicest ultra-religious people I have ever met. He liked sports, girls and God and we had a great chat. I was going to have an early night to get up for Toledo the next day, so Jeff leant me his PSP to watch movies while he went out. I couldn’t believe how trusting he was, and told him that he was lucky I was an honest bloke. I don’t know what it is, but he is the second person in a month to say that I had a “trustworthy face”. I’m sure I would have been damned to hell and whatever Prophet the Mormons believed in had I run away with his PSP.
I then lucked out with roommates. Three very large American guys came in with enormous suitcases. They took forever in getting ready to go out, and then left me in peace to go to sleep. That night, I counted 5 reasons, why I would never ever stay in a hostel again.
1. Jeff and friends came back at 2am. Jeff, being a Mormon, didn’t drink, but his friend clearly had. It was very funny though – Jeff came in quietly, but his friend walked into the side of the door. Amidst the wailing, Jeff was shushing away his friend, telling him that I had woken up his roommate. His friend came up to me and drunkenly said “I’m so sorry Tiff”, and then walked into the door again. Mayhem ensued.
2. At 3am, one large American came back in. Belch and scratch noises pierced the silence.
3. At 3.30, another large American came back in. More belching and scratching. A shower was started.
4. At 4am, other American came in and fell over the pile of their suitcases in middle of room.
5. At 4.30, Jeff returns to room sans drunk (but very funny) friend. Says hello again and asks me what time I’m getting up. Apparently in 3 hours. Asks me to get him up at same time.
The next day, a very grumpy Taffy went off to Toledo. The new high-speed Renfe trains were great. Fast, comfortable and clean, I was deposited into Toledo in 30 minutes. I took the bus into the centre to get a map, but discovered the tourist centre was closed until 11am. I grumbled to myself something about working hours only being between 11am and 1pm.
Toledo, however, is quite a pretty city. For centuries, Jews, Muslims and Christians managed to live together in harmony without their religious faith colliding. They built spectacular cathedrals, temples and synagogues and a thriving community. While I paid to go into the cathedral and synagogue, it was nice to stroll around the rather hilly town, until it started to rain. At one point I got too miserable and wet, and ducked into a restaurant for lunch where they charged me like red flag to a wounded bull for everything. By then I had had enough, and caught an early bus to the train station for the ride home.
That afternoon, I decided to head over the Prado Museum for some classical art. I suppose as well I should admit that I was bored, and that entry was free. The Prado is apparently one of the largest galleries in Europe, and it was surprisingly good. Large spacious galleries held the crowds at bay, and it was possible to enjoy the galleries without jostling for position. After I had had enough of renaissance art, I headed back to the hostel and the little deli close-by for dinner, ordering an enormous slice of Tiramisu for dessert. Jeff was back in the room, and we had a good chat again. I had some many questions about the Mormons, and it turns out that he was sent to Lima for two years to teach. The good thing was that he didn’t ram down his teachings down my throat, and while I disagreed on a couple of things with him, he wasn’t annoyed when I was surprised that he had never drunk alcohol in his life before. Clearly a man of many talents (God-divined perhaps?), he played lacrosse and wrestled at college and also was learning ballroom dancing and Spanish, in addition to teaching for his Church. While I’m not sure of the whole Mormon thing, this was a guy who you would love to hate.
My last day in Madrid was my slow “I could not be bothered and I am on holiday” day, despite my wish to find chocolate con churros (which I never did find). I wandered the main shopping drag of Gran Via, and strolled around the hip Chueca district before going back to visit the Palace and cathedral. The Palace and Cathedral were built very close to each other to symbolise the close relationship between Church and State, although once inside the Palace, I wondered whether any divine inspiration from the interior design. The interior of the Palace, was frankly, hideous. Excessively opulent, dark and over-the-top, I went through the rooms and sometimes just stood there to gape. One memorable room was made entirely of porcelain – apparently very fine and expensive porcelain, but I could helpn’t wonder whether this porcelain encrusted “Reading Room” was more like one big lavatory where you sat on the throne to read while attending to your business. The highlight was to see a collection of Stradivarius string instruments and priceless Chinese Ming vases, presumably gifts, but probably pinched. The Cathedral on the other hand, was stunning inside. I would have to call it as one of the more beautiful cathedrals that I have seen, although the Cathedral exterior facing the Palace was very demure – so as to not offend the Royals.
Back at the hostel, luck in roommates turned my way. I met Tom from Seattle, aged 29. I asked Tom whether he felt old being 29, but his style of travel was similar to mine – take shorter breaks so as not to get too tired of hostels, and only stay in hostels for the sole reason of meeting new people. A little while later after we decided to grab a drink, Chris from Canada who was British but had just moved to Madrid that day entered stage right. We decided to go out on the town that night, and I waited for Tom to clean up the water fountain he created in the bathroom, and then waited for Chris to preen himself for a night out. Both were good guys, and were keen to together a bunch of people. We were rebuffed by everyone sitting at the PCs staring intently at the internet, although another rather loud Aussie called Kat came with us for a drink.
First stop was KFC (God forbid) but following a wander around Puerta del Sol, we managed to find ourselves with a pint. It was nice to chat, and it turns out that the 4 of us had moved quite long distances away from home. Chris and I talked about the deterioration of the UK, and wondered why the Europeans managed to encourage culture, while the UK managed to promote welfare and a gang culture. We shook our heads sadly.
But of course the party continued on. We trooped aimlessly for a while and ended up in the gay part of the town. The boys wanted to go somewhere else, so we walked back along Gran Via, checking out the architecture lit up at night, Chris telling buskers in Spanish to piss off, and laughing and carrying on until we walked back to the hostel at 3am. As I got into the dorm, Jeff woke up and we all had a chat, except for our 5th roommate who hid under his hoodie and then went for a smoke in the bathroom. We were not impressed, so we kept on talking until the early hours of the morning.
It was then that I realised that this was the exact reason why I stay in hostels. To meet weird and wonderful people – people of different religions, people who like talking the language of American politics, people who find nourishment in travel and art and a beer and chat at the end of a long day.
I bade a sad farewell to my roommate amigos early that morning, bringing to mind a conversation I had with Shawn. Shawn had proposed a question whether it was the hostel that made the trip, or the city that made a trip. While a city can be fascinating and exciting, we both came to the conclusion that our travels were enlivened meeting good people at hostels and exploring the city with new mates. Holding that though, I went to breakfast and stirred up the very angry lady in the kitchen who was banging around breakfast plates and cups with a cheery “hola!”. She grimaced at me, and kept on wanting to break plates without daring to break plates in case she got fired. And then I was off to the Airport for the journey home to London where all I could do was collapse in a heap to listen to Frances’ travels to Egypt and gorge on roast chicken.
Bueno.
In the lead up to my birthday, I took some time off to go to Madrid for some time off and to sort out my visa to stay in the UK. Arriving in Madrid I was slightly nervous – I was ultra paranoid from reading about pickpockets and bag snatchers and bag slashers, and I was a little bit rusty on solo travel. But travelling into the centre of Madrid on the speedy metro, I felt this amazing rush of excitement. I usually only get this feeling when I first arrive in a new city – a whole city to be explored with its possibilities open to me, and it never fails to remind me why I pick myself from my bed and hurl myself into the unknown.
That first afternoon, I decided to take the hostel tour to meet new people and to gain my footing in a new city. It was nice being lazy for a couple of hours to have someone show us around, without the need for me to be the unwitting participant in Madrid’s “spot the incompetent tourist” charade. In between my bewilderment wondering whether Spaniards ever did any work through their hours-long siestas, I appreciated the gravitas of history that surely gave the Madrilenos their confidence. From the influences of the Moorish people, the Austrians and then the Muslims, Jews and Christians, you knew that the weight of these influences was enough to give the city its much deserved gravitas. While not having much of Barcelona’s gaudy excesses (pun intended), I came to see Madrid as a bastion of neo-classical architecture and preservation on another tour of Madrid outdoor art and architecture.
That night I had dinner with 2 people from the tour – a South Korean girl and a Brazilian guy who had never seen snow in his life. Both were very nice and sweet, although I clearly needed practice in speaking pidgin English. Out went my syntax and any form of eloquent expression until I returned to my hostel room to meet my new roommates. Shawn, an Aussie from Canberra was affable and we had a good chat. Shawn warned me that the South Korean guy in our room was “up for a chat” but didn’t elaborate, until it dawned upon me that a conversation of any complexity was going to involve elaborate hand signals and
v-e-r-y s-l-o-w s-p-e-a-k-i-n-g. It was all good natured of course, and both guys raved about how good Seville was.
The next morning, I went with Shaun to the train station to purchase our tickets – Shaun was off to Cordoba and I was going to take a day-trip to Toledo the next day. We waited for an hour to get my tickets, and was accosted by a little old lady shouting at me to donate money to her cause. A few people started to laugh and I had to pretend to laugh at myself, but inwardly seethed listening to a Spanish rant about elderly women or whatever the cause was. Having got our tickets, Shawn and I decided to head to the Sofia modern art museum. Along the way, I got both of us horribly lost, only to be saved by a very bizarre American man who gave us booklets on the Bible and thanked us Australians for saving American in the World Wars.
The modern art gallery was primarily famous for Picasso’s “Guernica” cubism painting. I myself wasn’t sure to look out for, but it was nice to walk around the gallery to talk about the collection to a guy who was neither here nor there about art. We passed a painting where people crowded around and appreciated it for a while, and then kept going. I realised that while I liked flying solo at art galleries, there was something very cathartic in being able to share your opinion on a particular piece. While our eloquence extended sometimes no more than “that’s shit”, or “that’s crap”, or “how bizarre”, I had a lot of fun. We ended up liking different works, and then found the “Guernica” – the painting which we had admired before, but not realised that it was in fact, the famous piece. We stood there for a while to get our money’s worth and wandered around looking at some other famous painters like Salvador Dali.
I bade farewell to Shawn and went back to the hostel for a rest. I met a new roommate, “Jeff from Salt Lake City, Utah” and unfortunately, he misheard my name and called me “Tiff” for the rest of the week. Jeff turned out to be a college jock Mormon who was quite possibly one of the most coolest and nicest ultra-religious people I have ever met. He liked sports, girls and God and we had a great chat. I was going to have an early night to get up for Toledo the next day, so Jeff leant me his PSP to watch movies while he went out. I couldn’t believe how trusting he was, and told him that he was lucky I was an honest bloke. I don’t know what it is, but he is the second person in a month to say that I had a “trustworthy face”. I’m sure I would have been damned to hell and whatever Prophet the Mormons believed in had I run away with his PSP.
I then lucked out with roommates. Three very large American guys came in with enormous suitcases. They took forever in getting ready to go out, and then left me in peace to go to sleep. That night, I counted 5 reasons, why I would never ever stay in a hostel again.
1. Jeff and friends came back at 2am. Jeff, being a Mormon, didn’t drink, but his friend clearly had. It was very funny though – Jeff came in quietly, but his friend walked into the side of the door. Amidst the wailing, Jeff was shushing away his friend, telling him that I had woken up his roommate. His friend came up to me and drunkenly said “I’m so sorry Tiff”, and then walked into the door again. Mayhem ensued.
2. At 3am, one large American came back in. Belch and scratch noises pierced the silence.
3. At 3.30, another large American came back in. More belching and scratching. A shower was started.
4. At 4am, other American came in and fell over the pile of their suitcases in middle of room.
5. At 4.30, Jeff returns to room sans drunk (but very funny) friend. Says hello again and asks me what time I’m getting up. Apparently in 3 hours. Asks me to get him up at same time.
The next day, a very grumpy Taffy went off to Toledo. The new high-speed Renfe trains were great. Fast, comfortable and clean, I was deposited into Toledo in 30 minutes. I took the bus into the centre to get a map, but discovered the tourist centre was closed until 11am. I grumbled to myself something about working hours only being between 11am and 1pm.
Toledo, however, is quite a pretty city. For centuries, Jews, Muslims and Christians managed to live together in harmony without their religious faith colliding. They built spectacular cathedrals, temples and synagogues and a thriving community. While I paid to go into the cathedral and synagogue, it was nice to stroll around the rather hilly town, until it started to rain. At one point I got too miserable and wet, and ducked into a restaurant for lunch where they charged me like red flag to a wounded bull for everything. By then I had had enough, and caught an early bus to the train station for the ride home.
That afternoon, I decided to head over the Prado Museum for some classical art. I suppose as well I should admit that I was bored, and that entry was free. The Prado is apparently one of the largest galleries in Europe, and it was surprisingly good. Large spacious galleries held the crowds at bay, and it was possible to enjoy the galleries without jostling for position. After I had had enough of renaissance art, I headed back to the hostel and the little deli close-by for dinner, ordering an enormous slice of Tiramisu for dessert. Jeff was back in the room, and we had a good chat again. I had some many questions about the Mormons, and it turns out that he was sent to Lima for two years to teach. The good thing was that he didn’t ram down his teachings down my throat, and while I disagreed on a couple of things with him, he wasn’t annoyed when I was surprised that he had never drunk alcohol in his life before. Clearly a man of many talents (God-divined perhaps?), he played lacrosse and wrestled at college and also was learning ballroom dancing and Spanish, in addition to teaching for his Church. While I’m not sure of the whole Mormon thing, this was a guy who you would love to hate.
My last day in Madrid was my slow “I could not be bothered and I am on holiday” day, despite my wish to find chocolate con churros (which I never did find). I wandered the main shopping drag of Gran Via, and strolled around the hip Chueca district before going back to visit the Palace and cathedral. The Palace and Cathedral were built very close to each other to symbolise the close relationship between Church and State, although once inside the Palace, I wondered whether any divine inspiration from the interior design. The interior of the Palace, was frankly, hideous. Excessively opulent, dark and over-the-top, I went through the rooms and sometimes just stood there to gape. One memorable room was made entirely of porcelain – apparently very fine and expensive porcelain, but I could helpn’t wonder whether this porcelain encrusted “Reading Room” was more like one big lavatory where you sat on the throne to read while attending to your business. The highlight was to see a collection of Stradivarius string instruments and priceless Chinese Ming vases, presumably gifts, but probably pinched. The Cathedral on the other hand, was stunning inside. I would have to call it as one of the more beautiful cathedrals that I have seen, although the Cathedral exterior facing the Palace was very demure – so as to not offend the Royals.
Back at the hostel, luck in roommates turned my way. I met Tom from Seattle, aged 29. I asked Tom whether he felt old being 29, but his style of travel was similar to mine – take shorter breaks so as not to get too tired of hostels, and only stay in hostels for the sole reason of meeting new people. A little while later after we decided to grab a drink, Chris from Canada who was British but had just moved to Madrid that day entered stage right. We decided to go out on the town that night, and I waited for Tom to clean up the water fountain he created in the bathroom, and then waited for Chris to preen himself for a night out. Both were good guys, and were keen to together a bunch of people. We were rebuffed by everyone sitting at the PCs staring intently at the internet, although another rather loud Aussie called Kat came with us for a drink.
First stop was KFC (God forbid) but following a wander around Puerta del Sol, we managed to find ourselves with a pint. It was nice to chat, and it turns out that the 4 of us had moved quite long distances away from home. Chris and I talked about the deterioration of the UK, and wondered why the Europeans managed to encourage culture, while the UK managed to promote welfare and a gang culture. We shook our heads sadly.
But of course the party continued on. We trooped aimlessly for a while and ended up in the gay part of the town. The boys wanted to go somewhere else, so we walked back along Gran Via, checking out the architecture lit up at night, Chris telling buskers in Spanish to piss off, and laughing and carrying on until we walked back to the hostel at 3am. As I got into the dorm, Jeff woke up and we all had a chat, except for our 5th roommate who hid under his hoodie and then went for a smoke in the bathroom. We were not impressed, so we kept on talking until the early hours of the morning.
It was then that I realised that this was the exact reason why I stay in hostels. To meet weird and wonderful people – people of different religions, people who like talking the language of American politics, people who find nourishment in travel and art and a beer and chat at the end of a long day.
I bade a sad farewell to my roommate amigos early that morning, bringing to mind a conversation I had with Shawn. Shawn had proposed a question whether it was the hostel that made the trip, or the city that made a trip. While a city can be fascinating and exciting, we both came to the conclusion that our travels were enlivened meeting good people at hostels and exploring the city with new mates. Holding that though, I went to breakfast and stirred up the very angry lady in the kitchen who was banging around breakfast plates and cups with a cheery “hola!”. She grimaced at me, and kept on wanting to break plates without daring to break plates in case she got fired. And then I was off to the Airport for the journey home to London where all I could do was collapse in a heap to listen to Frances’ travels to Egypt and gorge on roast chicken.
Bueno.
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