.
Today I went home.
25 July 2010
22 July 2010
(197): Fragments
.
(197) is today: Thursday, 22 July 2010.
As the title suggests, this is, more than anything else, a bunch of unconnected points I've been wanting to mention.
--My host family has a grandson - I'd say he's about as old as this blog - who stays here at the house during the day. This little guy is the world's most boring baby. He never smiles and never laughs. He has these cheeks that make him look like he's hording a pair of golf balls the way squirrels horde nuts; he knows he can't swallow the damn things, but he doesn't want to spit them out either. The only thing he does that attracts any unique attention is cry. And he does this a considerable amount of the time. When people say that they don't want babies because they do nothing but cry and poop, this is the little dude they have in mind.
--Classes aren't as fun when all you do that week are standardized prep exercises for a French proficiency exam you aren't signed up to take.
--Last night, I went to hear the soft, soothing, yet oddly syncopated music of trio Keith Jarrett, Gary Peacock, and Jack DeJohnette.
--No idea why, but I was craving a Sprite afterward.
--Tonight I'm having a farewell dinner with the CEA group at a local restaurant, after which I'm going to see my last Jazz a Juan concert, featuring Kyle Eastwood (son of Clint) and Diana Krall. Not a bad sendoff on Europe's part, I would say.
--Last item doesn't really work well with the bullet point format, so I'm giving it paragraphs.
When I'm not lost in thought (rare, but it does happen), I tend to look up at the sky. I've done it since I was a kid. And, when I was younger, before I left the U.S./North America for the first time, there was one question I used to wonder. It went something like this: "Is the sky the same in other parts of the world? Like color and clouds and everything?"
The answer's obvious enough in an adult sense - yes - but when kids ask questions like these, the point isn't really to obtain the answer. Well, maybe that matters sometimes as well, but the real reason kids ask those sorts of questions is because finding the answer requires them to do stuff first. The things they have to do for their answers provide knowledge that is almost always more important than the answer itself.
But anyway, of course I'd occasionally see footage on TV or in a movie of natural landscapes in foreign countries. But I wouldn't believe those; this was a question whose answer I had to see for myself. And when I make it to other parts of the world, I look at the sky and am just floored by it for an instant... It's the same, but it's not the same... somehow.
My pithy analysis of the quest for answers better be right, because goodness knows that poor confused answer doesn't justify the effort to search for it.
Even when I got to France in January and the sky was snowy (just like Washington's was), or even when I landed in Marrakesh and the sky was clear blue (not unlike the mountainous western U.S.), I was still amazed.
I think it's because of this fascination with the sky that the following quote from Kingdom Hearts (which is the best video game ever made, as far as I'm concerned) really captures my imagination. I've thought of it a few times in the last several months:
"There are many worlds, but they share the same sky. One sky, one destiny."
.
(197) is today: Thursday, 22 July 2010.
As the title suggests, this is, more than anything else, a bunch of unconnected points I've been wanting to mention.
--My host family has a grandson - I'd say he's about as old as this blog - who stays here at the house during the day. This little guy is the world's most boring baby. He never smiles and never laughs. He has these cheeks that make him look like he's hording a pair of golf balls the way squirrels horde nuts; he knows he can't swallow the damn things, but he doesn't want to spit them out either. The only thing he does that attracts any unique attention is cry. And he does this a considerable amount of the time. When people say that they don't want babies because they do nothing but cry and poop, this is the little dude they have in mind.
--Classes aren't as fun when all you do that week are standardized prep exercises for a French proficiency exam you aren't signed up to take.
--Last night, I went to hear the soft, soothing, yet oddly syncopated music of trio Keith Jarrett, Gary Peacock, and Jack DeJohnette.
--No idea why, but I was craving a Sprite afterward.
--Tonight I'm having a farewell dinner with the CEA group at a local restaurant, after which I'm going to see my last Jazz a Juan concert, featuring Kyle Eastwood (son of Clint) and Diana Krall. Not a bad sendoff on Europe's part, I would say.
--Last item doesn't really work well with the bullet point format, so I'm giving it paragraphs.
When I'm not lost in thought (rare, but it does happen), I tend to look up at the sky. I've done it since I was a kid. And, when I was younger, before I left the U.S./North America for the first time, there was one question I used to wonder. It went something like this: "Is the sky the same in other parts of the world? Like color and clouds and everything?"
The answer's obvious enough in an adult sense - yes - but when kids ask questions like these, the point isn't really to obtain the answer. Well, maybe that matters sometimes as well, but the real reason kids ask those sorts of questions is because finding the answer requires them to do stuff first. The things they have to do for their answers provide knowledge that is almost always more important than the answer itself.
But anyway, of course I'd occasionally see footage on TV or in a movie of natural landscapes in foreign countries. But I wouldn't believe those; this was a question whose answer I had to see for myself. And when I make it to other parts of the world, I look at the sky and am just floored by it for an instant... It's the same, but it's not the same... somehow.
My pithy analysis of the quest for answers better be right, because goodness knows that poor confused answer doesn't justify the effort to search for it.
Even when I got to France in January and the sky was snowy (just like Washington's was), or even when I landed in Marrakesh and the sky was clear blue (not unlike the mountainous western U.S.), I was still amazed.
I think it's because of this fascination with the sky that the following quote from Kingdom Hearts (which is the best video game ever made, as far as I'm concerned) really captures my imagination. I've thought of it a few times in the last several months:
"There are many worlds, but they share the same sky. One sky, one destiny."
.
21 July 2010
(192-195): Stuff I've Been Doing
(194) is Saturday, 17 July 2010, and (195) is today: Tuesday, 21 July 2010.
Like I said before, I just sort of do stuff here... it's not like the travel entries where I was trying to jam pack every single instant in every single place. Here's sort of a bullet point summary:
--On Saturday, I went to Marseille for a few hours with Alex, an Austrian classmate of mine. We walked around for a while, saw the port and some other sights... Marseille isn't the nicest city (a little smelly and not so clean), but there are some nice snapshots to be had. It's also cool to see the prominence of the immigrant population. This is a port town, after all, and it's one of the 5 biggest cities in France (and, among those 5, certainly the closest to the French-speaking countries in northern Africa).
--Saturday night saw me at my second concert of the Jazz a Juan festival... first act that night was Dee Dee Bridgewater. I thought she was good - did a rendition of Billie Holiday's "Lady Sings the Blues" that's still stuck in my head - and she's definitely got a wonderful voice in general. Trouble is, she was doing her whole set as a Billie tribute and she picked some weird songs (probably with some weird original arrangements). Plus, she has this reputation as the favorite daughter/diva of Juan-les-Pins, and I didn't find her whole diva shtick that compelling.
--Melody Gardot, on the other hand, followed Dee Dee and had this incredible soft-spoken, mysterious, stylish, and altogether lovely presence about her. She did this bossa-nova/tuneless singing (in a good way) sort of style. Also, lighting design par excellence really helped give a sense that everything had been thought through carefully. Her act and personality came across as much more polished than Dee Dee's, and when she dropped two lines of "Fever" (made famous by Peggy Lee) into one of her closing numbers... I swear, that song was written for Melody instead of Peggy. And her encore of "Somewhere Over the Rainbow" was the quietest show-stopper I've ever seen.
--Sunday was kind of lazy, but I went with Belinda, another friend from school, to the evening's conert: an American big band. They were a nice change of pace, performing favorites like "Don't Mean a Thing if it Ain't Got that Swing," "In the Mood," and "Pennsylvania 65000." The second (much longer) half was a Django Reinhardt tribute. They had some AMAZING musicians on that stage*, but the trouble wtih Django is that - since it's all strings and other bands have variety - the music all starts to sound the same after an hour and a half. Belinda and I left after two hours (3 hours of concert total), figuring we'd paid our dues.
--Monday saw me go back to Nice with a few friends (Victoria, Camilla, and Nabil) for a few hours. We met up again a bit later for some pretty darn good thai food.
--Today, I went to class, where I decided I had had it with listening exercises taken from a standardized test I'm not taking. Afterward, my American group went to the island of St-Marguerite, a gorgeous little spit of land off the coast of nearby Cannes. It was lovely beach weather, so we sat for a while and enjoyed. And, thanks to Kristin (program person), who brought the gear, I went snorkeling in the French Riviera.
--When I got back, I met up with Victoria and Nabil. We went to see Shrek 4** and got dinner (moules frites for me) afterward. Then, I came back here.
--Oh, and at some point in here I picked up my train tickets for Saturday, but had to resolve a fairly complicated blip related to my not having the right credit card with me. But, I got it worked out and all in French. I was feeling pretty good about myself and my decision to stay in France and keep speaking the language for an extra little while.
----------------------------------------
Footnotes
* Best said by one musician who came out onstage. He congratulated the lead guitarist who organized the Django tribute group by saying (in French): "He [the guitarist] has played like a god this evening and I think we should all salute him for that."
** We were trying to see Toy Story 3, but they didn't have it in English. And I know I gave Shrek 4 some crap before, but it was actually so much better than I thought it was going to be. It had a villain I could take seriously, an actual plot, and it had all the clever twists on fairy tales that made the first two movies great. Yeah: all the expectation-surpassing is based on how bad Shrek 3 was.
Like I said before, I just sort of do stuff here... it's not like the travel entries where I was trying to jam pack every single instant in every single place. Here's sort of a bullet point summary:
--On Saturday, I went to Marseille for a few hours with Alex, an Austrian classmate of mine. We walked around for a while, saw the port and some other sights... Marseille isn't the nicest city (a little smelly and not so clean), but there are some nice snapshots to be had. It's also cool to see the prominence of the immigrant population. This is a port town, after all, and it's one of the 5 biggest cities in France (and, among those 5, certainly the closest to the French-speaking countries in northern Africa).
--Saturday night saw me at my second concert of the Jazz a Juan festival... first act that night was Dee Dee Bridgewater. I thought she was good - did a rendition of Billie Holiday's "Lady Sings the Blues" that's still stuck in my head - and she's definitely got a wonderful voice in general. Trouble is, she was doing her whole set as a Billie tribute and she picked some weird songs (probably with some weird original arrangements). Plus, she has this reputation as the favorite daughter/diva of Juan-les-Pins, and I didn't find her whole diva shtick that compelling.
--Melody Gardot, on the other hand, followed Dee Dee and had this incredible soft-spoken, mysterious, stylish, and altogether lovely presence about her. She did this bossa-nova/tuneless singing (in a good way) sort of style. Also, lighting design par excellence really helped give a sense that everything had been thought through carefully. Her act and personality came across as much more polished than Dee Dee's, and when she dropped two lines of "Fever" (made famous by Peggy Lee) into one of her closing numbers... I swear, that song was written for Melody instead of Peggy. And her encore of "Somewhere Over the Rainbow" was the quietest show-stopper I've ever seen.
--Sunday was kind of lazy, but I went with Belinda, another friend from school, to the evening's conert: an American big band. They were a nice change of pace, performing favorites like "Don't Mean a Thing if it Ain't Got that Swing," "In the Mood," and "Pennsylvania 65000." The second (much longer) half was a Django Reinhardt tribute. They had some AMAZING musicians on that stage*, but the trouble wtih Django is that - since it's all strings and other bands have variety - the music all starts to sound the same after an hour and a half. Belinda and I left after two hours (3 hours of concert total), figuring we'd paid our dues.
--Monday saw me go back to Nice with a few friends (Victoria, Camilla, and Nabil) for a few hours. We met up again a bit later for some pretty darn good thai food.
--Today, I went to class, where I decided I had had it with listening exercises taken from a standardized test I'm not taking. Afterward, my American group went to the island of St-Marguerite, a gorgeous little spit of land off the coast of nearby Cannes. It was lovely beach weather, so we sat for a while and enjoyed. And, thanks to Kristin (program person), who brought the gear, I went snorkeling in the French Riviera.
--When I got back, I met up with Victoria and Nabil. We went to see Shrek 4** and got dinner (moules frites for me) afterward. Then, I came back here.
--Oh, and at some point in here I picked up my train tickets for Saturday, but had to resolve a fairly complicated blip related to my not having the right credit card with me. But, I got it worked out and all in French. I was feeling pretty good about myself and my decision to stay in France and keep speaking the language for an extra little while.
----------------------------------------
Footnotes
* Best said by one musician who came out onstage. He congratulated the lead guitarist who organized the Django tribute group by saying (in French): "He [the guitarist] has played like a god this evening and I think we should all salute him for that."
** We were trying to see Toy Story 3, but they didn't have it in English. And I know I gave Shrek 4 some crap before, but it was actually so much better than I thought it was going to be. It had a villain I could take seriously, an actual plot, and it had all the clever twists on fairy tales that made the first two movies great. Yeah: all the expectation-surpassing is based on how bad Shrek 3 was.
16 July 2010
(188-190): Good Times
.
So, something I totally forgot to mention from when I was in Athens back in April. As Kirizabeth and I walked around, there were all these guys sitting along the sides of the streets selling little toys and knickknacks. You know how McDonald's conducts studies to figure out how closely they can space their restaurants so that they don't interfere with each other's business? These guys don't do that. Then again, the sales on gummy-esque toy tomatoes that re-form after you splat them down on a surface is probably already so low that they don't have much more to fear business-wise. So, as you walk, you'll see almost a dozen guys lining a given street, sitting in front of cutting boards, and relentlessly throwing these toy tomatoes down onto them, stopping only to look up as you pass with the identical (and identically delivered) line "Hello my friend!"
Funniest visual of 2010.
(188) is Tuesday, 13 July 2010.
And speaking of visuals, here are a few more photos from the last few days.
The last couple days have been awesome. Bastille Day (French independence day*) was on Wednesday, so there was lots to do. Tuesday night featured a HUGE rave (that's techno for "dance party") on the beach at Cannes. Right on the beach. Good DJ and several hundred people just there to enjoy. It was great...!
I got home after a few hours and caught fireworks over the bay here in Juan-les-Pins. And my nifty new camera has a special 'Fireworks' mode.
(189) is Wednesday, 14 July 2010.
Wednesday was a national holiday, so no class got in the way of my sleeping in. My roommate Tiziano and I really didn't do much... We mostly hung out at the house because everywhere with air conditioning (namely the library) was closed for the holiday and my fan was the best we could do in the brutally hot weather.
But that night, I got a great bistro dinner and went back over to Cannes for their fireworks. They have an international fireworks festival going on now, with one entry per week. The next one is next Wednesday (the 21st), and I would go see it, but I have jazz tickets (more on that shortly). But suffice it to say that the display that I did catch (from a team representing the Czech Republic) featured some of the most dazzling pyrotechnics I have ever seen.
Also, just a note on the peculiarity of American film release dates in other countries. Today, Toy Story 3 was released in France. Compare that with the 17 June release date in the Czech Republic.
(190) is Thursday, 15 July 2010.
Class again today, followed by lunch at the CIA cafeteria (which is actually a good deal and very convenient). I met a few new people and hung out with them at the (open and air-conditioned) library for a bit. They're in intro-level French classes, which is cool because I get to help them out and practice being a teaching assistant for the coming school year. Also, they're very nice and a group of us are all going out tomorrow (Friday/(191)) night.
I then got dinner at Wich, a basically gourmet sandwich stand located here, not far from the center of Old Town Antibes. I took it and waited in line for one of the best concerts I've ever attended.
I don't know how well I've explained this, but Juan-les-Pins is famous for its annual jazz festival, one that consistently attracts the biggest names in jazz each year. There are 10 days of concerts on their main stage, which is set up with the audience overlooking the water (that is, if they can take their eyes off the performers). I bought very reasonably-priced tickets** to five shows. Tonight's bill had two acts, the first of which was a trio formed of saxophonist David Sanborn, drummer Steve Gadd, and organist/vocalist/trumpeter Joey DeFrancesco. They were quite good (DeFrancesco was my favorite). And their finale featured a guest appearance by jazz guitarist John McLaughlin.
The second act was George Benson and his band. They blew me away.
After this epic 3-hour concert, I left and, as I passed the town's big casino hotel, I ran into Steve Gadd and Joey DeFrancesco coming out. I told them they were fantastic, thanked them for the evening, and shook both their hands. I then got a crepe with Nutella and Grand Marnier to finish the evening. To quote Ray Charles:
Let the good times roll.
--------------------------------------
Footnotes
* Just a historical note: Bastille Day was when the French citizens desperately broke into the Bastille prison/fortress in Paris (I don't know that it's still standing) on 14 July, 1789. A new constitution was in the works, but the people had reason to believe that they and their representatives were in danger from the absolutist regime. So, in an effort to free unjustly detained political prisoners and gather arms against the attack they so feared, a huge mass of people stormed the Bastille in what has become emblematic of French pride and tradition. And, emblematic of this lovably contradictory culture, there were exactly 7 prisoners in the Bastille that day. And none of them really mattered. And they certainly didn't find any weapons of mass destruction.
** This is one thing I will certainly miss about Europe. France in particular is very good to its students. In the United States, on the other hand, a movie theater will give you 50 cents - maybe - off of an overpriced evening ticket, and no discount during the day. But French museums will let students in for 50-100% off, and I got my jazz tickets for about a third of their "starting from" prices in the brochures.
So, something I totally forgot to mention from when I was in Athens back in April. As Kirizabeth and I walked around, there were all these guys sitting along the sides of the streets selling little toys and knickknacks. You know how McDonald's conducts studies to figure out how closely they can space their restaurants so that they don't interfere with each other's business? These guys don't do that. Then again, the sales on gummy-esque toy tomatoes that re-form after you splat them down on a surface is probably already so low that they don't have much more to fear business-wise. So, as you walk, you'll see almost a dozen guys lining a given street, sitting in front of cutting boards, and relentlessly throwing these toy tomatoes down onto them, stopping only to look up as you pass with the identical (and identically delivered) line "Hello my friend!"
Funniest visual of 2010.
(188) is Tuesday, 13 July 2010.
And speaking of visuals, here are a few more photos from the last few days.
The last couple days have been awesome. Bastille Day (French independence day*) was on Wednesday, so there was lots to do. Tuesday night featured a HUGE rave (that's techno for "dance party") on the beach at Cannes. Right on the beach. Good DJ and several hundred people just there to enjoy. It was great...!
I got home after a few hours and caught fireworks over the bay here in Juan-les-Pins. And my nifty new camera has a special 'Fireworks' mode.
(189) is Wednesday, 14 July 2010.
Wednesday was a national holiday, so no class got in the way of my sleeping in. My roommate Tiziano and I really didn't do much... We mostly hung out at the house because everywhere with air conditioning (namely the library) was closed for the holiday and my fan was the best we could do in the brutally hot weather.
But that night, I got a great bistro dinner and went back over to Cannes for their fireworks. They have an international fireworks festival going on now, with one entry per week. The next one is next Wednesday (the 21st), and I would go see it, but I have jazz tickets (more on that shortly). But suffice it to say that the display that I did catch (from a team representing the Czech Republic) featured some of the most dazzling pyrotechnics I have ever seen.
Also, just a note on the peculiarity of American film release dates in other countries. Today, Toy Story 3 was released in France. Compare that with the 17 June release date in the Czech Republic.
(190) is Thursday, 15 July 2010.
Class again today, followed by lunch at the CIA cafeteria (which is actually a good deal and very convenient). I met a few new people and hung out with them at the (open and air-conditioned) library for a bit. They're in intro-level French classes, which is cool because I get to help them out and practice being a teaching assistant for the coming school year. Also, they're very nice and a group of us are all going out tomorrow (Friday/(191)) night.
I then got dinner at Wich, a basically gourmet sandwich stand located here, not far from the center of Old Town Antibes. I took it and waited in line for one of the best concerts I've ever attended.
I don't know how well I've explained this, but Juan-les-Pins is famous for its annual jazz festival, one that consistently attracts the biggest names in jazz each year. There are 10 days of concerts on their main stage, which is set up with the audience overlooking the water (that is, if they can take their eyes off the performers). I bought very reasonably-priced tickets** to five shows. Tonight's bill had two acts, the first of which was a trio formed of saxophonist David Sanborn, drummer Steve Gadd, and organist/vocalist/trumpeter Joey DeFrancesco. They were quite good (DeFrancesco was my favorite). And their finale featured a guest appearance by jazz guitarist John McLaughlin.
The second act was George Benson and his band. They blew me away.
After this epic 3-hour concert, I left and, as I passed the town's big casino hotel, I ran into Steve Gadd and Joey DeFrancesco coming out. I told them they were fantastic, thanked them for the evening, and shook both their hands. I then got a crepe with Nutella and Grand Marnier to finish the evening. To quote Ray Charles:
Let the good times roll.
--------------------------------------
Footnotes
* Just a historical note: Bastille Day was when the French citizens desperately broke into the Bastille prison/fortress in Paris (I don't know that it's still standing) on 14 July, 1789. A new constitution was in the works, but the people had reason to believe that they and their representatives were in danger from the absolutist regime. So, in an effort to free unjustly detained political prisoners and gather arms against the attack they so feared, a huge mass of people stormed the Bastille in what has become emblematic of French pride and tradition. And, emblematic of this lovably contradictory culture, there were exactly 7 prisoners in the Bastille that day. And none of them really mattered. And they certainly didn't find any weapons of mass destruction.
** This is one thing I will certainly miss about Europe. France in particular is very good to its students. In the United States, on the other hand, a movie theater will give you 50 cents - maybe - off of an overpriced evening ticket, and no discount during the day. But French museums will let students in for 50-100% off, and I got my jazz tickets for about a third of their "starting from" prices in the brochures.
14 July 2010
(183-185): Lake Garda
.
So, here's the timeframe at this point in our story (that being the time of publication, just after the weekend in question). This coming weekend (July 17), I have tickets for concerts as part of the famous Jazz a Juan festival, so I won't be leaving town, and the weekend after that, I fly back to the States. But, this weekend, I had nothing better to do than travel.
This was my last hurrah.
So, Lake Garda is a sizable lake in the northern middle of Italy. I figured if I was repeating one country I've been to this year, Italy probably deserved it most.
"But," perhaps you ask, "Why not Venice, Andy? Why not finish what you started last time?" Eh, I don't know. I've heard some less-than-flattering things about Venice since the volcano flummoxed everything up back in April, so I wasn't as excited to see it anymore. But I should probably answer the question behind that question, which is, "Why Lake Garda?"
This is gonna' sound stupid - and a little weird coming from me - but I wanted to see Garda because of a video game. For those unfamiliar, Pure is quite a good ATV racing game. Novice-friendly, fun stunts, but best of all, it has taken the Playstation 3's graphics capabilities to the limit. The environments are all very well-rendered, but the first level, set in Lake Garda, is simply stunning.* When I realized early last week that I was relatively close to this place, I thought: "You know what? I could go there!" So I did. Also, my folks were there years and years ago and confirmed that it is, in fact, very nice. Hopefully, after looking at my pictures (warning: there are many), you'll agree as well.
(183) is Thursday, 8 July 2010.
I spent the afternoon doing train patchwork, including four hours in a distinctly uncomfortable Trenitalia 6-seat cabin. I really don't know why these exist; I cannot think of a single advantage to designing a train car this way.
I debated titling this entry "The Kindness of Strangers" just because I met so many nice people this weekend. The first was Rolf, a Swedish guy singing in a men's choir for a single gig that night in Sirmione, the peninsular town where I was staying. When I didn't have enough change for a bus ticket, he just paid for it and, once the bus was moving, refused my persistent requests that he let me reimburse him.
I'm so not used to hotels. I had to consciously stop myself from packing flip-flops for the shower and my own towel and washcloth on Wednesday night. The Hotel Corte Regina was nice-- clean, good location, decent breakfast, very nice family running the place-- but I have gotten so used to hostels that the niceties (like my own bathroom, a TV, and clean towels every day) didn't seem worth the extra money. I also missed meeting fellow travelers, but it was nice to have my own private space (not just a locker) to come back to whenever necessary.
(184) is Friday, 9 July 2010.
At breakfast, I met Balazs, Balazs, and - depending on whether you're referring to father or son - wife/mother, Helen. They were a Hungarian family staying the weekend, and they offered me a ride to GardaLand, my destination for the day. Once there, they also offered to take me back if our schedules worked out. Very nice people.
But anyway, GardaLand is a sweet theme park... They have a few solid coasters, incredibly short lines, and a decent entry price. Best coasters I rode:
--The Blue Tornado. This one's a big feet-dangler... very fast, although a tad too wound in upon itself.
--Mammut. More traditional wooden-coaster style, though all metal and new this year. It's slower with fewer pure thrills, but makes up for it by playing really well with your expectations; each time you think it's about to end, something else cool happens, which instantly dispels the "that's it?" feeling you often get on coasters after waiting a half hour on line.
--One other coaster whose name I can't remember... it was more swooping-- just what I was looking for-- but way too short. If the Blue Tornado and this one had a baby, it would have been my ideal.
But then there was this little guy. No way was I getting on this silly, stupid, slow, sad excuse for a roller coaster:
I then took a wrong turn trying to get in line for a different one and ended up getting on this silly, stupid, slow, sad excuse for a roller coaster.
Change of subject now. The park had a whole section about the wild west and, having taken a film westerns class, I was actually impressed by how many references they nailed (the whole park was actually very well-maintained and not tacky at all). I chuckled at one stand playing the theme music to Sergio Leone's epic The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly.
Which just punctuated the fact that this section took the phrase "spaghetti western" to a whole new level.
GardaLand was good, but the fact is, nobody does theme parks better than America. The common stereotype among Europeans that everything's bigger in America is true here: even the Blue Tornado (there's a picture of it in the album) is a big coaster built on small-scale design principles (winding in on itself instead of looping). Also, the entirety of GardaLand is pretty small compared to most American parks.
BUT there is one awesome thing that they have and most American parks don't, which is a SWEET aquarium. I killed my camera battery taking pictures of fish and urchins and manta rays (they have faces underneath that freak me out a little). If you go to GardaLand and they offer you the combo ticket for an extra 4€50, DO IT.
So, if you're using local buses and trains in Italy (which is kind of a stupid idea to begin with), never try to get anywhere between the hours of 4 and 6 pm. Not only is there an inexplicable vacuum in that time window of the schedule, but even the buses that are scheduled to run don't help matters. This sign makes the point unintentionally well:
In musical terms, a fermata is this symbol:
...which, when written over a note, means the musician (or driver?) plays the note for as long as they see fit. Which means, theoretically, everybody else could wait a very, very long time. Also, I heard after the fact that there was a transit strike that day, so that might explain why I had to take the most circular route possible:
(185) is Saturday, 10 July 2010.
2 weeks left now.
I got up at 4:30 to watch the sunrise... Such a good decision. See pictures. I sat on the water's edge with my feet in for about two hours.
Then, the second biggest event for the day was the ferry to Monte Baldo, a big mountain on the upper right side of the lake with a gondola ride to the top and panoramic views of much of the lake and surrounding mountains. This is why I'm here.
Here's the problem: it's summer, and the lake is kind of hazy. So the view wasn't everything I'd hoped, but the haze did make the surrounding mountains look really cool and mysterious. The other neat thing I didn't count on seeing was a steady flow of people para-sailing. Just... walking off a hillside and flying over Lake Garda.
I want to do this before I die.
So, I walked around the hilltops (often without my shirt, so as to balance the fearsome farmer's tan I've developed) for about two hours and went back down to Malcesine, the cute little town at the foot of the mountain. I found pizza and gelato and waited for my boat.
But I got on the wrong one.
I caught a boat in the next town that would take me back. But what followed were 4 1/2 hours (instead of 2, if I'd been paying attention) of cruising around the lake, stopping at virtually every town around it. It's a big lake. There are several towns. And taking up one of the two air-conditioned areas of this ferry - a mode of public transportation I should remind you - is a party which I can only describe as The Italian Bar Mitzvah From Hell.
First you've got the DJ, who is himself singing the Italian words to songs that are at their best poorly performed and, at their worst, poorly performed and recognizable. And of course, this ferry has the acoustics of a hollow concrete block, a fact punctuated (with several exclamation points) by the five or six thousand Italian kids running crazy and screaming over the entire boat, parents making no effort whatsoever to stop them. So, I listen to my iPod and take many, many photos of windsurfers and coastal towns.
And, as I do this, I can't shake this feeling... that the party's over. Garda's really nice and I'm glad I took my last opportunity to travel, but I felt like it was time I spent time with people I really like again. I've mastered traveling by myself and enjoyed doing it, but... I'm good for a while.
And I don't mean to end this on a downer note; I think that it's good I didn't feel this way sooner, and plus, a desire to get home will take the sting out of having to leave this wonderful continent. Two weeks. Good number for a countdown, I'd say. And the format of this blog makes the counting exceptionally easy.
------------------------------------------
Footnote
* This is what I'm talking about. The game footage doesn't actually start until 1 minute in, and some of the scenery that hooked me first shows up just after time 1:24.
So, here's the timeframe at this point in our story (that being the time of publication, just after the weekend in question). This coming weekend (July 17), I have tickets for concerts as part of the famous Jazz a Juan festival, so I won't be leaving town, and the weekend after that, I fly back to the States. But, this weekend, I had nothing better to do than travel.
This was my last hurrah.
So, Lake Garda is a sizable lake in the northern middle of Italy. I figured if I was repeating one country I've been to this year, Italy probably deserved it most.
"But," perhaps you ask, "Why not Venice, Andy? Why not finish what you started last time?" Eh, I don't know. I've heard some less-than-flattering things about Venice since the volcano flummoxed everything up back in April, so I wasn't as excited to see it anymore. But I should probably answer the question behind that question, which is, "Why Lake Garda?"
This is gonna' sound stupid - and a little weird coming from me - but I wanted to see Garda because of a video game. For those unfamiliar, Pure is quite a good ATV racing game. Novice-friendly, fun stunts, but best of all, it has taken the Playstation 3's graphics capabilities to the limit. The environments are all very well-rendered, but the first level, set in Lake Garda, is simply stunning.* When I realized early last week that I was relatively close to this place, I thought: "You know what? I could go there!" So I did. Also, my folks were there years and years ago and confirmed that it is, in fact, very nice. Hopefully, after looking at my pictures (warning: there are many), you'll agree as well.
(183) is Thursday, 8 July 2010.
I spent the afternoon doing train patchwork, including four hours in a distinctly uncomfortable Trenitalia 6-seat cabin. I really don't know why these exist; I cannot think of a single advantage to designing a train car this way.
I debated titling this entry "The Kindness of Strangers" just because I met so many nice people this weekend. The first was Rolf, a Swedish guy singing in a men's choir for a single gig that night in Sirmione, the peninsular town where I was staying. When I didn't have enough change for a bus ticket, he just paid for it and, once the bus was moving, refused my persistent requests that he let me reimburse him.
I'm so not used to hotels. I had to consciously stop myself from packing flip-flops for the shower and my own towel and washcloth on Wednesday night. The Hotel Corte Regina was nice-- clean, good location, decent breakfast, very nice family running the place-- but I have gotten so used to hostels that the niceties (like my own bathroom, a TV, and clean towels every day) didn't seem worth the extra money. I also missed meeting fellow travelers, but it was nice to have my own private space (not just a locker) to come back to whenever necessary.
(184) is Friday, 9 July 2010.
At breakfast, I met Balazs, Balazs, and - depending on whether you're referring to father or son - wife/mother, Helen. They were a Hungarian family staying the weekend, and they offered me a ride to GardaLand, my destination for the day. Once there, they also offered to take me back if our schedules worked out. Very nice people.
But anyway, GardaLand is a sweet theme park... They have a few solid coasters, incredibly short lines, and a decent entry price. Best coasters I rode:
--The Blue Tornado. This one's a big feet-dangler... very fast, although a tad too wound in upon itself.
--Mammut. More traditional wooden-coaster style, though all metal and new this year. It's slower with fewer pure thrills, but makes up for it by playing really well with your expectations; each time you think it's about to end, something else cool happens, which instantly dispels the "that's it?" feeling you often get on coasters after waiting a half hour on line.
--One other coaster whose name I can't remember... it was more swooping-- just what I was looking for-- but way too short. If the Blue Tornado and this one had a baby, it would have been my ideal.
But then there was this little guy. No way was I getting on this silly, stupid, slow, sad excuse for a roller coaster:
I then took a wrong turn trying to get in line for a different one and ended up getting on this silly, stupid, slow, sad excuse for a roller coaster.
Change of subject now. The park had a whole section about the wild west and, having taken a film westerns class, I was actually impressed by how many references they nailed (the whole park was actually very well-maintained and not tacky at all). I chuckled at one stand playing the theme music to Sergio Leone's epic The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly.
Which just punctuated the fact that this section took the phrase "spaghetti western" to a whole new level.
GardaLand was good, but the fact is, nobody does theme parks better than America. The common stereotype among Europeans that everything's bigger in America is true here: even the Blue Tornado (there's a picture of it in the album) is a big coaster built on small-scale design principles (winding in on itself instead of looping). Also, the entirety of GardaLand is pretty small compared to most American parks.
BUT there is one awesome thing that they have and most American parks don't, which is a SWEET aquarium. I killed my camera battery taking pictures of fish and urchins and manta rays (they have faces underneath that freak me out a little). If you go to GardaLand and they offer you the combo ticket for an extra 4€50, DO IT.
So, if you're using local buses and trains in Italy (which is kind of a stupid idea to begin with), never try to get anywhere between the hours of 4 and 6 pm. Not only is there an inexplicable vacuum in that time window of the schedule, but even the buses that are scheduled to run don't help matters. This sign makes the point unintentionally well:
In musical terms, a fermata is this symbol:
...which, when written over a note, means the musician (or driver?) plays the note for as long as they see fit. Which means, theoretically, everybody else could wait a very, very long time. Also, I heard after the fact that there was a transit strike that day, so that might explain why I had to take the most circular route possible:
(185) is Saturday, 10 July 2010.
2 weeks left now.
I got up at 4:30 to watch the sunrise... Such a good decision. See pictures. I sat on the water's edge with my feet in for about two hours.
Then, the second biggest event for the day was the ferry to Monte Baldo, a big mountain on the upper right side of the lake with a gondola ride to the top and panoramic views of much of the lake and surrounding mountains. This is why I'm here.
Here's the problem: it's summer, and the lake is kind of hazy. So the view wasn't everything I'd hoped, but the haze did make the surrounding mountains look really cool and mysterious. The other neat thing I didn't count on seeing was a steady flow of people para-sailing. Just... walking off a hillside and flying over Lake Garda.
I want to do this before I die.
So, I walked around the hilltops (often without my shirt, so as to balance the fearsome farmer's tan I've developed) for about two hours and went back down to Malcesine, the cute little town at the foot of the mountain. I found pizza and gelato and waited for my boat.
But I got on the wrong one.
I caught a boat in the next town that would take me back. But what followed were 4 1/2 hours (instead of 2, if I'd been paying attention) of cruising around the lake, stopping at virtually every town around it. It's a big lake. There are several towns. And taking up one of the two air-conditioned areas of this ferry - a mode of public transportation I should remind you - is a party which I can only describe as The Italian Bar Mitzvah From Hell.
First you've got the DJ, who is himself singing the Italian words to songs that are at their best poorly performed and, at their worst, poorly performed and recognizable. And of course, this ferry has the acoustics of a hollow concrete block, a fact punctuated (with several exclamation points) by the five or six thousand Italian kids running crazy and screaming over the entire boat, parents making no effort whatsoever to stop them. So, I listen to my iPod and take many, many photos of windsurfers and coastal towns.
And, as I do this, I can't shake this feeling... that the party's over. Garda's really nice and I'm glad I took my last opportunity to travel, but I felt like it was time I spent time with people I really like again. I've mastered traveling by myself and enjoyed doing it, but... I'm good for a while.
And I don't mean to end this on a downer note; I think that it's good I didn't feel this way sooner, and plus, a desire to get home will take the sting out of having to leave this wonderful continent. Two weeks. Good number for a countdown, I'd say. And the format of this blog makes the counting exceptionally easy.
------------------------------------------
Footnote
* This is what I'm talking about. The game footage doesn't actually start until 1 minute in, and some of the scenery that hooked me first shows up just after time 1:24.
12 July 2010
(180): So Much Money...
.
(180) is Monday, 5 July 2010.
I think I hinted at this in the "Orientation" entry, but the train system along the Azure Coast is great. You can pay just a few euros to hop on a train (or not... odds are no one will check your ticket) to any one of several gorgeous spots along the coast. Trains are liberally air-conditioned*, and it's a perfect addendum to Antibes/Juan-les-Pins which, while nice, get a tad small after a while. This is why it's better to study here than in Aix, I figure.
So, Andrew Bost (fellow CEA kid) and I hopped on a train and when we got there, we just started walking around and taking a bunch of pictures. You can see mine here.
Monaco's cool - I'm definitely glad I went - but it's not my favorite. (Very) Generally speaking, I have simple tastes in most things and I hate the taste of casinos, so the outrageous displays of wealth were more or less lost on me (much to other-Andrew's chagrin). While I appreciate the craftsmanship and effort and talent required to produce anything as well-made as a Ferrari, I personally don't see a reason to spend so much money on a car, which strikes me as something that needs to work, work well, and work well for as long a time as possible. As long as it fits those criteria, the car could be a rickety old Honda for all I care. I feel like once I'm at the point where I can afford to spend that much money on a needlessly fancy version of something so purely functional, I need to find a better use for my money.
If, on the other hand, my wife wants such a car, that's a different story.
-----------------------------
Footnote
* This is a good thing, from my point of view. Not only is it hot, but if the air conditioner and I had started out by disagreeing over health care reform, the hour ride to Monaco would have been a little awkward.
.
(180) is Monday, 5 July 2010.
I think I hinted at this in the "Orientation" entry, but the train system along the Azure Coast is great. You can pay just a few euros to hop on a train (or not... odds are no one will check your ticket) to any one of several gorgeous spots along the coast. Trains are liberally air-conditioned*, and it's a perfect addendum to Antibes/Juan-les-Pins which, while nice, get a tad small after a while. This is why it's better to study here than in Aix, I figure.
So, Andrew Bost (fellow CEA kid) and I hopped on a train and when we got there, we just started walking around and taking a bunch of pictures. You can see mine here.
Monaco's cool - I'm definitely glad I went - but it's not my favorite. (Very) Generally speaking, I have simple tastes in most things and I hate the taste of casinos, so the outrageous displays of wealth were more or less lost on me (much to other-Andrew's chagrin). While I appreciate the craftsmanship and effort and talent required to produce anything as well-made as a Ferrari, I personally don't see a reason to spend so much money on a car, which strikes me as something that needs to work, work well, and work well for as long a time as possible. As long as it fits those criteria, the car could be a rickety old Honda for all I care. I feel like once I'm at the point where I can afford to spend that much money on a needlessly fancy version of something so purely functional, I need to find a better use for my money.
If, on the other hand, my wife wants such a car, that's a different story.
-----------------------------
Footnote
* This is a good thing, from my point of view. Not only is it hot, but if the air conditioner and I had started out by disagreeing over health care reform, the hour ride to Monaco would have been a little awkward.
.
(178): Road Trip!
.
(178) is Saturday, 3 July 2010.
Today, CEA had an excursion by car to Aix-en-Provence and Cassis. Here's the itinerary; I really hope this link works. Anyway, it was a pretty simple, fun day, so the pictures will probably tell you more than my dry (though mercifully brief) narrative.
Aix (as its abbreviation goes) is actually a little university town two hours away from Antibes. Funny story: I spent a few days there five years ago with my folks on our spring break trip to France.* But this time, I went to the market where I bought delicious fresh strawberries (it's that time of year and I was afraid I wouldn't get them this time around). I also browsed the shops and really lucked out on a nondescript bakery for lunch, where I had a tasty ham and olive pizza and an exceptional pain au chocolat.**
We then piled back into the car and drove to Cassis, a lovely little port town. I wandered and snapped some pictures of the waterfront before we met up again to get on a boat tour of the coast. This is worth doing because: there are lots of little inlets with hidden beaches, tucked away amid very impressive (high) cliffs. We're talking 5+ stories. And people were diving from some of these heights into the water.
So, after the boat trip, we got back in the car and stopped by a French vineyard (my first one, believe it or not) for a tiny little wine tasting before winding our way back to Antibes.
------------------------------------------
Footnotes
* Now, that wasn't really very funny, was it. No. "Funny story" is one of those things that I notice people say about markedly un-funny statements. Or, just, that I say about un-funny statements.
** This is typical French bakery ("boulangerie") fare: pastry roll with chocolate inside... This is why I studied in France, dont'cha know.
(178) is Saturday, 3 July 2010.
Today, CEA had an excursion by car to Aix-en-Provence and Cassis. Here's the itinerary; I really hope this link works. Anyway, it was a pretty simple, fun day, so the pictures will probably tell you more than my dry (though mercifully brief) narrative.
Aix (as its abbreviation goes) is actually a little university town two hours away from Antibes. Funny story: I spent a few days there five years ago with my folks on our spring break trip to France.* But this time, I went to the market where I bought delicious fresh strawberries (it's that time of year and I was afraid I wouldn't get them this time around). I also browsed the shops and really lucked out on a nondescript bakery for lunch, where I had a tasty ham and olive pizza and an exceptional pain au chocolat.**
We then piled back into the car and drove to Cassis, a lovely little port town. I wandered and snapped some pictures of the waterfront before we met up again to get on a boat tour of the coast. This is worth doing because: there are lots of little inlets with hidden beaches, tucked away amid very impressive (high) cliffs. We're talking 5+ stories. And people were diving from some of these heights into the water.
So, after the boat trip, we got back in the car and stopped by a French vineyard (my first one, believe it or not) for a tiny little wine tasting before winding our way back to Antibes.
------------------------------------------
Footnotes
* Now, that wasn't really very funny, was it. No. "Funny story" is one of those things that I notice people say about markedly un-funny statements. Or, just, that I say about un-funny statements.
** This is typical French bakery ("boulangerie") fare: pastry roll with chocolate inside... This is why I studied in France, dont'cha know.
(175): Nice
.
Before we begin, here are some pictures from Antibes.
(175) is Wednesday, 30 June 2010.
After class, Kristin took us (the CEA kids) to Nice for the afternoon. We mostly walked around with a few notable highlights.
First stop was a climb up stairs on a hillside near the water for a few very impressive panoramic views. We got ice cream (those delicious Magnum bars... the one with vanilla ice cream covered in white chocolate is, in the words of Jon Fuller, my Aderol of choice) and that combined with the breeze was entirely refreshing.
We also saw a few shops and food stands. I bought and shared these deep-fried nuggets of fresh whitefish that were quite good.
We also went to the Marc Chagall museum, which apparently a lot of people don't know about. That's a shame in my opinion, because Chagall makes the single most joyous use of color among any painter whose work I've ever seen. This museum (which Chagall himself helped design before his death in the late 1980s), naturally, has a great collection, including some lovely stained glass of Chagall's making.
Here are the day's pictures.
.
Before we begin, here are some pictures from Antibes.
(175) is Wednesday, 30 June 2010.
After class, Kristin took us (the CEA kids) to Nice for the afternoon. We mostly walked around with a few notable highlights.
First stop was a climb up stairs on a hillside near the water for a few very impressive panoramic views. We got ice cream (those delicious Magnum bars... the one with vanilla ice cream covered in white chocolate is, in the words of Jon Fuller, my Aderol of choice) and that combined with the breeze was entirely refreshing.
We also saw a few shops and food stands. I bought and shared these deep-fried nuggets of fresh whitefish that were quite good.
We also went to the Marc Chagall museum, which apparently a lot of people don't know about. That's a shame in my opinion, because Chagall makes the single most joyous use of color among any painter whose work I've ever seen. This museum (which Chagall himself helped design before his death in the late 1980s), naturally, has a great collection, including some lovely stained glass of Chagall's making.
Here are the day's pictures.
.
(171): Orientation
.
It's nice to write entries with just one number in the title. More faithful to the movie on which the premise of this blog is based, at the very least. Since this is 4 weeks in one spot, the photos will come later. I will link you to the album whenever I update it.
(171) is Saturday, 26 June 2010.
I spent today acquiring a basic familiarity with my life in Juan-les-Pins [link to map] for the next four weeks. And it really is that simple. I chose the ironic title ("Andy, you're so silly; orientation happens at the BEGINNING of going abroad!") because I'm about to tell you everything you need to know about this place and how one spends time there.
I'm staying in Juan-les-Pins, a smaller... almost neighborhood of larger town Antibes. Both are right on the Mediterranean, on the "Cote d'Azur"* or proverbial "French Riviera." Every year, it is home to an internationally renowned jazz festival called Jazz à Juan. This year is their 50th. Oh, yes.
Antibes, meanwhile, is an older, more traditional town inside fortress walls from a few centuries back. Picasso came here shortly after WWII and had a renewed optimism, evident in his work depicting smiling (you can even tell they're smiling!) mythical creatures frolicking on the beach. Much of this work is on display at the Picasso Museum for which Antibes has become famous. Antibes and Juan-les-Pins are both small (easily walkable) and adjacent, so half the time I think of them as being the same town linked by one square. And both towns are fairly well-to-do.
My classes are at a French school for teaching French as a foreign language. It is called the "Centre International d'Antibes," or CIA. This is not to be confused, however, with CEA, the American program with which I registered. CEA is roughly analogous with the Vassar/Wesleyan Paris Program in terms of function. I signed up through them by filling out forms and such and paying them. They, in turn, take care of my housing with a new host family (stay tuned), signing me up for classes at CIA, and organizing fun little excursions to nearby towns, lunch in the program office, and other cool stuff that we don't have to plan ourselves. That reminds me of the differences between old and new program, however: nowadays, that "we" is exactly 6, not the 40-some-odd on the VWPP. Also, I take no classes with CEA itself, as I did through VWPP at Reid Hall.
So, to help you understand that I'm not spending four weeks solid with five other students and Kristin, the wonderfully kind and helpful CEA on-site staff member, I need to explain the housing situation. I am staying with a new host family. They aren't like my host family in Paris (because, honestly, who could be?), but they are still vey nice and straightforward about little things (as opposed to making a passive-aggressive saga of my sojourn). This couple has a certain professionalism about it, unlike in Paris (ironic?). I think it's because, now that they've retired from owning a restaurant and their kids have moved to other parts of town and out of their multiple-bedroom house, this is their livelihood. Also, a lot of people come and go. My roommate (Tiziano, an easygoing guy from the Italian sector of Switzerland) and I are the only two people out of a maximum of six who have stayed the whole time I've been here so far. But all of the people living there take French language classes at CIA.
Everyone taking classes at CIA seems to be on that come-and-go basis. I speak also of those living at Castel Arabel, the residence hall 5 minutes from my house. It's basically a hostel run by CIA; lots of international students cooking in the kitchen, sitting by the pool, or sitting at the bar watching the World Cup. It's where everybody hangs out, so I occasionally do so as well.
Classes themselves... Every day, from 9-12:20, I have language classes. A few written, listening, and grammar exercises mixed in, but mostly discussion. We take a placement test on our first day, so we all take classes with people on roughly the same level. My level is B2, on a scale of A0, A1, A2, B1, B2, and C1 (with some other class levels mixed in at the lower levels for a more tailored fit: like A1.2). And they haven't offered C1 since I've been here. It's possible to move up or down based on your teacher's assessment during the week. People take classes for varying amounts of time (usually, though not necessarily, increments of two weeks).
It's also worth noting that CIA is not a typical university program by age; people of all demographics show up. For example, my class includes a 42-year-old Danish guy with a family and a Swedish kid who's 17.
It's also worth noting that Claudine, my teacher, is very attractive.
Since my afternoons are free, I usually just hang out in a variety of places. There's the beach, Castel, the air-conditioned local library, wandering around town, or the group activities through CEA.
And the analysis part... So far, I would say this program is better for immersion, since I've met several people who really want to speak French outside of class, but not as good socially, since I don't always see the other CEA kids and I haven't made really close friends with many other people.
I have been writing, however, and not just in this blog. I can see how Picasso found a second wind here.
And it's incredibly hot and humid here. And air conditioning is not easy to come by.
--------------------------------------
In Europe, only the goalie can write footnotes with his hands, so these here are called "American Footnotes."
* That's French for the "Azure Coast," named straightforwardly enough for the water's pastel shade of blue.
It's nice to write entries with just one number in the title. More faithful to the movie on which the premise of this blog is based, at the very least. Since this is 4 weeks in one spot, the photos will come later. I will link you to the album whenever I update it.
(171) is Saturday, 26 June 2010.
I spent today acquiring a basic familiarity with my life in Juan-les-Pins [link to map] for the next four weeks. And it really is that simple. I chose the ironic title ("Andy, you're so silly; orientation happens at the BEGINNING of going abroad!") because I'm about to tell you everything you need to know about this place and how one spends time there.
I'm staying in Juan-les-Pins, a smaller... almost neighborhood of larger town Antibes. Both are right on the Mediterranean, on the "Cote d'Azur"* or proverbial "French Riviera." Every year, it is home to an internationally renowned jazz festival called Jazz à Juan. This year is their 50th. Oh, yes.
Antibes, meanwhile, is an older, more traditional town inside fortress walls from a few centuries back. Picasso came here shortly after WWII and had a renewed optimism, evident in his work depicting smiling (you can even tell they're smiling!) mythical creatures frolicking on the beach. Much of this work is on display at the Picasso Museum for which Antibes has become famous. Antibes and Juan-les-Pins are both small (easily walkable) and adjacent, so half the time I think of them as being the same town linked by one square. And both towns are fairly well-to-do.
My classes are at a French school for teaching French as a foreign language. It is called the "Centre International d'Antibes," or CIA. This is not to be confused, however, with CEA, the American program with which I registered. CEA is roughly analogous with the Vassar/Wesleyan Paris Program in terms of function. I signed up through them by filling out forms and such and paying them. They, in turn, take care of my housing with a new host family (stay tuned), signing me up for classes at CIA, and organizing fun little excursions to nearby towns, lunch in the program office, and other cool stuff that we don't have to plan ourselves. That reminds me of the differences between old and new program, however: nowadays, that "we" is exactly 6, not the 40-some-odd on the VWPP. Also, I take no classes with CEA itself, as I did through VWPP at Reid Hall.
So, to help you understand that I'm not spending four weeks solid with five other students and Kristin, the wonderfully kind and helpful CEA on-site staff member, I need to explain the housing situation. I am staying with a new host family. They aren't like my host family in Paris (because, honestly, who could be?), but they are still vey nice and straightforward about little things (as opposed to making a passive-aggressive saga of my sojourn). This couple has a certain professionalism about it, unlike in Paris (ironic?). I think it's because, now that they've retired from owning a restaurant and their kids have moved to other parts of town and out of their multiple-bedroom house, this is their livelihood. Also, a lot of people come and go. My roommate (Tiziano, an easygoing guy from the Italian sector of Switzerland) and I are the only two people out of a maximum of six who have stayed the whole time I've been here so far. But all of the people living there take French language classes at CIA.
Everyone taking classes at CIA seems to be on that come-and-go basis. I speak also of those living at Castel Arabel, the residence hall 5 minutes from my house. It's basically a hostel run by CIA; lots of international students cooking in the kitchen, sitting by the pool, or sitting at the bar watching the World Cup. It's where everybody hangs out, so I occasionally do so as well.
Classes themselves... Every day, from 9-12:20, I have language classes. A few written, listening, and grammar exercises mixed in, but mostly discussion. We take a placement test on our first day, so we all take classes with people on roughly the same level. My level is B2, on a scale of A0, A1, A2, B1, B2, and C1 (with some other class levels mixed in at the lower levels for a more tailored fit: like A1.2). And they haven't offered C1 since I've been here. It's possible to move up or down based on your teacher's assessment during the week. People take classes for varying amounts of time (usually, though not necessarily, increments of two weeks).
It's also worth noting that CIA is not a typical university program by age; people of all demographics show up. For example, my class includes a 42-year-old Danish guy with a family and a Swedish kid who's 17.
It's also worth noting that Claudine, my teacher, is very attractive.
Since my afternoons are free, I usually just hang out in a variety of places. There's the beach, Castel, the air-conditioned local library, wandering around town, or the group activities through CEA.
And the analysis part... So far, I would say this program is better for immersion, since I've met several people who really want to speak French outside of class, but not as good socially, since I don't always see the other CEA kids and I haven't made really close friends with many other people.
I have been writing, however, and not just in this blog. I can see how Picasso found a second wind here.
And it's incredibly hot and humid here. And air conditioning is not easy to come by.
--------------------------------------
In Europe, only the goalie can write footnotes with his hands, so these here are called "American Footnotes."
* That's French for the "Azure Coast," named straightforwardly enough for the water's pastel shade of blue.
06 July 2010
(167-170): Paris Epilogue
.
So, I tried to do a Paris-sum-up entry once before. I even employed nonlinear storytelling to make it happen in real-time, if you’ll recall. Well, even if you don’t, that is what happened.
So, if I’ve already had my semester and I’ve already tried to have an entry of closure, how am I supposed to feel about being back in this city for a few more days? Let’s be precise: a few days without any of my VWPP pals (or Kirill or Kaysey or any of my other Paris friends)? How am I supposed to feel about living in a series of hostels instead of with my host family, and without anything more to do than handle some paperwork, pick up a suitcase, and make it to a train station on the morning of (171)? How am I supposed to feel about being alone with the city?
Like a ghost, I would say.
I had all these moments this week where I felt weird being in Paris and I said to myself that I was going to make notes of them here. But the facts are, one, I don’t remember them well enough to phrase them well and enrich this entry. Two, they don’t really add up to anything. Sitting on the train to Antibes, here’s what sticks out in my memory:
--On (169), which is 24 June, Going up to the roof of the shopping mall at Montparnasse — the one where everybody but me bought phones at the beginning of the semester — and watching a beautiful sunset sky before going to see the new movie by the guy who directed The Triplets of Belleville.
--Sitting in the Luxembourg Gardens and watching the tennis players one last time while eating a quiche and Montblanc from Bread & Roses.
--Walking around one day this week trying to answer the question Aaron put to me six weeks prior: my top five best and worst experiences in Paris. I came up with four good ones and two bad ones. And, by the way, after this semester, I now cannot think about top-fives without also thinking of High Fidelity by Nick Hornby.
--Feeling so glum about leaving Paris on the last night that I walked from Ile-St-Louis (where you’ll find Berthillon) almost all the way to Paris VII before realizing that, even if it’s one of the few places I knew really well in Paris, I didn’t really want to spend any part of my last evening there. I was perhaps three blocks away when I turned around and got on the metro to Rue Mouffetard.
--Singing on the quai along the Seine with Lucien, Max, Nathaniel, and the others back in April.
--The snow on the ground the first time I walked into my host family’s house, compared to the bright, perfumed white flowers lining the front gate as I left with the suitcase they'd been holding.
--The biggest and possibly most beautiful full moon I’ve ever seen as I walked back to my hostel on the last night.
--The night Liz’s sister came to visit and we (she, Liz, me, and Kirill) went out on the town.
--Walking home from the metro in maybe March and hearing someone use the past tense of a reflexive verb exactly the way I’d been taught and thinking, “Thank goodness—it’s true what they’ve taught me! These fifteen years have not been in vain!”
...
I think at some point everybody just decided they love Paris and started passing that down. That’s the only explanation I can possibly give, because it’s a place that people love, but they can’t come up with any good reasons why. An email I got from a dear former teacher wished me the best, expressing “Ahh… Paris.” In later May, when I was still in Paris, I’d ask my VWPP pals what they missed about it. The answer I usually got was “everything.”
I can't think of many specific things to love about Paris. I found plenty of specific things not to love; it’s kind of dirty, expensive, French isn’t nearly the most useful language I could have learned, the buildings are nice but don’t catch twilight like Florence or Rome, and the food is great but leaves me hungry 90 minutes later.
And yet…
And yet, here I am writing a conclusion that is dancing its way around (and perhaps with) that very sentiment. And you know something? This conclusion is no Donald O’Connor.
So, here goes:
I love this city and I’m going to miss it. Everything about it. Even if I don’t have the damnedest clue why.
So, I tried to do a Paris-sum-up entry once before. I even employed nonlinear storytelling to make it happen in real-time, if you’ll recall. Well, even if you don’t, that is what happened.
So, if I’ve already had my semester and I’ve already tried to have an entry of closure, how am I supposed to feel about being back in this city for a few more days? Let’s be precise: a few days without any of my VWPP pals (or Kirill or Kaysey or any of my other Paris friends)? How am I supposed to feel about living in a series of hostels instead of with my host family, and without anything more to do than handle some paperwork, pick up a suitcase, and make it to a train station on the morning of (171)? How am I supposed to feel about being alone with the city?
Like a ghost, I would say.
I had all these moments this week where I felt weird being in Paris and I said to myself that I was going to make notes of them here. But the facts are, one, I don’t remember them well enough to phrase them well and enrich this entry. Two, they don’t really add up to anything. Sitting on the train to Antibes, here’s what sticks out in my memory:
--On (169), which is 24 June, Going up to the roof of the shopping mall at Montparnasse — the one where everybody but me bought phones at the beginning of the semester — and watching a beautiful sunset sky before going to see the new movie by the guy who directed The Triplets of Belleville.
--Sitting in the Luxembourg Gardens and watching the tennis players one last time while eating a quiche and Montblanc from Bread & Roses.
--Walking around one day this week trying to answer the question Aaron put to me six weeks prior: my top five best and worst experiences in Paris. I came up with four good ones and two bad ones. And, by the way, after this semester, I now cannot think about top-fives without also thinking of High Fidelity by Nick Hornby.
--Feeling so glum about leaving Paris on the last night that I walked from Ile-St-Louis (where you’ll find Berthillon) almost all the way to Paris VII before realizing that, even if it’s one of the few places I knew really well in Paris, I didn’t really want to spend any part of my last evening there. I was perhaps three blocks away when I turned around and got on the metro to Rue Mouffetard.
--Singing on the quai along the Seine with Lucien, Max, Nathaniel, and the others back in April.
--The snow on the ground the first time I walked into my host family’s house, compared to the bright, perfumed white flowers lining the front gate as I left with the suitcase they'd been holding.
--The biggest and possibly most beautiful full moon I’ve ever seen as I walked back to my hostel on the last night.
--The night Liz’s sister came to visit and we (she, Liz, me, and Kirill) went out on the town.
--Walking home from the metro in maybe March and hearing someone use the past tense of a reflexive verb exactly the way I’d been taught and thinking, “Thank goodness—it’s true what they’ve taught me! These fifteen years have not been in vain!”
...
I think at some point everybody just decided they love Paris and started passing that down. That’s the only explanation I can possibly give, because it’s a place that people love, but they can’t come up with any good reasons why. An email I got from a dear former teacher wished me the best, expressing “Ahh… Paris.” In later May, when I was still in Paris, I’d ask my VWPP pals what they missed about it. The answer I usually got was “everything.”
I can't think of many specific things to love about Paris. I found plenty of specific things not to love; it’s kind of dirty, expensive, French isn’t nearly the most useful language I could have learned, the buildings are nice but don’t catch twilight like Florence or Rome, and the food is great but leaves me hungry 90 minutes later.
And yet…
And yet, here I am writing a conclusion that is dancing its way around (and perhaps with) that very sentiment. And you know something? This conclusion is no Donald O’Connor.
So, here goes:
I love this city and I’m going to miss it. Everything about it. Even if I don’t have the damnedest clue why.
(167): Patchwork
.
I'm catching up, I am...! Here are the day's pictures.
(167) is Tuesday, 22 June 2010.
There's one thing that really bothers me, and to explain it, I'd like you to look at this piece of my map of Europe. This is the map I used to plan out this entire month-long loop. It's not too detailed (which might explain why I've visited capital cities almost exclusively), but it serves to illustrate the following point:
You see how it's basically a straight shot from Prague to Luxembourg and then from Luxembourg to Paris? Seems like a downright elegant itinerary, right? Well, not if you're taking trains through Germany. They run a great system - very efficient, friendly, and generally effective - but they just send you all over the place. When I have to change modes of transportation (usually trains) a lot, I usually refer to the entire trip as "patchwork." Anyway, here was my actual itinerary:
So, in 24 hours, I would cover (however briefly) Prague, Offenburg (the 'A'), Strasbourg, Luxembourg, and Paris. And you've heard that...
...Oh. Oh, have you not heard? It was my understanding that everyone had heard.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
A-WELL-A EVERYBODY'S HEARD ABOUT THE BURG
B-B-B-BURG, BURG, BURG, B-BURG'S THE WORD
A-WELL-A BURG, BURG, BURG,
THE BURG IS THE WORD
A-WELL-A BURG, BURG, BURG,
WELL THE BURG IS THE WORD
A-WELL-A BURG, BURG, BURG, B-BURG'S THE WORD
A-WELL-A BURG, BURG, BURG,
WELL THE BURG IS THE WORD
A-WELL-A BURG, BURG, B-BURG'S THE WORD
A-WELL-A BURG, BURG, BURG, B-BURG'S THE WORD
A-WELL-A BURG, BURG, BURG,
WELL THE BURG IS THE WORD
A-WELL-A BURG, BURG, B-BURG'S THE WORD
A-WELL-A DON'T YOU KNOW ABOUT THE BURG?
WELL, EVERYBODY KNOWS THAT THE BURG IS THE WORD!
A-WELL-A BURG, BURG, B-BURG'S THE WORD
A-WELL-A EVERYBODY'S HEARD ABOUT THE BURG
BURG, BURG, BURG, B-BURG'S THE WORD
A-WELL-A BURG, BURG, BURG, B-BURG'S THE WORD
A-WELL-A BURG, BURG, BURG, B-BURG'S THE WORD
A-WELL-A BURG, BURG, B-BURG'S THE WORD
A-WELL-A BURG, BURG, BURG, B-BURG'S THE WORD
A-WELL-A BURG, BURG, BURG, B-BURG'S THE WORD
A-WELL-A BURG, BURG, BURG, B-BURG'S THE WORD
A-WELL-A BURG, BURG, BURG, B-BURG'S THE WORD
A-WELL-A DON'T YOU KNOW ABOUT THE BURG?
WELL, EVERYBODY'S TALKING ABOUT THE BURG!
A-WELL-A BURG, BURG, B-BURG'S THE WORD
A-WELL-A BURG...
OFFENBURG!
...
I actually spent less than 10 minutes in Offenburg. The real highlight of the day was actually Luxembourg. Bit of background: my dad went there on a short business trip when I was about 10 and he came back and told me how it was tiny, but it was the richest country in the world and that you could go to the north tip and stand in Germany, Luxembourg, and France all at once. It captured my imagination, so I wrote a report on it in sixth grade and have sort of always wanted to visit there.
Today was my day.
I spent much of it wandering around the (very nice) shops in Luxembourg City - the capital - which is basically a smaller, cuter, brighter version of Paris. The only big difference is the grassy valley (not really a river) running through in the middle. It reminds me of Rock Creek Park going under the bridges of DC. I found a GREAT panoramic view and a bench in the cool shade not long before my train to Paris. Simply idyllic: one of my favorite spots on Earth.
There’s not a tremendous amount to see in Luxembourg, so I was right to only plan a few hours there. But I am very glad that I went.
I finally made it back to Paris, where it took me bloody forever to find my hostel. I was staying in the Montmartre area, which was a total flip-around for the Rive-Gauche guy I've become. By the way, I don't know if I ever explained this, but you hear these terms about Paris a lot and they don't really make intuitive sense. Rive Gauche is the lower bank of Paris (where I've chronicled the vast majority of my time there) and Rive Droite is the upper half, where I was staying now.
I hit it off with the receptionist, who liked my French and told me where to find a laundromat. On my first time there, I have to say I kinda’ liked the experience. I don’t like how impersonal those places are, this one was bright and clean and I like the idea of going and sitting and having time built into your schedule to read. Nowadays it’s The Clocks, an Agatha Christie mystery (not a Coldplay song). The book employs multiple perspectives, and nonlinear storytelling and all that rather appeals to me, as I'm sure you've heard me say.
Oh, wait... you haven't heard?
"Brian, don't!"
A-WELL-A EVERYBODY'S HEARD ABOUT THE BURG
BURG, BURG, BURG, B-BURG'S THE WORD
A-WELL-A BURG, BURG, BURG, B-BURG'S THE WORD
A-WELL-A BURG, BURG, BURG, B-BURG'S THE WORD
A-WELL-A BURG, BURG, B-BURG'S THE WORD
A-WELL-A BURG, BURG, BURG, B-BURG'S THE WORD
A-WELL-A BURG, BURG, BURG, B-BURG'S THE WORD
A-WELL-A BURG, BURG, BURG, B-BURG'S THE WORD
A-WELL-A BURG, BURG, BURG, B-BURG'S THE WORD
A-WELL-A DON'T YOU KNOW ABOUT THE BURG?
WELL, EVERYBODY'S TALKING ABOUT THE BURG!
A-WELL-A BURG, BURG, B-BURG'S THE WORD
A-WELL-A BURG...
LUXEMBOURG!
BBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBB... [RETCHING NOISES]... AAAH!
PA-PA-PA-PA-PA-PA-PA-PA-PA-PA-PA-PA-PA-PA-PA-PA-
PA-PA-PA-PA-PA-PA-PA-PA-PA-PA-PA-PA-PA-PA-OOMA-MOW-MOW
PAPA-OOMA-MOW-MOW
PAPA-OOMA-MOW-MOW, PAPA-OOMA-MOW-MOW
PAPA-OOMA-MOW-MOW, PAPA-OOMA-MOW-MOW
OOMA-MOW-MOW, PAPA-OOMA-MOW-MOW
PAPA-OOMA-MOW-MOW, PAPA-OOMA-MOW-MOW
PAPA-OOMA-MOW-MOW, PAPA-OOMA-MOW-MOW
OOM-OOM-OOM-OOM-OOMA-MOW-MOW
PAPA-OOMA-MOW-MOW, PAPA-OOM-OOM-OOM
OOM-OOMA-MOW-MOW, PAPA-OOMA-MOW-MOW
OOMA-MOW-MOW, PAPA-OOMA-MOW-MOW
PAPA-A-MOW-MOW, PAPA-OOMA-MOW-MOW
PAPA-OOMA-MOW-MOW, OOMA-MOW-MOW
PAPA-OOMA-MOW-MOW, OOMA-MOW-MOW
PAPA-OOM-OOM-OOM-OOM-OOMA-MOW-MOW
OOM-OOM-OOM-OOM-OOMA-MOW-MOW
OOMA-MOW-MOW, PAPA-OOMA-MOW-MOW
PAPA-OOMA-MOW-MOW, OOMA-MOW-MOW
WELL DON'T YOU KNOW ABOUT THE BURG?
WELL, EVERYBODY KNOWS THAT THE BURG IS THE WORD!
A-WELL-A BURG, BURG, B-BURG'S THE WORD
PAPA-OOMA-MOW-MOW, PAPA-OOMA-MOW-MOW...
I'm catching up, I am...! Here are the day's pictures.
(167) is Tuesday, 22 June 2010.
There's one thing that really bothers me, and to explain it, I'd like you to look at this piece of my map of Europe. This is the map I used to plan out this entire month-long loop. It's not too detailed (which might explain why I've visited capital cities almost exclusively), but it serves to illustrate the following point:
You see how it's basically a straight shot from Prague to Luxembourg and then from Luxembourg to Paris? Seems like a downright elegant itinerary, right? Well, not if you're taking trains through Germany. They run a great system - very efficient, friendly, and generally effective - but they just send you all over the place. When I have to change modes of transportation (usually trains) a lot, I usually refer to the entire trip as "patchwork." Anyway, here was my actual itinerary:
So, in 24 hours, I would cover (however briefly) Prague, Offenburg (the 'A'), Strasbourg, Luxembourg, and Paris. And you've heard that...
...Oh. Oh, have you not heard? It was my understanding that everyone had heard.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
A-WELL-A EVERYBODY'S HEARD ABOUT THE BURG
B-B-B-BURG, BURG, BURG, B-BURG'S THE WORD
A-WELL-A BURG, BURG, BURG,
THE BURG IS THE WORD
A-WELL-A BURG, BURG, BURG,
WELL THE BURG IS THE WORD
A-WELL-A BURG, BURG, BURG, B-BURG'S THE WORD
A-WELL-A BURG, BURG, BURG,
WELL THE BURG IS THE WORD
A-WELL-A BURG, BURG, B-BURG'S THE WORD
A-WELL-A BURG, BURG, BURG, B-BURG'S THE WORD
A-WELL-A BURG, BURG, BURG,
WELL THE BURG IS THE WORD
A-WELL-A BURG, BURG, B-BURG'S THE WORD
A-WELL-A DON'T YOU KNOW ABOUT THE BURG?
WELL, EVERYBODY KNOWS THAT THE BURG IS THE WORD!
A-WELL-A BURG, BURG, B-BURG'S THE WORD
A-WELL-A EVERYBODY'S HEARD ABOUT THE BURG
BURG, BURG, BURG, B-BURG'S THE WORD
A-WELL-A BURG, BURG, BURG, B-BURG'S THE WORD
A-WELL-A BURG, BURG, BURG, B-BURG'S THE WORD
A-WELL-A BURG, BURG, B-BURG'S THE WORD
A-WELL-A BURG, BURG, BURG, B-BURG'S THE WORD
A-WELL-A BURG, BURG, BURG, B-BURG'S THE WORD
A-WELL-A BURG, BURG, BURG, B-BURG'S THE WORD
A-WELL-A BURG, BURG, BURG, B-BURG'S THE WORD
A-WELL-A DON'T YOU KNOW ABOUT THE BURG?
WELL, EVERYBODY'S TALKING ABOUT THE BURG!
A-WELL-A BURG, BURG, B-BURG'S THE WORD
A-WELL-A BURG...
OFFENBURG!
...
I actually spent less than 10 minutes in Offenburg. The real highlight of the day was actually Luxembourg. Bit of background: my dad went there on a short business trip when I was about 10 and he came back and told me how it was tiny, but it was the richest country in the world and that you could go to the north tip and stand in Germany, Luxembourg, and France all at once. It captured my imagination, so I wrote a report on it in sixth grade and have sort of always wanted to visit there.
Today was my day.
I spent much of it wandering around the (very nice) shops in Luxembourg City - the capital - which is basically a smaller, cuter, brighter version of Paris. The only big difference is the grassy valley (not really a river) running through in the middle. It reminds me of Rock Creek Park going under the bridges of DC. I found a GREAT panoramic view and a bench in the cool shade not long before my train to Paris. Simply idyllic: one of my favorite spots on Earth.
There’s not a tremendous amount to see in Luxembourg, so I was right to only plan a few hours there. But I am very glad that I went.
I finally made it back to Paris, where it took me bloody forever to find my hostel. I was staying in the Montmartre area, which was a total flip-around for the Rive-Gauche guy I've become. By the way, I don't know if I ever explained this, but you hear these terms about Paris a lot and they don't really make intuitive sense. Rive Gauche is the lower bank of Paris (where I've chronicled the vast majority of my time there) and Rive Droite is the upper half, where I was staying now.
I hit it off with the receptionist, who liked my French and told me where to find a laundromat. On my first time there, I have to say I kinda’ liked the experience. I don’t like how impersonal those places are, this one was bright and clean and I like the idea of going and sitting and having time built into your schedule to read. Nowadays it’s The Clocks, an Agatha Christie mystery (not a Coldplay song). The book employs multiple perspectives, and nonlinear storytelling and all that rather appeals to me, as I'm sure you've heard me say.
Oh, wait... you haven't heard?
"Brian, don't!"
A-WELL-A EVERYBODY'S HEARD ABOUT THE BURG
BURG, BURG, BURG, B-BURG'S THE WORD
A-WELL-A BURG, BURG, BURG, B-BURG'S THE WORD
A-WELL-A BURG, BURG, BURG, B-BURG'S THE WORD
A-WELL-A BURG, BURG, B-BURG'S THE WORD
A-WELL-A BURG, BURG, BURG, B-BURG'S THE WORD
A-WELL-A BURG, BURG, BURG, B-BURG'S THE WORD
A-WELL-A BURG, BURG, BURG, B-BURG'S THE WORD
A-WELL-A BURG, BURG, BURG, B-BURG'S THE WORD
A-WELL-A DON'T YOU KNOW ABOUT THE BURG?
WELL, EVERYBODY'S TALKING ABOUT THE BURG!
A-WELL-A BURG, BURG, B-BURG'S THE WORD
A-WELL-A BURG...
LUXEMBOURG!
BBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBB... [RETCHING NOISES]... AAAH!
PA-PA-PA-PA-PA-PA-PA-PA-PA-PA-PA-PA-PA-PA-PA-PA-
PA-PA-PA-PA-PA-PA-PA-PA-PA-PA-PA-PA-PA-PA-OOMA-MOW-MOW
PAPA-OOMA-MOW-MOW
PAPA-OOMA-MOW-MOW, PAPA-OOMA-MOW-MOW
PAPA-OOMA-MOW-MOW, PAPA-OOMA-MOW-MOW
OOMA-MOW-MOW, PAPA-OOMA-MOW-MOW
PAPA-OOMA-MOW-MOW, PAPA-OOMA-MOW-MOW
PAPA-OOMA-MOW-MOW, PAPA-OOMA-MOW-MOW
OOM-OOM-OOM-OOM-OOMA-MOW-MOW
PAPA-OOMA-MOW-MOW, PAPA-OOM-OOM-OOM
OOM-OOMA-MOW-MOW, PAPA-OOMA-MOW-MOW
OOMA-MOW-MOW, PAPA-OOMA-MOW-MOW
PAPA-A-MOW-MOW, PAPA-OOMA-MOW-MOW
PAPA-OOMA-MOW-MOW, OOMA-MOW-MOW
PAPA-OOMA-MOW-MOW, OOMA-MOW-MOW
PAPA-OOM-OOM-OOM-OOM-OOMA-MOW-MOW
OOM-OOM-OOM-OOM-OOMA-MOW-MOW
OOMA-MOW-MOW, PAPA-OOMA-MOW-MOW
PAPA-OOMA-MOW-MOW, OOMA-MOW-MOW
WELL DON'T YOU KNOW ABOUT THE BURG?
WELL, EVERYBODY KNOWS THAT THE BURG IS THE WORD!
A-WELL-A BURG, BURG, B-BURG'S THE WORD
PAPA-OOMA-MOW-MOW, PAPA-OOMA-MOW-MOW...
(162-166): Prague Blog!
.
It rhymes! Get it...? Why, yes, I am six years old.
There is one small but significant event I have to open with. While I was in Prague, somebody bumped into me and knocked my camera out of my hand. It then ceased to turn on.
Now, reading that, you'd think most sane people wouldn't make such a big deal about such a little thing. There are, however, three things I ask you to consider about what you'd think:
1.) This is a blog. What function do these poor little rambling websites have other than making a big deal about little things?
2.) I openly confess to being an American tourist. However, I also take great pleasure in framing my shots as well as I can and taking pictures of little reminders and oddities, in addition to the popular sites. Picture-taking has become my favorite hobby while I've been travelling.
3.) I am not sane.
The long and short of it is that my touristic habits were rather disrupted by my efforts to repair/replace my 2½-years-faithful Canon SD1000. As a result, I didn't get to know or photograph this beautiful old city* as well I would have liked. But, also as a result, I am now packing a beautiful new camera that is just like the old one, only better in virtually every way.
Here are the photos from Prague.
(162) was my mother's birthday: Thursday, 17 June 2010.
PlusPrague is a sweet hostel... very cheap (8 USD per night), clean and bright, great staff, welcome drinks and other niceties... the only problem is its relatively remote location, exacerbated by the early-to-bed-early-to-rise subway system.**
I made my way to Dancing House, located here. This is the other Frank Gehry building I foreshadowed in the Berlin entry. The building (which I love) was designed to evoke an image of Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers dancing. I also understand that the former Czech president used to live in the adjacent building. As I continued walking, I decided I was already taken with this beautiful city; its weather and buildings are beautiful (so many gorgeous facades).
One thing I forgot to mention about the transportation system in Prague is that a hefty part of it is a network of above-ground trams. I have a love-hate relationship with trams. On one hand, I find them incredibly charming, and Prague's are particularly quaint (in a good way). I have no problem with the trams themselves, but the suspended wires required to power them are constantly in the way of my building facade pictures.
My next stop was The Globe, located here. This is an English-language bookstore and cafe. I know you think I'm silly for getting into Prague and basically heading right for something I could find in the states, but I can defend this one. This is a pretty famous expat spot, and browsing books and eating at their cafe made me really feel like an expat (in the cool, literary way) for the first time since I'd been abroad. Also, their food is quite good; I hadn't had a bacon cheeseburger that good (or that reasonably priced) in a while, and the peanut butter cheesecake I ordered after was outstanding. I didn't necessarily mean to stay long, but from book browsing to eating to book browsing to starting a conversation with a cute Czech girl to listening to live music in the cafe to more book browsing... I left around 10 PM, smiling from a great evening.
(163) is Friday, 18 June 2010.
One reason I chose to go to Prague was to celebrate the birthday of Kaysey Grard, a friend I met through Kirill in Paris. She had been getting a group together and I figured it would be fun to have a core group of people to hang out with for a change. So, when Kaysey and Kristi showed up, we went to the Chinese Market near our hostel. Kallie, just showing up from the train station, joined us and we browsed. This market is another place to haggle and they have a lot of knickknacks and stuff.
We got some food and drinks before going out to a few bars that night in the name of Kaysey's birthday. And one place played an amazing remix of "Baker Street" by Gerry Rafferty. The remix is here.
Honestly, the biggest thing that happened the next day was that I realized I would be in Antibes in a week's time.
(165) is Sunday, 20 June 2010.
I got up early to go look for a new camera. The stores all said the damage would be as expensive to fix as a new camera, and while I didn't believe them, I doubted any store was going to tell me differently and I needed to start taking pictures again STAT. Plus, if I was going to buy a new camera in a store in Europe, chances are good I wouldn't get much better prices than I would in Prague.***
I ultimately didn't find a camera I liked, but while wandering around the area near the big camera shop, I found this really cool shopping mall that reminded me of the railway station in the beginning of Spirited Away. It had a really cool, eerie feel to it on a cloudy Sunday morning. It has an antique feel the color of old paper and several cool stores (including a store full of old cameras). Also, I don't think its layout obeys Euclidean geography, because the various exits spit you out onto streets you don't expect in a downright baffling way.
At one point today, I felt like I was running out of steam... I've been on the road for a month, going to several extremely different places for a few days at a time. When I travel, I keep up a certain professionalism about it, a certain courtesy toward each city and the time I spend there. I plan as much as I can: how to get to the hostel, a few things I want to see while I wander, a few restaurants TripAdvisor says are good... I try to minimize the time spent online because I shouldn't waste my precious time in X-ville or Y-lin. But I am ready to spend some time doing nothing and not feel guilty about it.
On the other hand, Ristorante Carmelita was great. It may not be traditional fare, but it's cheap and the Gnocchi al Forno was filling and absolutely delicious. Find it here.
Back at the hostel, we all had a final drink before Kaysey made her way to the airport and everyone prepared to disperse the next day. It was a nice ending note.
(166) is Monday, 21 June 2010.
I got my new camera. It's wonderful. The pictures are amazing. And I had about 6 hours to take pictures of everything I wanted to document in Prague.
This included the Magical Mystery Mall (where I wandered Sunday morning), the nearby rose garden, bridges, metronome and panorama of the city, town square, a store selling crazy stuff, and trams. I took the least efficient and most touristy route possible, but I had time and a 24-hour transit pass. I also had lunch at NOI, whose delicious Phad Thai has convinced me that I love Thai food. It's here, just up the street from Ristorante Carmelita.
I had another overnight train to catch.
------------------------------------
Fruit by the Footnotes
* I'm told that Prague is so architecturally diverse because it's the only city in Europe that wasn't demolished by the Nazis during WWII. And be warned: you're in for another photo album with lots of buildings (but more people this time).
** And I don't get why they don't go 24 hours... Prague is something of a party city, so why don't they keep it open when people will need it most? DC is kind of the same way...
*** You have no idea how satisfying it is to go from the Euro (which, granted, isn't as bad as it was in January) and the Pound - both of which dominate the dollar - to the Czech Kurona. It's so much fun to look at the price of something, divide it by 20, and THEN decide if it's reasonable.
It rhymes! Get it...? Why, yes, I am six years old.
There is one small but significant event I have to open with. While I was in Prague, somebody bumped into me and knocked my camera out of my hand. It then ceased to turn on.
Now, reading that, you'd think most sane people wouldn't make such a big deal about such a little thing. There are, however, three things I ask you to consider about what you'd think:
1.) This is a blog. What function do these poor little rambling websites have other than making a big deal about little things?
2.) I openly confess to being an American tourist. However, I also take great pleasure in framing my shots as well as I can and taking pictures of little reminders and oddities, in addition to the popular sites. Picture-taking has become my favorite hobby while I've been travelling.
3.) I am not sane.
The long and short of it is that my touristic habits were rather disrupted by my efforts to repair/replace my 2½-years-faithful Canon SD1000. As a result, I didn't get to know or photograph this beautiful old city* as well I would have liked. But, also as a result, I am now packing a beautiful new camera that is just like the old one, only better in virtually every way.
Here are the photos from Prague.
(162) was my mother's birthday: Thursday, 17 June 2010.
PlusPrague is a sweet hostel... very cheap (8 USD per night), clean and bright, great staff, welcome drinks and other niceties... the only problem is its relatively remote location, exacerbated by the early-to-bed-early-to-rise subway system.**
I made my way to Dancing House, located here. This is the other Frank Gehry building I foreshadowed in the Berlin entry. The building (which I love) was designed to evoke an image of Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers dancing. I also understand that the former Czech president used to live in the adjacent building. As I continued walking, I decided I was already taken with this beautiful city; its weather and buildings are beautiful (so many gorgeous facades).
One thing I forgot to mention about the transportation system in Prague is that a hefty part of it is a network of above-ground trams. I have a love-hate relationship with trams. On one hand, I find them incredibly charming, and Prague's are particularly quaint (in a good way). I have no problem with the trams themselves, but the suspended wires required to power them are constantly in the way of my building facade pictures.
My next stop was The Globe, located here. This is an English-language bookstore and cafe. I know you think I'm silly for getting into Prague and basically heading right for something I could find in the states, but I can defend this one. This is a pretty famous expat spot, and browsing books and eating at their cafe made me really feel like an expat (in the cool, literary way) for the first time since I'd been abroad. Also, their food is quite good; I hadn't had a bacon cheeseburger that good (or that reasonably priced) in a while, and the peanut butter cheesecake I ordered after was outstanding. I didn't necessarily mean to stay long, but from book browsing to eating to book browsing to starting a conversation with a cute Czech girl to listening to live music in the cafe to more book browsing... I left around 10 PM, smiling from a great evening.
(163) is Friday, 18 June 2010.
One reason I chose to go to Prague was to celebrate the birthday of Kaysey Grard, a friend I met through Kirill in Paris. She had been getting a group together and I figured it would be fun to have a core group of people to hang out with for a change. So, when Kaysey and Kristi showed up, we went to the Chinese Market near our hostel. Kallie, just showing up from the train station, joined us and we browsed. This market is another place to haggle and they have a lot of knickknacks and stuff.
We got some food and drinks before going out to a few bars that night in the name of Kaysey's birthday. And one place played an amazing remix of "Baker Street" by Gerry Rafferty. The remix is here.
Honestly, the biggest thing that happened the next day was that I realized I would be in Antibes in a week's time.
(165) is Sunday, 20 June 2010.
I got up early to go look for a new camera. The stores all said the damage would be as expensive to fix as a new camera, and while I didn't believe them, I doubted any store was going to tell me differently and I needed to start taking pictures again STAT. Plus, if I was going to buy a new camera in a store in Europe, chances are good I wouldn't get much better prices than I would in Prague.***
I ultimately didn't find a camera I liked, but while wandering around the area near the big camera shop, I found this really cool shopping mall that reminded me of the railway station in the beginning of Spirited Away. It had a really cool, eerie feel to it on a cloudy Sunday morning. It has an antique feel the color of old paper and several cool stores (including a store full of old cameras). Also, I don't think its layout obeys Euclidean geography, because the various exits spit you out onto streets you don't expect in a downright baffling way.
At one point today, I felt like I was running out of steam... I've been on the road for a month, going to several extremely different places for a few days at a time. When I travel, I keep up a certain professionalism about it, a certain courtesy toward each city and the time I spend there. I plan as much as I can: how to get to the hostel, a few things I want to see while I wander, a few restaurants TripAdvisor says are good... I try to minimize the time spent online because I shouldn't waste my precious time in X-ville or Y-lin. But I am ready to spend some time doing nothing and not feel guilty about it.
On the other hand, Ristorante Carmelita was great. It may not be traditional fare, but it's cheap and the Gnocchi al Forno was filling and absolutely delicious. Find it here.
Back at the hostel, we all had a final drink before Kaysey made her way to the airport and everyone prepared to disperse the next day. It was a nice ending note.
(166) is Monday, 21 June 2010.
I got my new camera. It's wonderful. The pictures are amazing. And I had about 6 hours to take pictures of everything I wanted to document in Prague.
This included the Magical Mystery Mall (where I wandered Sunday morning), the nearby rose garden, bridges, metronome and panorama of the city, town square, a store selling crazy stuff, and trams. I took the least efficient and most touristy route possible, but I had time and a 24-hour transit pass. I also had lunch at NOI, whose delicious Phad Thai has convinced me that I love Thai food. It's here, just up the street from Ristorante Carmelita.
I had another overnight train to catch.
------------------------------------
Fruit by the Footnotes
* I'm told that Prague is so architecturally diverse because it's the only city in Europe that wasn't demolished by the Nazis during WWII. And be warned: you're in for another photo album with lots of buildings (but more people this time).
** And I don't get why they don't go 24 hours... Prague is something of a party city, so why don't they keep it open when people will need it most? DC is kind of the same way...
*** You have no idea how satisfying it is to go from the Euro (which, granted, isn't as bad as it was in January) and the Pound - both of which dominate the dollar - to the Czech Kurona. It's so much fun to look at the price of something, divide it by 20, and THEN decide if it's reasonable.
(161½): He's Leavin' (Leavin') On That Midnight Train to... the Czech Republic...
.
(161½) is the evening of Wednesday, 16 June 2010.
This is relatively little, but I feel I have to make an entry for my train ride from Amsterdam to Prague. Not much happened, but I did take an overnight train, which is something I've always wanted to do. Basically, whenever I hear "America" by Simon and Garfunkel* with its line "and the moon rose over an open field," I imagine watching that from a moving train. Even if the song takes place on a bus.
I was in a 6-person couchette (and of course I get top bunk in a stack of 3). But as the conductor kindly informed me, I would be the only person in the couchette until the others boarded in some 3-4 hours. So, I had some personal space for a change! I had been perfectly fine with hostel-hopping and the consequent room-sharing, and I would continue to be. But I didn't realize until the conductor left and I locked the door just what a relief it was to have some guaranteed personal space, if only for a few hours. I didn't even have to do anything special with it (and, sure enough, I didn't)... just locking the door and having some time to myself was wonderful. It also made me realize a bit how nice it would be to have that reliably again back in the United States.
I went to bed and woke up about an hour outside of Prague.
---------------------------------
Footnote
* My advice is to not watch the video and just listen to the song... this was the only studio version that YouTube had to offer.
(161½) is the evening of Wednesday, 16 June 2010.
This is relatively little, but I feel I have to make an entry for my train ride from Amsterdam to Prague. Not much happened, but I did take an overnight train, which is something I've always wanted to do. Basically, whenever I hear "America" by Simon and Garfunkel* with its line "and the moon rose over an open field," I imagine watching that from a moving train. Even if the song takes place on a bus.
I was in a 6-person couchette (and of course I get top bunk in a stack of 3). But as the conductor kindly informed me, I would be the only person in the couchette until the others boarded in some 3-4 hours. So, I had some personal space for a change! I had been perfectly fine with hostel-hopping and the consequent room-sharing, and I would continue to be. But I didn't realize until the conductor left and I locked the door just what a relief it was to have some guaranteed personal space, if only for a few hours. I didn't even have to do anything special with it (and, sure enough, I didn't)... just locking the door and having some time to myself was wonderful. It also made me realize a bit how nice it would be to have that reliably again back in the United States.
I went to bed and woke up about an hour outside of Prague.
---------------------------------
Footnote
* My advice is to not watch the video and just listen to the song... this was the only studio version that YouTube had to offer.
(159-161): Where AM I?
.
To put it simply, in Amsterdam. Got the photos to prove it.
(159) is Monday, 14 June 2010.
Stacey and Robin, two of my friends from the Isle of Skye tour, happened to be going to Amsterdam and Prague the same days as me, including the same flight to Amsterdam. So, we checked into our hostels, wandered a bit, got cheap sandwiches for lunch, and eventually settled for an hour or so in a lovely little patch of grass on a canal.
Walking back was my first run-in with the World Cup. Naturally, I don’t follow sports, so I had no idea it was going on, but it was really funny to walk around while the Netherlands-Denmark game was playing to packed houses in every single bar. First of all, nobody was working today, and second, you could follow the game without watching it AND quickly locate every pub in a two-block radius from the collective cries, cheers, and other group reactions echoing in every bar in every little street.
I had gotten on a bus out of Edinburgh at 4 AM (incredible part: it was getting light out), so while I was really happy to have taken those sunrise pictures at the airport, I needed a siesta now. I did wait, though, to first make sure Netherlands had secured a solid lead of 2-0.
Stacey, Robin, and I met up again after our naps and wandered again to get dinner. We were staying near the fabled Red Light District (for those of you less familiar with the place and/or its legend, it is not nearly as dangerous as the name would have you believe). But, being what it is, okay: sex shops, fine, don’t pay them much heed, walk past the mannequins in the window, and those ones, and oh my goodness that one moved. Wait, that’s not a mannequin, that’s—
O-KAAAAAAAAY!
Welcome to Amsterdam.
(160) is Tuesday, 15 June 2010.
After my Sandeman’s free tour brochure was unclear about the meeting time and place for the tour, I wandered Amsterdam rather unproductively for several hours. I eventually found lunch at Walk to Wok, a good stir-fry place that puts Wokbar, one of my haunts near Reid Hall in Paris, to shame. It’s a little pricier, but so much better.
My next stop was Der Dampkring, a the world-famous coffeeshop where they filmed the Matsui scene in Ocean’s 12.
After that, I went on to the Van Gogh Museum… It’s a great collection, and a notably good exhibit in terms of putting Vincent in artistic context, but it’s too much money (14 euro, no student discount) and a an awkward floor plan to the exhibition rooms left you stuck behind lots of people trying to look at each painting.
Stacey, Robin, and I had dinner at Eat Mode, a decent pan-Asian place on the Chinatown street. And yes, there's only one such street. Yay multiculturalism!
(161) is Wednesday, 16 June 2010.
I took the tour, which was okay... I'd already found most of the stuff and the guide was pretty funny, but I don't know if it was worth 3 hours given the experience I already had with the city center. Definitely do it first thing in Amsterdam, though.
There were some funny tidbits, though... if you look in the photo album, you'll note some tipping houses. Since flooding used to be a major problem in this city, stores' wares used to be housed upstairs. To get the goods up and down easily (rather than risking it on those nearly vertical staircases), they used a pulley system: the hooked bars extending from the roofs of many of these buildings. But, there's also wind to consider, and if the wind blows your goods too hard into the house, you risk breaking your windows, your products, or both.
"Okay," House asks his team, "Differential diagnosis on goods breaking windows."
"Well," says Thirteen because she's my least favorite, "If you tip the front of the house forward a little, the goods will be able to swing farther without colliding into the facade."
"Brilliant-- let's do it!" Foreman exclaims.
It's not until 35 minutes and 44 seconds into the 43-minute episode that House gets his epiphany, which is to simply double the length of the beam extending from the top of the building.
I had one last thing to do in Amsterdam before catching my train. This was to get a haircut. It had been three months; I was due. But this was a cool experience; I went to the Kappersakademie, a hairdressing school. We're talking 13 euros for a semi-professional stylist's haircut (no problem when my particular style request is "short"). That semi-pro, by the way, was a lovely red-haired girl named Jena with solid English. Many of the other students were also attractive Amsterdam girls (which is kind of redundant). It was fun to watch everybody buzzing about the one big room with several sinks on hinge arms that moved to meet any one of several nearby chairs.
I like to think the haircut came out okay (hopefully upcoming pictures will let you judge for yourself), and it's nice to think that everybody gets something out of the arrangement; students practice, school gets money, I get as good a haircut as possible without breaking the bank on style I wouldn't know what to do with, anyway.
So, final thoughts on Amsterdam... Either I'm a spoiled pedestrian or they're spoiled bikers. I don't like it in Paris when motorcyclists take to the sidewalks (even to park or mount and take to the street), so the constant, omnipresent threat of being mowed down while I try to admire the scenery didn't sit too well with me. Also, they barely warn you: they ring but don't slow down: thats all you get. A chipper little bell has never terrified me so much.
I left with a tremendous respect for - but zero understanding of - this city.
To put it simply, in Amsterdam. Got the photos to prove it.
(159) is Monday, 14 June 2010.
Stacey and Robin, two of my friends from the Isle of Skye tour, happened to be going to Amsterdam and Prague the same days as me, including the same flight to Amsterdam. So, we checked into our hostels, wandered a bit, got cheap sandwiches for lunch, and eventually settled for an hour or so in a lovely little patch of grass on a canal.
Walking back was my first run-in with the World Cup. Naturally, I don’t follow sports, so I had no idea it was going on, but it was really funny to walk around while the Netherlands-Denmark game was playing to packed houses in every single bar. First of all, nobody was working today, and second, you could follow the game without watching it AND quickly locate every pub in a two-block radius from the collective cries, cheers, and other group reactions echoing in every bar in every little street.
I had gotten on a bus out of Edinburgh at 4 AM (incredible part: it was getting light out), so while I was really happy to have taken those sunrise pictures at the airport, I needed a siesta now. I did wait, though, to first make sure Netherlands had secured a solid lead of 2-0.
Stacey, Robin, and I met up again after our naps and wandered again to get dinner. We were staying near the fabled Red Light District (for those of you less familiar with the place and/or its legend, it is not nearly as dangerous as the name would have you believe). But, being what it is, okay: sex shops, fine, don’t pay them much heed, walk past the mannequins in the window, and those ones, and oh my goodness that one moved. Wait, that’s not a mannequin, that’s—
O-KAAAAAAAAY!
Welcome to Amsterdam.
(160) is Tuesday, 15 June 2010.
After my Sandeman’s free tour brochure was unclear about the meeting time and place for the tour, I wandered Amsterdam rather unproductively for several hours. I eventually found lunch at Walk to Wok, a good stir-fry place that puts Wokbar, one of my haunts near Reid Hall in Paris, to shame. It’s a little pricier, but so much better.
My next stop was Der Dampkring, a the world-famous coffeeshop where they filmed the Matsui scene in Ocean’s 12.
After that, I went on to the Van Gogh Museum… It’s a great collection, and a notably good exhibit in terms of putting Vincent in artistic context, but it’s too much money (14 euro, no student discount) and a an awkward floor plan to the exhibition rooms left you stuck behind lots of people trying to look at each painting.
Stacey, Robin, and I had dinner at Eat Mode, a decent pan-Asian place on the Chinatown street. And yes, there's only one such street. Yay multiculturalism!
(161) is Wednesday, 16 June 2010.
I took the tour, which was okay... I'd already found most of the stuff and the guide was pretty funny, but I don't know if it was worth 3 hours given the experience I already had with the city center. Definitely do it first thing in Amsterdam, though.
There were some funny tidbits, though... if you look in the photo album, you'll note some tipping houses. Since flooding used to be a major problem in this city, stores' wares used to be housed upstairs. To get the goods up and down easily (rather than risking it on those nearly vertical staircases), they used a pulley system: the hooked bars extending from the roofs of many of these buildings. But, there's also wind to consider, and if the wind blows your goods too hard into the house, you risk breaking your windows, your products, or both.
"Okay," House asks his team, "Differential diagnosis on goods breaking windows."
"Well," says Thirteen because she's my least favorite, "If you tip the front of the house forward a little, the goods will be able to swing farther without colliding into the facade."
"Brilliant-- let's do it!" Foreman exclaims.
It's not until 35 minutes and 44 seconds into the 43-minute episode that House gets his epiphany, which is to simply double the length of the beam extending from the top of the building.
I had one last thing to do in Amsterdam before catching my train. This was to get a haircut. It had been three months; I was due. But this was a cool experience; I went to the Kappersakademie, a hairdressing school. We're talking 13 euros for a semi-professional stylist's haircut (no problem when my particular style request is "short"). That semi-pro, by the way, was a lovely red-haired girl named Jena with solid English. Many of the other students were also attractive Amsterdam girls (which is kind of redundant). It was fun to watch everybody buzzing about the one big room with several sinks on hinge arms that moved to meet any one of several nearby chairs.
I like to think the haircut came out okay (hopefully upcoming pictures will let you judge for yourself), and it's nice to think that everybody gets something out of the arrangement; students practice, school gets money, I get as good a haircut as possible without breaking the bank on style I wouldn't know what to do with, anyway.
So, final thoughts on Amsterdam... Either I'm a spoiled pedestrian or they're spoiled bikers. I don't like it in Paris when motorcyclists take to the sidewalks (even to park or mount and take to the street), so the constant, omnipresent threat of being mowed down while I try to admire the scenery didn't sit too well with me. Also, they barely warn you: they ring but don't slow down: thats all you get. A chipper little bell has never terrified me so much.
I left with a tremendous respect for - but zero understanding of - this city.
04 July 2010
(153½ -155): Oh, Aye!
I feel I need to start with an apology to the city of Edinburgh. I seek pardon for two offences:
1.) I’m sorry I never learned how to pronounce your name correctly. Friends had told me it was “Ed-in-bruh,” it’s spelled “ed-in-burg,” I also heard “Ed-in-burrow”… My name has been pronounced poorly (and consequently chortled at) for a long time, so I know how it feels and wanted you to know I didn’t mean any harm.
2.) I’m even more sorry that I did not give you the time you deserve. I should have booked an earlier flight from Dublin to take better advantage of (153). At another point, I was considering cancelling Amsterdam to spend the time here. For reasons that will later become clear to the third-party readers of my apology to you, I should have made that change, and for not doing so, I’m sorry.
…So, with that preface and these pictures in mind, let’s investigate just what it was I loved about this city.
Even more than Paris, this place makes grey look good. Well, to be more precise, the weather in Edinburgh is a win-win situation. Either it’s sunny and gorgeous (as it often was these three days), or it’s cloudy/foggy/raining (some combination of the three) and you feel like you’re in a gothic mystery novel set in the 1700s.
The only problem I encountered on this first evening is that nothing's open after 10. The pizza place where I wound up was fine, but definitely not what I was in the market for.
(154) is Wednesday, 9 June 2010
Breakfast, on the other hand, was the market. A full Scottish breakfast is like a full Irish breakfast, only they give you slightly bigger portions of everything, and a helping of haggis. Now, I’ve been through this debate with my future housemates and I don’t hope to convince them on the issue, but I would like to outline why I love this traditional Scottish fare.
Haggis is basically what’s left when a butcher has taken the typically desirable cuts of meat from a given animal (sheep, typically). These scrapings are processed in the same fashion as sausage and presented as a patty and treated with spices and other flavorings. This is the original budget meal; when you couldn’t get good meat, you made this. But, even when I can get okay meat, I get this along with it because I like how it tastes, I like the consistency in spite of myself, and I like that there’s a categorically adventurous food of which – for once –I am enamored and several of the people I know are skeptical.
Scottish breakfast was even more filling (better) than Irish breakfast, BUT… never order your morning orange juice from a bar. Especially not when you’ve been to Marrakesh recently. After eating, I left.
Hey, look! There’s the free tour of Edinburgh that Claudia recommended to me! Let’s spend three hours!
Actually, this turned out to be a really good idea. A company called Sandeman’s New Europe runs these tours daily in several major European cities, and it’s tips-only, so you pay what you think it was worth (which can be nothing—they’re totally okay with that). In my opinion, the best part was the means of getting my bearings without wasting a lot of time getting lost in places that don’t interest me (the downside of my beloved wandering tactics). To me, the stories and history are gravy.
Or at least, that’s how I feel about tours in other places.
Big reason #2 why Andy loves Edinburgh: This is a city that eats, drinks, and bleeds stories. As my tour guide explained, a lot of writers (including Robert Lewis Stevenson) have been drawn here. I imagine it was for the mood (and probably the whisky), but also, this city is full of great stories.
For example, one woman was relieved of her legally restrictive widow status by waking up after her own hanging and thereby exploiting the infrequently noted “till death do you part” loophole of marriage. She happily married the man who had been her lover in secret, and she wouldn’t die again for another 40 years.
There’s the source material for the original novel of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. A doctor — upstanding by day and debaucherous by night — abused his patients' trust by stealing their valuables with the keys with which they entrust him. Better yet, this doctor, a well-regarded citizen, is appointed head of the investigation committee to find the thief. The doctor has also, by this time, created copies of keys and a crime syndicate of underlings to accelerate their work. Andy the writer says: brilliant setup, especially when you’re the first person to make it famous.
And let’s not forget Greyfriar’s Bobby, the well-loved terrier of the well-loved night watchman of the Greyfriar’s Church graveyard. Cute little dog spent every hour of every day at his master’s grave for fourteen years after his master’s death: the symbol of loyalty and good luck in Edinburgh.
So, after-- … *Sigh*… Seriously? …All right, fine: the first couple Harry Potter books were written in Edinburgh as well… There, you happy?
I met a few travelers on the tour with whom I ended up exploring Edinburgh Castle. This is pretty much the big site in the city. One thing that gets me, though, is that the people running the place know that, and they know that you’d rather fork over an uncompromising 14 pound (there’s not even a student discount) than miss the place. In any case, it’s here you’ve got some incredible views of the city, some impressive and well-maintained ramparts, a few lovely chapels and memorials, and Scotland’s crown jewels: the crown, the scepter, and the Stone of Destiny.
And, yes, the story they told us about the Stone of Destiny is every bit as epic as its name.
There’s some history here that I should have probably started with, and I’m probably not going to do it justice, so I highly encourage you to do some digging of your own. Scotland and England have always had issues. Even centuries and centuries ago, when the two states were separate, England was always trying to invade.* It often succeeded, but Scotland would usually reclaim independence. Two such stories are those of William Wallace, otherwise known as Mel Gibson in Braveheart, and his more successful successor, William the Bruce. But, at one point, England succeeded and Scotland became part of the British Empire. Scotland has held a grudge about this long and less-than-friendly history. It’s, from what I’m given to understand, the basis of the sometimes less-than-friendly rivalry between England and Scotland today. But Scotland has made several significant strides recently toward independence, including establishment roughly ten years back of Scotland’s own Parliament.**
But a more symbolic stride toward independence was – around the same time as the parliament – the return of the Stone of Destiny to Scottish soil. The stone itself is, I would say, neither bigger nor smaller than the proverbial breadbox, but it is WAY heavier and imbued with an ancient prophecy: “Where this stone sits, Scotland shall rule.” Every historic Scottish king had his coronation upon that stone.
England took the stone at one point, placing it beneath the coronation throne in London’s Westminster Abbey. This did not sit well with Scotland. More particularly, this did not sit well with four university students in the 1950s who, during a wave of Scottish nationalist sentiment, got together for drinks one night and decided to break in to Westminster and steal back the Stone.
This is the setup for an actual heist movie that I have every intention of seeing.
ANYWAY, back to my narrative, I finished seeing the castle and went with my new friends over to another hilltop on the other end of the Royal Mile.*** The Royal Mile is where the National Monument (an unfinished attempt at a Parthenon replica) sits and you can take great panoramic views of the city that include the Castle, as well as Arthur’s Seat, the impressive-looking plateau to the city’s west. A few such images appear in the album.
My fellow travelers then talked me into joining a pub crawl sponsored by the tour company. Here’s how that one played out a couple hours later between me and the guy signing people up for the tour. With no quotation marks... because I don’t feel like using them just now.
-Hey! Pub crawl! Can I sign up?
-Sure! Passport.
-Passport?
-Passport.
-Can I put it back in my room after you check me in?
-No, you can’t put it back in your room after I check you in.
-So, I have to carry this vital and hard-to-replace document with me to a series of bars all evening?
-Yes, you have to carry this vital and hard-to-replace document with you to a series of bars all evening.
-Awww…!
-But we're not going anywhere you're liable to lose it. Also, pubs wanna’ see it, and the UK requires you to carry government ID at all times.
-So I have to carry it?
-You have to carry it.
Hey! No pub crawl!
(155) is Thursday, 10 June 2010.
I began today on an odd note, which was the purchase of a new pair of shoes. Not something I typically do, but I’d been wearing the old pair since early December, and with all the miles I’d been putting on around Europe, the fact is they were shot. I don’t usually like white shoes, because they do nothing but get dirty, but they were the best deal and I figured that, if they were going to get dirty, at least they’d get their start hiking to the summit and around the plateaus of Arthur’s Seat.
After buying shoes first thing in the morning, I got an especially good Scottish breakfast at The Mitre, a pub on the Royal Mile with great service and atmosphere. Yup… nothing sets the atmosphere of a Scottish pub quite like the group of four at the table next to you quietly enjoying their 2+ morning rounds of pints.
So, I climbed. Arthur’s Seat? More like ANDREW’s Seat.
And I don’t know whose idea that sofa was, but whoever put a seat on Arthur’s Seat is a genius… a genius with considerable upper body strength.
After my triumphant descent from that beautiful locale, replete with great views and fresh air, I bought the tasty title treat of The Fudge House on the Royal Mile. I tried a very good sample just up the street at The Fudge Kitchen as well. I saved it for later, though, as I was about to eat a (very late) lunch at World’s End, a pub on the Royal Mile. I’m sure you’ve noticed by now that everything you could want is there.
It is here that I tried Scotch whisky for the first time (someone explained to me that “whisky” is only Scottish when spelled without the letter “e”). I tried Glenkinnchie, a local brand, and I actually kind of liked it: a little sweet at first before the burn hits. I like the stuff with a burn to it… One reason is that – and I don’t know how I learned to do this with so little experience – but I can down it without flinching. Two, if I’m drinking something strong, I like to be reminded of it. It’s like there’s a consideration for contract there: I know I won’t go for too much without realizing it.
But the real appeal for this place is the food: the fish and chips on which I’d been going crazy were at their absolute finest here. For dessert (this place was that good), I had a chocolate cake with a molten white chocolate core and a scoop of vanilla ice cream that had the texture of being homemade. The description kind of speaks for itself, I think.
To top it all off, the service was great; my waitress was a lot of fun to talk to. We traded travel stories and Edinburgh stories, she told me how to find the University of Edinburgh where Yevgeniya and Claudia took classes****, and she held onto the headphones that fell out of my pocket for an hour until I realized and came back for them.
I spent the rest of the day wandering. On a completely different note, props to Edinburgh for being the only major city I've been to this year without some major attraction under scaffolding. I had to look really hard for two days before I found this:
It’s in one of the closes. A close is a very cool and mysterious stairway tucked into the buildings (and often covered) that links the Royal Mile to lower Edinburgh. As if I didn’t have enough reasons to love this city’s architecture, they added secret passages. Awesome.
I eventually found the University of Edinburgh, got dinner someplace I absolutely can’t recall, and packed for my departure the next day while listening to somebody performing “Johnny B. Goode” in a Scottish accent in a nearby pub.
------------------------------------------------------------
Footnotes
* --“Say, Brain, what are we going to do tomorrow night!?”
--“The same thing we do every night, Pinky…”
** Not that you’d identify the building as such, though: it looks like an art museum decorated on the outside with — of all the bloody things — bamboo.
*** The Royal Mile is the main street of Scotland, and yes, it’s about a mile long. My hostel’s on it, the Castle is at one end, and if you follow it, you come to the Parliament building. It’s also lined with several good taverns, official buildings, and many shops and kiltmakers. It follows the slope of the hill on which the Castle sits – Scotland was actually formed by a volcanic explosion millions of years ago: thus, its sloped design. Back in the old days, the Mile was the center of everything and people virtually never ventured outside the gates because you’d have to pay taxes for doing so. It expanded, however, when people without plumbing needed more (and more sanitary) space to live. Now, you’ve got a nice little spread of a town that’s walkable in terms of distance to cover, though not necessarily in terms of hills to climb.
**** I don’t know if I’ve mentioned this for the record or not, but Claudia Sanchez and Yevgeniya (a.k.a. “Jenga”) Sergeyenko, two very close Vassar friends (Raymond What WHAT!), were my motivation to come to Edinburgh. They both studied there in the fall and told me it was a cool place, so I figured I would see where they studied and spend a few days in a city where somebody could suggest things for me to do. I also spent a few moments during my stay pondering the irony of our being in the same places (Edinburgh and Vassar) at alternating times.
1.) I’m sorry I never learned how to pronounce your name correctly. Friends had told me it was “Ed-in-bruh,” it’s spelled “ed-in-burg,” I also heard “Ed-in-burrow”… My name has been pronounced poorly (and consequently chortled at) for a long time, so I know how it feels and wanted you to know I didn’t mean any harm.
2.) I’m even more sorry that I did not give you the time you deserve. I should have booked an earlier flight from Dublin to take better advantage of (153). At another point, I was considering cancelling Amsterdam to spend the time here. For reasons that will later become clear to the third-party readers of my apology to you, I should have made that change, and for not doing so, I’m sorry.
…So, with that preface and these pictures in mind, let’s investigate just what it was I loved about this city.
Even more than Paris, this place makes grey look good. Well, to be more precise, the weather in Edinburgh is a win-win situation. Either it’s sunny and gorgeous (as it often was these three days), or it’s cloudy/foggy/raining (some combination of the three) and you feel like you’re in a gothic mystery novel set in the 1700s.
The only problem I encountered on this first evening is that nothing's open after 10. The pizza place where I wound up was fine, but definitely not what I was in the market for.
(154) is Wednesday, 9 June 2010
Breakfast, on the other hand, was the market. A full Scottish breakfast is like a full Irish breakfast, only they give you slightly bigger portions of everything, and a helping of haggis. Now, I’ve been through this debate with my future housemates and I don’t hope to convince them on the issue, but I would like to outline why I love this traditional Scottish fare.
Haggis is basically what’s left when a butcher has taken the typically desirable cuts of meat from a given animal (sheep, typically). These scrapings are processed in the same fashion as sausage and presented as a patty and treated with spices and other flavorings. This is the original budget meal; when you couldn’t get good meat, you made this. But, even when I can get okay meat, I get this along with it because I like how it tastes, I like the consistency in spite of myself, and I like that there’s a categorically adventurous food of which – for once –I am enamored and several of the people I know are skeptical.
Scottish breakfast was even more filling (better) than Irish breakfast, BUT… never order your morning orange juice from a bar. Especially not when you’ve been to Marrakesh recently. After eating, I left.
Hey, look! There’s the free tour of Edinburgh that Claudia recommended to me! Let’s spend three hours!
Actually, this turned out to be a really good idea. A company called Sandeman’s New Europe runs these tours daily in several major European cities, and it’s tips-only, so you pay what you think it was worth (which can be nothing—they’re totally okay with that). In my opinion, the best part was the means of getting my bearings without wasting a lot of time getting lost in places that don’t interest me (the downside of my beloved wandering tactics). To me, the stories and history are gravy.
Or at least, that’s how I feel about tours in other places.
Big reason #2 why Andy loves Edinburgh: This is a city that eats, drinks, and bleeds stories. As my tour guide explained, a lot of writers (including Robert Lewis Stevenson) have been drawn here. I imagine it was for the mood (and probably the whisky), but also, this city is full of great stories.
For example, one woman was relieved of her legally restrictive widow status by waking up after her own hanging and thereby exploiting the infrequently noted “till death do you part” loophole of marriage. She happily married the man who had been her lover in secret, and she wouldn’t die again for another 40 years.
There’s the source material for the original novel of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. A doctor — upstanding by day and debaucherous by night — abused his patients' trust by stealing their valuables with the keys with which they entrust him. Better yet, this doctor, a well-regarded citizen, is appointed head of the investigation committee to find the thief. The doctor has also, by this time, created copies of keys and a crime syndicate of underlings to accelerate their work. Andy the writer says: brilliant setup, especially when you’re the first person to make it famous.
And let’s not forget Greyfriar’s Bobby, the well-loved terrier of the well-loved night watchman of the Greyfriar’s Church graveyard. Cute little dog spent every hour of every day at his master’s grave for fourteen years after his master’s death: the symbol of loyalty and good luck in Edinburgh.
So, after-- … *Sigh*… Seriously? …All right, fine: the first couple Harry Potter books were written in Edinburgh as well… There, you happy?
I met a few travelers on the tour with whom I ended up exploring Edinburgh Castle. This is pretty much the big site in the city. One thing that gets me, though, is that the people running the place know that, and they know that you’d rather fork over an uncompromising 14 pound (there’s not even a student discount) than miss the place. In any case, it’s here you’ve got some incredible views of the city, some impressive and well-maintained ramparts, a few lovely chapels and memorials, and Scotland’s crown jewels: the crown, the scepter, and the Stone of Destiny.
And, yes, the story they told us about the Stone of Destiny is every bit as epic as its name.
There’s some history here that I should have probably started with, and I’m probably not going to do it justice, so I highly encourage you to do some digging of your own. Scotland and England have always had issues. Even centuries and centuries ago, when the two states were separate, England was always trying to invade.* It often succeeded, but Scotland would usually reclaim independence. Two such stories are those of William Wallace, otherwise known as Mel Gibson in Braveheart, and his more successful successor, William the Bruce. But, at one point, England succeeded and Scotland became part of the British Empire. Scotland has held a grudge about this long and less-than-friendly history. It’s, from what I’m given to understand, the basis of the sometimes less-than-friendly rivalry between England and Scotland today. But Scotland has made several significant strides recently toward independence, including establishment roughly ten years back of Scotland’s own Parliament.**
But a more symbolic stride toward independence was – around the same time as the parliament – the return of the Stone of Destiny to Scottish soil. The stone itself is, I would say, neither bigger nor smaller than the proverbial breadbox, but it is WAY heavier and imbued with an ancient prophecy: “Where this stone sits, Scotland shall rule.” Every historic Scottish king had his coronation upon that stone.
England took the stone at one point, placing it beneath the coronation throne in London’s Westminster Abbey. This did not sit well with Scotland. More particularly, this did not sit well with four university students in the 1950s who, during a wave of Scottish nationalist sentiment, got together for drinks one night and decided to break in to Westminster and steal back the Stone.
This is the setup for an actual heist movie that I have every intention of seeing.
ANYWAY, back to my narrative, I finished seeing the castle and went with my new friends over to another hilltop on the other end of the Royal Mile.*** The Royal Mile is where the National Monument (an unfinished attempt at a Parthenon replica) sits and you can take great panoramic views of the city that include the Castle, as well as Arthur’s Seat, the impressive-looking plateau to the city’s west. A few such images appear in the album.
My fellow travelers then talked me into joining a pub crawl sponsored by the tour company. Here’s how that one played out a couple hours later between me and the guy signing people up for the tour. With no quotation marks... because I don’t feel like using them just now.
-Hey! Pub crawl! Can I sign up?
-Sure! Passport.
-Passport?
-Passport.
-Can I put it back in my room after you check me in?
-No, you can’t put it back in your room after I check you in.
-So, I have to carry this vital and hard-to-replace document with me to a series of bars all evening?
-Yes, you have to carry this vital and hard-to-replace document with you to a series of bars all evening.
-Awww…!
-But we're not going anywhere you're liable to lose it. Also, pubs wanna’ see it, and the UK requires you to carry government ID at all times.
-So I have to carry it?
-You have to carry it.
Hey! No pub crawl!
(155) is Thursday, 10 June 2010.
I began today on an odd note, which was the purchase of a new pair of shoes. Not something I typically do, but I’d been wearing the old pair since early December, and with all the miles I’d been putting on around Europe, the fact is they were shot. I don’t usually like white shoes, because they do nothing but get dirty, but they were the best deal and I figured that, if they were going to get dirty, at least they’d get their start hiking to the summit and around the plateaus of Arthur’s Seat.
After buying shoes first thing in the morning, I got an especially good Scottish breakfast at The Mitre, a pub on the Royal Mile with great service and atmosphere. Yup… nothing sets the atmosphere of a Scottish pub quite like the group of four at the table next to you quietly enjoying their 2+ morning rounds of pints.
So, I climbed. Arthur’s Seat? More like ANDREW’s Seat.
And I don’t know whose idea that sofa was, but whoever put a seat on Arthur’s Seat is a genius… a genius with considerable upper body strength.
After my triumphant descent from that beautiful locale, replete with great views and fresh air, I bought the tasty title treat of The Fudge House on the Royal Mile. I tried a very good sample just up the street at The Fudge Kitchen as well. I saved it for later, though, as I was about to eat a (very late) lunch at World’s End, a pub on the Royal Mile. I’m sure you’ve noticed by now that everything you could want is there.
It is here that I tried Scotch whisky for the first time (someone explained to me that “whisky” is only Scottish when spelled without the letter “e”). I tried Glenkinnchie, a local brand, and I actually kind of liked it: a little sweet at first before the burn hits. I like the stuff with a burn to it… One reason is that – and I don’t know how I learned to do this with so little experience – but I can down it without flinching. Two, if I’m drinking something strong, I like to be reminded of it. It’s like there’s a consideration for contract there: I know I won’t go for too much without realizing it.
But the real appeal for this place is the food: the fish and chips on which I’d been going crazy were at their absolute finest here. For dessert (this place was that good), I had a chocolate cake with a molten white chocolate core and a scoop of vanilla ice cream that had the texture of being homemade. The description kind of speaks for itself, I think.
To top it all off, the service was great; my waitress was a lot of fun to talk to. We traded travel stories and Edinburgh stories, she told me how to find the University of Edinburgh where Yevgeniya and Claudia took classes****, and she held onto the headphones that fell out of my pocket for an hour until I realized and came back for them.
I spent the rest of the day wandering. On a completely different note, props to Edinburgh for being the only major city I've been to this year without some major attraction under scaffolding. I had to look really hard for two days before I found this:
It’s in one of the closes. A close is a very cool and mysterious stairway tucked into the buildings (and often covered) that links the Royal Mile to lower Edinburgh. As if I didn’t have enough reasons to love this city’s architecture, they added secret passages. Awesome.
I eventually found the University of Edinburgh, got dinner someplace I absolutely can’t recall, and packed for my departure the next day while listening to somebody performing “Johnny B. Goode” in a Scottish accent in a nearby pub.
------------------------------------------------------------
Footnotes
* --“Say, Brain, what are we going to do tomorrow night!?”
--“The same thing we do every night, Pinky…”
** Not that you’d identify the building as such, though: it looks like an art museum decorated on the outside with — of all the bloody things — bamboo.
*** The Royal Mile is the main street of Scotland, and yes, it’s about a mile long. My hostel’s on it, the Castle is at one end, and if you follow it, you come to the Parliament building. It’s also lined with several good taverns, official buildings, and many shops and kiltmakers. It follows the slope of the hill on which the Castle sits – Scotland was actually formed by a volcanic explosion millions of years ago: thus, its sloped design. Back in the old days, the Mile was the center of everything and people virtually never ventured outside the gates because you’d have to pay taxes for doing so. It expanded, however, when people without plumbing needed more (and more sanitary) space to live. Now, you’ve got a nice little spread of a town that’s walkable in terms of distance to cover, though not necessarily in terms of hills to climb.
**** I don’t know if I’ve mentioned this for the record or not, but Claudia Sanchez and Yevgeniya (a.k.a. “Jenga”) Sergeyenko, two very close Vassar friends (Raymond What WHAT!), were my motivation to come to Edinburgh. They both studied there in the fall and told me it was a cool place, so I figured I would see where they studied and spend a few days in a city where somebody could suggest things for me to do. I also spent a few moments during my stay pondering the irony of our being in the same places (Edinburgh and Vassar) at alternating times.
28 June 2010
(151-153): I can't really think of a clever title for Dublin.
I basically spent (150) flying to Dublin and taking care of logistics for the rest of the month, so let’s start with photos and:
(151) is Sunday, 6 June 2010.
Globetrotter’s/The Townhouse. You will never get a better included-in-price hostel breakfast in your life. Full Irish breakfast includes fried eggs, ham, sausage, beans, tomato slice, and hash browns. Plus juice and coffee/tea. Breakfast in Marrakesh was good, too, but protein for breakfast… Ireland just gets it.
I went sightseeing with Fraser, one of my several roommates. We saw many things by rain: the famous Ha’penny Bridge, a church we couldn't get into, a brief look into the Jameson whiskey distillery, all on the way to the Guinness storehouse.
I’m slowly cultivating an appreciation for beer, and the Guinness storehouse helped me along a good deal. While I did tire very quickly of their continuous propaganda for the Arthur Guinness legend, I was glad to learn what’s in beer and how it’s made. Perhaps my favorite part of the whole exhibit, though, was the little stand where they have roasted barley for you to taste. It’s kind of a nice flavor, actually, and if I hadn’t tasted it early on, I probably wouldn’t have found it so easily in the complimentary pint they give out at the end. I had a much better predisposition toward Guinness (which is now one of my favorite least favorite drinks) because the barley actually puts up a fight against the hops, and I now know how to search for other flavors than the hops I can’t stand.
So, after the panoramic view out of the storehouse’s Gravity Bar, Fraser and I kept walking… a few churches (we went into only one because the others wanted money), Dublin Castle was closed when we got there, and we had a late lunch at a café called Queen of Tarts, located here. The Bailey’s cheesecake I had was outstanding, and the food itself was decent, but it’s one of those cutesy Sunday afternoon café places (I think the name says enough) where you’re paying a hefty amount for the atmosphere as well. “Cute” is not enough to sell me products or movies, so I felt a tad overcharged, but then again, it might have been nice to lounge for a few hours if I’d had more time.
(152) is Monday, 7 June 2010.
Had to get that breakfast again. Mm-MM!
I also woke up to a fascinating email from the Vassar College Dean of Studies. Apparently the Vassar French Department has named me an Academic Intern — basically a Teaching Assistant — for the 2010/2011 year.
Cool. Let's go on a day trip.
We went to Glendalough, the “valley of two lakes,” according to the pamphlet I saved, which was a nice hike and some very pretty green scenery. This is why I wanted to come to Ireland. We also stopped at a big pile of rocks called Brownshill Dolmen, a Druid equivalent to pyramids, and finally, Kilkenny City*, home of the beautiful Kilkenny Castle.
Second to the scenery at Glendalough, Kilkenny Castle was the highlight. I bent the rules and took photos of the castle when no one was looking (if they charge money, I feel justified). I just wish I’d gotten pictures of the library room, which had these incredible eaves painted with tree branches and leaves and let the light in beautifully through tall side windows. There’s a sweepingly high two-story ceiling as well.
Also, it was raining the whole day except for Glendalough, so I was constantly at war with my crappy umbrella. Also, just before getting on the bus to return to Dublin, I honored Sam Seifman and I got a Magnum Gold?! It was okay… vanilla/caramel/stuff… I like their the strawberry and white chocolate one better.
Paddy Wagon Tours is a fun tour company; I thought the guide was funny (although I was often alone in that sentiment). The whole tour, he kept telling stories and cracking jokes... He had good impressions of Clinton and Bush despite an Irish accent. I’m telling you, he had a whole bloody standup act... The only thing I’d critique was an occasionally rushed delivery of some jokes and kind of heavy-handed pokes at the two presidents. But he explained about some of the history and superstitions and was entertaining about it.
Fraser and I got dinner at the famous Temple Bar. Sandwiches were surprisingly good and filling.
(153) is Tuesday, 8 June 2010.
Today’s goal was to kill a few hours before flying to Edinburgh. I was pretty much over Dublin… it was grey and doesn’t offer much to people who drink as little as I do. It does offer that great breakfast, though…
I walked around the city some more, including Trinity College, which is a beautiful campus. I couldn’t quite persuade myself to see the Book of Kells, though… they were asking 9 euro to see an ancient book I’d never heard of before I got to Dublin (and without the aid of Google, I can’t even tell you now what it is). I did find a park with a charming Oscar Wilde statue, however, as well as lunch at Gallagher’s Boxty House in the Temple Bar area. I would actually recommend against this one; the food tasted great, but I went all-out and ordered their special boxty (it’s a potato pastry filled with meat — I want to say lamb? — and gravy) with a side of potatoes. I ate it and was full and satisfied and then — I’m not kidding — I left the restaurant and was starving (not just Paris hungry) less than ten minutes later.
I had also been fighting a little homesickness that day. You’d be surprised what sorts of things can fix it, though. I passed by a comic book store and popped in to see if they had any new volumes of Fullmetal Alchemist, an excellent Japanese comic book series (manga) that I follow. They didn’t, but I ended up paging through some older volumes of another favorite series.** Manga beats homesickness like scissors beats paper.
----------------------------------------------
Footnotes
* I had really hoped Kilkenny would be home to Irish South Park characters, but I was disappointed.
** Death Note, true to its name, is pretty grim, but the characters and cat-and-mouse plot are incredibly intricate; the story as a whole is simply phenomenal. This series also provided a good deal of early inspiration for my pet project screenplay. It’s not for the faint of heart, but if you like darker stories and don’t mind reading right-to-left, I strongly recommend it.
(151) is Sunday, 6 June 2010.
Globetrotter’s/The Townhouse. You will never get a better included-in-price hostel breakfast in your life. Full Irish breakfast includes fried eggs, ham, sausage, beans, tomato slice, and hash browns. Plus juice and coffee/tea. Breakfast in Marrakesh was good, too, but protein for breakfast… Ireland just gets it.
I went sightseeing with Fraser, one of my several roommates. We saw many things by rain: the famous Ha’penny Bridge, a church we couldn't get into, a brief look into the Jameson whiskey distillery, all on the way to the Guinness storehouse.
I’m slowly cultivating an appreciation for beer, and the Guinness storehouse helped me along a good deal. While I did tire very quickly of their continuous propaganda for the Arthur Guinness legend, I was glad to learn what’s in beer and how it’s made. Perhaps my favorite part of the whole exhibit, though, was the little stand where they have roasted barley for you to taste. It’s kind of a nice flavor, actually, and if I hadn’t tasted it early on, I probably wouldn’t have found it so easily in the complimentary pint they give out at the end. I had a much better predisposition toward Guinness (which is now one of my favorite least favorite drinks) because the barley actually puts up a fight against the hops, and I now know how to search for other flavors than the hops I can’t stand.
So, after the panoramic view out of the storehouse’s Gravity Bar, Fraser and I kept walking… a few churches (we went into only one because the others wanted money), Dublin Castle was closed when we got there, and we had a late lunch at a café called Queen of Tarts, located here. The Bailey’s cheesecake I had was outstanding, and the food itself was decent, but it’s one of those cutesy Sunday afternoon café places (I think the name says enough) where you’re paying a hefty amount for the atmosphere as well. “Cute” is not enough to sell me products or movies, so I felt a tad overcharged, but then again, it might have been nice to lounge for a few hours if I’d had more time.
(152) is Monday, 7 June 2010.
Had to get that breakfast again. Mm-MM!
I also woke up to a fascinating email from the Vassar College Dean of Studies. Apparently the Vassar French Department has named me an Academic Intern — basically a Teaching Assistant — for the 2010/2011 year.
Cool. Let's go on a day trip.
We went to Glendalough, the “valley of two lakes,” according to the pamphlet I saved, which was a nice hike and some very pretty green scenery. This is why I wanted to come to Ireland. We also stopped at a big pile of rocks called Brownshill Dolmen, a Druid equivalent to pyramids, and finally, Kilkenny City*, home of the beautiful Kilkenny Castle.
Second to the scenery at Glendalough, Kilkenny Castle was the highlight. I bent the rules and took photos of the castle when no one was looking (if they charge money, I feel justified). I just wish I’d gotten pictures of the library room, which had these incredible eaves painted with tree branches and leaves and let the light in beautifully through tall side windows. There’s a sweepingly high two-story ceiling as well.
Also, it was raining the whole day except for Glendalough, so I was constantly at war with my crappy umbrella. Also, just before getting on the bus to return to Dublin, I honored Sam Seifman and I got a Magnum Gold?! It was okay… vanilla/caramel/stuff… I like their the strawberry and white chocolate one better.
Paddy Wagon Tours is a fun tour company; I thought the guide was funny (although I was often alone in that sentiment). The whole tour, he kept telling stories and cracking jokes... He had good impressions of Clinton and Bush despite an Irish accent. I’m telling you, he had a whole bloody standup act... The only thing I’d critique was an occasionally rushed delivery of some jokes and kind of heavy-handed pokes at the two presidents. But he explained about some of the history and superstitions and was entertaining about it.
Fraser and I got dinner at the famous Temple Bar. Sandwiches were surprisingly good and filling.
(153) is Tuesday, 8 June 2010.
Today’s goal was to kill a few hours before flying to Edinburgh. I was pretty much over Dublin… it was grey and doesn’t offer much to people who drink as little as I do. It does offer that great breakfast, though…
I walked around the city some more, including Trinity College, which is a beautiful campus. I couldn’t quite persuade myself to see the Book of Kells, though… they were asking 9 euro to see an ancient book I’d never heard of before I got to Dublin (and without the aid of Google, I can’t even tell you now what it is). I did find a park with a charming Oscar Wilde statue, however, as well as lunch at Gallagher’s Boxty House in the Temple Bar area. I would actually recommend against this one; the food tasted great, but I went all-out and ordered their special boxty (it’s a potato pastry filled with meat — I want to say lamb? — and gravy) with a side of potatoes. I ate it and was full and satisfied and then — I’m not kidding — I left the restaurant and was starving (not just Paris hungry) less than ten minutes later.
I had also been fighting a little homesickness that day. You’d be surprised what sorts of things can fix it, though. I passed by a comic book store and popped in to see if they had any new volumes of Fullmetal Alchemist, an excellent Japanese comic book series (manga) that I follow. They didn’t, but I ended up paging through some older volumes of another favorite series.** Manga beats homesickness like scissors beats paper.
----------------------------------------------
Footnotes
* I had really hoped Kilkenny would be home to Irish South Park characters, but I was disappointed.
** Death Note, true to its name, is pretty grim, but the characters and cat-and-mouse plot are incredibly intricate; the story as a whole is simply phenomenal. This series also provided a good deal of early inspiration for my pet project screenplay. It’s not for the faint of heart, but if you like darker stories and don’t mind reading right-to-left, I strongly recommend it.
27 June 2010
(147-149): I can't escape from Rupert Goold.
Here are the pictures.
DRAMATIS PERSONNAE
Andy: 21 years old, spending a few days in London as part of his loop around Europe. He is, among other things, a food and theater enthusiast.
Marshall: 22 years old, Andy’s classmate from elementary school who is hanging around London after a semester studying history at King’s College. He is, among other things, a self-described food, beer, and film enthusiast.
Weird Indian Guy: Mid-thirties, the man sleeping in the bed below Andy’s at the hostel.
I had actually seen Marshall in Paris a week or two prior (during the time between Berlin and my Music in Cinema exam). Marshall finished his exams around the time I finished most of mine and decided to hop down to Paris for a few days. He knew I was there, so we met up. I told him that I would be doing the same: and so I was now.
(147) is Wednesday, 2 June 2010.
After getting settled in and generally putting my life in order, Marshall and I went to Princi, a quasi-casual Italian eatery in Soho. You can find it here, and I highly recommend you do, because… how best to phrase this… I hadn’t had Italian food since Rome, and it was still delectable. Pretty reasonably priced too, given that it’s in, well, London. Interesting concept for this place: you order like a cafeteria, and then take your food on trays to tables or — if those are taken — to these stand-and-eat tables scattered around the restaurant. As Marshall explained, it’s a more flexible, casual take on a high-quality ristorante.
Afterward, Marshall took me to his favorite pub near King’s College where we had a pint (I found a wheat beer that was actually not the worst thing I’ve ever had) and discussed (among a few other things) world history, the nature of logic, our college experiences, and why we went abroad.
I’ve been making a slight effort in the last year or so to reconnect with people with whom I’ve either lost touch or with whom I’ve never been in touch as much as I’d like. My working theory (yes, science kids, I know it’s technically a “hypothesis”) is that I’ve known a lot of all-around fantastic people in my time, but in many cases it was the wrong time of my life to get to know them. Marshall is a case-in-point; in elementary school, he was one of the sports kids, and I was the kid who got knocked down each (very rare) time I decided to join in football… touch football. But here we are now — almost ten years later — having a substantive, genial conversation over a pint in an English pub. I love London (I went there with my folks back in 2008 and wrote some notes about it on Facebook - about as rambling as this blog!), but for all the sites and shows and good food, seriously getting to know a childhood classmate on better terms was probably the best part.
After the pint, we were both pretty tired, so I headed back to the hostel, where the lights in my room were on, three people were sleeping, and Indian Guy (for now he's just Indian Guy... wait for it) was in the bunk below mine reading a medical journal. I’m not trying to be one of those obnoxious, semi-ageist backpackers who thinks hostels should be 20-somethings only; if all you want (and want to pay for) is a bed to sleep in for a couple of nights, a hostel is a good solution for anybody. But, that said, a hostel guest in his mid-30s with a Blackberry and a medical journal in hand is a statistical anomaly. I shrugged and got ready for bed. When I got back from the bathroom and tucked myself in, Indian Guy’s Blackberry rang — full volume. He answers it. Without leaving the room. Despite 3 people asleep (and one Andy on the waiting list). Takes him maybe a minute to finish his call. Then he gets up, turns off the light, and goes back to his bed.
Now he’s Weird Indian Guy.
(148) is Tursday, 3 June 2010.
Marshall tried valiantly to get us groundling tickets to Macbeth at the Globe, but they were sold out for a week solid. I was disappointed, ‘cause that would have been sweet.
I got sushi at Pret À Manger, a French-named, English-run chain restaurant. They’re everywhere, and in my opinion, they give chains a good name. As a Vassar student, I inevitably encounter the local-versus-corporation discussion pretty often. Here’s my take: as long as a business charges reasonable prices for a good product that I want, I don’t usually care if most of the other such products are physically identical. Now, I’ll try to find a good local place if I’m travelling, but everybody eats at Pret: it’s a local chain. Get it?
London is where I first learned to love sushi, by the way. Last time, though, not now.
After eating, I spent 2+ sunny, blue-sky hours walking through the gorgeous Hyde Park listening to my favorite feel-good music.
I met Marshall at Trafalgar Square and we saw the National Gallery for a while. Afterward, it was getting on food time, so we stopped into a pub near Westminster for fish and chips (which I’d been craving) and a pint (which was a little too hopsy for me).
“Food time” is earlier than “dinner time” because I had to make a 7:30 curtain for All My Sons, an Arthur Miller play starring David Suchet. For those of you too lazy (or too sick of my linking you to things) to click on that IMDB shortcut, he played Agatha Christie’s Hercule Poirot on TV and — more importantly to me — the arms dealer in the 2003 remake of The In-Laws. It’s largely thanks to him that that movie is one of my favorite comedies of all time.
As for the show itself, I got student-priced (10-pound) seats on the side that had kinda’ crappy visibility (although I was close to the stage) and the first act was a little slow, but the performances were great and Act II was amazing.
It’s just such a treat to see my favorite actors live; one, they’re right there. Secondly, and more importantly I think, when they’re onstage, you’re not just being one of the hundreds of millions of numbers in their box office returns and you’re not worshiping them from afar. I always enjoy knowing that — for two and a half hours — your favorite celebrity has nothing better in the world to do than to entertain you in person. I think we often get lost in the reversal.
Back at the hostel, Weird Indian Guy takes another 11:30 PM phone call while half the room is asleep.
(149) is Friday, 4 June 2010.
I woke up at 8 to beat the line again at TKTS, the famous discount theater ticket booth in Leicester Square (and Times Square**). And Weird Indian Guy was gone.
…And then Weird Indian Guy came back from the bathroom.
So, after stopping by TKTS and another box office, I poked around the London Bridge area a bit before meeting Marshall. Our big event for the day was the Borough Market, home to many, many food vendors. Fish and chips (I was downright binging at this point, but it was wonderful), cheese, desserts, Turkish delight, bread, produce, meat, a place with a huge beer selection... whatever you want, it’s all there.
From here, we walked all over… the Tower Bridge, St. Paul’s, the Temple Church**, Marshall’s academic building at King’s college for a semi-panoramic (is that just “ramic”?) view of the city, and a bus mixup on our way back to Leicester Square. We had pub food (Shepherd’s pie this time) and discussed what it means to be a light spirits (versus dark spirits or beer) kind of guy. I learned a lot about beer this month, and I’m kind of glad.
Okay, so I think it’s time I finally explain the title of this entry. At the box office this morning, I picked up two tickets (Marshall accompanied me) to Enron, a brilliant play by Lucy Prebble about the rise and fall of the titular company. It’s basically a classical tragedy about the guys behind it all, which I knew almost nothing about beforehand (although Marshall told me they got the history pretty much right on). I got the tickets for good (student) prices that morning, I felt optimistic, and then I walked by the ads outside the theater. You know, the ones where they show a picture and somebody’s review. Well, one of these mentions Rupert Goold’s brilliant mise-en-scene.
Oh, bullocks…
Mr. Goold has directed many high-profile shows in the last few years. I have seen more plays under his direction than any other contemporary director I can think of (I can only name just one or two others).
And I hate his style. It usually involves loud, staticky TV screens, harsh fluorescent lighting, and enough self-reflexivity and general experimental theater tactics to make even Vassar theater majors nauseous.
Over two years ago, I went to see Macbeth at the Brooklyn Academy of Music with my Shakespeare class. Patrick Stewart was terrific as the title character. The directorial style didn’t get in the way that much, but it was still weird. Then, six months later, in London, my folks and I saw Six Characters in Search of an Author, Luigi Pirandello's modernist play where six characters, whose play was never finished, come to a real-life play rehearsal and insist their story be staged. Goold did a big reworking of the original script (which I later read… not that good) and turned it into this bizarre, creepy, staticky-screen-filled self-reflexive trip of a play. My father still gets props for indulging me and sitting through the whole thing.*** So, when I saw that this show was the same director — making for three shows of his I’d seen in just over two years — I laughed, shook my head, and muttered the title of the entry.
BUT...
...I will have you know that everything about this production of Enron was outstanding. Sarah Rebell, my source on the Broadway world, tells me this same production wasn’t so popular in New York, which I think is a shame because now it's certain (as opposed to highly likely) that none of you will ever know what I'm talking about.
Not that's ever stopped me before.
I think Rupert Goold’s multimedia approach to theater works a lot better in a story that takes place in the 90s and 2000s and on the stock market, where screens and fluorescent lights play a natural part of the environment, anyway. It was just a much better fit of director and script, a script that is so tightly written, often quite funny, and encompasses a great story and character arc. It also does an outstanding, smooth job of bringing uninitiated viewers like me into the fold on complex economic ideas and business practices. I bought a copy of the script at the theater, so I highly encourage you to borrow it from me if you’re interested.
Marshall and I said our goodbyes after the show, agreeing to meet up again back in Washington.
I went back to the hostel to find Weird Indian Guy checking his email on his Blackberry.
--------------------------------------------------------
Footnotes are not a girl’s best friend. That’s because they aren’t diamonds.
* THERE’S ALSO ONE ON HARBOR STREET. It’s like it’s some big secret or something… you can go to this other location and get the same great deals but with far fewer lines. Granted, it’s a much less convenient location and it’s harder to leave and go right to the theaters and see what they offer. But if you don’t really care what you see and just want good prices, consider making the trip.
** My folks and I had tried to get into this one the last time, but it was closed when we visited. I got in just as they were closing, so I took a few shots before they ushered me back out. It’s in the album: nice church. I’m glad I didn’t miss it twice.
*** I didn’t love it, obviously, but I try to show respect and stick around. There are only two performances I’ve ever left early because I disliked them; one was an animated movie that scared me when I was three, and the other was the movie Serendipity when it was in theaters and my mother dragged me to it one day.
DRAMATIS PERSONNAE
Andy: 21 years old, spending a few days in London as part of his loop around Europe. He is, among other things, a food and theater enthusiast.
Marshall: 22 years old, Andy’s classmate from elementary school who is hanging around London after a semester studying history at King’s College. He is, among other things, a self-described food, beer, and film enthusiast.
Weird Indian Guy: Mid-thirties, the man sleeping in the bed below Andy’s at the hostel.
I had actually seen Marshall in Paris a week or two prior (during the time between Berlin and my Music in Cinema exam). Marshall finished his exams around the time I finished most of mine and decided to hop down to Paris for a few days. He knew I was there, so we met up. I told him that I would be doing the same: and so I was now.
(147) is Wednesday, 2 June 2010.
After getting settled in and generally putting my life in order, Marshall and I went to Princi, a quasi-casual Italian eatery in Soho. You can find it here, and I highly recommend you do, because… how best to phrase this… I hadn’t had Italian food since Rome, and it was still delectable. Pretty reasonably priced too, given that it’s in, well, London. Interesting concept for this place: you order like a cafeteria, and then take your food on trays to tables or — if those are taken — to these stand-and-eat tables scattered around the restaurant. As Marshall explained, it’s a more flexible, casual take on a high-quality ristorante.
Afterward, Marshall took me to his favorite pub near King’s College where we had a pint (I found a wheat beer that was actually not the worst thing I’ve ever had) and discussed (among a few other things) world history, the nature of logic, our college experiences, and why we went abroad.
I’ve been making a slight effort in the last year or so to reconnect with people with whom I’ve either lost touch or with whom I’ve never been in touch as much as I’d like. My working theory (yes, science kids, I know it’s technically a “hypothesis”) is that I’ve known a lot of all-around fantastic people in my time, but in many cases it was the wrong time of my life to get to know them. Marshall is a case-in-point; in elementary school, he was one of the sports kids, and I was the kid who got knocked down each (very rare) time I decided to join in football… touch football. But here we are now — almost ten years later — having a substantive, genial conversation over a pint in an English pub. I love London (I went there with my folks back in 2008 and wrote some notes about it on Facebook - about as rambling as this blog!), but for all the sites and shows and good food, seriously getting to know a childhood classmate on better terms was probably the best part.
After the pint, we were both pretty tired, so I headed back to the hostel, where the lights in my room were on, three people were sleeping, and Indian Guy (for now he's just Indian Guy... wait for it) was in the bunk below mine reading a medical journal. I’m not trying to be one of those obnoxious, semi-ageist backpackers who thinks hostels should be 20-somethings only; if all you want (and want to pay for) is a bed to sleep in for a couple of nights, a hostel is a good solution for anybody. But, that said, a hostel guest in his mid-30s with a Blackberry and a medical journal in hand is a statistical anomaly. I shrugged and got ready for bed. When I got back from the bathroom and tucked myself in, Indian Guy’s Blackberry rang — full volume. He answers it. Without leaving the room. Despite 3 people asleep (and one Andy on the waiting list). Takes him maybe a minute to finish his call. Then he gets up, turns off the light, and goes back to his bed.
Now he’s Weird Indian Guy.
(148) is Tursday, 3 June 2010.
Marshall tried valiantly to get us groundling tickets to Macbeth at the Globe, but they were sold out for a week solid. I was disappointed, ‘cause that would have been sweet.
I got sushi at Pret À Manger, a French-named, English-run chain restaurant. They’re everywhere, and in my opinion, they give chains a good name. As a Vassar student, I inevitably encounter the local-versus-corporation discussion pretty often. Here’s my take: as long as a business charges reasonable prices for a good product that I want, I don’t usually care if most of the other such products are physically identical. Now, I’ll try to find a good local place if I’m travelling, but everybody eats at Pret: it’s a local chain. Get it?
London is where I first learned to love sushi, by the way. Last time, though, not now.
After eating, I spent 2+ sunny, blue-sky hours walking through the gorgeous Hyde Park listening to my favorite feel-good music.
I met Marshall at Trafalgar Square and we saw the National Gallery for a while. Afterward, it was getting on food time, so we stopped into a pub near Westminster for fish and chips (which I’d been craving) and a pint (which was a little too hopsy for me).
“Food time” is earlier than “dinner time” because I had to make a 7:30 curtain for All My Sons, an Arthur Miller play starring David Suchet. For those of you too lazy (or too sick of my linking you to things) to click on that IMDB shortcut, he played Agatha Christie’s Hercule Poirot on TV and — more importantly to me — the arms dealer in the 2003 remake of The In-Laws. It’s largely thanks to him that that movie is one of my favorite comedies of all time.
As for the show itself, I got student-priced (10-pound) seats on the side that had kinda’ crappy visibility (although I was close to the stage) and the first act was a little slow, but the performances were great and Act II was amazing.
It’s just such a treat to see my favorite actors live; one, they’re right there. Secondly, and more importantly I think, when they’re onstage, you’re not just being one of the hundreds of millions of numbers in their box office returns and you’re not worshiping them from afar. I always enjoy knowing that — for two and a half hours — your favorite celebrity has nothing better in the world to do than to entertain you in person. I think we often get lost in the reversal.
Back at the hostel, Weird Indian Guy takes another 11:30 PM phone call while half the room is asleep.
(149) is Friday, 4 June 2010.
I woke up at 8 to beat the line again at TKTS, the famous discount theater ticket booth in Leicester Square (and Times Square**). And Weird Indian Guy was gone.
…And then Weird Indian Guy came back from the bathroom.
So, after stopping by TKTS and another box office, I poked around the London Bridge area a bit before meeting Marshall. Our big event for the day was the Borough Market, home to many, many food vendors. Fish and chips (I was downright binging at this point, but it was wonderful), cheese, desserts, Turkish delight, bread, produce, meat, a place with a huge beer selection... whatever you want, it’s all there.
From here, we walked all over… the Tower Bridge, St. Paul’s, the Temple Church**, Marshall’s academic building at King’s college for a semi-panoramic (is that just “ramic”?) view of the city, and a bus mixup on our way back to Leicester Square. We had pub food (Shepherd’s pie this time) and discussed what it means to be a light spirits (versus dark spirits or beer) kind of guy. I learned a lot about beer this month, and I’m kind of glad.
Okay, so I think it’s time I finally explain the title of this entry. At the box office this morning, I picked up two tickets (Marshall accompanied me) to Enron, a brilliant play by Lucy Prebble about the rise and fall of the titular company. It’s basically a classical tragedy about the guys behind it all, which I knew almost nothing about beforehand (although Marshall told me they got the history pretty much right on). I got the tickets for good (student) prices that morning, I felt optimistic, and then I walked by the ads outside the theater. You know, the ones where they show a picture and somebody’s review. Well, one of these mentions Rupert Goold’s brilliant mise-en-scene.
Oh, bullocks…
Mr. Goold has directed many high-profile shows in the last few years. I have seen more plays under his direction than any other contemporary director I can think of (I can only name just one or two others).
And I hate his style. It usually involves loud, staticky TV screens, harsh fluorescent lighting, and enough self-reflexivity and general experimental theater tactics to make even Vassar theater majors nauseous.
Over two years ago, I went to see Macbeth at the Brooklyn Academy of Music with my Shakespeare class. Patrick Stewart was terrific as the title character. The directorial style didn’t get in the way that much, but it was still weird. Then, six months later, in London, my folks and I saw Six Characters in Search of an Author, Luigi Pirandello's modernist play where six characters, whose play was never finished, come to a real-life play rehearsal and insist their story be staged. Goold did a big reworking of the original script (which I later read… not that good) and turned it into this bizarre, creepy, staticky-screen-filled self-reflexive trip of a play. My father still gets props for indulging me and sitting through the whole thing.*** So, when I saw that this show was the same director — making for three shows of his I’d seen in just over two years — I laughed, shook my head, and muttered the title of the entry.
BUT...
...I will have you know that everything about this production of Enron was outstanding. Sarah Rebell, my source on the Broadway world, tells me this same production wasn’t so popular in New York, which I think is a shame because now it's certain (as opposed to highly likely) that none of you will ever know what I'm talking about.
Not that's ever stopped me before.
I think Rupert Goold’s multimedia approach to theater works a lot better in a story that takes place in the 90s and 2000s and on the stock market, where screens and fluorescent lights play a natural part of the environment, anyway. It was just a much better fit of director and script, a script that is so tightly written, often quite funny, and encompasses a great story and character arc. It also does an outstanding, smooth job of bringing uninitiated viewers like me into the fold on complex economic ideas and business practices. I bought a copy of the script at the theater, so I highly encourage you to borrow it from me if you’re interested.
Marshall and I said our goodbyes after the show, agreeing to meet up again back in Washington.
I went back to the hostel to find Weird Indian Guy checking his email on his Blackberry.
--------------------------------------------------------
Footnotes are not a girl’s best friend. That’s because they aren’t diamonds.
* THERE’S ALSO ONE ON HARBOR STREET. It’s like it’s some big secret or something… you can go to this other location and get the same great deals but with far fewer lines. Granted, it’s a much less convenient location and it’s harder to leave and go right to the theaters and see what they offer. But if you don’t really care what you see and just want good prices, consider making the trip.
** My folks and I had tried to get into this one the last time, but it was closed when we visited. I got in just as they were closing, so I took a few shots before they ushered me back out. It’s in the album: nice church. I’m glad I didn’t miss it twice.
*** I didn’t love it, obviously, but I try to show respect and stick around. There are only two performances I’ve ever left early because I disliked them; one was an animated movie that scared me when I was three, and the other was the movie Serendipity when it was in theaters and my mother dragged me to it one day.
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