The Milavecs are in London! I cannot emphasize how cool that is!
The Milestone Hotel and Apartments where they are staying is like something out of a fairy tale, or perhaps The Royal Tenebaums. Old school elegance and decadence and a gorgeous location. The concierge staff has come to refer to me as Ms. Milavec and I’ve not corrected them; it’s easier and this way they don’t question why I’ve got a key. After I met up with Aunt Bonnie and Uncle Stan and Anna and Julia Saturday we went to Harrods (I accidentally put us on the wrong bus, or rather the right bus in the wrong direction, which Uncle Stan will never let me live down, and subsequently we’ve taken cabs everywhere with a variety of charming Cockney-accented drivers) before celebrating the girls’ eleventh birthday with an afternoon tea.
I was prepared for some degree of ceremony but had not anticipated the elaborate tea pouring ritual the wait staff carried out, which included not only juggling four different types of tea in five different tea pots with accompanied strainers and saucers and milks and creams but also the constant refilling of cups nearly every time we took a sip, eventually prompting the ever sweet and obliging Anna to exclaim “How much tea do they expect one person to drink!?” We laughed far too loudly to be appropriate for a tea room, at which point I questioned if we could be more American if we tried, and then we laughed more. So so much fun and so so good to see them!
Sunday we had a spectacular brunch at the hotel before seeing a matinee performance of Jersey Boys, after which we met up with Chloe for dinner at Hix Soho (glass fish coffin mobiles and taxidermy sea gull décor = NO) and walked along Regents Street for a bit. Or wait, at some point we went to the Round Pond and I regaled the girls with stories of my horrific bird encounters and Julia took too many pictures of dogs, but I forget where that fell sequentially into the weekend. Anyways the show was absolutely amazing and has been added to the dauntingly long list of productions I am dying for the soundtrack to. Since I shared Anna’s hilarious anecdote it’s only fair to mention that when at one point during the course of the narrative a character referred to the song ‘Walk Like a Man’ as a metaphor Julia astutely pointed out “No it’s not: it’s a simile.” They are darling children and I’ve almost forgiven them for being taller than me.
Also Anne is here from Germany! Alas my Milavec adventures have come to a brief hiatus as I’ve got class late tonight and tomorrow is the student council pub night that I’ve been helping plan and subsequently really can’t miss, but I think I’m going to stay over with them on Friday at which point the cousin fun will resume.
Wednesday, March 31, 2010
Saturday, March 27, 2010
Not Now Gustave
There are a number of frightfully quotable lines from Love Never Dies, most of which are not fit for incorporation into civilized conversation due their obscenely ridiculous and/or ridiculously obscene nature, but “Not now, Gustave!” is always appropriate.
When you see a wretched sequel or adaptation, the only thing that can prevent it spoiling the original for you is to –quickly- try to remember what you fell in love with in the first place. Or so we told ourselves to justify seeing Love Never Dies on Monday and rushing off Wednesday morning to buy tickets to Phantom of the Opera. It took roughly 7/8 of my food stipend for the week, but it was more than worth it and eating is overrated anyways.
It’s a far darker and psychologically twisted story than I think I was able to grasp when I last saw it ten years ago and somehow unshakably compelling. I’ve already read the original book but there’s a slew of ghost written (ahaha) Phantom literature which has crept onto my summer reading list, along with researching how cathedrals are built, AP Style, and Winston Churchill. These are things I do not know enough about.
Thursday was the student council movie night, sparsely attended by four student council members and one (1) actual legitimate student. But I successfully made popcorn in a British microwave, a feat which the CAPA staff tells me has rarely if ever been accomplished before, so there’s that. The Pub night will be better attended.
Friday was a CAPA orchestrated boat trip to Greenwich. Yes I did manage to get sunburned from a mere 45 minute jaunt on the upper deck of a Thames river boat, but as I’ve got the sun defenses of an albino that’s hardly surprising and the views were worth it (…or were they? As much as working in the fashion industry might destroy one’s body image working in the skincare industry does terrifying things to one’s perspective of their skin. What we need here is some Murad Active Radiance Serum and Murad Essential C Eye Cream.)
The Royal Observatory was really neat, although the historical implications were not quite as cool for me as being in the key locale of ‘The Secret Agent’ which I had to read earlier for British Fiction. The Greenwich market was also adorable. Successful navigation of the Docklands Light Rail system and outer tube lines to get home.
Afterwards I went to the British Museum basically just to see the Rosetta Stone. The other exhibits are not particularly entrancing -a statue, a mosaic, another statue, some coins, oh look a statue- except for their age and sheer quantity and the fact that nearly every one of them is stolen from other countries.
On the home front: I have classes for next semester, basically the right ones, but not enough of them. By which I mean I’ve got five and I wouldn’t know what to do with fewer than six by this point but the Pittsburgh Filmmaker’s classes are being excessively tricky to get into.
Today my aunt and uncle and twin cousins come to visit! I'm off to brave the swans in the park and try to meet them at their hotel, wish me luck. Fiendish swans.
When you see a wretched sequel or adaptation, the only thing that can prevent it spoiling the original for you is to –quickly- try to remember what you fell in love with in the first place. Or so we told ourselves to justify seeing Love Never Dies on Monday and rushing off Wednesday morning to buy tickets to Phantom of the Opera. It took roughly 7/8 of my food stipend for the week, but it was more than worth it and eating is overrated anyways.
It’s a far darker and psychologically twisted story than I think I was able to grasp when I last saw it ten years ago and somehow unshakably compelling. I’ve already read the original book but there’s a slew of ghost written (ahaha) Phantom literature which has crept onto my summer reading list, along with researching how cathedrals are built, AP Style, and Winston Churchill. These are things I do not know enough about.
Thursday was the student council movie night, sparsely attended by four student council members and one (1) actual legitimate student. But I successfully made popcorn in a British microwave, a feat which the CAPA staff tells me has rarely if ever been accomplished before, so there’s that. The Pub night will be better attended.
Friday was a CAPA orchestrated boat trip to Greenwich. Yes I did manage to get sunburned from a mere 45 minute jaunt on the upper deck of a Thames river boat, but as I’ve got the sun defenses of an albino that’s hardly surprising and the views were worth it (…or were they? As much as working in the fashion industry might destroy one’s body image working in the skincare industry does terrifying things to one’s perspective of their skin. What we need here is some Murad Active Radiance Serum and Murad Essential C Eye Cream.)
The Royal Observatory was really neat, although the historical implications were not quite as cool for me as being in the key locale of ‘The Secret Agent’ which I had to read earlier for British Fiction. The Greenwich market was also adorable. Successful navigation of the Docklands Light Rail system and outer tube lines to get home.
Afterwards I went to the British Museum basically just to see the Rosetta Stone. The other exhibits are not particularly entrancing -a statue, a mosaic, another statue, some coins, oh look a statue- except for their age and sheer quantity and the fact that nearly every one of them is stolen from other countries.
On the home front: I have classes for next semester, basically the right ones, but not enough of them. By which I mean I’ve got five and I wouldn’t know what to do with fewer than six by this point but the Pittsburgh Filmmaker’s classes are being excessively tricky to get into.
Today my aunt and uncle and twin cousins come to visit! I'm off to brave the swans in the park and try to meet them at their hotel, wish me luck. Fiendish swans.
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
Woefully Incompetent Badgers
Our Shakespeare class saw Henry V at the Southwark Theatre (not the Globe, but a block away from it so greatness via proximity). First performance I’ve seen in ages that I was completely taken in and enchanted by rather than Cappie-ing it in my head. The performers were dressed as dodge ball players and the stage painted as a Risk board to emphasize the game-like nature of the play’s portrayal of war. Excellent use of slow motion pinball battle sequences (how often do you get to say that?).
At the intermission Chloe and I sipped wine and chatted about the foundations of morality and religion, a moment which may have been the high point of my intellectual life thus far and quite conceivably ever.
Saturday we took a train to the countryside to stay with one of Chloe’s cousins who lives in Kent. The countryside is gorgeous, the cousins were lovely, the dog was adorable, delightful weekend. Ninna is a terrific cook and her kitchen has an aga, which I think is the neatest kitchen appliance I have ever seen (It’s like an oven that’s constantly on with different compartments that are always at certain temperatures and a range that’s always hot).
We saw Rudyard Kipling’s house and gardens one day and Winston Churchill’s the next (Chartwell). The National Trust gift shops are amongst my favorite places for souvenirs, to say nothing of their cream teas. With regard to this post’s title, Kent is apparently overrun with badgers which aren’t even very good at being badger-y and do things like fall out of hedges backwards into lanes. Also pheasants, I saw two from a distance, and so many sheep.
There were in actuality only a few things I came to London determined to do. I planned on seeing this or that museum, I hoped to stop by a market or two, I deemed several historic landmarks more than worthy of an afternoon. But I was hell bent on seeing the sequel to Phantom of the Opera premiere in the West End, and see it I did.
Love Never Dies does not defy description per se, but it does blow a raspberry at it. Let’s try “a glorious and trite mind-blowing rebellion against continuity and canon”. Does it help if I told you I shook with just barely contained silent laughter for the entire production? The images projected on elaborate smoke screens so frequently you wanted to tell Weber to just make a movie already, and the lyrics so bad –vulgar even- you didn’t want to believe they were real, and the plot twist you could see a mile off and still never wrap your head around.
When the cast inexplicably joined hands and began to bow, my first reaction was to remain seated and calm until someone somehow explained something. But no, the musical really was over, and Chloe and I were spilled summarily into the street to ponder what it was we had just seen. Chloe was completely dry-eyed, the first time she’s left a theater without mascara streaked down her face since we’ve been theatergoing companions; whereas I actually had tears welling up from sheer confusion. We are still turning to each other at regular intervals and proclaiming with outrage that this or that detail is fiercely illogical.
And of course, even as we watched it, we were keeping a sharp eye on what the best duet was going to be. The winner is ‘Devil Take The Hindmost,’ which I highly doubt is destined for a cabaret near you at any point in the near or distant future, but I take a great satisfaction in having called dibs on the role of the Phantom before the song was even over, such was my insight.
At the intermission Chloe and I sipped wine and chatted about the foundations of morality and religion, a moment which may have been the high point of my intellectual life thus far and quite conceivably ever.
Saturday we took a train to the countryside to stay with one of Chloe’s cousins who lives in Kent. The countryside is gorgeous, the cousins were lovely, the dog was adorable, delightful weekend. Ninna is a terrific cook and her kitchen has an aga, which I think is the neatest kitchen appliance I have ever seen (It’s like an oven that’s constantly on with different compartments that are always at certain temperatures and a range that’s always hot).
We saw Rudyard Kipling’s house and gardens one day and Winston Churchill’s the next (Chartwell). The National Trust gift shops are amongst my favorite places for souvenirs, to say nothing of their cream teas. With regard to this post’s title, Kent is apparently overrun with badgers which aren’t even very good at being badger-y and do things like fall out of hedges backwards into lanes. Also pheasants, I saw two from a distance, and so many sheep.
There were in actuality only a few things I came to London determined to do. I planned on seeing this or that museum, I hoped to stop by a market or two, I deemed several historic landmarks more than worthy of an afternoon. But I was hell bent on seeing the sequel to Phantom of the Opera premiere in the West End, and see it I did.
Love Never Dies does not defy description per se, but it does blow a raspberry at it. Let’s try “a glorious and trite mind-blowing rebellion against continuity and canon”. Does it help if I told you I shook with just barely contained silent laughter for the entire production? The images projected on elaborate smoke screens so frequently you wanted to tell Weber to just make a movie already, and the lyrics so bad –vulgar even- you didn’t want to believe they were real, and the plot twist you could see a mile off and still never wrap your head around.
When the cast inexplicably joined hands and began to bow, my first reaction was to remain seated and calm until someone somehow explained something. But no, the musical really was over, and Chloe and I were spilled summarily into the street to ponder what it was we had just seen. Chloe was completely dry-eyed, the first time she’s left a theater without mascara streaked down her face since we’ve been theatergoing companions; whereas I actually had tears welling up from sheer confusion. We are still turning to each other at regular intervals and proclaiming with outrage that this or that detail is fiercely illogical.
And of course, even as we watched it, we were keeping a sharp eye on what the best duet was going to be. The winner is ‘Devil Take The Hindmost,’ which I highly doubt is destined for a cabaret near you at any point in the near or distant future, but I take a great satisfaction in having called dibs on the role of the Phantom before the song was even over, such was my insight.
Friday, March 19, 2010
Tube Car Full of Pigeons and Children
Yesterday was filled with political science-y things. Which was weird for me since I tend to focus far more –perhaps too much- on the writing side of my dual major. Anyways in lieu of class we attended a lecture from the media liaison coordinator at the UK office of the European Union which was not uninteresting (do you like my pseudo-British ambiguity?), focusing mainly on the curiously strong (Altoids!) anti-EU sentiment. Far better was wandering through St. James Park before hand; absolutely gorgeous and filled with flowers and pelicans (!).
I found myself with a few free hours in the middle of the week day, which I can’t recall happening before. I considered rushing off to a museum or landmark or some such to take advantage of it before deciding that it might be good to relax for thirty seconds. I do that every so often. Errands to my bank (Barclays) and produce supermarket Sommerfield, as opposed to the general shopping up supermarket Sainsbury’s or the occasionals supermarket Tesco or the specialty item Marks and Spencers, London is a city that loves it’s supermarkets. I don’t even frequent Waitrose or Asda.
At the Spanish Cultural Institute for a lecture that was really more idle banter between someone who may have written a book on the Spanish civil war and someone who was a drummer for Genesis but was not Phil Collins who decided to give up his international musical career to live in a remote corner of Spain and raise sheep. The introduction was all in Spanish and I was terrified that the whole lecture might be in Spanish, but no. It was weird.
This morning’s Understanding Britain class involved speakers who mistook the time and didn’t show and rearranging that leaves us with no class next week (so we can go on the Greenwich boat trip!) but a visit to a Mosque on a Tuesday (so I’ll have to miss internship hours…) and incidental discussions on the origin of morality. Awesome.
Then Chloe and I went to Westminster Abbey (Queen Elizabeth! The Coronation Chair! Edward the Confessor! Isaac Newton from Da Vinci Code!) and then bought tickets for LOVE NEVER DIES. (Critics are claiming that it just fades away in a puff of melodrama and pseudo opera, but spectacle is what we’re there for).
Now we’re headed to Henry V at Southwark theater for Shakespeare class.
I found myself with a few free hours in the middle of the week day, which I can’t recall happening before. I considered rushing off to a museum or landmark or some such to take advantage of it before deciding that it might be good to relax for thirty seconds. I do that every so often. Errands to my bank (Barclays) and produce supermarket Sommerfield, as opposed to the general shopping up supermarket Sainsbury’s or the occasionals supermarket Tesco or the specialty item Marks and Spencers, London is a city that loves it’s supermarkets. I don’t even frequent Waitrose or Asda.
At the Spanish Cultural Institute for a lecture that was really more idle banter between someone who may have written a book on the Spanish civil war and someone who was a drummer for Genesis but was not Phil Collins who decided to give up his international musical career to live in a remote corner of Spain and raise sheep. The introduction was all in Spanish and I was terrified that the whole lecture might be in Spanish, but no. It was weird.
This morning’s Understanding Britain class involved speakers who mistook the time and didn’t show and rearranging that leaves us with no class next week (so we can go on the Greenwich boat trip!) but a visit to a Mosque on a Tuesday (so I’ll have to miss internship hours…) and incidental discussions on the origin of morality. Awesome.
Then Chloe and I went to Westminster Abbey (Queen Elizabeth! The Coronation Chair! Edward the Confessor! Isaac Newton from Da Vinci Code!) and then bought tickets for LOVE NEVER DIES. (Critics are claiming that it just fades away in a puff of melodrama and pseudo opera, but spectacle is what we’re there for).
Now we’re headed to Henry V at Southwark theater for Shakespeare class.
Monday, March 15, 2010
Bits N' Bobs
Chloe and I had tea at the Orangery at Kensington Palace which was amazing, perfectly divine Darjeeling and scones with clotted cream and wee sandwiches and one of my sister’s namesake pastries (éclairs, for those unaware of Emily Clare’s initials). We dressed for the occasion -this being our formal tea- and were somewhat disappointed to find ourselves surrounded with French and American tourists in jeans, but I suppose sometimes atmosphere is something you have to bring with you. The miniature orange trees on the tables helped. We have such plans for tea parties and dinner parties and debutante balls next year. Mainly we just want excuses to bake things and play dress up. What does one serve at a French Revolution themed party? Cake, of course.
The Oxford Tube is not a tube at all but rather a bus service that runs regularly between London and the city of dreaming spires, as it’s been so dubbed by someone according to some of the tourist literature I’ve accumulated. This glaring misnomer proved to be of no consequence as it allowed Chloe and Rachel and I to take a delightful day trip to Paulina’s future study abroad location. In our unscripted wandering about we saw Christ Church and the Botanical Gardens (including what I think must have been the bench so romanticized in Philip Pullman’s books) and had fish and chips in the pub Tolkien and C.S. Lewis used to frequent. Chloe bought yet another hat, as she is wont to do at the least provocation.
The luck of the Irish brought us a gorgeous day for the St. Patrick’s Day Parade, which we walked to all through Hyde Park and Green Park and what felt like every park in the city. They’ve crocuses and snow drops now, they’re lovely.
Things I had to come to London to learn to appreciate: smoked salmon, bell peppers, Nutella, milk in tea.
I’ve literally worn the soles off my high heeled boots. Now I click click click off to work on the exposed metal and try not to wake Chloe in the mornings with their clattering on the hardwood floors.
Languages spoken in my flat: American style English (everyone), British style English (Chloe), Russian (Elana to her parents), French (Anise to her parents), German (Alex to her parents and international friends), Spanish (Alex again, she’s a linguistics major), and Simkinese (by me to my parents and sibling. I reckon it ought to qualify as at least a dialect by now, such are the nuances and subtleties of our nearly two decades’ accumulation of inside jokes and miscommunications).
This blog has disintegrated into a laundry list I’ve what I’ve done -and not even a terribly satisfactory one at that- for which I apologize. I hope it’s at least worded nicely for you but I’ve been much remiss in the witty observations and wry commentary I had hoped to achieve, and things being what they are I can’t even promise to address the issue. I can promise to finish my List of Awesome London Things and tell you at least briefly about them, and maybe pause to reflect over the summer. Maybe.
Also: Chloe and I are teaching ourselves to sing our favorite musical duets. So far we’ve got the confrontation scene from Le Mis down pretty well and are working on Wicked’s ‘What is this Feeling?’ Godspell’s ‘All for the Best’. Our flat mates are correct in their judgment that we are patently insane.
The Oxford Tube is not a tube at all but rather a bus service that runs regularly between London and the city of dreaming spires, as it’s been so dubbed by someone according to some of the tourist literature I’ve accumulated. This glaring misnomer proved to be of no consequence as it allowed Chloe and Rachel and I to take a delightful day trip to Paulina’s future study abroad location. In our unscripted wandering about we saw Christ Church and the Botanical Gardens (including what I think must have been the bench so romanticized in Philip Pullman’s books) and had fish and chips in the pub Tolkien and C.S. Lewis used to frequent. Chloe bought yet another hat, as she is wont to do at the least provocation.
The luck of the Irish brought us a gorgeous day for the St. Patrick’s Day Parade, which we walked to all through Hyde Park and Green Park and what felt like every park in the city. They’ve crocuses and snow drops now, they’re lovely.
Things I had to come to London to learn to appreciate: smoked salmon, bell peppers, Nutella, milk in tea.
I’ve literally worn the soles off my high heeled boots. Now I click click click off to work on the exposed metal and try not to wake Chloe in the mornings with their clattering on the hardwood floors.
Languages spoken in my flat: American style English (everyone), British style English (Chloe), Russian (Elana to her parents), French (Anise to her parents), German (Alex to her parents and international friends), Spanish (Alex again, she’s a linguistics major), and Simkinese (by me to my parents and sibling. I reckon it ought to qualify as at least a dialect by now, such are the nuances and subtleties of our nearly two decades’ accumulation of inside jokes and miscommunications).
This blog has disintegrated into a laundry list I’ve what I’ve done -and not even a terribly satisfactory one at that- for which I apologize. I hope it’s at least worded nicely for you but I’ve been much remiss in the witty observations and wry commentary I had hoped to achieve, and things being what they are I can’t even promise to address the issue. I can promise to finish my List of Awesome London Things and tell you at least briefly about them, and maybe pause to reflect over the summer. Maybe.
Also: Chloe and I are teaching ourselves to sing our favorite musical duets. So far we’ve got the confrontation scene from Le Mis down pretty well and are working on Wicked’s ‘What is this Feeling?’ Godspell’s ‘All for the Best’. Our flat mates are correct in their judgment that we are patently insane.
Monday, March 8, 2010
Spain In Conclusion
When pondering where to start the beginning is a rarely as good a place as you might suspect it to be, but let’s jump in there regardless, which is to say pick up where the previous post finished and mention that Natalie Bell and I toured the Alcazar Palace gardens despite the pouring rain and they were lovely and orange-filled.
The unfortunate truth of international traveling is that sometimes you just want something familiar and inexpensive and you can’t help but go to McDonalds. Further unfortunate truth: sometimes someone will somehow kick your bag out from under your table and book it out of there without anyone noticing, as happened to Abby. Luckily her passport was safe in the locker at the hostel: her wallet, camera, phone, and iPod less so.
We went to two police stations to try to report the theft, both of which were closed. For siesta. Justice should not take a siesta!
Abby was able to email her mom to cancel her credit cards and when we catalogued the loss the only really irreplaceable thing turned out to be the pictures of the trip on her camera. Absolutely terrible experience but reaffirming of the ultimately minimal importance of material things.
That evening we met up with a friend of Abby’s who has lived in Sevilla for the past year. He took us to a local tapa bar where he claimed to be known –people are always claiming to be ‘known’ places-, but we were only able to doubt him until we walked in the front door and observed how enthusiastically he was greeted by the entire staff. Hilarious. No offense to the culinary skills of anyone who has ever cooked for me who is reading this, but I would not hesitate to describe the saltimbocca as the best thing I have ever eaten ever, followed closely by the pineapple goat cheese toast and orange marmalade pork. Spain knows its food.
Later Natalie took me to meet up with some of her friends for the bizarre Spanish tradition of drinking in the streets and too close to the river and subjecting oneself to the unbelievably disrespectful catcalls and comments of roving hoodlums. Unenjoyable.
Sunday morning we relaxed around the hostel a bit before catching the bus to the airport. Flight was without a hitch but the return to central London was anything but: the confirmation for the Stansted Express train tickets was linked to Abby’s stolen credit cards, which turned out not to matter as the train was down for emergency service anyway, so we took the hour long bus ride to Liverpool Station where the night bus did not deign to make either of the three supposed routes I waited for. Frozen, exhausted and miserable I decided that if ever there was a time to tap into emergency supplies this might be it and decided to take a cab home. The driver told me it should cost around twenty quid and apparently took pity on me and gave me the frozen-exhausted-miserable girl discount because even when the meter came to several pounds over that he only charged me a twenty.
For the grand finale of the trip, I blanked out on the door code to my building.
This morning I woke up at 8 a.m. London time, which in Spain would have been 9 when I’d become accustomed to waking up to the bells of the cathedral (Suzanne Vega much?) and hopped up to get to the Professional Beauty trade show which involved multiple tube transfers and some dodgy business with the light rail system. My first legit trade convention -with a badge and everything!- involved a strange fluctuation of roles from assistant to the PR director to dishwasher to retail associate to VIP tender and back. Interesting experience.
Finally finally to bed.
The unfortunate truth of international traveling is that sometimes you just want something familiar and inexpensive and you can’t help but go to McDonalds. Further unfortunate truth: sometimes someone will somehow kick your bag out from under your table and book it out of there without anyone noticing, as happened to Abby. Luckily her passport was safe in the locker at the hostel: her wallet, camera, phone, and iPod less so.
We went to two police stations to try to report the theft, both of which were closed. For siesta. Justice should not take a siesta!
Abby was able to email her mom to cancel her credit cards and when we catalogued the loss the only really irreplaceable thing turned out to be the pictures of the trip on her camera. Absolutely terrible experience but reaffirming of the ultimately minimal importance of material things.
That evening we met up with a friend of Abby’s who has lived in Sevilla for the past year. He took us to a local tapa bar where he claimed to be known –people are always claiming to be ‘known’ places-, but we were only able to doubt him until we walked in the front door and observed how enthusiastically he was greeted by the entire staff. Hilarious. No offense to the culinary skills of anyone who has ever cooked for me who is reading this, but I would not hesitate to describe the saltimbocca as the best thing I have ever eaten ever, followed closely by the pineapple goat cheese toast and orange marmalade pork. Spain knows its food.
Later Natalie took me to meet up with some of her friends for the bizarre Spanish tradition of drinking in the streets and too close to the river and subjecting oneself to the unbelievably disrespectful catcalls and comments of roving hoodlums. Unenjoyable.
Sunday morning we relaxed around the hostel a bit before catching the bus to the airport. Flight was without a hitch but the return to central London was anything but: the confirmation for the Stansted Express train tickets was linked to Abby’s stolen credit cards, which turned out not to matter as the train was down for emergency service anyway, so we took the hour long bus ride to Liverpool Station where the night bus did not deign to make either of the three supposed routes I waited for. Frozen, exhausted and miserable I decided that if ever there was a time to tap into emergency supplies this might be it and decided to take a cab home. The driver told me it should cost around twenty quid and apparently took pity on me and gave me the frozen-exhausted-miserable girl discount because even when the meter came to several pounds over that he only charged me a twenty.
For the grand finale of the trip, I blanked out on the door code to my building.
This morning I woke up at 8 a.m. London time, which in Spain would have been 9 when I’d become accustomed to waking up to the bells of the cathedral (Suzanne Vega much?) and hopped up to get to the Professional Beauty trade show which involved multiple tube transfers and some dodgy business with the light rail system. My first legit trade convention -with a badge and everything!- involved a strange fluctuation of roles from assistant to the PR director to dishwasher to retail associate to VIP tender and back. Interesting experience.
Finally finally to bed.
Saturday, March 6, 2010
Sevilla II
I think Barcelona was necessary to further highlight how awesome Sevilla is. Not that the former city wasn´t lovely and filled with... nice architecture, and stuff and things, but the experience we´re having in Sevilla is spectacular, primarily due to staying at a much better hostel. We went on a tapas tour on Thursday of local resturants which was really cool to say nothing of delicious and we met some great people, most notably Bastian and Sophie (respectively from Germany and north England but both currently working in Norfolk) whom we then ¨toured¨ with all of yesterday, if by toured you mean followed Natalie Bell´s meandering around the city which in this instance I do. We also met Ivy from China and a whole gaggle of American students studying in Switzerland, it´s very neat.
Last night we did the pub crawl that got rave reviews from some of the other CAPA students. I suppose it was authentic in the sense that the three bars we went to were loud, crowded, and smokey, but the club the tour finished at was playing exclusively bizarrely static-y ´50s music by which I could not abide, and it was pouring rain, so we took a taxi home.
Today the rain continues so I don´t know what all we´ll get up to. I will have reflections on things later, mostly pertaining to the dismally linear life plans Americans foster and how they do not include years for travel and backpacking and biking from Spain to Scotland and such but rather focus on college and grad school and career advancement and settling, and my feelings on the matter, which must wait until later mainly because I´ve not firmly decided them.
Last night we did the pub crawl that got rave reviews from some of the other CAPA students. I suppose it was authentic in the sense that the three bars we went to were loud, crowded, and smokey, but the club the tour finished at was playing exclusively bizarrely static-y ´50s music by which I could not abide, and it was pouring rain, so we took a taxi home.
Today the rain continues so I don´t know what all we´ll get up to. I will have reflections on things later, mostly pertaining to the dismally linear life plans Americans foster and how they do not include years for travel and backpacking and biking from Spain to Scotland and such but rather focus on college and grad school and career advancement and settling, and my feelings on the matter, which must wait until later mainly because I´ve not firmly decided them.
Thursday, March 4, 2010
Sevilla I: ¿What When?
Last day in Barcelona consisted of attempting to find this place set up for the 1992 Olympics that was supposed to be models of all the different regions of Spain. We found it eventually but didn´t feel like paying to get in, so wandered around Montjuci Park for a bit before meeting up with one of the guys we knew from London and hanging out at the hostel for a little.
Caught the flight to Sevilla, narrowly, as they were checking luggage requirements as we got on the plane in the pouring rain and if they´d pulled us aside our bags probably would not have been accepted. Also, complaint 192 against Ryanair: they are too cheap for those tube hallway things and make you board your plane on the tarmack, which was exciting at first but now just cold and wet and cattle-like.
Natalie´s directions to the hostel here were spot-on, and we´re right by a cathedral. Cathedrals are excellent for navigating, as any Pitt student can tell you. I had what I thought was dinner with Ms. Bell, which was lovely as it was great to see her and catch up a bit, but later turned out to be lunch since Spanish dinners at at 10 pm at night. Which means people don´t even leave for bars or clubs until 11 at the earliest, usually closer to 12:30. An ideal night for me usually includes getting into bed by 2 at the latest, and here that´s when the party just gets started. Crazy does not begin to cover my feelings on the matter.
Also: they have oranges on all the trees here, its neat.
Caught the flight to Sevilla, narrowly, as they were checking luggage requirements as we got on the plane in the pouring rain and if they´d pulled us aside our bags probably would not have been accepted. Also, complaint 192 against Ryanair: they are too cheap for those tube hallway things and make you board your plane on the tarmack, which was exciting at first but now just cold and wet and cattle-like.
Natalie´s directions to the hostel here were spot-on, and we´re right by a cathedral. Cathedrals are excellent for navigating, as any Pitt student can tell you. I had what I thought was dinner with Ms. Bell, which was lovely as it was great to see her and catch up a bit, but later turned out to be lunch since Spanish dinners at at 10 pm at night. Which means people don´t even leave for bars or clubs until 11 at the earliest, usually closer to 12:30. An ideal night for me usually includes getting into bed by 2 at the latest, and here that´s when the party just gets started. Crazy does not begin to cover my feelings on the matter.
Also: they have oranges on all the trees here, its neat.
Monday, March 1, 2010
Barcelona II: I apologize in advance for grammatical errors resulting from use of a spanish keyboard
So. Spain.
On Sunday we saw one of the houses designed by Gaudi -Barcelonaś epic architect- with some girls we met at the hostel who were architectural students studying in Rome, one of whom went to a rival school of my high school and knew people I graduated with. The world is the size of a breadbox.
Following that we got crazy lost looking for Las Ramblas, which is supposed to be this awesome avenue with shops and vendors and such. There were some street performers that were cool, I always enjoy people painted like statues for some reason, but other than that I wasn't terribly impressed. Eventually we got to the Mediterranean, which I don't think I'd seen before.
We eventually stumbled upon the Picasso Museum in the heart of the windy Gothic area of the city and got in free for reasons Im not clear on, something to do with the exhibits being redone, and that was kind of cool. Dinner at the most touristy ripoff place ever with sham tapas, suspicious seafood paella, bad sangria, and some sort of peculiar pastry from a box for desert, but even a tourist experience is an experience too. On that note its also kind of refreshing to be able to be a full-tourist and take pictures whenever you feel like it instead of in London where we try to be very discrete. After dinner we tried to find the Olympic village and couldnt seem to so finally called it a night and headed back to the hostel, but that ended up being only the beginning of the adventure.
As we exited the funicular station and began our way up the mountain path we noticed an unanticipated fellow traveller: a wild board. Like, a pig the size of a bicycle. Just chilling directly in our way.
I thought it was sort of neat and probably harmless but was torn between whether we should sneak past quietly or try to frighten it off. Latia was terrified beyond measure and burst into tears. Seeing as how sheś afraid of all animals, even small dogs on leashes, I suppose it was to be expected. We called the hostel reception desk who assured us that the animal was not dangerous but agreed to send down a van to get us anyway.
Another girl had come to the station by this time, who had lived at the hostel for a month and was not at all afraid of the boar but didnt feel like walking up the hill she ended up chatting with us for a bit. She was from France and spoke Spanish and a little English but I was thrilled that with my little bit of Spanish and some inventive gesturing we were able to breach the communication barrier pretty well. You wouldnt think that a hostel called InOUt would boast many semi-permanent residents, but it appears to. Surprisingly there are also very few youths, most people seem to be closer to middle age or are small children with families. Not what we expected but its working out fine.
Monday we went to see Gaudi`s masterpiece, La Sagrada Familia. Itś an incredible cathedral that is still only half way done, so even as we were touring it there was still construction going on and will be for the next twentysome years. We (perhaps Ive failed to mention that my travelling companions are Abby and Latia from the Belgravia house) ran into Rachel completely by chance, shes in Barcelona for a day or two before moving on to Rome. After that we went up to yet another Gaudi construction, the Park Guel, which was gorgeous and had great views as befits a place which requires four escalators and multiple flights of stairs to get to.
Returned to the hostel before sundown to avoid the boar and just hung out on the porch here for a bit, soaking in the sun we never see in the UK, and then had rabbit for dinner at the hostel restaurant.
Now weŕe going to try to find Spanish Epcot and some castles! Adios!
On Sunday we saw one of the houses designed by Gaudi -Barcelonaś epic architect- with some girls we met at the hostel who were architectural students studying in Rome, one of whom went to a rival school of my high school and knew people I graduated with. The world is the size of a breadbox.
Following that we got crazy lost looking for Las Ramblas, which is supposed to be this awesome avenue with shops and vendors and such. There were some street performers that were cool, I always enjoy people painted like statues for some reason, but other than that I wasn't terribly impressed. Eventually we got to the Mediterranean, which I don't think I'd seen before.
We eventually stumbled upon the Picasso Museum in the heart of the windy Gothic area of the city and got in free for reasons Im not clear on, something to do with the exhibits being redone, and that was kind of cool. Dinner at the most touristy ripoff place ever with sham tapas, suspicious seafood paella, bad sangria, and some sort of peculiar pastry from a box for desert, but even a tourist experience is an experience too. On that note its also kind of refreshing to be able to be a full-tourist and take pictures whenever you feel like it instead of in London where we try to be very discrete. After dinner we tried to find the Olympic village and couldnt seem to so finally called it a night and headed back to the hostel, but that ended up being only the beginning of the adventure.
As we exited the funicular station and began our way up the mountain path we noticed an unanticipated fellow traveller: a wild board. Like, a pig the size of a bicycle. Just chilling directly in our way.
I thought it was sort of neat and probably harmless but was torn between whether we should sneak past quietly or try to frighten it off. Latia was terrified beyond measure and burst into tears. Seeing as how sheś afraid of all animals, even small dogs on leashes, I suppose it was to be expected. We called the hostel reception desk who assured us that the animal was not dangerous but agreed to send down a van to get us anyway.
Another girl had come to the station by this time, who had lived at the hostel for a month and was not at all afraid of the boar but didnt feel like walking up the hill she ended up chatting with us for a bit. She was from France and spoke Spanish and a little English but I was thrilled that with my little bit of Spanish and some inventive gesturing we were able to breach the communication barrier pretty well. You wouldnt think that a hostel called InOUt would boast many semi-permanent residents, but it appears to. Surprisingly there are also very few youths, most people seem to be closer to middle age or are small children with families. Not what we expected but its working out fine.
Monday we went to see Gaudi`s masterpiece, La Sagrada Familia. Itś an incredible cathedral that is still only half way done, so even as we were touring it there was still construction going on and will be for the next twentysome years. We (perhaps Ive failed to mention that my travelling companions are Abby and Latia from the Belgravia house) ran into Rachel completely by chance, shes in Barcelona for a day or two before moving on to Rome. After that we went up to yet another Gaudi construction, the Park Guel, which was gorgeous and had great views as befits a place which requires four escalators and multiple flights of stairs to get to.
Returned to the hostel before sundown to avoid the boar and just hung out on the porch here for a bit, soaking in the sun we never see in the UK, and then had rabbit for dinner at the hostel restaurant.
Now weŕe going to try to find Spanish Epcot and some castles! Adios!
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